If the mill had exploded before his very eyes, John Thornton would still have thought himself dreaming.
Part of him had never quite awoken after glimpsing the ethereal Miss Margaret Hale in that flurry of cotton. For three years, a piece of his consciousness was imprisoned, watching her tramping through his mill, those eyes flashing with a censure no woman had ever given him.
At first, he had tried to dismiss her as a novelty: some insufferable southern goddess. When her tongue had lashed him, he had sworn to forget her and her unfounded opinions. He had sworn it again when her fingers had brushed his at tea, soft and unaware. Then again when her graceful neck had craned to look back at him from the lyceum steps; when she had set him down so liberally in front of all the masters and their wives.
What sane man would tolerate a woman who condemned him so? he used to think.
He would never know exactly when he descended into that madness, when his resolve began to splinter. He knew only that recalling their smallest interactions had him stumbling between wonder and resentment of it. By the time her arms clasped his neck the day of the riots, the press of her breast to his, he had been sundered apart. When he made his crude proposal in her parlor, he had all but shattered.
Against common sense itself, he craved her.
He loved her, with no power to stop.
He was a fool for admitting it only after she had left him, numb in the snow. Even his mother, the woman who'd known him better than any other, had thought him brought low by only the mill. No one supposed that it was the prospect of a listless future without the woman he should despise, but never could.
In every dream in those bleak days, she had tantalized him with open arms, ever beckoning as she faded. With every sway and smile, she had teased his desires into haunting demands.
Now, against all odds, he had felt her, so completely and wholly that he was enslaved. He did not know how he could listen to her voice without hearing those chiming sighs as she came undone. Every chaste touch might forever ignite the memory of her perfect softness surrounding him. It was a heady reality that bid him still ask:
How could such a woman care for me?
He'd every intention of conquering that self-doubt this morning. He had woken Margaret slowly, with small kisses to her forehead as she'd opened her eyes. When she stirred, the sheet falling lazily from her breasts, she had made such an innocent sound of satisfaction that it stirred him to near violent need.
And then, as she'd sensuously curved into him, he saw that small streak of red.
To his shame, he had overestimated himself. For all his intentions, he had been as impatient as any man.
His goodbye to Margaret after breakfast was terse, abrupt. Work had been a true excuse. What he did not say was that lingering any longer would only mean his temptation when her body, her mind, needed time. The thought of her "tolerating" his touch in silent resignation was far worse than her refusing it.
He could not expect her to seek him again tonight. However much the memory of her touch pained him for its absence, he would wait. When she welcomed his embrace again, he would take his time about it.
If only his earnestness could make the day go any faster.
Striding through the side entrance, John bid curt acknowledgement to the workers filing into the warehouse. His thoughts unconsciously sped his pace until he stood before his office door. It stretched before him like a green, gaping maw.
In his current state, business was the last thing he wished to confront. But confront it I must, he thought with resignation as he entered.
Slinging his coat over the rack, he inhaled the scent of paper, his throat parching instantly. He almost flopped down onto his chair until he saw the piles of documents on the seat. It had been lately repurposed as an overflow surface for work undone. As he had every day for the past few weeks, John moved each stack back onto his desk, oldest to the left and newest to the right.
By the time he'd finished, the temptation to walk straight back out the door was overwhelming.
When the mill had closed, a number of orders went unfinished. He'd notified his contractors only three weeks before the shutdown. It was scant time, John knew, for most to move their business elsewhere, and suppliers would be reluctant to reengage when doors again opened for business. He had even less hopes of his former hands returning.
Nothing surprised him more than when all but three contractors renegotiated after the mill had reopened. Almost all the hands on Higgins' petition were lined up in the courtyard. Once word was out that the Higgins girl was back in the kitchen, even more showed up looking for work. The only rationale for it, John had wagered, was the common gossip of his recently 'enhanced capital.'
With the mill busier than ever, taking on extra hands had been the only option—if not an ideal one. Though he resented Parliament's intervening with the Ten Hours Act, John had steadfastly complied these past five years. Other masters could call him a lickspittle, but conditions were never cramped like at Slickson's or Hamper's.
Of late, it was a moot point of pride. Marlborough Mills had the largest warehouse in Milton, yet workers could now scarcely move an elbow. But shorter days with fewer hands would never get the mill up to speed.
This dilemma spurred John to productivity as he dove into his ledgers. As was his habit, he broke at ten o'clock to consult with his new overlooker this past month. It was a well-anticipated distraction from the books.
Ridiculous as it would have seemed only last year, Higgins had been the obvious replacement when Williams took seriously ill. Some workers had seen his promotion as a betrayal; others trusted him as their liaison. Whatever their perception, John had not forgotten Nicholas' position as a committee man. As he knew too well, theirs would always be a tenuous understanding.
It was a situation complicated only by their unlikely friendship. In truth, John had resisted it less than he should have. He preferred not to dwell on why, though he sometimes did anyway. Only Nicholas' company could half-fill the particular void of Mr. Hale's passing. The only thing the clergyman and the upstart union ringleader had in common was that they were both unlike him...
John looked up some time later, feeling a strip of golden sunlight heating his hand. Impossibly, it was almost eleven.
As he hastily made his final entry, the inkwell ran bone dry. Reaching into his second drawer, he felt around for the smooth, heavy glass and frowned. It was the second pot this week, and there was a strong chance he'd forgotten to buy another.
His hand almost caught in the drawer when a familiar bang sent him straight to his feet.
Racing from his office, he made for the long corridor toward the mill floor. He was past the carding room when a young girl bounded out from around the corner, her stringy blond hair matted to her forehead. She panted for breath, stopping cold when she got within ten feet of him.
"Master! Come quick!"
Tears welled in her brown eyes, and her hands quaked violently. John consciously relaxed his expression, though there was little any master could do to seem approachable to a child.
"What is it? What has happened?"
"It's my brother, Master." Her face went all the more pallid, her hand flailing behind her. "He were caught. Please!"
John moved past her without another word, his coat already loose on his shoulders.
He slid open the door with a resounding clack. As had not occurred since the strike, one of mules at the far wall had stopped, the fluff it generated suspended in mid-air like a cloud. A small crowd of hands clustered by the machine, their mutterings indecipherable under the whirring fallers. Those still at their looms stole looks at the disturbance, their faces blanched and movements slow.
John ran up to the idle workers, his heart thundering from what he knew he would find.
"Move! Those of you who can work, back to work!"
The few still crowded around the scene dispersed. He rolled up his sleeves and shed his jacket to the ground as a familiar brown capped-head turned toward him.
"Tried to get to them soon as I could," Nicholas intoned gravely.
John knelt down beside him. The man's round face was pouring with sweat, his warm eyes ringed with red.
"Roller beam snapped as they went to scavenge. Got caught in the carriage."
John almost did not hear the words as he surveyed the carnage. There were two boys laid out on throwaway bolts, which were already streaked crimson. The younger one, the girl's brother, lie whimpering and holding his wrist. One of the seasoned hands, Richardson, was winding a swath of cloth tight around the last two fingers of his right hand. John presumed the bones had been crushed; the binding would hold until they could be set properly.
Though the Jennings boy was the louder of the two, the elder boy was far worse. Nicholas' hands cradled his head as tears leaked from his eyes, his tight-lipped grimace holding back any sounds. Shards of bone peeked through the tangled mess of sinew that was once his forearm. A crude tourniquet had been tied just above the elbow to stave off some blood loss.
The child was an O'Neill, the only Irish family to stay so long after the strike. It was still not John's way to take an interest, but their history was not unknown to him. The father had passed of brown lung last winter, sick for years before coming to Milton. The mother was too ill to work, and the girls too young to scavenge or piece.
He was the only boy.
John bit back a self-directed curse. Accidents were inevitable and had happened before. Every man, woman, and child at Marlborough Mills knew it. But the circumstances of this particular incident—which put a family's fate on a son's shoulders—struck him.
"You, Jennings!"
The Jennings sister, still hanging back in some apparent fear of him, ran closer. She looked to the floor beside her, as though too afraid to look at her brother.
"Go and fetch Dr. Donaldson." John stopped himself from gritting his teeth at her blank look.
"He is in Blackhall, few streets before Princeton." His hand clamped on the girl's shoulder, remembering that two women may now be looking out the window—one who would be particularly distressed by the morning's events.
"You're to be quiet and quick about it. Is that understood?"
The girl nodded meekly, the horror on her face a reaction to his tone as much as it was concern for her brother.
"You can tell your mother, on the way back here, that your brother is being cared for," John added, his voice strained but softer.
He turned sharply as her little feet scampered off, hoping she had the presence of mind to direct herself.
A moan, too weak for the pain he was surely feeling, finally wrenched from the O'Neill boy's throat.
John gave Nicholas a sidelong glance. "Any whisky on hand?"
"Not on hand, of course," said Nicholas slyly, "but Mary's a mind to add it to stew some nights. She might be able conjure some up in the kitchens."
"Hoping she can." John lowered his voice. "Not inclined to go to the house for it."
The corners of Nicholas' mouth curled, his eyes twinkling. "Aye. Reckon you've a new overlooker to answer to yourself, have you not?"
"That I do," said John, with the faintest twist of a smile. He could always count on the man's humor, even on a day like this. "I'll see to things here."
Nicholas grunted in agreement, shifting stiffly to his knees as they switched positions. John propped the boy's head beneath a makeshift pillow of cotton bolts already wadded up beside him. The perspiration in the child's hair, mingled with dirt and dust, instantly soaked the white cloth.
Swiping away the sweat of his own brow, John listened to the sounds of his mill at work, knowing it would do little to settle his mind.
No respectable master was home before seven in early autumn. He'd therefore little sporting chance of entering the house at noon, on a Friday, undetected. It was past tea and before the ladies would luncheon, at least. The side entrance off by the kitchens, well away from the front window, was the safest bet.
The Jennings girl had done well, finding the doctor and his new assistant, Tompkins, in less than half an hour. As John had expected, the younger boy would do well once the bones were set, which Tompkins would do presently. But Dr. Donaldson had taken one look at the O'Neill boy and hollered for strong hands and a stretcher. After he'd been loaded on, Nicholas and he had made for Mercyhurst. Fortunately, there was one bed left in the children's infirmary. The surgeon there would amputate at once.
Once things had settled to relative calm, John had gone straight to work. One mule down was unsettling enough. The knowledge that other machines were installed around the same time was all the more disturbing. He'd not wait for an inspection that could be months—a year, perhaps—in coming. Any of the others could be next.
He had inspected without issue until the fifth machine, when a faller was too slow to shift, taking a generous slice of hand in the process. Between his and Nicholas' efforts, they'd managed a somewhat respectable binding.
Unfortunately, there was only a small jig left of the whisky. Dr. Donaldson was likely back on his rounds, so he'd have to wait for care regardless. There were a number of other physicians, of course, but none John trusted.
At any rate, the house was now unavoidable.
Hand concealed in his coat pocket, he opened the door to the side entrance, praying that he'd find only a scullery maid or two.
Instead, he almost barreled over Dixon. She looked up from her water-stained apron with more condemnation than surprise.
"Master Thornton! What you doin' here at this hour?"
John bit his lip, smothering the urge to check her impertinent tone. She had never been civil to him, and none too pleased that he was Margaret's choice instead of a southern husband. For his wife's sake, he had striven to be cordial. Yet the woman's disdain for anyone who was not Mrs. Margaret or Master Frederick was a reminder to not waste breath currying favor.
"I need whisky, boiling water, and some hot cloths—very quietly and very quickly," he said, careful to speak the urgency with his eyes rather than his volume. He slid his hand out from his pocket. Careful as he was, the slightest disturbance made him wince in agony. Some blood, he saw rather worriedly, was seeping through the cloth.
"What on Earth have you gone and done to yourself?" harrumphed Dixon—as though he were but a child having gotten himself into a scrape.
A black look was her only warning that he'd not ask twice.
The thick lines of her downturned mouth creased as she ushered him into the kitchen. She pointed to a small table and chair by the chimneypiece as she scooped two liberal heapings of tea into a nearby pot. After filling a kettle with water, she plunked it down loudly on the stove.
"It will be some minutes before it boils, of course," she said crisply. John heard well the few choice phrases she muttered as she bustled up the narrow stairs.
He collapsed into the chair thereafter, already knowing he'd not be able to enjoy the silence. Inevitably his thoughts gave way to dreaded calculations. The day's profit was shot, no matter which way he looked at it. Two years ago, he would have done anything to keep that machine working, let alone sit with the boy.
The master of Marlborough Mills smiled despite himself. Margaret's beneficence had rubbed off on him, it seemed.
On a bitterer note, they were still too far behind to catch up anyway.
"John!"
A waterfall of black silk billowed forward as Hannah rushed toward him. With effort, he sat up, both agitated and impressed as she leaned over him, inspecting his hand. He almost asked how she knew he was there, but did not. Her motherly instincts had always bordered on supernatural prescience.
"Please calm yourself, Mother." He moved his shoulder blades where the wooden chair back was now digging into him, steadying himself on his elbow for support.
Hannah swept his hair off his forehead, which had again dampened despite the autumn day. She turned back toward the entryway, no doubt to call for Jane, when John raised his good hand to forestall her.
"I already asked Dixon for some whisky. It is not as bad as you think it."
"You will surely need more than a bit of whisky." Mrs. Thornton cast a critical eye on the blood seeping through his makeshift bandages. "I will send for Dr. Donaldson at once."
"He was here not an hour ago." John sighed with regret, not yet ready to divulge what he must. "Doubt he will come again."
Despite her worry, Hannah's chin inclined slightly, as if to congratulate herself. "I swore I heard a machine stop earlier. Someone caught?"
"Two, actually. It was two boys. One's fingers crushed and the other will lose the arm."
"It is that Higgins," she hissed, as though to absolve her son of his remorse. "Promoted him but weeks ago, and look what happens? Why could he not test the machines instead of you?"
"He was reassigning places and watching the floor—under my orders," John added sternly. "The roller was never steady on that one. Only one person to be blamed for that."
"Don't you dare. There is nothing you could have done about those machines, John."
Wearily, the master of Marlborough Mills regarded his mother's black halo of discontent. She had watched him grow the mill these past thirteen years—and been on the floor, no less. She knew well it was not Nicholas' fault. Under the growing throb of his hand, it was an effort to temper his harsher words.
She looked at the ceiling, as though speaking to God Himself. "Always thinking of others and taking all the blame when he's sacrificed enough himself." John almost looked away from the very knowing glance she suddenly darted at him.
"It is no wonder who puts those notions into your head."
"Whatever has happened to you?"
They both turned toward Margaret, John's planned retort forgotten. Seeing the binding, and what John suspected to be a slightly feverish state, Margaret hurried forth. She crouched to get a better look at his hand with no apparent care for the hem of her white muslin. Patches of irritation sprung up on her cheeks as she glanced from John's bandages to Hannah. He forced himself to look into her pleading eyes, not keen to explain the ordeal a second time.
"There was an accident at the mill and two boys were injured."
"Children?"
He nodded, immediately regretting such a terse summary. It was easy to forget how shocking it might sound to a woman from the south, where children did not labor.
"One of the machines, a moving component," he corrected, "had snapped."
"The roller beam, you mean?"
John tried not to gape, an effort challenged by the proud twitch of Margaret's lips. Injured children, his hovering mother, and his throbbing hand notwithstanding, it was the most erotically intelligent question she'd ever asked.
"There is no need to concern yourself with such matters," Hannah cut in, nonplussed. "This is not the first time a child has been injured, and it will not be the last."
"Concern myself?" Margaret rose up a bit, though not near eye-level with Mrs. Thornton. The gloss of her tears was swiftly drying to that bright-eyed rage with which John was well-acquainted. "I've no idea how you could not be concerned at the thought of suffering children."
John surveyed this prelude to battle with powerless disappointment. Though subsequent events had quickly obscured it, he had been inquisitive about their conversation following yesterday's breakfast. He'd no inclination to pry, but he had guessed well enough its subject.
If the present exchange was any indication, it might have been even worse than he thought.
"I did not ask either of you to tend to me," he said, dictating a firm change of topic.
"And," Margaret bit back, flushed and defiant, "I am sure no one asked you to injure yourself."
She leapt up from her position as she heard Dixon's footsteps behind her. The servant walked in—a bit leisurely for John's liking—with the requested whisky and cloths.
"Thank you," Margaret said as she took the bundle of items. "I shall tend to him from here."
John eyed Dixon with contempt. The slightly smug smile on her face as she exited back up the stairs all but confirmed his suspicion. Miraculous as it was for his mother to have discovered him, Margaret happening upon the kitchens was outright Providential...
The kettle began to whistle and Margaret rushed to it at once. With a touch of wonder and much admiration, John watched her deliberate preparations. After soaking a clean cloth in scalding water, she laid out the dry strips one by one. His pride at her physicking knowledge was sobered by the reminder that she once led a far more menial life in Milton.
Hannah oversaw her endeavors with prim anxiety, as if reading his latter thought. "Jane can take care of such matters."
"I would rather her stick to the linens, Mrs. Thornton." Margaret did not look up from the cup of tea she was now pouring. She walked over, placing the cup and whisky on the table."I am sure we would not want her telling all of Milton that Mr. Thornton's hand was severed off."
Feverish or not, John swore there was a momentary glimmer of humility on his mother's face. Without a word, she popped open the whisky herself, pouring it into his tea with perfect temperance.
He took a slow, testing sip. As could be expected at Dixon's hands, the tea was near the strength of the liquor. The latter ingredient was still burning down his throat as Margaret unraveled his dressings.
To his chagrin, the wound was already raging at the seams. He nearly bit the rim of his teacup when Margaret dabbed at it with the hot cloth, now also soaked with whisky. The pain now shooting through him was inducement enough to take a far more liberal sip.
Margaret's lips drew tight with worry as she examined him. "John, you need the doctor at once."
"I told him as much," Hannah chimed in. To John's gratitude, she made no move to criticize his wife's ministrations. If Margaret's acumen of mill machinery had not impressed her, at least something apparently had.
He did not know whether to groan with frustration or to laugh. It seemed an accord between the two of them could be won only at the cost of his own injury.
By the time his mother called for her articles—having a mind to go for the doctor herself—he had long resigned himself to being outmaneuvered.
"Dr. Donaldson will be vexed to show himself here twice in one day, mind." Hannah fastened her overcoat before making a quick, practicable bow of her bonnet ribbon.
"There are some of Dixon's delicious coconut cakes left, I think," Margaret said cheerfully. "He always enjoyed them when he would call on Mama."
"I believe I had one when Fanny and I visited you at Crampton," Hannah said, clearly ignoring Margaret's slightly wistful tone as much as John took it to heart. Still, she regarded her daughter-in-law with a gleam in her eye that was almost encouraging. "They should be enough to tempt him here, at any rate."
Margaret only nodded as Mrs. Thornton pulled on her gloves and she strode out through the side door.
John glanced up fondly at his wife standing above him, unraveling a long strip of cloth. It was so seldom that he had to look up at her instead of down. He was still smiling at this reversal, and her amicable exchange with his mother, when Margaret's look of fervent worry drew him from his thoughts.
"And you've every assurance the boy will be well?"
"The doctor said there would be no signs of infection," John said frankly. "But the child will not work again."
She frowned implacably. "But what of the other children in the home? Can no one take his place?"
"It is the O'Neill boy." He sighed, knowing he was done in. There was no chance she had not heard of the family with how many baskets she's taken during the strike. "Father is gone and mother is ill. He is the last one who could work."
He braced himself as her lips contorted, her brow rumpling with determination in a way he could not help but find charming.
"Then we shall help them."
Her words neither surprised nor pleased him. This was, inevitably, going to be her response to every crisis his mill hands incurred. If she had her way, Margaret would spend her days ministering to every family in Princeton.
"I say this with no malice, Margaret. But you know well we cannot help the family of every worker in our mill. We are feeding them now, and it is expense enough."
"I am well aware, but a child will have lost a limb. Surely it would not be inappropriate to visit."
"No, not as Miss Hale, it wouldn't." He shook his head, knowing he must speak plainly as always, but loath to do it. "There's no knowing how you'll be received in Princeton as Mrs. Thornton—as any master's wife might be."
He watched in silence as a sad understanding crept over her face. Though he had neither the wish nor the capability of containing her spirit, life would not be the same for her now. Could not.
She stroked his arm absently, pausing with that noble carriage that still struck him with wonder. "I did not think of my reception, I admit—nor of the expense you take with your workers. It is still quite new to me to consider anyone as a hand rather than as a person."
John's shoulders tensed. Those snippets of philosophy, however he missed them of the gentle Mr. Hale, were always portents of argument with his fiery daughter.
"But I cannot help but think of them as whole people rather than hands." She began bandaging him again with strident motions, her voice just as firm. "I shall visit the O'Neills with a basket on Monday."
There was no arguing with her. It was this conviction that rekindled in his mind their fateful walk yesterday and the conversation about the mill. While Margaret could never sign contracts or conduct business, the property was hers. Educated on the hands' side of things, she had never expressed interest in reading literature on the precepts of manufacturing. And yet, she showed a keen enough understanding.
John felt her looking at him perplexedly as he cracked a smile. There would always be the social responsibilities of being a lady in Milton society. She was the mistress of their home; that he could not help. But such duties need not eclipse her sense of purpose—her 'moral duty,' as she'd always called it.
"So be it, then."
Margaret dabbed at the wound one last time for good measure, obviously constraining her astonishment. "I am so glad you agree."
"There is one condition, however." He placed his cup down with a clink, looking into her pale gray eyes with certainty.
"For many years, the only people I've listened to about the business—save for Mother—were masters like myself. I have Higgins now, but he is long familiar with the ways of cotton and the mill.
"I do not understand. What exactly are you proposing?"
"I propose," he said slowly, smirking at her impatience, "that you take on a more 'active' role as befits you. Up until a few months ago, Mother would look over the floor when I was out on business."
At this, Margaret arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"Before the wedding," John continued, "she said that she'd no place to be on the floor at her age, and she is right. I've no wish for her, busy as we are now, to assume more responsibility at her time of life."
"So," Margaret finished, "you would like me to take your mother's place on the floor when needed."
"Perhaps."
"Pray, say what you mean!" she cried, her frustrated words betraying a laugh. "These evasions are unlike you."
"I mean that I should like you to be as much a part of the mill as you wish—not just because I am your tenant. We have taken on more workers than ever, Margaret—perhaps more than I was prepared to manage," he confessed. "I offer this so you might better appreciate my responsibilities and those of the workers. And thus you may make your own conclusions on how to improve Marlborough Mills."
Her eyes widened in such a perfectly innocent way that John could not help but laugh.
"Mother was right," he said. "What happened today will happen again, but another set of eyes on things can only help us now. Especially someone with more...charitable instincts."
"Charitable instincts?"
He feared he'd asked too much, waiting for her to elaborate. Then she looked up, a glint in her eye.
"Was it not you, sir, who once professed to my father that you did not run a 'charitable institution?'"
"So it was." John straightened his shoulders with a wink. "It is not to say that I should submit to your every demand."
"A few demands, then?"
"Perhaps."
He grinned at her implicit 'yes' to his proposition, just before she rounded his hand again with the binding, pulling a bit too tight.
"I am afraid my hand will be rather useless for a while," he said with a wince.
It took a moment of assessing her crimson flush before he felt his collar heat in turn. Their evening last night had lent his utterance a second entendre. Hazy as he felt, he was glad of it. Perhaps his abruptness this morning hadn't poisoned things after all.
She stood abruptly, her cheeks still a proper shade of rose. "Another layer, I think. I must fetch some more cloth."
He nodded gratefully, careful not to smile else she think him teasing. She had climbed only a step on the stairwell when he remembered an almost forgotten question.
"I meant to ask you," he called out, "was it Higgins who educated you on the roller beam?"
"My understanding was procured from another source, in fact." She peeked her head back down with playful smile that sent a throb straight through him.
"There was a handsome gentleman at the Great Exhibition who was quite the expert."
She resumed her path upstairs, leaving John smiling as he listened to her petticoats swish away—a bit suggestively, to his imagination.
Warmed by fire and whisky, he tried to focus on his better thoughts of the past three days. He also said a small prayer that Dr. Donaldson could work a miracle before nightfall.