A/N: I couldn't help stealing a scene from Ghost (I'm dating myself here). Watch Margaret channel her inner Whoopi Goldberg. Credit goes to Ghost screenwriter Bruce Joel Rubin.
….oOo….
Margaret woke the next morning to a room bathed in darkness. That was odd. This time of year, the sun was up early, and her bedroom curtains were a translucent muslin. She tried to move her head and found it quite painful. Then she remembered the riot and being struck in the head. A flood of very strange memories came after that, where she seemed to inhabit the body of Mr. Thornton. It must have just been a trauma induced nightmare, she decided.
Rolling onto her back, Margaret luxuriously stretched out her limbs. However, she found some strange protrusion tenting the covers near her midsection. Reaching her hand under the blankets she was horrified to find… What was that!
Margaret jumped up and scooted back against the headboard. Somewhere in the back of her mind she noted that it felt different than usual. She reached to the bedside table to light a candle. As soon as the light filled the room, she froze. This was not her bedroom. Oh no! It wasn't a dream after all. She was John Thornton, and that thing underneath the blankets was…
Margaret gasped and then everything went black. Fortunately, she was still in bed and this latest fainting spell did not result in any more injury.
She was relieved to find, when she came to, that the strange protrusion had subsided. Unfortunately, she had the undeniable urge to use the privy and had to steel herself against the all too real fact that she was going to have to handle the extra appendage she now possessed. Conflicted within herself by the need for relief and the extreme impropriety of touching a man… there, she decided that she would attempt the process with her eyes closed.
Making her way to the privy, Margaret untied her trousers and tentatively lowered them. She cringed at the thought of what she was about to do and again debated the possibility of skipping this bodily necessity. Convinced however, that it would only prolong her mortifying predicament, she chose to proceed. She began to sit and then remembered that men stood when they relieved themselves, so she took up position in front of the privy.
Closing her eyes tight, she reached down and was surprised to find how soft and smooth it was. After emptying her, well - John's, bladder, she began, out of curiosity, to stroke this unfamiliar body part desiring to feel its velvety softness. She found this action addictively pleasant. However, what happened next took her completely by surprise. Her body jerked, her eyes flew wide, and her heart rate increased. She quickly tucked everything back in and rushed back into the bedroom. Throwing herself down on the bed, Margaret buried her crimson face in the pillow until the shock and embarrassment wore off.
Finally gaining enough control of herself, Margaret rose and went to the washstand to prepare for the day. Of course, Mr. Thornton would have to work. The strikers would likely return after yesterday's disaster and the constable would probably wish to speak to Mr. Thornton about the violence of the previous day.
One look in the glass and Margaret was once again overwhelmed with tears. She had accepted the fact that she was now Mr. Thornton. The current source of her grief, however, was the realization that she would have to shave his face. His strong, manly jaw looked too angular for one who had never shaved before. She felt certain that she would mar his handsome visage.
As she dried away her tears, she ran her hands over his face. She liked the feel of his whiskers. It was a tantalizing sensation. She wondered what it would feel like against her own smooth cheeks if he kissed her or tickling her neck if he nibbled her there. Margaret jerked her head back snapping herself out of her fantasy. What was she thinking! Quickly she splashed her face with cold water to bring herself back to the present.
On the washstand she found shaving cream and a beaver brush for applying it. Margaret went to work, as she had sometimes seen her father do, applying the cream in an even lather over the face. She hesitated before grabbing the ivory handled cutthroat knife and said a quick prayer that she would get through this process without too much bloodshed. She took a deep breath and, holding it gently against his cheek, she began.
Mr. Thornton's hands seemed to have a memory of the process all their own, for Margaret made it through the shave job with only three nicks to his jawline. Extremely happy to be done with that, Margaret proceeded to give herself the most rudimentary of sponge baths and dressed for the day.
Impeccably dressed in Mr. Thornton's typical black and white, Margaret jogged masculinely down the stairs. She entered the dining room and was surprised to find Mrs. Thornton there. Not expecting the matriarch to arise so early, Margaret was about to comment on it when she checked herself. She knew little to nothing of the habits of the household, but she did know that men rarely commented on such things.
Stepping to the table, she nodded curtly at John's mother and took a seat. Margaret began filling her plate, thinking how hungry she was. She was pleased to realize that she no longer had to eat like a bird as all refined young ladies should. Instead, she piled her plate high with the delicious fare and heartily dug in.
"I'm glad to see your appetite has returned," commented his mother. "You are looking well this morning, John. Quite a bit of color in your cheeks when yesterday there was none." The lady took a sip of her tea.
Remembering what brought the color to her cheeks caused Margaret to blush anew. However, she was able to stammer out a reply in a northern burr.
"Yes, m-mother," it was difficult for her to apply the epithet to this woman, "A good night's rest set me up quite nicely."
"Set me up," his mother repeated with a sneer, "I suppose you have been around those Hales enough to start picking up their Southern expressions," the woman scoffed with contempt.
Margaret felt cowed, then realized that John wouldn't. So instead, she gave his mother the icy glare she really wanted to shoot at her.
Mrs. Thornton cleared her throat and looked down, obviously feeling the chastisement that was intended. Margaret could get used to this.
The matriarch resorted then, to talk of business, "Williams is already at the mill, signing in the returning hands."
"Very well," Margaret replied, feigning the indifference she thought Mr. Thornton might have for the subject.
"Ungrateful wretches," the elder woman mumbled under her breath.
Margaret heard the comment and forgot herself for a moment. "They were only trying to improve their lot in life," she said in their defense. She quickly closed her mouth when she realized she was speaking her own mind and likely not that of Mr. Thornton. However, his mother's response astonished her.
"I know you have more sympathy for them than I do, John, always giving them raises when you can barely afford it. But they almost killed you and Miss Hale!" she reasoned.
Mr. Thornton has sympathy for his workers? Margaret did not know this. After witnessing him beat Stephens she assumed he was a harsh and cruel master. Margaret remembered then what Jenny's friend had said – that she makes more money at Marlborough Mills than she did elsewhere. Her father had also told her that Marlborough had wheels to help keep the fluff away from the workers. That was why Nicholas sent Bessy to work here. Nicholas had also agreed that Stephens deserved the beating Thornton gave him. Was Margaret reading him all wrong? Judging him against her refined Southern expectations? Expectations she herself dismisses as uptight and old fashioned in regard to her own behavior.
"Miss Hale, yes," she said pensively, "I must go out to Crampton later today and see how she is doing."
….oOo….
"Mr. Thornton?" said the constable, as Margaret stared out the office window and across the mill yard toward the porch, where the harrowing events of yesterday took place. "Don't worry, sir," the man comforted, "we'll catch the ring leaders."
"Thornton's luck is smiling on him again," Hamper said to Slickson, "Those hoodlums have broken the strike."
"Didn't even have to use his Irishmen," replied Slickson with awed reverence.
Margaret did her best to think through the situation from Mr. Thornton's point of view. Hunting down the ring leaders was too much like revenge. She knew Mr. Thornton's moral philosophy well enough from his lessons with her father. Exacting vengeance was beneath him.
"Good sir," replied Margaret to the constable, after some thought, "Pray, do no such thing. I'm the victim, the injured party, I won't press charges." Turning to look at Hamper and Slickson, whose faces bore surprise and criticism at this move, she added, "They'll not get employment. Their well known. That's punishment enough."
Hamper and Slickson nodded in agreement at Thornton's final, authoritative proclamation.
The constable would never dream of going against the wishes of a magistrate, especially one of Mr. Thornton's stature and reputation. "As you wish, sir," affirmed the constable, and excusing himself, he retreated from the mill master's office
Margaret paced around the small room thinking, hands clasped behind her back (as she had so often seen her father pensively do). Hamper and Slickson were discussing amongst themselves the inevitable return to business as usual.
"One thing I'm certainly goin' t' do," proclaimed Slickson, "Make 'em all sign an oath, swearing not to give any more money to that damn fool union of theirs."
Hamper nodded vigorously in agreement. "Exactly," he asserted, "We need to put an end to these strikes. You've got to keep them on their toes. It's a war, and we masters have to win it, or go under."
"Oh, come on Thornton," goaded Slickson, "Surely you wouldn't approve of your workers payin' into the union."
Margaret stopped directly in front of the two men and turned to face them sporting Mr. Thornton's typical menacing scowl. Emboldened by her newfound status as a male and the righteous master of Marlborough Mills, she berated them. "That will never work. All you will do is turn them into liars, damning yourselves along with them, as accessories to their sin. No," she said with determination, "Marlborough Mills will require no such oath."
Feeling thoroughly chastised, Hamper and Slickson departed, both men having to return to their own mills to log in returning workers and resume production.
Finally alone, Margaret lowered her extremely large frame into the chair behind Mr. Thornton's desk. Her head was pounding between her temples. Placing her elbows on the desk, she held her head in her hands.
Some time later, Mr. Williams entered the office, "Most of the hands are back, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Williams," the master replied, holding his head in his hands.
"Shall we get things underway, sir?" the foreman asked.
Margaret squeezed her eyes shut. She knew nothing about the day-to-day operations of a cotton mill, nor what would be required of her. However, Mr. Williams unwittingly came to her rescue.
"Seein' as ye seem to 'ave th' 'eadache," he observed, "why don' ye rest an' I'll take care of things t'day."
"Yes," replied Margaret, "Thank you, Williams."
By and by, the man returned. He explained that they were in need of more cotton and requested that the master go down to the cotton exchange to procure some. Margaret, again having no clue what he was talking about asked if he could handle it.
"Aye," replied Williams as if this were not an uncommon request, but he did not turn to leave.
Margaret looked up through her fingers. "Well?" she asked.
"Sorry, sir," said Williams, "I'm forgettin' ye had yer head knocked around yesterday an' likely 't ain't straight again yet. Ye'll need to be givin' me a signed bank release to make th' purchase."
"Certainly," replied Margaret and seizing on the ready excuse of concussion induced forgetfulness, she added quizzically, "where might that be?"
"Top right drawer, sir," Williams patiently pointed out.
Margaret sat up and rifled through the drawer, still having no clue what she was looking for. Finally, Williams let out an impatient sigh and came to her aid.
"'ere, sir, just sign this card on the bottom line," he said, and resumed his place in front of the desk.
"Thank you so much," she said appreciatively.
Margaret took the slip of paper and dipped Mr. Thornton's quill in the ink. She then proceeded to sign her name: M-a-r-g-r-e. She stopped abruptly, chastising herself, 'No! No! No! John Thornton!' She violently scratched out what she wrote.
"I'm so sorry," Margaret apologized, turning to the foreman, "You know, I... I need another one." She blushed and whispered conspiratorially, "I signed the wrong name."
Williams blinked then shook his head in puzzlement. This was not normal behavior for the typically staid Master of Marlborough Mills – but then, what did he know about head injuries.
"Ye sure ye don't need to go back to th' 'ouse and lie down, sir?" Williams asked with concern. He came around the desk once more and retrieved for his master a new card.
Margaret took it sheepishly and did her best to scrawl Mr. Thornton's name on it in the same manner she had seen it on his numerous notes to her father.
Williams pocketed the card with the correct signature and was on his way.
After the door was closed, Margaret folded her long arms and lay her head back down on the desk once more.
….oOo….
A little while later there was a knock at the office door.
"Sir?" came a voice familiar to Margaret, and the door slowly opened.
Margaret looked up to find Nicholas Higgins standing in the doorway, hat in hand, and looking extremely uncomfortable.
"Good Lord!" she exclaimed, just barely catching herself before she pronounced his name and ran around the desk to embrace him. She was certain Mr. Thornton would not do that!
"Yes, sir. I want to speak to you," Nicholas declared stiffly.
"You'd better come in, then," Margaret waved him in, "What do you want with me?"
"My name is Higgins," he stated.
"I know who you are," with wide eyes, Margaret bit off her admission. She realized, however, that her statement was probably true. Mr. Thornton likely did know who the union leader was, after all, she did mention him at the dinner party. Affecting a harsher tone, though, she demanded, "What do you want?"
"I want work," was the unexpected request.
"Work?" Margaret said with surprise. She realized though, that after the strike, Nicholas Higgins, Union committee man, was probably not looked upon very favorably by the mill masters, especially after the riot. Internally, Margaret gasped at this thought. Surely Nicholas would not have condoned the riot. He had continually emphasized the need for restraint and abiding by the law. But had he been present in the mill yard? Had he seen her there, standing with Mr. Thornton? She decided to press him and see what she could discover.
"You've got a nerve," she accused, "after that riot you orchestrated."
"I had nothing to do with that," he vehemently spat the words, and Margaret knew in that instant that what he said was true. Still, she couldn't just give in.
"That may be so…" she mused. "But how do I know you're not just planning mischief or you're saving up money against another strike?"
"Hamper'll tell you I'm a good worker."
Margaret snorted, "I'm not sure you'd like what Hamper says about you." Her memory ran back to the dinner party where Hamper had declared Higgins to be, 'A terrific firebrand, a dangerous man.'
"You think I should take you on?" Margaret strung him along a bit longer. Thinking of how Hamper dubbed him a firebrand she added, with a flip of her hand, "Might as well set fire to the cotton waste and have done with it."
It struck her just then how flammable the cotton would be and what a horrific catastrophe would result if it ever did catch a spark. No wonder Mr. Thornton beat that man, who was smoking in the mill, to a pulp! A mill fire would be devastating!
"I'd not speak against you," pleaded Nicholas, "If I found anything wrong, I'd give you fair warning before taking action. I'm a steady man. I work hard."
Margaret hated to see this proud man beg. Her fake resolve crumbled, and she said, "Alright, I'll give you a chance."
"Thank ye, sir," Nicholas replied gratefully.
"Now, mind you come sharp to your time," Margaret added, and wished she could have said it in the teasing manner she often used with Nicholas. "What times we have, we keep sharp. And the first time I catch you using that brain of yours to make trouble, off you go. Now you know where you are."
"Reckon I'll leave my brains at home, then," Nicholas said with a smirk.
Shaking his head in incredulity, Higgins turned to leave. With a chuckle he mumbled under his breath, "She were right."
Margaret overheard him and asked, "What's that?"
"I was told to ask you by a woman," Nicholas informed the mill master, looking back, "Thought you had a kindness about you. I doubted her, but I guess she were right. But," he added, "I'm not the first man to be wrong about a woman." Then he walked out the door.
"Or woman to be wrong about a man," said Margaret, poignantly, to herself.
She thought about what Nicholas had said. Margaret didn't remember ever telling Nicholas that Mr. Thornton had a certain kindness. But who else could have said such a thing to him? Margaret gasped internally – It must have been Mr. Thornton himself but in her body! She wanted to call after Nicholas and ask him, but what could she say. The only reason she could think of that Mr. Thornton would have gone to the Higgins' was by summons. And the only reason they would have summoned Margaret there would be if Bessy were quite ill. She closed her eyes and said a prayer for Bessy hoping that she had not yet passed. Nicholas, however, was wearing no black. In fact, if Bessy had died, he wouldn't have come at all. He would have been in deep mourning. This thought gave her some relief. Though she could not go to see her friend in her current state, at least Bessy was still living.
So, Mr. Thornton had visited the Higgins', on the evening of the riot too! Margaret wished she could have been a fly on the wall. Mr. Thornton, having to pretend to be her and speaking with the union leader on the day the strike dissolved into a violent riot – and to what end. To what end, indeed! Here came Nicholas to ask for work at the master's own behest.
Well, well, well, thought Margaret. She knew he had a kindness about him, and now a benevolent heart as well. Maybe his visit to Princeton and his conversation with the committee man gave him a better understanding of the workers' plight.
All this thinking made Margaret's head swim and the pain at her temples pulsed harder. She must go and lie down. Especially since she still intended to make the trip to Crampton that evening. She simply had to talk to Mr. Thornton.
Making an attempt at Mr. Thornton's masculine scrawl, Margaret left Williams a note and returned to the mill house for a much-needed nap.