Trouble was in the air.
John could feel it in his bones. He was prepared for it; the Irish safely in their quarters, the soldiers alerted. Yet he did not know what would happen that day, and fear coiled low in his belly. Despite what people thought, he was just a normal man. He felt fear as much as any other, and he would be a special kind of fool not to to be at least a little afraid of a crowd of angry workers out for his blood.
Fear did not control him, though. Hiring the Irish workers was the best decision for his business and the continuation of the mill. The Milton men and women knew what to do if they objected to his decision; resume their work and end this fruitless strike. He would not give in to their petulant demands.
He did this for the good of the mill and his business. Just because it was the right thing to do did not mean he was not afraid. He was not even afraid for himself, but for his mother and Fanny. He should have sent them away, somewhere they could not be touched. It was foolish to keep them here, but his mother would never leave him. She had been by his side in all things, and she would not abandon him now. He was thankful for her, for her level head and her careful nature.
Fanny, however, was prone to panic and dramatics. Having her here was a mistake; she had been pacing all morning, driving everyone mad with her muttering. Her hysteria only served to panic the servants and irritate Mother.
The Irish had arrived late last night. He did not think anyone had seen them, but he was not so naive as to think nobody would find out. He was fully prepared for the backlash that would inevitably come. The strike had been going on too long now, folk were restless and looking for someone to direct their anger at. This would be the last straw, the flame that lit the fuse, he was certain of it.
He locked the door to the rooms where he had kept the Irish - as though they were mere supplies, rather than breathing men and women. He closed his eyes; he could hear it. The distant roar that only a crowd could make. They were coming, coming for him.
He ran back to the main house, and over the sound of his own hurried footsteps he could hear the rattling of the mill gate. Oh God. He finally got inside and slammed the heavy front door behind him and bolting it firmly. He raced to the drawing room to find his mother. She was there, pale faced and tight lipped along with Fanny. The fear in his sister's eyes was unmistakable, and she gave a heavy sob, falling to the floor in her mother's arms.
Usually he rolled his eyes at his sister's fanciful swoons but today he knew that Fanny was terrified. He had no right to place his mother and sister in such danger. This was his fight, not theirs.
"Try to stop her from panicking."
"Miss Hale is here." Mother said, leaning down to steady Fanny as she struggled to get to her feet.
"What? Where is she?"
His mother pointed over to the window, and he saw Margaret's familiar figure staring out of the window. Why the hell was Margaret here? He had told her yesterday to stay at home, hadn't he? He had thought perhaps she would go to Princeton and get tangled in the aftermath of what he suspected would happen here. He had not even considered that she would pay a visit to the mill itself.
"Miss Hale, I am sorry you have visited us at this unfortunate moment." His breath was harsh, winded from running and the rapid pounding of his own heart. He spoke in a softer voice so his family would not hear. "I told you to stay at home."
She frowned, following his gaze out of the window. One could not fail to hear the noise, nor the rattling of the gates as God knows how many men pushed against them. They would not hold for much longer.
He did not hear if Margaret responded to him, as the mill gates burst open and the yelling grew almost deafeningly loud.
His heart dropped to his shoes.
Tens of men spilled into the yard, yelling and furious eyed. There were more than he had expected in truth. The doors were firmly bolted, but how long would they last? The mill door wouldn't take much more than a good hard shove to break down. He could see the Irish in the windows, shrinking back and clinging to one another. He'd put them in danger just as much as he had everyone in this house.
"Oh my God, they're going for the mill door."
"Oh no," Margaret gasped beside him. "It's Boucher."
The name was not overly familiar to him, nor did he particularly care which of Margaret's supposed friends was down below causing trouble. The soldiers would be here soon enough, if the rioters could only be kept back for long enough.
"Let 'em yell. Keep up your courage for a few minutes longer Miss Hale."
She looked at him witheringly, tearing her eyes from the scene unfolding in the yard below them.
"I'm not afraid! Can't you pacify them?"
How could he pacify these men, rioting and yelling as they were? There was only one solution, one that had been arranged days ago. He knew it would come to this, this violent storming of the mill, and he was well prepared.
"The soldiers will make them see reason."
"Reason? What kind of reason?" Understanding dawned on her face, quickly replaced by indignance. "Mr Thornton, go down there and face them like a man! Speak to them as though they were human beings. They are driven mad with hunger! They don't know what they are doing. Go and save your innocent Irishmen."
Before he knew what he was doing, he had headed her words. Was he so easily shamed by this woman that he would do whatever she asked of him if it might make her think better of him? His feet moved of their own accord, his hand on the handle of the front door before he could even think what he was doing.
When he was out there, he was no longer afraid. He was no longer weakened by whatever affection he might hold for Miss Hale. He was Master of Marlborough Mills, and he felt nothing but contempt for the despicable scene that had unfolded in his yard. He crossed his arms, waiting for the rabble to grow silent.
There was no time for that.
"In God's name stop!"
He felt his blood run cold as ice. She could not be out here! She stepped forward, standing in front of him. What kind of man was he that he allowed a woman to stand before him before a baying mob? No man at all. Yet he could not get her inside without dragging her, and that was sure to anger those amongst the crowd who knew her. It would look wrong, brutal to do such a thing.
"Think of what you are doing." She spoke to them with such confidence, with such little fear that he was so overawed by her for a moment he forgot where they were. "He is one man and you are many. Go home. The soldiers are coming. Go in peace."
"Will ye send the Irish home?"
"Never!" John roared back.
The crowd flared once more, and his only thought was removing Margaret from danger. He clutched at her shoulders, putting her behind him.
"Go inside, this is not your place."
She shook her head, ducking beneath his arm and standing in front of him once more. She was shielding him with her body, her hands clinging so tightly to his upper arms he could feel the bite of her nails through his clothes. She looked at him with determination in her eyes, even as he tried desperately to get her behind him. The crowd still roared beneath them, but he could scarcely hear it over the roar of blood pounding in his ears. This was out of his control now, and she needed to be away from this - inside, where it was at least a little safer than here.
"They will not hurt a woman!"
He tried to move her aside; he would not hide behind a woman, particularly one so much smaller than him. He did not need her protection, nor did he wish for her to place herself in such danger on his account.
"Go inside or I will take you in."
She resisted him, turning her body away from him. Then, she fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. He frowned, not understanding how she had dropped so suddenly until he caught sight of the blood on her forehead and a stone on the ground nearby. Anger flared in him as violently and as surely as he had ever known it. He turned to face the crowd.
"Are you satisfied? You came here for me so kill me if that's what you want."
Mercifully, the blare of the soldiers whistles sounded. The mob below him panicked and began to run from the yard. He kneeled before Margaret, her eyes still closed. The gentle rise and fall of her chest reassured him that she was at least still alive.
He could barely hear the noise of the chaos that was unfurling around him. He focused on Margaret, that angel dressed all in white and appearing to be fast asleep. He had done this to her. He had created the chaos and disrest that had led to this. He had not cast the stone, but he may as well have.
What if she died? This injury had been so bad as to knock her out cold, what if the damage was worse than it appeared? The cut on her temple was not too large, but blood oozed from it all the same. Her skin was so pale, the crimson red only looking more alarming against the milk white of her forehead and the dark brown of her hair.
"John!" His mother's voice and a firm tap on his shoulder jolted him from his thoughts. "John, get her inside."
He blinked, awakened suddenly from whatever state he had been in.
"Of course."
He lifted her gently, her head resting against his chest as he supported her legs with one arm and her back with another. Even in his anger and despair at what had happened to her, carrying her like this, like some sleeping bride, made him wonder if he would ever carry her across this same threshold as his wife - his own Mrs Thornton.
Settling her on the settee, he reached down to brush her hair from the wound. He could not help but linger, fingertips grazing the curve of her jaw as he pulled his hand away. He cast his eyes upward, and caught the glare of his mother. He cleared his throat, standing hastily.
"I need to secure the gates, check the Irish."
"John, what is going on between-"
He could not face his mother's interrogation now. There were too many things to be done, too much that needed taken care of before he could even allow thoughts of what would happen next with Miss Hale into his mind.
"Not now, Mother. We'll talk later. Just look after her. Please. Do not - do not let her leave until I have seen her. Please."
He left the room before his mother could comment on his wish to see Margaret before she left; he was sure she could read his mind, see his thoughts. His mother had always known him too well to keep secrets from her for very long.
Two hours must have passed by the time he had done all that needed doing. The gates were secure, doors safe and locked. The Catholic priest had been sent for, and the Irish workers seemed calm. He hoped this final burst of violence, violence towards a woman innocent of any crime even in their eyes, would end the strike.
He had met with the other Masters, endured their mindless conversation and crowing. In truth, he had felt a million miles away - staring out of the window at the spot where Margaret had stood. Now everything had been arranged and things were settling, Margaret crept back into his thoughts. He could not help but worry; what if she had not awoken, or her condition had worsened? How could he face Richard and Maria Hale knowing he was the cause of their only child's injury?
He raced down the steps, almost stumbling over his own feet in his haste to reach the main house. He flung the door open and ran up the stairs. He went into the drawing room, trying to steady his breath. Margaret sat upright on the settee, her eyes closed and hands clasped together.
She was alone in the room; John did not know where his sister or mother were, but as long as they were safe somewhere in the house he did not care.
He fell to his knees in front of Margaret, taking her hands in his. Her eyes opened, and she smiled. He had never felt such relief.
"You are well." She said softly, her voice raspy. "All is quiet now?"
"Aye. I'm sorry to have been away so long. Margaret - you should not have done that."
Margaret shook her head. John could not help but notice that she winced with the movement. He raised a hand to her head, pushing back her hair and examining the wound. She shifted away from him, covering the area with her hand. She straightened, suddenly self conscious.
"I was supposed to let you face them alone, knowing that I had sent you out there?" She asked, her voice tight and formal. "That I had sent an unarmed man into the clutches of an angry mob? I underestimated their fury, I realised that as soon as you stepped outside."
"I know you do not approve of my handling of the strike, but you should not have walked into such danger. It is bad enough you were here at all, you could have been killed. If you had been on the streets a few moments later, you would have been caught in that crowd. I told you to stay at home."
"Perhaps if you had told me of your fears of a riot properly rather than barking commands at me, I would have listened." She cleared her throat. "Your mother fetched Doctor Donaldson. He said I am quite well. I will go home now I - I just wanted a chance to see you. Fanny was in here talking to me, but I could scarcely hear a word she said. I believe she got bored with me and went off somewhere."
Her voice did not sound right at all; far away and dreamy, tired to the point of collapse. John turned his head, checking they were indeed alone. He shuffled closer, his hand on her cheek. He kissed her lips, softly and chastely.
"If anything had happened to you - if the injury had been worse-"
"I am well." Margaret whispered. "I should go home, if my father hears of this he will be sick with worry. Mother is not well, I came here to borrow something to ease her suffering - I did not know you meant for me to stay at home completely when you spoke to me yesterday."
"I certainly did not think you would come here."
"I am here on behalf of my mother, I did not wish to come here." She said, suddenly haughty. "I can last a day without seeing you, Mr Thornton."
He blinked at that odd comment, and he was unafraid to admit that it stung him. Every hour without catching a glimpse of her seemed to drag interminably. She had consumed him. She was suddenly all he could think of, all of the time.
"Wait a while, for the streets to calm. Then I will take you home." John told her, taking her hand and stroking over her knuckles with his thumb.
He felt like he was trying to calm a nervous horse, for her hand trembled beneath his. Her face, however, gave nothing away. She looked down at their joined hands blankly.
"Is it safe for you to walk the streets?" Margaret asked. "After what just happened, I would not like you to get into any trouble."
It was a fair point; the anger had reached boiling point and there were certain men who would try and beat John into a pulp should they get their hands upon his body.
"We will take a carriage. I'll find one. Margaret, please. I will not send you out there alone."
"I heard Fanny talking to Jane when I was waking up. They said - they said everyone knows that I care for you now. That I was clinging to you."
His sister had always been a fiend for gossip, but he could not believe he nor their servant had been so careless as to repeat such things right in front of Margaret, unconscious or not. He did not wish Margaret to think ill of his sister, nor to worry needlessly what other people thought of her or their..relationship?
"Do you care for me?" John asked. His thumb traced the shape of her jaw.
"I have kissed you a great many times, though I knew it to be wrong." Margaret said.
Her eyes did not quite meet his; it was as though she was looking straight through him. He frowned; this was not the way he had hoped this conversation would transpire.
"How could it be wrong? How could it be wrong when I love you?" John whispered.
He could not miss the way she froze at his words, the way she shrank back so she sat pressed against the back of the settee. These words were not welcome ones. He did not show it, but he felt crushed beneath the weight of her rejection.
"John." Margaret spoke his given name; she did so rarely, and he savoured every time she did. "Mr Thornton, I cannot-"
Mr Thornton.
"You do not love me." He leaned back on his heels, crouching before her. A begging man.
"No! I do not know what I feel. It is happening too fast, my head is not clear. I need time."
"You have kissed me of your own volition often enough, you have made me believe that you care for me."
"It is happening too fast, as I said. My mother is ill and declining quickly, the strike - there is too much to think of!"
"I will not harm your reputation by creeping around like this much longer, Margaret. We will get caught eventually and then it will look suspicious when we marry."
"Marry?" She blinked several times. "What do you mean, marry?"
"You think I would kiss you every damn chance I got and not want to marry you? I was going to ask your father-"
"Do not tell Father of this!" Margaret interrupted, her eyes wide with panic. "He cannot know about - about the danger I placed myself in. Or - or our-"
She could not even get the words out. Was she so very ashamed of what had happened between them?
"Of course I would not, I would ask him if I could court you. He would be furious with me if he found out about this, I am certain of it. I want to do things properly, with honour. Unless of course you do not wish to marry me, if this has all been some silly game - to toy with my emotions and then drop me when you are tired of it."
"How dare you?!" Margaret stood, her hands in fists by her side. She stood so suddenly she almost knocked him backwards. "How dare you say such things? You think me capable of such behaviour? I'm going home."
They were barely an inch apart as he got to his feet as well. She was much shorter than he was, and a little unsteady too, wobbling as she tried to maintain her stance. Was she ill? Could he dare hope her apparent disgust at his feelings was merely a result of the blow to her head? He held her arms, steadying her.
"I am not letting you walk all the way home on your own. You'll be robbed or hurt, don't be ridiculous."
Margaret's eyes flared, that look that meant she was most indignant indeed. He had seen it several times in their short - acquaintance? Friendship? - and it had never meant anything good.
"You are not letting me do anything. I am choosing to leave." Margaret turned to the door, but he stepped in front of her, blocking her.
"Your head-"
"Is fine, thank you for your concern Mr Thornton. Good day." Margaret made to move past him but he caught her arm.
"No. No, you are not leaving."
"Let go of me." Margaret warned in a low voice. "I will scream."
He rolled his eyes, but let go of her all the same. He would not trap her like some howling caged animal. He would not use his hands on her.
"I am not going to hurt you, don't be ridiculous." John hissed, balling his hands out of sheer frustration. Things had changed so quickly he felt utterly blindsided by the sudden coldness. "Margaret, I don't understand. I thought - my office, the study, your hallway - I thought-"
"John." Her eyes were wide. "I need time. I need time to understand this. Three days ago I did not even like you, now we are talking of marriage. It is too much. I cannot do this, I cannot see you."
"Margaret? Are you awake?"
John started at the unexpected sound of his mother's voice and walked away from Margaret. It was too late; his mother stood well in the room, there was little chance she had not seen them standing too close to be proper.
"She is well, Mother. I will take her home when-"
"I will take her home." Mother said. "You've enough to be getting on with here."
"Mother-"
"It is arranged, I have already found a carriage. Surely Miss Hale's parents will be wondering where she has got to, it is best she goes home as soon as possible. Come, Miss Hale. Can you walk?"
Margaret nodded, smoothing her skirts. She raised her hand briefly to touch the wound on her head, and John wondered if it hurt. She would likely hide any pain she was in, and he was desperate enough to hope her apparent change of heart was a result of the stone to her head, rather than realising he was not suitable for her.
He swallowed hard; that was what he feared. That she would realise he was not good enough for her, that she would reject him outright. A bright Southern girl from a respectable family could do better than a gruff Northern master who couldn't even control his own workforce.
"Of course. I must thank you for your concern, and for having the doctor visit. Mr Thornton, once again I must apologise for interfering." Margaret said. "I realise now that it was not my place. However, I am certain I would do the same again."
"There is no need to apologise. I - I am grateful to you. I hope you recover quickly from your unfortunate injury, Miss Hale. Please, send me any doctor's bill you might incur." John gritted out, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Mother, take care. Come back as quickly as you can, I do not like you being on the streets."
He felt duty bound to escort them both to the waiting carriage. Mother went in first, but he could feel her eyes on him as he helped Margaret in. Her hand did not linger on his, nor did her gaze. She merely mumbled her thanks to him and turned her face away, staring straight ahead with blank eyes.
He mumbled a goodbye and shut the carriage door, certain he had never been so utterly confused in all his thirty years.