~Chapter 5~
Margaret stared for a moment at the abandoned meal surrounding her. She felt choked by the thought of it. Instead, her mind kept returning to the dangers of the fight and Mr. Thornton's trying to separate the angry men. She could not wait here. Only pausing to throw on her coat, Margaret ran across the muddy yard and into the mill. Shouting voices replaced the persistent hum of the looms. Turning the corner into the first mill room, Margaret found the fight. Men, women and children pressed themselves up against the walls, a patchwork quilt of humanity, trying to avoid the flying fists and bodies of the ten or twelve odd men engaged in the exchange of violence. Mr. Thornton, Mr. Williams, and Nicholas Higgins waded into the thick of it, trying to separate the brawling bodies. Nicholas was rewarded for his trouble with a blow to the face. Margaret screamed.
John heard a woman scream and jerked his head in its direction, trying to find the source. Margaret. Even from a distance and through the throng of people he could tell that she had gone pale in fright and stood far too close to the fighting for his comfort. "Higgins!" he called out, pointing at his wife. "Get her out of here!" Nicholas parted the crowd to reach her, took Margaret by the arm, and practically dragged her from the room. In the hall, he seated her on the stairs.
"What were you thinking, mistress," he asked, "rushing in to a fight?"
Margaret raised a hand to the growing lump on Nicholas' face. "One could make the same query to you, Nicholas," she replied. He laughed and then grew serious.
"Thornton and Williams need me just now, as they are mighty outnumbered. You must go up to the master's office and promise to stay there until you are got." He watched determination and stubbornness flash across her face. "You distract the master and likely will get him hurt by your presence," he told her firmly. Only after she nodded in understanding did Nicholas return to the first mill room.
Margaret did as she was bid and climbed the steps to the office. From it, she could see the mass of people, some fighting, some trying to avoid the fight. Mr. Thornton's dark jacket separated him from his men, but at this distance she could not determine how many of the multiple blows aimed at her husband hit their mark. The thought made her sick.
It took some thirty or forty minutes for John, Williams, and Higgins to stop the fight, tossing the pugnacious out into the rain to cool their tempers. Finally, John addressed the remaining workers. "There will be no fighting at my mill. Anyone who threatens my establishment with such ignorant, bestial actions will be let go. Is that understood? Then back to work." As the hoard of workers sorted themselves back into place, he clapped Williams and Higgins on the back. "Still all right to work?" he asked Higgins, whose cheek swelled so that it partially closed his left eye.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, take a break and then get back to it." John turned and wearily climbed the stairs to his office, nursing his own wound, which consisted only of bruised and bloodied knuckles unused to such rough activity. He found to his surprise that Margaret waited there, her face grave in concern.
"Are you hurt?" she asked the instant he entered the small room, rising from his chair and moving to him.
"No," he assured her. "This is the worst of it." He held up his right hand for her inspection and she captured it gingerly in her own, examining its surface solemnly. The entire appendage was swollen; purple bruises mottled its surface and scabs of dried blood snaked in and around the bones of the knuckles.
"You should have this looked at by a doctor," she urged, turning her worried face up to him.
He smiled at that. "There is no need. The doctor will have nothing to offer me other than an admonition not to do foolish things like separate brawling men."
"Let us at least go back to the house where I can wrap it," Margaret persisted, tracing a finger softly over the broken skin.
John replied, "I should stay. The workers are restless after the disturbance." He felt himself relaxing, though, at her gentle touch. He was tired.
She frowned at him then, a line of determination drawing itself on her forehead.
"All right," John assented, eager to be back in her good graces. They returned through the rain to the house and then down the hall to the library where they found their picnic undisturbed.
"Take the settee," Margaret insisted. "The light is better there for me to bandage your hands." She went to the kitchen and asked Molly, the cook, for a bowl of hot water, then sent Julia for some salve and clean cotton rags. Finally with everything gathered, Margaret returned to the library.
John sat waiting for Margaret's return, smiling at the thought of her caring attention, and then wondering if she would tend to Williams and Higgins with such fervor if she were able. Probably. What had she said when he had reminded her of her actions during the riot? 'Why there was not a man- not a poor, desperate man in all that crowd-for whom I had not more sympathy.'
Margaret entered, then, seating herself on the floor in front of the yellow silk and dark wood settee on which John reclined. She took first one hand and then the other in soft fingers, washed them gently, rubbed salve into the bruised and broken skin, and wrapped them carefully in strips that she tore from the rags. Finished, she retrieved Mr. Thornton's half-eaten plate, refilled it, and set it on his lap. "You should try to eat something," she coaxed him.
"Eat with me," he returned. And so she did, laughing a little at Mr. Thornton's first awkward attempt at using a fork with his bandaged hands. "This will never do!" he cried. "How will I keep up with the accounts with stiff, bandaged hands?"
"I have been told my hand is clear," Margaret offered, avoiding his gaze and hoping he would not belittle or reject her well-meant offer.
John watched again as Margaret transitioned from happiness to this strange nervousness. It was clear that she did not actually want this task but felt it her duty. "There is no need," he assured her. "Williams and I will manage as ever."
Margaret swallowed back her frustration and hurt and rose suddenly, intent on leaving the room before any foolish tears were shed. "I will leave you to rest now."
John let her go.
Margaret retreated to her bedroom and would have been loath to admit the number of tears that in the end did escape her. She collected herself and then returned to the library to clean up the ruins of the picnic, but found it already empty save for her husband. Mr. Thornton had fallen asleep, his poor, damaged hands carefully placed on his lap. Thinking of his shivers two nights before, Margaret again pulled the coverlet over him. This time, though, it woke him.
"Thank you, my love," he whispered, still half asleep. Margaret did not know how to react to that. Instead, she perused the shelves and found a volume of Greek mythology and settled into the brown armchair. Yet, she found herself watching the slumbering man more than the page before her.
"Excuse me, mistress," Samantha stated, interrupting the quiet scene, "but supper is ready."
Margaret nodded. "Thank you."
John did not stir.
Margaret pressed a hand against his shoulder. "John," she called. No response. She shook his shoulder slightly and again called, "John."
This time, he shifted and blinked his eyes slowly open, pleased to see before him the deep brown eyes and soft, pink lips of his wife. God, he did not deserve her.
"Supper is ready," she continued. "Would you like me to bring you a plate?"
"No." John sat and then stood, making to rub the sleep from his eyes before remembering the bandaged state of his hands. He escorted Margaret to the dining room, but excused himself soon after and went up to bed when he could not keep his eyelids open. Margaret finished the meal in grateful silence, having plenty of her own thoughts to consider. Love. He had said 'my love.'
Hannah Thornton returned to the house quite late, having been compelled to listen to each new piece of music that Mr. Watson had purchased for his bride and to admire every pattern of wallpaper that they were considering for the front hall. She made immediately for the second floor and her bedroom, thinking only of sleep.
"Mrs. Thornton," Margaret called hesitantly from her place at the library door. She had remained awake in order to inform her mother-in-law of the mill fight, knowing that if the tables were turned, she would wish to be informed of John's injury.
Hannah turned at Margaret's voice, her exasperation evident at having been halted.
"I apologize for bothering you," Margaret continued, "However, I wished to inform you as soon as possible that a fight took place at the mill today and that although Mr. Thornton separated the men, he did sustain some injury to his hands from the fighting." Mrs. Thornton seemed poised for flight up to her son. "It is nothing serious," Margaret hurried to assure her, "but I felt it best for you to know of it." Mrs. Thornton nodded and continued up the stairs. Margaret wondered at first if she had imagined the fear flashing through Mrs. Thornton's eyes at her words, but upon climbing the stairs to take her own bed, Margaret saw that the master bedroom door was ajar and through it that Mrs. Thornton stood with a motherly hand placed on her son's forehead. The sight made her smile.
The next morning was Sunday, the only day on which the mill stood silent. Margaret woke late after the turmoil of the previous day and so dressed quickly, knowing she would have to forego breakfast in order to attend church on time. She agreed upon Samantha's choice of a mint green dress with black lace and ribbon details but still selected her black gloves and mourning bonnet to wear with it. Heading downstairs, she was pleased to see that although Mrs. Thornton stood ready, Mr. Thornton appeared the latest riser today.
John Thornton found himself indebted to his valet this morning, unable with his stiff hands to so much as fasten a button without pain. He then walked down the stairs to find his mother, clad in her widow's black, and wife, still with some hints to her own mourning, waiting in the hall. He escorted his wife and then his mother down the stairs and into the waiting carriage, his mother clucking some over his hands, which he had rewrapped after considering the reaction of the churchgoers to the state of his knuckles.
Margaret thought the church sermon lovely, or at least would have stated that to anyone who asked. In truth, her mind wandered back to the few short days ago when she had stood at the front of this very congregation. How very different she thought herself from that girl. How many lifetimes of emotion she had undergone. And all without her parents. Margaret swallowed hard at the thought.
John Thornton watched the tears glisten in his wife's mahogany eyes, hoping she thought of the loss of her parents and not the gaining of a husband at that moment. He censured himself. It was cruel to hope for any reason for those tears. After the service ended and they had paid their respects to those who approached them, John stated to his mother, "Margaret and I are walking home. Please take the carriage." Mrs. Thornton nodded, her lips tight to stop the motherly advice about stressing one's self after injury from spilling forth.
Surprised, Margaret took John's offered arm, her little black-gloved hand disappearing against his similarly colored sleeve. He guided her past the shops of town and then turned left when she would have turned right, heading towards the cemetery. She breathed deeply to suppress her emotions, but could not contain them when John halted before the graves of her parents. His kindness and her own sorrow overwhelmed her so that she did not realize until John handed her his white kerchief that tears flowed down her cheeks. She pushed her bonnet from her head, so that it hung down her back and she was free to wipe at her face with the cloth. "I am sorry," she attempted, but he shook his head and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. It was too much. Margaret turned her face away from the gravesites, the one grassy, the other still fresh with mud. She pressed herself against her husband's suit coat and felt his arms come up around her.
Knowing his wife's grief, John expected the tears that cascaded down her cheeks and splashed from her trembling chin. He offered the handkerchief that he held, his heart unready despite his preparedness for the sight of her brokenhearted tears. When she tried to apologize in a small voice, John could not even speak for the emotion choking him. Nothing, however, equipped him for what came next. Margaret turned into his chest and pressed her face into him, seeking comfort. His arms automatically encircled her, absorbing the way she fit there, with her head tucked neatly below his chin. It took several long minutes before Margaret gathered herself enough to sigh and pull away.
Her face was distorted with patches of red from crying and the smile she tried to offer trembled pitifully, but John would not have spoken a word that might restart her tears. Instead, he guided her again in a direction she did not expect, ending this time at the Higgins' front door. John received his reward as soon as Mary opened the door with one of the Boucher children on her hip, for then a true smile lit Margaret's face. Mary invited the couple in, a little shocked, John thought, at his own presence. He sat contentedly as Margaret worried over Higgins' bruised cheek, chatted with Mary, and held and kissed each of the children. She became vividly alive in this setting, freed from the stresses of trying to fit herself into the Thornton household. This thought brought a bit of heaviness to John's stomach.
Margaret sat with young Anna on her lap, admiring the pictures that the little girl had drawn with charcoal on scraps of paper from the meat wrappings. "Tell me about this one," she coaxed the shy child, smoothing down the wisps of Anna's white-blonde hair.
"A bird," Anna replied.
"What does the bird do?" Margaret asked.
"Eats," the child responded.
"What does the bird eat?" Margaret tried again, patiently.
"Stew," Anna answered.
Margaret laughed aloud, her simple joy in the moment pouring out in the sound. She caught John's eye and found that he, too, shared her mirth, his smile wide enough to crease the corners of his sky blue eyes. Fifteen or so minutes later, Margaret rose, making their goodbyes and promising another visit soon. She walked silently beside John back to the house, reliving the visit in her mind.
When they entered the mill yard, John stated his intention of reviewing a few pages of accounts before dinner and so left Margaret at the foot of the front porch stairs. She smiled up at him gratefully. "Thank you," she declared. "You knew exactly what I needed today." Margaret then brought his bandaged hand to her lips and kissed it, and hurried up the stairs and into the house, leaving John standing at the bottom for quite some time before he continued on to the mill, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.