by Nancy Klein
Look at me, he thought, and as if he had spoken aloud, she raised her clear, untroubled eyes to his.
“Margaret, would you serve the tea, please?” Mr. Hale’s plaintive voice broke the spell as he entered the room, and Meg slid her hand reluctantly from Mr. Thornton’s grasp, turning her attention to the tea tray. With quick, graceful motions, she filled the china cups, carrying the first to Mr. Thornton, and offering him a pitcher of cream and sugar bowl. When he had prepared his cup to his satisfaction, she then offered a plate of cocoa-nut cakes, of which he accepted several.
Meg then took a cup and the sugar bowl to her father and extended her hand to him with a mischievous smile. Her father smiled at her in turn, and Mr. Thornton watched in bemusement as Mr. Hale took her thumb and little finger in his hand to form a sort of tongs, with which he lifted and deposited a sugar cube into his cup. Smiling with pleasure, Mr. Hale stirred his tea and his daughter returned to the tray to fix her own cup, a half-smile upon her face. This little bit of pantomime lasted but a moment, but thoroughly enchanted Mr. Thornton.
As the evening progressed, Mr. Hale and Mr. Thornton discussed Plato and Aristotle, the latest inventions in machinery, and various other goings-on in the Milton sphere of influence. Meg was tired and found it difficult to follow their discussions, but she refused to sew because the result was so poor. She picked up the book she had left in the parlor that morning, and, drawing her legs up under her, found herself pulled once more into Sir Walter Scott’s tale of Ivanhoe. She had always loved this chivalric story, and soon was immersed in the exploits of the heroic knight in love with two very different women.
Upon finishing a chapter, she found her attention caught by the men’s conversation. She heard her father explaining the role of the Moirae, or apportioners, to Mr. Thornton. “We know them as the Fates,” Mr. Hale explained. “In Greece, they were the white-robed personifications of destiny, similar to the Roman Parcae, or sparing ones, or the Germanic Norns,” he said, warming up to his lecture. “Their number was fixed at three.”
Mr. Thornton looked puzzled. “Why were they called the Moirae?”
Mr. Hale explained, “The Greek word moira (spelled μοῖρα) literally means a part or portion, and by extension one's portion in life or destiny. The Moirae controlled the metaphorical thread of life for every mortal from birth to death, and beyond. Even the gods feared the Moirae, for Zeus himself was subject to their powers.”
Mr. Thornton smiled. “Do these Fates have names?”
Meg smiled as well, because she could see Mr. Hale was warming to his topic. “The three Moirae were Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Clotho was the spinner who spun the thread of life from her distaff onto her spindle. Her Roman equivalent was Nona, the Ninth, who was originally a goddess called upon in the ninth month of pregnancy. Lachesis was the allotter, or drawer of lots, who measured the thread of life allotted to each person. Her Roman equivalent was Decima, the Tenth. And Atropos, the inevitable, cut the thread of life. It was she who chose the manner of each person’s death when their time came. Her Roman equivalent was Morta, or Death.”
Mr. Hale shifted in his chair. “It was believed that the Moirae appeared on the third night after each child’s birth to determine the course of its life. They were responsible for determining the fates of all individuals.”
“And what happened to those individuals who did not follow the paths allotted to them by the Moirae?” Mr. Thornton asked.
“Ah,” said Mr. Hale with a small smile, “Legend tells us of dire consequences when people went counter to their chosen course. It was believed that one might rend the fabric of time if one did not follow the path set by the Moirae.”
Meg watched Mr. Thornton, who appeared enthralled with her father’s lesson on the Fates. His eyes were alight with interest, and his face relaxed and friendly. Her original impression of him was that he was plain, with his dark hair and clothes. When he smiled, however, his face lit up and he became quite attractive. His accent was distinctive, unlike any she had heard before. She recalled that her father said his family was from Darkshire.
A dark man from Darkshire, she thought in amusement, but her amusement ended abruptly as she recalled the fortuneteller’s words: the dark man will show you the way. She wondered if Mr. Thornton were the dark man of whom the gypsy spoke. If he were the one who was to show her the way, she must watch him carefully so that she would be prepared to avert his death.
She became aware of a sudden silence in the room. Glancing at her father, she saw him watching her inquisitively as he raised his empty teacup. “We are in dire need of tea, my dear,” he announced in his dry, teasing voice. “Discussing the classics is thirsty business.”
Meg realized that she had been negligent in her duties as hostess, and rose at once to rectify the situation. As she took Mr. Thornton’s empty cup from his outstretched hand, she noted that he looked amused, and she was struck with a sudden urge to throw him off balance. She had noticed from the corner of her eye that he had carefully observed her pantomime with her father earlier, so when she set his cup and the sugar bowl beside him, she extended her hand in the same gesture she had used with Mr. Hale. He glanced up at her in puzzlement, and she smiled at him.
“Do you care for one lump or two?” she asked impudently, and saw surprise and amusement lighten his usually stern expression.
He hesitated momentarily before he carefully took her hand in his clasp firm; with dismay she realized that his touch elicited a spill of attraction deep within her.
“Thank you, Miss Hale,” he said softly, and Meg was alarmed to note his expression of intense attraction. She had hoped to embarrass him, and had instead kindled interest.
Meg regretted her impulsive gesture immediately. It was a bad idea to act so provocatively with her father’s friend and benefactor; she reddened and retreated abruptly to the tea tray. She could still feel his touch on her hand, and she rued her foolish action. She had been sent here to prevent this man’s death, not to flirt with him as she had done with the young soldiers in her care. Upon serving her father his cup of tea, she begged to be excused for the evening, and left the room so abruptly that she did not see Mr. Thornton’s expression of regret.
That night, she dreamt of the fates spinning and measuring and cutting. Meg sat with them, busily tending her own thread, but it kept getting knotted and tangled. When she appealed to the Moirae, one of them turned her shrouded face toward Meg and mockingly said, “Do as you will, but I will spin your thread as I see fit.” She awoke with the uneasy realization that regardless of where she went or what she did, she was not in charge of her own destiny.
When Sunday evening arrived, Meg set off for the Lyceum to join her father and discover what she might of the mill hand’s plans for a strike. Her father had been amenable to letting the workers use the hall for the first hour, remarking to Meg that his pupils did not seem to have much interest in ecclesiastic architecture anyway.
As she neared the Lyceum, she saw a large number of workers headed in the same direction, with many already ascending the steps to the entryway. She had the eerie feeling she was being observed. When she peered over her shoulder, her gaze was caught and held by Mr. Thornton, who stood in an open window in the building across from the meeting hall. His expression was grim, and he was joined by several disgruntled looking gentlemen who showed evident interest in the comings and goings from the Lyceum that evening.
Meg met Mr. Thornton’s gaze, and unknowingly lifted her chin as if in response to the challenge in his eyes. He must know they are discussing a strike tonight, she thought. Perhaps he believes that I support their cause. Well, let him think what he will—I have my own part to play. She turned away from him and went into the building in search of her father.
Mr. Thornton felt a crushing sense of disappointment when he spotted Miss Hale in the crowd outside the Lyceum. Could it be possible? Could she sympathize with these workers who threatened to strike? If so, she was an extremely fooli
sh young woman.
When he had taken tea with the Hales, he had felt a strong attraction to her. When she offered her hand as sugar tongs, as she had with her father, he had thought only to play along with her game. But when their hands met, he had felt a jolt of energy, and could tell from her expression that she felt the same. Yet, here she was at the meeting hall with all of these rough workers, obviously supporting their cause.
He backed away from the window and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter near at hand, determined to put her out of his mind. He had more pressing matters at hand.
In the Lyceum, Meg found her father seated on a bench outside the meeting room. She sat next to him, and took his hand in a comforting clasp. He had fretted whether he was right in letting the men use the room to foment their rebellion against the Masters, but when Meg sensibly pointed out that the men would find somewhere to meet, and wasn’t this better than having them plot their activities while drinking pints at the Goulden Dragon, he agreed. They sat companionably on the bench, and listened as Higgins shouted to the crowd to quiet down. Once the noise abated, they heard his voice ring out.
“This is the first time we have ever gathered. My name is Nicholas Higgins, and I work at Hampers.” A cry went up from some men in the crowd, and a similar din was raised as Higgins named each mill: Marlborough Mills, Henderson’s, Slickson’s.
When the noise abated, he continued, “We know there is enough work. Orders are coming in, and cotton to meet them. We know some bosses will tell us they can’t make our pay, just as they told us five years ago. They say they can’t pay us because cotton is expensive, the machinery’s backed up, or customers can’t pay for goods. They use these excuses to explain why there is no money to pay us a decent wage.”
An angry murmur swept through the throng, and one man shouted, “Bosses make up the rules—what’s to keep them from stopping our pay again?”
“We must stop them from doing so,” Higgins retorted, “We must all work together. Decide on our due and refuse to work for less!”
A small, hesitant voice spoke up. “It’s all very well for you, Higgins. You’ve got fifteen shillings a week for yourself and two daughters. I’ve got a sick wife and six children. I can’t live on five shillings o’ strike pay. My children, they’ll starve.”
As the man spoke, Meg stood and crept over to the entrance. She recognized Higgins’ neighbor, John Boucher, the man whom Higgins had asserted would be there when the flag went up. Meg could tell by his demeanor and slumped posture that he was not as confident of the outcome of the strike as Higgins.
At Boucher’s words, those in the throng of men had begun to fidget about and murmur uneasily. Higgins raised his hand to get the crowd’s attention before continuing. “I’m not saying we’ll walk out tomorrow, but when the time comes, walk out we will! And what’s more, we’ll stick together!” The last words were hammer blows that shattered the relative quiet of the room.
The crowd erupted into cheers and shouts, and several men crowded about Higgins to shake his hand and slap his back. Higgins looked well pleased, and as his eyes met those of Meg, he gave a quick nod as if to say it was a good night’s work. Boucher, however, walked dejectedly from the meeting room. He neither spoke nor looked at anyone, but shuffled out into the night.
As Meg strolled home with her father through the deserted streets of Milton, she thought of Higgins’ speech and how it had inflamed the men. The tense situation between the workers and masters was like a large heap of dry kindling—one spark would result in a terrible conflagration. She understood now how the strike could easily descend into violence, and she trembled at the thought of having to turn the tide. She had little hope of stopping the strike, but she hoped she might prevail upon Higgins to advise his fellow union men to shun any violence, as that would give the Masters the upper hand in the battle, for a battle it definitely was.
The following morning, Dixon greeted Meg with the news that her mother had taken a turn for the worse during the night. “She feels extremely unwell, and I think she is feverish. We need to send for a doctor,” Dixon confided anxiously.
Meg agreed, but was uncertain how to proceed. Her family knew no doctors in Milton. She thought for a moment before reluctantly deciding to appeal to Mrs. Thornton for the name of a physician. Mrs. Thornton had lived in Milton for most of her life, and would surely know someone in the medical profession to whom Margaret might apply for assistance. Her mother was so very ill that she was willing to brave even Mrs. Thornton’s cold displeasure in order to obtain the name of a physician.
Donning her shawl and hat, she stepped into the street and made her way directly to Marlborough Mills. As she walked at a brisk pace, Meg reviewed her mother’s symptoms once more, and reached the same frightening conclusion—her mother had consumption. Meg knew that little could be done to treat this fatal disease. Antibiosis, the work of Louis Pasteur and Robert Koch, was too new and experimental at this time to consider, let alone apply; the first man-made antibiotic was years away. All Meg could do was to feed her mother the best diet they could afford and dose her with homeopathic and herbal remedies to ease her fever and pain. She had promised Dixon she would return with the name of a physician that afternoon, and she would be true to her word.
The streets of Milton were crowded, but Meg was rapidly learning how to jostle her way among the crowds cramming the sidewalks and roadways, and she arrived at the mill in good time. Stepping up to the front door, she knocked and a servant bade her enter. When she stated her business, she was escorted to a large room on the second floor of the house and told to wait.
Meg looked around the room with great interest, trying to envision Mr. Thornton in this large, formal space. The room was crammed with furniture and knick-knacks, and had a hard glitter about it that bespoke money and position. Meg was unimpressed; it appeared cold to her, and held no trace of those who lived within its walls. No books were left upon tables, no objects of homely interest caught the eye or beckoned one to occupy an idle hour. She was repelled by the meaningless grandeur, and felt a tug of pity for Mr. Thornton having to retire to such a room each evening. Cold comfort here, Meg thought morosely.
A rustling noise behind her heralded the arrival of Mrs. Thornton. “Miss Hale,” she saluted her brusquely. “How may I help you?”
“I have come to ask for the name of a doctor,” Meg explained. “My mother does not feel well, and my father and I would like a medical opinion on what can be done for her.”
Mrs. Thornton raised her eyebrows. “Dr. Donaldson has served our family well. I will write down his direction for you, and you may determine if he will suit your mother’s purposes.” She reached into a desk drawer and extracted a piece of paper, on which she scribbled a few lines. Folding the paper, she handed it to Meg, who opened the paper and read the name and address of the physician.
Looking up from the paper, Meg found Mrs. Thornton studying her. “Is that all you came for, Miss Hale?” she asked in her cold voice.
Meg looked puzzled. “My mother requires a doctor—isn’t that enough of a reason to come?”
Mrs. Thornton gazed down her nose. “You could have sent a servant for such an errand. Do you not have another purpose for visiting here?”
Meg was bemused until she remembered that Mrs. Thornton believed all of the eligible young women in Milton had their eyes upon Mr. Thornton. Lifting her chin, she met Mrs. Thornton’s gaze. “Our servant could not be spared as she is caring for my mother this morning. Thank you for the information—I shall go visit the doctor now.”
Mrs. Thornton stepped toward her. “Miss Hale, my son is a busy and important man. He has better things to do than to dance attendance on silly young girls.”
Meg gazed serenely at Mrs. Thornton. She had dealt with many bullies in her life, from the orphanage to the hospital. She had refused to be cowed then, and she would not be cowed now. “Please believe me when I say I have no ulterior motive for my visit, and no interest in your
son other than as the pupil and friend of my father.” She paused before she added, “And I may be many things, but I am not silly. Good day, Mrs. Thornton.” Ignoring the expression of stiff affront on the older woman’s face, Meg left the room and ran lightly down the steps into the mill yard.
She had gone but several steps when she heard her name. Looking up, she saw Jenny, a young woman who lived on Francis Street near the Higgins. She had met Jenny at Bessy’s house, and had given Jenny’s grandmother a salve when the older woman had burned her hand on a cook pot.
“Hello, Miss Meg,” Jenny greeted her, “Been visiting the old dragon?”
“Hello, Jenny, how is your grandmother?” Meg inquired.
“That salve you gave her healed her burn right nicely,” Jenny confided with a smile. “Granny says the pain went away and her hand is good as new.”
“Does she still have pains in her joints, Jenny?”
“Yes, miss—something frightful. Her fingers get so twisted that she can’t move them,” Jenny replied.
“I will bring her some liniment when I visit tomorrow. If she soaks strips of cloth in the liniment and heats them on the hearth, then wraps them about her fingers, they will ease her joints.” Meg pantomimed the wrapping of the hands as she explained the treatment, and was surprised to see Jenny lower her head. “It will not hurt,” Meg added, and saw Jenny’s gaze flick up and down.
Glancing over her shoulder, Meg saw Mr. Thornton standing behind her, arms crossed on his chest. Meg wondered how long he had been listening. She moved toward him and announced, “Your mother has been kind enough to give me the name of a doctor.”
His forehead crinkled in concern. “You’re ill?” he asked in a low voice.
