How Far the World Will Bend

by Nancy Klein

  Later that night, Meg finished unpacking the books and other belongings that Margaret Hale had brought from Helstone. Because so much of her time over the past several weeks had been spent overseeing their move to their new home, this evening was the first chance she had had to set right her own small bedroom.

  As she moved books from the desk to the small bookshelf, examining titles and wondering about Margaret Hale’s tastes in reading, a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. Picking it up, Meg saw that it was a half-written letter—the writing took up most of the page, and broke off in mid-sentence.

  Margaret must have written this letter and never finished it, Meg thought. She read the contents with rising curiosity.

  Dear Edith,

  We have just arrived in Milton this evening, and I am sick with apprehension. It is a horrible town full of rough people. I feel as if I have come to a foreign land. I cannot return to Helstone, but I do not believe I can stay here. Mother is ill and Father fools himself into thinking that he will be able to support us by teaching, but I am not sure he will have anyone to instruct. We shall be no better than paupers before long.

  I have a premonition that something terrible will happen to me if I remain here. With that in mind, I have formulated a plan to return to London which I intend to put into action immediately. If I succeed, I shall be with you, perhaps before this letter arrives. If not,—

  The letter broke off at this point. Meg refolded the note, her forehead creased in thought. What plan did Margaret have in mind to return to London, she wondered? Did she contemplate leaving her mother and father, or did she plan to return later? “Another mystery,” she sighed, and tucked the letter away in a desk drawer.

  On the morrow, Mrs. Hale professed to feel better; she had eaten her dinner of fresh meat and vegetables from the grocer, and a breakfast of porridge and fresh fruit for which Meg had paid an exorbitant price in hopes of enticing her mother to eat. Until Mrs. Hale was examined by a doctor, the best Meg could do was ensure that her patient ate fresh, nourishing foods, took regular doses of cod liver oil to build her stamina, and rested frequently. By mid-morning, Mrs. Hale was dressed and seated in the parlor, sewing a design of flowers and leaves on a piece of cambric. Mrs. Hale urged Meg to join her in her sewing, pointing out that Meg had not sewn a stitch since they had arrived in Milton.

  Meg made a face; she hated needlework of any kind except that which involved stitching up wounds. Aunt Lily had despaired of her ever learning this feminine art, and Amelia had giggled at Meg’s badly stitched samplers. Meg had no patience to sit and sew; she preferred more active pursuits, and would disappear any time the sewing basket made an appearance at the boarding house.

  “I have several errands to run, Mother,” Meg exclaimed as she rose from her seat and prepared to leave the parlor. “I will be back later.”

  Mrs. Hale clucked her tongue. “You have become quite an independent spirit here in Milton, Meg. Be careful where you go, and remember not to wander too far.”

  Meg leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek. “I will. Please promise me that you will rest after you have eaten.” Mrs. Hale nodded and patted her cheek before turning her attention to her mending.

  Meg slipped from the room and outside into the busy streets of Milton, intent on paying a visit to Bessy Higgins. She was forced to stop and ask directions several times, finally getting her bearings at the Goulden Dragon. Francis Street was a congested byway filled with women washing laundry and men loitering about the steps of their homes. It appeared to be a place of great poverty and much want, Meg thought as she met the empty, sullen eyes of men out of work and women struggling to do their daily chores. Walking up to a small dwelling, Meg knocked briskly on the door. After several seconds, the door swung open, and a young, sloe-eyed girl clutching a worn shawl about her thin shoulders gazed out at Meg.

  “I beg your pardon,” Meg apologized with a smile. “I thought Bessy Higgins lived here.”

  In response, the girl opened the door wider and beckoned Meg inside. Stepping over the threshold, Meg got a closer look at the young girl and started with surprise. She resembled Gran—her height, slim build, beautiful eyes, and oval face were the same as those of the woman who raised Meg.

  Meg stared at the girl as she continued into the room, only taking her eyes from her unblinking gaze when the other occupant of the room exclaimed, “So, you have come.”

  Meg turned and met Bessy Higgins’ pleased expression. The girl sat in a chair next to a table, mending what looked to be a well-worn shirt. The room was bare of comforts and had precious little furniture, but it was clean and tidy, and a small fire burned in the hearth.

  Meg placed a basket on the table. “I brought you some fruit—the grocer had some lovely oranges today. I bought a number for my mother, and I thought I would bring you a few, as a treat, along with some fresh bread and cheese. I hope you enjoy them.”

  Bessy smiled in gratitude. “Thank you for such kindness. Mary,” she called out to the girl, “would you unpack Miss Meg’s basket, please?”

  Meg’s head snapped around. Mary was Gran’s name—this young woman must be Gran. How remarkable, to meet her beloved friend when she was younger than Meg. Coming on the heels of this discovery was another, more staggering realization: Gran had said that her father had hung for his role in the riot, and her sister died of grief. Higgins must the unfortunate union man, and Bessy the grieving daughter.

  The fortune teller’s words rang in Meg’s ears: More than one life depends upon your actions. If she could stop the riot, she would save not only Mr. Thornton, but Higgins and Bessy, along with the other men who were hung. She trembled at the thought of the staggering responsibility thrust upon her, and wondered once again with a modicum of desperation how she was to accomplish such a feat.

  “Are you all right, Miss?” Mary asked in a solicitous voice, with a cadence and sweetness so familiar to Meg that it made her heart ache. “I saw you shiver,” she explained in response to Meg’s blank look.

  “I-I am a bit cold.” Meg replied, and moved her chair closer to the fire. “Do you have any other brothers and sisters, Bessy?”

  “No, miss, it is just Mary and me,” Bessy replied. “Father wanted a son, but he does well by his daughters.” She began coughing, and Mary went to stand behind her to support her until the coughing abated. “I’m all right, just a bit of fluff.”

  Meg leaned toward Bessy and took one of her cold hands into her own. “Bessy, have you considered putting a mask over your nose and mouth to protect you from ingesting any more fluff?”

  Bessy stared at her for a moment before she burst into peals of laughter that brought on another fit of coughing. “Lord love you, miss, what a sight I would make with a mask tied about my face!”

  Meg smiled, but continued in a serious tone, “You might look a sight, but it would keep you from breathing in any more fluff.”

  Bessy shrugged. “I only work two days a week at the mill now, so I’m not swallowing near as much fluff as before.”

  They sat and chatted amiably while Mary swept the hearth and put the kettle on for tea. Before Bessy could serve them, the front door opened and Nicholas Higgins sauntered into the room.

  He stared at Meg impassively, and nodded toward Bessy. “Her told me you would come,” he said quietly. Meg lifted her chin and returned his stare, and saw a small spark of humor come alive in his eyes.

  “You certainly are not a shy miss, are you?” he remarked with no small degree of admiration, seating himself across the table from her.

  “How was the meeting, Father?” Bessy interjected quickly.

  Meg leaned forward, intent on Higgins’ reply. He frowned at her, and looked reproachfully at Bessy, as if to chastise her for raising such a topic in front of a stranger.

  “Oh, you need not worry about me,” Meg replied earnestly. “I have no one to whom I might tell secrets.”

  He looked at her with a sharp intent. “Your father has been seen supping
with the masters.”

  “Mr. Thornton is my father’s pupil,” Meg replied serenely.

  “And Boucher?” asked Bessy anxiously. “He is our neighbor down the way,” she explained to her guest.

  Higgins’ face assumed a grim expression. “He’s holding up—just. But he’ll be with us when the flag goes up.” He looked sharply at Meg. “Miss Meg, your father teaches at the Lyceum Hall, doesn’t he?”

  Meg nodded. “Yes, on Sunday afternoons. Why do you ask?”

  Higgins leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “The mill hands need a place to meet. Do you think he would let us use the Hall this Sunday, before he does his lesson?”

  “I shall ask him. Knowing Father, he would be happy to accommodate you.”

  Higgins nodded. “Good.”

  Observing that Mary was preparing to cook the evening meal, Meg rose to say her good-byes.

  “You’ll come again?” asked Bessy anxiously, reaching her hand out to Meg.

  “Yes, I will,” Meg replied warmly, clasping the young woman’s cold, thin hand.

  And I will bring more food with me, and a few warm blankets, and perhaps some fuel, Meg thought as she bade them farewell and stepped through the doorway. This family had so little, and unless Bessy took care of herself, the fluff in her lungs would bring about her early death. She remembered Gran’s description of her sister not being well; it was little wonder with the conditions in the mills.

  Meg was determined to help Mary’s family, as well as others she saw in great need around the Princeton district. She had been given so much in her life—the least she could do was to attempt to alleviate some of the suffering she saw about her. She resolved to speak to her father about Higgins’ request, and to show up at the Lyceum Hall the night the workers met. In that way, she might discover the Union’s plans, and determine the best way to intervene when the fateful time should come.

  Come what may, I shall be prepared, she thought resolutely and, squaring her shoulders, made her way home.

  Chapter 6. A Mad Tea Party

  “Meg,” Mr. Hale exclaimed over breakfast several weeks following her initial visit to Francis Street, “I have invited Mr. Thornton to tea this evening. Do you think you could prevail upon Dixon to bake her cocoa-nut cakes?”

  “Oh, Father,” Meg replied in some dismay. “I wish you had told me earlier. We took down the curtains in the parlor to wash them, and they are not yet ironed. That is the only room fit for company, aside from your study.” And your study is always so untidy, she refrained from adding. She sat studying her bowl of porridge, as if that might provide her with an answer. “Ah, well, if he is to come, I will iron the curtains so that Dixon might bake.”

  Her mother huffed a long-suffering sigh, and looked askance at her daughter. “You know how much I dislike having you do housework,” she remarked, her face dark with disappointment.

  Meg laid a gentle hand on her mother’s arm. “I know, Mother, but someone must help Dixon until a suitable girl is found. It is not fair that all of the work fall upon her shoulders.” She mentally added, if a suitable girl can be found. Dixon had interviewed dozens of young women, but took umbrage at what she considered the overly independent and rough ways of Milton girls.

  Meg thought suddenly of Mary Higgins. Bessy had mentioned during her last visit that Mary was in need of employment; she did not want her younger sister to work at the mills. Meg decided that she would offer the housekeeping position to Mary; if she came to work for the Hales, Meg could get to know the young woman who would one day become family to her. She smiled at such an improbable event, thinking that her life had become an entire series of improbable events.

  Meg spent the afternoon ironing curtains, trying not to burn herself or scorch the material. She also baked the cocoa-nut cakes, following Dixon’s recipe, while Dixon busied herself heating water for Mrs. Hale’s bath and fixing dinner as well as a few small sandwiches for the after-dinner tea tray. When all was ready, the curtains hung at the clean windows and fresh flowers in the vases, Dixon looked Meg over with a critical glance.

  “You are a sight, Miss Meg,” she proclaimed. “It is a good thing that I have enough hot water left from your mother’s bath for you to take your own. Go upstairs to change and I will prepare the hip bath for you in the kitchen.” Seeing Margaret’s skeptical look, Dixon explained, “Your father will not be back until tea time, and your mother is resting. You will have the kitchen to yourself, I’ll see to that.”

  Meg protested that it was too much work for Dixon to fill another tub, but Dixon insisted that Meg could not entertain with dust in her hair or dirt under her fingernails. “Lord, haven’t you helped me the whole day? I don’t know what I would do without you, Miss Meg!”

  “Thank you, it will be a wonderful treat,” Meg relented, and impulsively kissed the servant on the cheek. Dixon swatted her away, but Meg could tell that she was pleased with the affectionate gesture.

  Miss Meg is much more kind and thoughtful that she used to be, Dixon thought affectionately. Where she had previously been cool and detached, she was now warm and caring. And Meg’s care of her dear mother was as gentle and attentive as that of Dixon herself. Since coming to Milton, Dixon had observed a change in Meg; she willingly took on whatever chores needed to be done, and she had a tender side for those weaker and less fortunate than herself. But that didn’t mean she was meek and mild; Lord, no! She spoke her mind, and did not put on the namby-pamby airs affected by so many young ladies of fashion. I love three people, Dixon thought, my mistress, Master Fred, and Miss Meg.

  In her bedroom, Meg disrobed as quickly as circumstances would allow. She still had trouble with her petticoats and corset laces, but was growing more adept at dressing and undressing, able to get into bed much more quickly than when first confronted with the mound of garments she must wear.

  Slipping down the stairs to the kitchen, she disrobed and stepped into the hip bath, heaving a huge sigh of contentment. She let the hot, fragrant water cover her body, enjoying her first quiet moment of the day. She debated washing her hair; it would never dry in time for tea. However, it was dirty, so Meg ducked her head under the water and used the fragrant cake of soap Dixon had provided to wash the long strands. After ducking her head again to rinse, she slipped down into the bath so that her hair floated about her like a naiad as she luxuriated in the warm tub. How long it had been since she had enjoyed a bath! It truly was one of the luxuries of the twentieth century.

  When the water cooled, she toweled off and sat by the fire in the kitchen, combing her hair dry as best she could. As the clock in the hallway chimed the hour of seven, she started up in panic. She must dress and prepare for tea! Her mother was resting, so the role of hostess this evening fell upon her. Knotting the sash of her robe about her waist, she hurried to her room, praying she would not be too late.

  As the spring dusk settled on the streets of Crampton and the gas lights winked on in houses, Mr. Thornton ascended the steps of the Hale residence and rapped smartly on the door. He prided himself on punctuality, preferring always to be early rather than late.

  He looked forward to spending the evening with his tutor, and anticipated stimulating conversation about industry and the classics. Mr. Hale had shown a keen interest in the cotton trade at the Master’s dinner he had attended, asking numerous questions about the workings of Marlborough Mills. If the daughter of the house were there, Mr. Thornton thought with studied nonchalance, he was determined to be polite.

  The door opened, and Mr. Thornton recognized the Hale’s servant. He removed his hat and asked for Mr. Hale. She took his hat and gloves, and directed him up the stairs where Mr. Hale awaited him at the entrance to the parlor.

  The room was lovely, with brightly papered walls and gleaming woodwork. A fire blazed in the grate, and a tea tray sat on a mahogany table next to a cozy arrangement of settees and chairs.

  “Come in, Mr. Thornton,” Mr. Hale urged, “I must beg you to excuse me—I would
like to check on my wife. I apologize that she is not with us this evening; she does not feel well. I will be but a moment—Margaret should join you momentarily. Please, sit by the fire and warm yourself.” He smiled distractedly and left his guest alone in the room.

  Mr. Thornton did not mind. He eyed the fire with pleasure. His mother seldom had fires lit in their dining room or parlor except on the coldest nights because she deemed them an extravagance. The fire made the room warm and inviting, taking the chill off a damp evening. He availed himself of his friend’s invitation, stretching his long legs out before him as he settled into an overstuffed chair.

  Gazing about the room, he was charmed to see baskets scattered about with needlework in progress. Books covered the arms of chairs or were left open on side tables, as if the reader had recently been called away. A chessboard sat on a table beside the fireplace; it appeared that a game was underway and awaited opponents to take up the battle once more. His mother’s ideas of tidiness would never allow for such signs of occupation, but he thought these items gave a glimpse into the interests of the family, and made the room more home-like.

  A sudden sound made him turn, and he rose quickly from his seat as Meg came rushing into the room.

  “I do apologize,” she said breathlessly, “I lost track of time. How are you this evening, Mr. Thornton?” she asked politely, extending her hand for a shake.

  Mr. Thornton stared at her a moment, at a loss for words. She was dressed in a soft gown of cream-colored muslin, and her face was scrubbed clean. Her hair hung down her back in a thick plait, and damp wisps created a halo of reddish brown curls about her face.

  Miss Hale’s plait makes her look like a schoolgirl, he thought. As he stepped closer to take her hand, he caught a delicious scent of roses and lavender. She had obviously just come from bathing, and he had a sudden image of her rising from the bath, water sluicing down her fair skin. He abruptly thrust that image from him and took her hand in a gentle clasp, feeling the warmth and softness imprinted on his palm in a sort of sensory memory.