Margaret stared out the window of the train compartment, watching the evening light fade over the unfamiliar terrain. She could scarcely believe she was here, on her way to Milton. Had she really just walked out of her Harley Street home, possibly never to return? As she had stealthily made her way out the door, she had been stricken with a sense of panic. Not panic about leaving, however; merely about getting caught.
She glanced across at her traveling companion, who was taking up the opposite seat. Mr. Taylor was busily sorting papers from his briefcase. He looked up at her and paused, regarding her thoughtfully. "Are you all right, Miss Hale?"
"Yes, of course!" Margaret felt a bit flustered by his question. "Why do you ask?"
He considered for a moment. "I think I understand what it means for a young woman to leave her home as you did today. I believe you must be a very brave young woman. And possibly… feeling rather desperate."
Margaret flushed. "It was imperative I leave that house as soon as I could. I am thankful Mr. Bell provided me with the means to do so."
He nodded. "I believe Mr. Bell would be glad to be able to help you." He frowned. "It is strange, though. Almost as if…"
Margaret waited for him to continue. "As if?"
Mr. Taylor shuffled through the papers in his lap. "Well, Miss Hale, looking over Bell's properties… He has owned almost all of them for a number of years. In fact he has made only one recent purchase – the Crampton home. He acquired that one only six months ago. He owns no other homes in Milton. He also chose not to renew the previous tenants' lease, so it has been sitting empty for two months now." He regarded Margaret keenly. "Almost as if… he had known he would have a need for it."
Margaret stared at him, trying to fathom this new revelation. Had her father's friend truly been planning this for her, for so long? A home of her own, a new city… a fresh start. "Mr. Bell was very good to me." The lump in her throat kept her from saying any more.
Mr. Taylor cleared his throat. "Would you care to review details of your other properties?" Margaret blinked and nodded, eager to distract herself.
"These are the deeds and bank documents for your holdings. Mr. Bell owned several properties in Milton, as well as some sizable bank accounts. Your primary account holds over eighteen thousand pounds, Miss Hale." He gave her a moment to let her absorb the weight of that number. "Besides the home in Crampton, he possessed several warehouses and some small businesses. The most valuable property is Marlborough Mills, a large cotton mill."
"A cotton mill?" Margaret's head was spinning. "I own a cotton mill?"
"You do indeed, Miss Hale. What used to be a very successful cotton mill. Sadly the mill recently ran into some financial troubles and had to close its doors."
"My goodness." Margaret studied the documents thoughtfully. "A cotton mill. Imagine. I've never even seen a mill."
"You will shortly, Miss Hale. Milton boasts a good number of them."
"But the mill is no longer in operation? What is being done with it now?"
"Nothing at all, I'm afraid. The mill only shut down very recently. You will probably be hearing soon from the mill's master, Mr. Thornton, about giving up his lease."
Margaret's mind was overwhelmed with so much new information. "What should I do about the mill?"
"Well, I believe it would take a great deal of capital to start up the mill again. It might be best to consider selling the property. You may be able to sell to another mill owner, or possibly find an investor who would refurbish it into some other type of factory."
"I see." Mr. Taylor's advice seemed to make sense. After all, what did she know about running a mill? And why would she want to do such a thing? And yet, something about the idea of selling Marlborough Mills, her very own mill, bothered her. "I am not sure I want to consider selling the mill yet. After all, if Mr. Bell did truly plan for me to live in Milton, would he not want me to keep it? He did leave it to me."
"Marlborough Mills was a significant source of income for Mr. Bell, while it was running. The property commands a substantial lease price. I believe it was the income he was concerned with. The sale of the property would provide you with a large sum that could be invested elsewhere." His expression was kind, but Margaret knew she must seem ignorant and inexperienced about such things.
"Well, thank you, I will consider the matter."
"Of course, Miss Hale. No decisions need to be made yet." He began placing the documents back into his case. "As you will be residing in Milton, we will be able to meet at your leisure to sort out the rest of the estate. And since you have had no time to make any preparations, I must insist you stay with my wife and I tonight when we reach Milton. She will be delighted to have you. Our house has seemed rather empty since our daughter married." He gave her a warm smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Taylor. That is very kind." Margaret leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, feeling rather overcome. She, Margaret Hale, was moving by herself to a new city, where she knew no one, and where she owned a home she'd never seen and a defunct cotton mill. She could almost laugh, it all sounded so absurd.
She was the owner of a cotton mill. Marlborough Mills. She liked that name. There was something about it – it sounded strong, purposeful, dignified. Strange, was dignity something to be associated with manufacturing? She would never have thought such a thing before.
But the mill was not in operation, and Mr. Taylor advised that she should sell it. Margaret was uncertain why she felt reluctant to do so. Would Mr. Bell have wanted her to? She sighed. So much had happened today, and she was much too tired to make such a decision right now. She would wait and see this Marlborough Mills for herself. Margaret Hale, mill owner. Margaret smiled slightly as the train's gentle rocking motion soothed her to sleep.
"Ah yes, here we are." Mr. Taylor pointed out the house as the carriage came to a stop. "This is it, Miss Hale."
Margaret looked up at the drab grey exterior of the unassuming house. Nestled in the midst of the smoky, bustling lane, it was certainly a far cry from Harley Street. The cloudy morning light did little to brighten the view. Men and women in equally colorless clothing passed by, gathering in groups to conduct their business.
As Mr. Taylor helped her out of the carriage, however, Margaret was struck with an odd sense of coming home. No, this was definitely not Harley Street, thank goodness. Gazing at the small and unimpressive home before her, she smiled.
Mr. Taylor opened the door. "The house has been vacant for some weeks, so it may need a little cleaning. If I'd had any idea you would be coming here so soon I would have had it all prepared for you."
"Do not worry. I am sure it will fit my needs perfectly."
"I will see that a fire is made up. Fortunately, the weather is mild this time of year. You will of course need to hire servants as soon as possible. I will make some inquiries today; I should be able to find you some help very soon."
"Thank you, Mr. Taylor." Margaret wandered through the ground floor, surveying her new home. She noticed some dust and a few cobwebs, but nothing too terrible. The rooms were small and the furniture was not overly elegant, but appeared comfortable and welcoming.
When she joined Mr. Taylor again in the front parlor, he was arranging her papers into a folder on a table. "Here are your documents, Miss Hale. And these are the keys for all your properties." He placed a steel key ring on the table. "Unfortunately, I must leave you for the present; I have an appointment with another client this afternoon that I must prepare for. I will be in my office, here is the address." He placed his card on top of the folder.
"My wife and I would be honored to host you for dinner this evening, Miss Hale. And I wish to renew my wife's invitation to stay with us until we find you proper help here. She really was most taken with you. It would be no trouble. We both hate to think of you staying here all alone."
"That is very kind of you both, Mr. Taylor." She smiled at him. "I would be happy to accept your invitation for dinner, but really, there is no need for me to stay with you tonight. I know I shall be quite comfortable here."
"Very well, Miss Hale, if you are sure. But the offer still stands. Shall I send my carriage to pick you up at seven?" At Margaret's nod, he gave her a warm smile. "Welcome to Milton, Miss Hale. I hope you will find it to be the home you are seeking."
After Mr. Taylor left, Margaret stood in the front hall, looking around her. She could faintly hear the sounds of traffic and voices from outside, but inside all was quiet. She could not recall the last time she had been truly alone like this, without another soul in the house. This is my very own home, she thought. She threw out her arms and twirled around like a child, giggling when she stumbled into a small table. Oh, how silly I am. But there is no one here to see me.
Margaret spent some more time perusing the various rooms. She explored the bedrooms upstairs, immediately choosing the one at the front of the house for her own. It was not the largest room, but the wallpaper was an appealing shade of light blue with bright yellow flowers. It reminded her of her dear roses set against blue Helstone skies. The bedroom also had a window that looked out over the busy street. She sat at the window for a time and contemplated the dull, monochromatic view. It is nothing like Helstone, or even London. But I believe I can be happy here.
She wandered down the hall again and found a small study she had overlooked previously. Large shelves covered the walls, floor to ceiling, filled with a colorful array of books. Margaret smiled in pleasure, surprised to find such a well stocked library in the humble home.
She crossed the room to take a closer look at the books, hoping she might find something interesting to read later. She ran a finger along the spines, browsing the titles. Her father would have loved this room. There were so many of his favorites here. Aristotle, Plato, Shakespeare…
Margaret stopped and looked back again at the volume of Homer her finger had just traced. She could have sworn – Yes, there it was. A large slash along the spine, just like the copy in her father's library. The book had suffered the effects of an encounter with a young, sword-wielding Frederick playing swashbuckling pirate.
She pulled the book down from the shelf and gingerly opened it. Her dear father's own handwriting stared back at her. How can this be? She looked back at the shelf, now recognizing many more titles from her father's collection. These are Papa's books! Margaret stared at them, disbelieving.
She had only been able to keep a handful of her father's beloved books after his death, having little space in her small Harley Street room. She had left the rest of the books for Mr. Bell to dispose of. Mr. Bell! And here they were, in the home he had given her. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she fondly traced the spines of her father's most treasured possessions. He left them for me. Somehow he knew…
Margaret's grateful tears were interrupted by a loud growl. She realized it was her own stomach complaining, and laughed. She had given no thought to lunch. She dried her eyes and found her way to the kitchen. A quick investigation showed the pantry was well stocked with cookware, but empty of any food. With a sigh, she decided she would venture out to find something to eat.
She returned to the parlor and picked up the ring of keys. The ring was large and rather heavy. She considered the keys with a bit of awe. Each one of these keys opens a property I own. The substantial weight in her hand was a sobering reminder of her new responsibilities. I must care for them as best as I can.
She set Mr. Taylor's card to the side and opened the document folder. On top of the other papers, he had included a map of Milton. She studied the layout of the unfamiliar streets, wondering how long it would take her to learn her way around this new, strange city.
Looking through the papers, she pulled out the deed for Marlborough Mills. There were several other documents with it, items of business, little of which she understood. Her eyes landed on a paper on the bottom of the stack, written in Mr. Bell's own hand. She took it out and began to read.
Mr. Taylor,
I am informed that Marlborough Mills will soon be forced to shut down operations. I am very sorry to hear the news. Thornton has been an exemplary mill master of my property for almost a decade. Marlborough Mills has long been a thriving, prosperous enterprise. I believe the mill's failure is due to unfortunate circumstances out of his control, including the recent strike. I do not hold Thornton at fault.
In fact, I am aware that Thornton turned down the chance to engage in the speculation that has turned out so beneficially to many others. He was unwilling to take the risk of defaulting on his obligations. I believe you know his family history. He has ensured that all the mill's debts were paid before the mill closed.
I ask you to provide any assistance you can in helping Thornton acquire a new position, with my full recommendation.
Adam Bell
Margaret pondered the letter. Mr. Taylor must have mistakenly included it with the other mill documents. It seemed that Mr. Bell strongly believed in the worthiness of this Mr. Thornton. He seemed very firm in his conviction that the mill's closure was not the man's fault. Had Mr. Thornton found a position somewhere else by now?
Setting aside the papers, she folded the map of Milton and placed it in her pocket with the keys, and set out to explore her new city.
Margaret ambled along the streets of Milton, gazing about her with wonder. A smoky haze pervaded the air, giving everything a greyish tint. The streets were full of people, mostly workers and tradesmen, although she spotted more well dressed men and women occasionally. No one seemed to pay any great notice to her as she wandered aimlessly through various alleys and passageways.
Milton was unlike anyplace Margaret had ever been before. She had loved her tiny village of Helstone, where the beauty of nature constantly surrounded her. She knew everyone there, and everyone knew her. While there was comfort in that familiarity, she had sometimes felt she had little privacy. In London she knew few people, and rarely was allowed to venture far from their Harley Street neighborhood. She certainly had never been given the freedom to wander or explore on her own.
Perhaps that was why the sooty air felt refreshing, and the dirty streets appeared pleasing to her eyes. The activity of people about her was invigorating after the monotonous indolence of Harley Street. This new, oddly beautiful world was opening up to her, and she felt as though she was finally coming alive.
Happening upon a small market, Margaret bought an apple from a fruit vendor and sat on a nearby bench to eat it. She watched a group of children playing in the street. They played a simple skip counting game, and Margaret smiled, remembering playing similar games with Frederick. It saddened her to see that the children's clothes were rather ragged, and a few of them were not even wearing shoes.
Her gaze caught upon a small boy standing near the apple cart. He was crouching behind some crates, and stealthily eyeing the apple seller, who was helping a customer. Gradually, the boy moved nearer and nearer, then suddenly snatched an apple from the cart and turned to run away. The seller spotted the boy and made quick chase, grabbing him before the boy could escape.
"Thief! I'll teach you to steal my apples, you little scamp." He gripped the small boy's arm and shook him roughly. "A little thief like you deserves a good whipping." He began dragging the struggling boy behind the seller's stalls, while the boy yelled and vainly tried to escape.
"Wait, stop! Unhand the boy!" Shocked by what the man obviously intended to do, Margaret quickly stepped forward to intervene. "Please! Let him go! It was only an apple. I will pay for it."
"You in charge of this boy?" The seller stopped and looked at Margaret dubiously, apparently hesitant to offend a well-to-do customer.
"No, I am." Margaret heard the rough voice from behind her, and turned to see a man approaching. His clothes were worn and obviously working class, but his face bore a type of grim dignity. The look he gave the seller would brook no argument. "I'll pay for the apple. And I'll deal with the boy's punishment myself."
The vendor looked unhappy with this arrangement, but took the man's money and released the boy to his care. "Don't let me see him around my stall again." He gave the child a threatening glare and turned away.
The man looked down at the little boy. "We'll discuss this at home." The boy hung his head. The man looked at Margaret. "I thank you for your offer to pay for the apple. But we don't need charity." His arm over the boy's shoulders, he started to lead the boy away.
"It wasn't charity," protested Margaret. The man paused, and turned back to look at her. "I could not stand by and let him be whipped. It was only an apple, after all." She glanced down at the boy. "A child should be able to eat an apple if he is hungry." The boy looked down at the ground.
The man considered her for a few moments, then nodded. "Aye, that they should." One side of his mouth hitched up slightly. "You're not from Milton, I'd say."
"No, I just moved here today. I lived in Helstone, before, in the south. And in London."
"London." The man's tone was dismissive. "You'll find no fancy London manners here. We're jus' common folk."
"That suits me just fine." She smiled. "I am happy to be here. I was not fond of London."
The man's smile reached the other side of his face. He held out his hand. "Nicholas Higgins."
Margaret hesitated, regarding his hand for a moment, but then grasped it in her own. She was not in London anymore, after all. "Margaret Hale." She smiled at him. "Other than my lawyer and his wife, you are the first person I've met here in Milton."
"Am I, now? Well, that's somethin', I'll say." He glanced down at the boy, who was digging his toe into the ground. "And this is Tommy. Say hello to Miss Margaret, Tommy." The boy murmured a greeting.
"It is very nice to meet you, Tommy." Margaret smiled at the child. "He is your son?"
"No, not mine. But I care for him now, and his brothers and sisters. After their parents died they'd no one else."
"Oh, I am terribly sorry." Margaret gave the child another sympathetic glance. "How good of you to take them in."
"A man does what needs to be done." He shrugged. "My girl Mary is good with the little ones, she's a great help to me. Especially since I lost my Bessy." A shadow crossed his features.
"Who was Bessy?" Margaret inquired.
"My elder daughter. She was about your age, I'll wager." He contemplated her sadly. "Lost her last year. She got the fluff in her lungs."
"The fluff?"
"From the cotton. In the mills, you know. It sits in the air and gets in the lungs. Hazard of the trade. A wheel can help take the cotton out of the air, but most mill masters won't go to the expense. Thornton's the only one who bothered."
"Thornton… Do you mean Mr. Thornton of Marlborough Mills?" Margaret was surprised to hear the name again so soon.
"Aye, that's him. Heard of him already?"
"I have encountered his name, yes."
"Aye. Well, now Marlborough Mills is closed and all those folks out of a job. Makin' it even harder for a man like me to find work."
"Oh… yes, I see." Margaret realized she had given little thought to how many other people must have been affected by the mill's closing. So many workers must have lost their means of living. Her decisions about the mill would have implications far beyond herself. It was rather staggering.
"I am actually trying to find my way to Marlborough Mills. I have some business there…" She glanced down at the map in her hand. "I believe I've gotten myself a little lost."
"A lady like you, business at Marlborough Mills?" Nicholas raised his eyebrows. "But 'tis not far from here. We're headed that direction, I can show you."
"Thank you, that would be very kind." Margaret gave him a smile and Nicholas shrugged again, motioning for the boy to join them.
As they walked, Margaret noted the landmarks around her carefully, hoping she would be able to find her way back. "Did you work at Marlborough Mills before it closed?"
Nicholas chuckled humorlessly. "No, not me. Thornton wouldn't hire the likes of me. Not after the strike. But my Bessy worked there. The wheel was good for her lungs. And besides… I knew she'd be safe there."
"Safe?" Margaret thought it a strange word to use.
He glanced down at Margaret, looking a bit hesitant. "Well, Thornton didn't tolerate no nonsense. My Bess, she was a bonnie lass. And some of the other masters… Well, the girls didn't have to worry at Marlborough Mills."
He considered Margaret again. "You remind me of her a bit, somehow. My Bessy. She weren't no great lady, o'course." His gaze dropped to Tommy beside him. "But she would've tried to help a little boy, too."
"I'm sure she would."
As they rounded a corner, she saw a large gate at the end of the street. "That's it there, that is Marlborough Mills. For all the good it does anyone now. Don't imagine there's anyone there to let you in."
"That's all right. Thank you so much, Mr. Higgins. I will be fine from here."
"Jus' Nicholas." He turned to her. "And if you ever need anything, you'll find me in the Princeton district. Behind the Goulden Dragon. Jus' ask for Higgins, they know me."
"Thank you, Nicholas. I will do that." He gave her a small nod and smile, and led Tommy away the other direction.
Alone again, Margaret approached the closed gate. It loomed over the street with an intimidating, unapproachable air. Margaret strangely felt a bit nervous. She rang the bell and waited. Would there be anyone here? No one answered; she heard no noises inside.
She tried the bell once again. She glanced around at the vacant street, and then pulled out her key ring. One of the largest keys fit the lock, and she opened it carefully.
Stepping through the gate, she entered a large empty yard, surrounded by tall brick buildings. She was surprised to see a grand, stately home occupying a prominent place on one side. Who would live here, in the middle of a mill? Was this Mr. Thornton's home, perhaps? She pondered what it must be like to live in such a place. Would he have felt unable to escape his work, even at night? She supposed it must have been suffocating at times. She wondered if he was married, or had a family. She tried to imagine living here, raising children here, watching them play in this grim courtyard.
She approached what appeared to be the main entrance of the mill. The door was locked, but once again she found a key that fit the door, and cautiously stepped in.
The eerie silence was the first thing she noticed. She walked slowly through the front hallway, eyeing the stacks of crates and boxes that lined the walls. A layer of fine white dust covered everything, creating a ghostly appearance. She was struck with the ominous feeling of stepping into a long undisturbed tomb.
Arriving at a broad door, Margaret slid it open and walked in. She stopped suddenly, gazing all around her. Long rows of huge machines towered from floor to ceiling, their bulk dominating the large room. The scale astounded her. She marveled at this evidence of what had been a vast productive enterprise.
She tiptoed down one of the rows, listening to the echo of her soft footsteps. She glanced up at the giant looms, so still and forlorn. She was reminded of stories Frederick used to tell her about ships that were lost at sea. She could imagine herself walking through a great vessel's wreckage, lying at the bottom of the ocean; its tall mast still proudly standing in desolate silence.
She pictured the room as it must have been, full of hectic motion, filled with workers and activity. She reached out to touch one of the machines, eyeing the layer of white dust that came away on her finger. Thinking about Bessy, she tried to envision how much cotton fluff would fill the air when the machines were working.
She stepped out of the large room and walked back through the hallway. She wandered down a narrow passageway and came to a room that she supposed must be an office. She approached the door and reached for the handle. Before she could grasp it, however, the door began to swing open, straight into her.
The edge of the door shoved against her shoulder. Knocked off balance, she let out a startled cry as she staggered backwards, struggling to stay upright. Her heel caught on the hem of her skirt, causing her foot to slip, and she felt herself falling backwards. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the impact.
Suddenly, her fall was arrested. Something firm surrounded her, suspending her in mid-air. Looking up, her breath caught as she found herself sinking into the depths of a pair of piercing blue eyes.
