As Margaret wove a path through the oddly quiet streets of Milton on her way to Marlborough Mills, she couldn't keep her mind off the infuriating and intriguing master thereof.
'That Man!' thought Margaret, 'That annoying, frustrating man! Why does he have to plague my thoughts so?'
Ever since they shook hands at his mother's dinner party, she couldn't shake the memory of that tingling buzz her entire body felt at the contact. Her forlorn sensation at the loss of his company following devastatingly right on its heels had seemed to be reflected in his own eyes when he was called away.
Margaret didn't know what had come over her. She had never felt like that before and if she were honest with herself, she had to admit, the feeling remained. Of course, the rest of that evening was a regrettable disaster.
Calling to mind their argument at the dinner table she was reminded of how different the two of them were. Indeed, he was a man of strong character, someone she should – nay, did – admire. However, his Northern ways were unrefined, too coarse – too brutal – for her.
'He beat that poor man who was not his equal and now he promotes the starving of children just to make a point! What kind of person would do such a thing?!' thought she.
Although Mr. Thornton had the wealth and trappings worthy of the title, he was no gentleman in her mind.
Margaret strove to purge all thoughts of the man – but it was no use. She could not forget the regretful, defeated look in his eyes when she reprimanded him – in front of his peers, no less. He must truly hate her now. She felt momentarily bad for her comments in front of all those people.
But why should she! She was defending the poor and downtrodden – a noble endeavor. Why was it that people like him didn't understand their plight?
Wait! He did understand their plight, even better than she did, he had experienced it firsthand.
Margaret shook her head in confusion, 'He doesn't make any sense!'
She gave an exasperated sigh. The man was a conundrum. She didn't like him. She never had. At least she tried to convince herself of this. Why did he have to haunt her thoughts so much! He was a tradesman – had even been a draper's assistant, of all things – a shop boy!
'I don't like shoppy people,' Margaret reminded herself with vehemence.
As she made her way through the center of town, she had a vague notion that something was amiss. There was no one about. An eerie silence hung over the city.
She arrived at Marlborough Mills and rang the bell at the large oaken gate. The overseer, Mr. Williams, opened the door cautiously, not nearly wide enough to admit her.
"It's you, is it, ma'am?" said he, drawing a long breath, and widening the entrance, but still not opening it fully. Margaret went in.
Mr. Williams glanced warily up and down the street then he hastily bolted the gate behind her.
"Did you see anyone in the street?" he asked her.
"No. That's very odd, isn't it?" questioned Margaret, finally giving the matter some thought. "Where is everyone?"
"I think we'll know soon enough," Williams cryptically replied. "Best get inside 'ouse, Miss, and bolt the door be'ind ye," he advised.
As Margaret made her way across the mill yard toward the house, her attention was drawn toward the upper windows of the mill where she had caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. Faces etched with worry and concern were anxiously looking out from the windows in the direction of the town. Margaret hurried her steps across the yard and up the stairs to the house door. Something was greatly amiss. There was no near sound, -no steam-engine at work with beat and pant, -no click of machinery, or mingling and clashing of many sharp voices; but far away, the ominous gathering roar, deep-clamouring.
….oOo….
With promises of food and a visit from the Catholic priest, John had finally gotten the Irishmen settled in the upper rooms of the mill. He shut the door behind him and leaned heavily against it as he let out a great sigh. He tried to concentrate on the problem at hand – the inevitable riot – but the wretched state of the poor Irish workers behind him had him thinking of the kindhearted charity of Miss Margaret Hale, that stubbornly benevolent beauty from the South, with her queenly bearing and her disdainful attitude.
Why was she so ungrudgingly munificent? If she would but bestow a fraction of her affection and kindhearted generosity upon him, he would be content for life.
He honored her for her compassion but, in truth, it was hurting his bargaining position against the strikers. She was intelligent, her father taught her well. Why couldn't she see the logic of it?
Her and her high and mighty opinion of herself and the South! It was the North that was driving the economy of this country! Filling Britain's coffers and make her the envy of the world! We can bring back marmosets from Mozambique, but we cannot stop man from behaving as he always has. We Northern men may not have degrees from Oxford, but we run our businesses with efficiency and aplomb. We may not be old money like those of the South, but our money is just as good as theirs. We may not be landed gentry but what we do own, factories and businesses, are the wave of the future. We are on the cusp of an industrial revolution, and it starts right here in the North of England. Why can't she see the significance, nay the beauty, of that?
John pushed himself off the door and jogged down the stairs toward the mill yard.
This was a young industry. These problems would work themselves out. And if there were casualties along the way? That was just the way of the world. He knew that all too well.
….oOo….
"Mama will be here in moment, Miss Hale," Fanny reported as she welcomed their visitor, "She asked me to apologize."
"Did I see faces in the mill?" Margaret asked, curiously concerned.
Fanny nodded, "My brother has imported hands from Ireland. They're huddled up in the top room."
"What are they doing there?" Margaret asked quizzically.
"They're frightened," Fanny explained, in horror, "The strikers have frightened them so that they don't dare work and we don't dare let them out."
"Poor Wretches!" Margaret lamented.
"Mama is seeing to their food and John is trying to calm them down. Some of the women were wailing and begging to go back home. Ah, here is mama," Fanny declared upon the appearance of her mother, and promptly left the room.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Thornton," Margaret began, broaching the purpose of her visit. "I'm sorry to bother you at such a time. My mother ... Fanny mentioned that you had a water mattress that we might borrow?"
It was obvious to Margaret that Mrs. Thornton's mind was elsewhere, and justly so. She now felt more the unwanted guest than she ever had in that house before.
"I-I'm sorry," she attempted to apologize, "I thought ..."
Just then the sound of many angry voices could be heard outside the mill gate. Both ladies' attention was turned to the windows.
Margaret saw Mr. Thornton locking the mill door and dashing across the yard to the house. Her heart was in her throat. Was he in danger? She tried to push the thought out of her mind and was relieved when she heard the front door close and his confident, manly footsteps on the stairs.
"They're coming!" Fanny shrieked from somewhere in the back of the house. Mrs. Thornton went to the aid of her daughter, leaving Miss Hale alone in the drawing room.
….oOo….
"They're coming!" Fanny screamed once again, "They'll kill us all!"
Mrs. Thornton tried to calm her daughter, relieved at the sound of her son's strong confident stride as he entered the dining room.
"Keep her here at the back of the house, mother," he advised.
"How soon can the soldiers be here?" his mother inquired with a touch of fear herself.
John pulled out his pocket watch and gauged the time. He gave his mother a look that said, 'not soon enough.'
"Try to stop her panickin'," he desperately implored.
Petting Fanny soothingly, his mother gasped and recalled their visitor. "Miss Hale!" she exclaimed, gesturing to the drawing room.
….oOo….
John's heart soared for a moment at the knowledge that his Margaret was but one room away. Then it fell just as quickly as he realized the danger his love was now in. Leaving his mother and sister behind, he rushed to comfort Miss Hale in this stressful situation.
When he saw her standing at the window, a warm feeling spread through his chest at the realization that she was sheltered in his home. He basked, for a moment, in the thought that it was now his job, at least temporarily, to guard and protect her – a job he would gladly perform for the rest of his life. He strode across the room to take a place at her side.
"Miss Hale," he greeted her, "I am sorry that you have visited us at this unfortunate moment."
She barely gave him a glance, her attention riveted on the crowd outside. His attention was drawn to the window as well and he stood there watching with her.
"Oh my God!" he exclaimed when he saw the mob gravitating toward the mill on the opposite side of the yard. "They're going for the mill door!"
"Oh no!" cried Margaret, when she spotted the familiar face of Bessy's neighbor, "It's Boucher!"
Frustrated with their lack of satisfaction, the crowd grew angrier.
John, schooling his emotions and getting his nerves under control, declared, "Let 'em yell." Then he added, as much for his sake as for hers, "Keep up your courage for a few minutes longer, Miss Hale."
"I'm not afraid," she bravely asserted, "But can't you pacify them?"
In response John explained, "The soldiers will make them see reason."
"Reason?" she now turned to look at him, incredulously. "What kind of reason?" But before he could answer she demanded, "Mr. Thornton, go down this instant and face them like a man." This reminded her of their debates regarding the qualities of a gentleman and a man. She softened her tone and implored him, "Speak to them as if they were human beings. They're driven mad with hunger. Their children are starving. They don't know what they're doing." Then recalling that he was rarely altruistic unless it also made sound business sense, she added, "Go and save your innocent Irishmen."
Mr. Thornton stared at her for a moment. This was a challenge. If he accepted, he would be putting his life in danger. If he refused, she would surely hold him in contempt for the rest of her days.
With steely determination, he pivoted on his heel and made for the door.
….oOo….
Margaret turned back to the window whereupon she witnessed the ever-increasing fury of the rioters.
Now, unconvinced her advice to Mr. Thornton was sound, she looked back to call after him with concern, "Mr. Thornton, take care!"
Returning her gaze to the scene once again, she saw Boucher, and some of the others, bend to pick up stones.
Choosing to intervene herself, rather than see him get injured, Margaret ran down the stairs and out the door to join Mr. Thornton in front of the rioters.
Stepping around him on the porch and addressing the crowd, she implored, "In God's name, stop! Think of what you are doing! He is only one man, and you are many! Go home. The Soldiers are coming. Go in peace. You shall have an answer to your complaints."
Although her speech was only heard by a few, her starkly feminine presence gave them all pause.
This brief respite was broken however, when one man shouted at the stalwart mill master behind her, "Will you send the Irish off?"
Mr. Thornton stepped forward, arms crossed in resolute defiance, and responded adamantly, "Never!"
The crowd quickly became agitated once again. Margaret fearing for his life, grabbed onto his arms and shielded him from the mob with her body intending to protect him from harm with her maidenhood.
Stunned by her closeness yet irritated by her heedless concern for her own welfare, he commanded, "Go inside. This is not your place!"
"They will not want to hurt a woman," she explained hopefully, and she threw her arms around his neck to secure herself to him.
"Go inside or I'll take you in!" he threatened the stubborn girl uselessly, trying to pull her arms off him.
The crowd again became rabid, and Margaret saw the men with the stones raise them. She clung tighter to Mr. Thornton.
At that moment a volley of rocks was hurled at the couple and both of them were struck.
As they began to fall, Mr. Thornton had enough presence of mind to wrap his arms around Margaret, cradling her to his chest as they fell. She took the worst of the rock strike in her left temple, and he took the brunt of the fall, smacking his head solidly on the concrete.