How Far the World Will Bend

by Nancy Klein

  Meg looked confused. “How does he manage his mill from London?”

  “Mill? This is not a mill.” The man regarded her in tolerant amusement. “This hasn’t been a mill for twenty year now.”

  “What happened?”

  The man shrugged. “Cotton industry dried up. Most of the owners closed up shop, or went into other manufactures. This hasn’t been a mill since Mr. Thornton died.”

  Meg choked. She had known that, in all probability, he would not live to this time, but she still felt awash in grief to hear of his passing. She gathered her scattered thoughts together. “How about his sons or daughters? Do they not own this place?”

  “Are you speaking of John Thornton? He had no sons or daughters, miss.” The stranger regarded her in puzzlement. “He never married.”

  “Never married?” she asked in a high, strange voice.

  The stranger shook his head. “No, ma’am—he remained a bachelor his entire life. I remember Mr. Thornton from when I was a lad—he was a nice old chap.”

  Meg felt a wave of irrational fury. She had steeled herself in anticipation of finding him wedded with multiple progeny. What had happened? Why hadn’t he married? She had told him she was leaving him so that he might find a wife worthy of his position in society, and he had remained a bachelor his entire life? Her eyes flashed to the mirror, as if she could upbraid him for his pigheadedness; moments later, she remembered the words he had spoken only moments—or was it ages?—before: I have found the only woman I will ever love. He had remained true to their love. She knew that she would never love another. Why should it surprise her, then, that he felt the same? Because of her actions, he had lived out his days alone.

  The stranger leaned against the desk, arms crossed on his ample belly as he warmed to his subject. “He always had a coin or a kind word for children. He had a sadness about him, like he was lonely in spite of all the people he knew and all of the things he did for Milton. The local school is named for him—Thornton Academy. He founded it with profits from the mill. I remember my father telling me that he also helped to endow the Hale Medical Clinic for the poor and indigent.”

  Meg felt hysterical laughter well up within her, and struggled to contain it. The Hale Medical Clinic—Doctor Donaldson had had his private jest with her, knowing she would receive this private message across the years. Seeing the stranger expected some response, she gathered her thoughts. “So, Mr. Thornton was a philanthropist?”

  “Aye, he was, and used his money to improve the town and assist his workers. He ran one of the best mills in this country, tricked out with the most modern equipment. He was a stickler for the health and safety of his hands, and had a sage head for business.” He looked at her inquisitively. “How did you hear of Mr. Thornton?”

  “My grandmother, Mary Armstrong, used to work for him.”

  She started to tell him that Gran lived in London when the man exclaimed in surprise, “Mrs. Armstrong is your grandmother? How is it that I’ve never seen you around these parts before? I’ve met most of her grandchildren.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Joseph Windsor—I manage this warehouse.”

  Meg shook his hand. “I’m Meg Armstrong. How do you know Gran?”

  “Everyone in Milton knows your grandmother—she lives in that huge house up on Mulberry Street.”

  Meg stared at him, unable to grasp his meaning. Gran lived in Milton? As she attempted to focus on that astonishing fact, Mr. Windsor continued, “Are you the granddaughter who lives in London? Martin’s daughter?”

  Meg had no idea who Martin was, but nodded in the hope of learning more from Mr. Windsor. He was happy to oblige.

  “I remember your grandfather, Nicholas Higgins, from when I was a lad. He was a character—a good friend of Mr. Thornton’s. I remember how surprised we all were when Thornton named him overseer at the mill, and sold him a portion of the mill. Higgins did well for himself, as did your grandmother—she married one of the other mill owners. Her house is the envy of Milton, and your Aunt Lily is quite the socialite.” With evident reluctance, Mr. Windsor moved toward the door. “Well, miss, I’ve enjoyed talking to you, but I’d best get back to work. It was a pleasure to meet you—please come again if you’d like a tour of the warehouse.”

  He escorted Meg to the courtyard and waved her on her way. I wonder where I can find Mulberry Street? And what else has changed beyond recognition? With chill apprehension, she recognized that she may have made a terrible mistake.

  ********&********

  As she made her way through Milton, Meg was all amazement to note how different this Milton was from the town she had left. The Milton she and Gran had come to visit had been little more than a ghost town; the Milton before her now was a thriving metropolis. The cleaner skies and lack of smoke indicated that the manufactures were closed; however, she noted numerous warehouses, and the stores were filled with enticing wares. She searched up and down the streets, but could not find Clothilde’s shop. She had hoped to find the fortune teller, sensing that Clothilde was the only one who could tell her the truth, but could find no trace of her. Meg felt isolated from the people rushing about their daily business; she had no pressing business, and did not know what to do next.

  When she reached the center of town, she stopped in the middle of the street and stared at a large, well-situated billing on the next corner—it was the Hale Medical Clinic. With a sense of wonder, she stepped through the doorway to enter a bustling hive of activity. Patients sat in a well-apportioned waiting room, awaiting their turn to see the doctor. A cluster of desks was situated against a wall, and nurses escorted patients in and out of what appeared to be examining rooms. At the far end of the room, she spotted a portrait of Doctor Donaldson; the plate beneath the picture identified him as the Founder of the Hale Medical Clinic. Meg studied the portrait, noting with amusement that the doctor looked impatient and irritated, as if posing for this painting was a colossal waste of time. Well done, Doctor, Meg thought, sad that her friend and mentor was gone.

  “May I help you, miss?” A young, fresh-faced nurse stood beside her, gazing in polite inquiry.

  “Perhaps—can you direct me to Mulberry Street?”

  “Why, certainly,” the young woman replied, and gave Meg directions. “You had best take a carriage because it is too far to walk from here.” As she spoke, the woman studied her features with a slight frown.

  “Is something wrong?” Meg inquired, thinking perhaps her face was smudged with dirt.

  “Nothing, miss—except, you look so much like the benefactress of our clinic, it is uncanny.”

  Seeing Meg’s blank look, the girl beckoned her along the hallway toward an atrium at the back of the building. At the back of the atrium, a large portrait of Meg hung in a place of honor. The painting had obviously been rendered from a description of her, since she had never sat for a portrait. The rendition was not exact, but it was close enough that the resemblance was remarkable. Under the portrait a brass plaque proclaimed, Margaret Hale, Founder.

  “The resemblance is amazing,” said the woman, looking from Meg to the portrait and back again.

  Meg began to laugh. “Yes, yes it is,” she agreed, bidding the woman farewell before she could ask any more questions.

  As Meg strode up the hill toward the large houses situated above Milton, she thought about Mr. Thornton never marrying and her foreboding grew. What had happened? She had been so certain he was fated for Miss Laurence, with her charming manners and influential connections. Perhaps Mr. Windsor had been wrong—perhaps Mr. Thornton had married, but had left no heirs.

  She climbed the long, winding road uphill, noting that the homes grew statelier and the grounds surrounding them larger, with old trees and beautiful landscapes. At last, she reached Mulberry Street and found the house that belonged to Gran. It was a large, sprawling structure of golden stone that glowed in the afternoon sunlight. Its front was covered in ivy, and large boxwoods lined the path leading to the house. She walked along cautio
usly, dreading what she might find. If Gran lived in Milton now, when had she lived in London? Had they moved back to Milton recently? She reached the front steps and knocked upon the massive door, listening as the sound echoed down the hallway. She shifted from foot to foot, her anxiety growing with each passing minute. At last, the front door opened and a smiling maid greeted her and asked her business.

  “Is Mrs. Mary Armstrong at home?” Meg inquired.

  “Why, yes, Miss.” The young woman looked inquiringly at Meg. “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Please tell her that Meg—Hale would like to see her,” she replied, wondering if Gran would recognize the name.

  The maid ushered her into the stately entryway. A large curved staircase led to the second floor, while doors off the hall hinted at spacious rooms. The floor was gleaming oak, and covered with a large oriental carpet thick with plush. Meg had a sense of money and taste, and was glad to think that Mary had prospered during the ensuing years. The inheritance I left might have helped to bring this about, she thought in wonder.

  Moments later, the maid reappeared, and asked Meg to follow her. Meg climbed the staircase and entered a bright parlor. On a low settee in front of a bay window looking out over a wide expanse of lawn sat Gran. She was familiar yet different, Meg thought. Her face and figure were the same, but she was dressed elegantly, and her hands were not as careworn from years of work as Meg remembered. She sat with a small piece of needlework in her hands, and glanced up curiously when the door opened.

  As the maid curtsied and left the room, Gran studied Meg, a perplexed expression on her face. “Hello, Gran,” Meg said softly. Mary looked at her inquisitively, but as Meg drew closer, she saw the older woman blanch with fright as the needlework slid from her lax hands onto the floor. Mary reached out with trembling, uncertain hands and touched Meg’s hand, as if to determine if she were truly flesh and blood and not some phantasm.

  “It can’t be,” she murmured, her voice shaking, “It’s not possible!” Mary clutched at Meg’s hand and pulled her down on the settee. Placing her hand beneath Meg’s chin, she lifted her face to the light, turning it left then right so she could study her features, as she had done so many years ago to a young girl in a London orphanage.

  “Dear Lord,” she breathed softly, “Is this some trick?”

  Meg knelt down to retrieve the needlework and replaced it on Mary’s lap. “It is no trick, and you are not crazy.”

  “Meg? Is it truly you?” she asked in a wondering voice.

  Meg clasped both her friend’s hands in her own and gripped them. “It is me, Mary—the same Meg who visited your family in Princeton, who helped you lay out your sister’s body when she died.”

  Mary released her breath. “I thought you were a ghost when you first came through that door. I had given up hope of ever seeing you again, and yet here you are! How have you not aged a day? Where have you been all this time?” She still looked uncertain, as she had every right to be.

  “I’m not sure you would believe me if I told you,” Meg replied. “When did you move from London to Milton?”

  Mary looked confused. “London? I have never lived in London.”

  Meg stared at her. “When did you adopt me, then?” she asked slowly.

  It was Mary’s turn to stare. “Adopt you? What do you mean? I have not seen you for—oh, it must be over sixty years! You went to Spain, and never returned. And now you show up—and look exactly the same! What is going on?”

  Meg stared. I was never adopted by Gran? What became of me? She gathered Mary’s hands in her own once more. “I am not a ghost, Mary—it really is me. The same person whose house you tended, the same friend to you and your sister Bessy.”

  Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know how it is possible, but I know it is you, Meg. You look and sound exactly the same. Oh, how I have missed you!” Mary leaned forward and the women embraced each other, sitting quietly in each other’s arms for several minutes before Mary demanded to know where Meg had been all of these years.

  After a halting start, Meg spilled out her story, occasionally stopping in an attempt to reign in her emotions. Mary made her remove her hat and gloves, and called for tea so that they might be comfortable. She stopped her flow of words when the tea tray was brought in, and waited until it was set up and tea poured before she resumed her story. When she was finished, she and Mary sat in a companionable silence, as she watched her friend struggle to comprehend what she had heard. “And you say that before you went back to the past, I adopted you, and we lived in London?” Mary shook her head in amazement. “I have never adopted anyone, Meg—I have always considered my three children and half-dozen grandchildren enough,” she added wryly.

  Meg stared at her in shock. What became of me, she wondered again. Do I even have a life in London?

  Mary’s voice cut across her thoughts. “I must tell you, though, now that I think of it, I remember you telling me you might send someone to see me someday—little did I think it would be you! I also remember that Doctor Donaldson told me once that I might see you again, one day far into the future.” At Meg’s questioning expression, she explained, “I missed you so much when you first left, I told the doctor I couldn’t bear to not see you again. That was when he told me to keep my eyes open, because we might meet again one day. And he was right,” she added with a quavering laugh.

  “I am so sorry I caused you pain, Mary—I thought I was doing the right thing….” Meg’s voice trailed away, and she sat in silent contemplation for several moments. “Tell me about Nicholas.”

  “Father lived to be 90 years old,” Mary replied proudly. “He was made overseer by Mr. Thornton not long after you disappeared. Mr. Williams became sick and had to leave the mill, so Mr. Thornton put Father in charge. When you disappeared, and Doctor Donaldson brought us the deed to that house, you could have knocked Father over with a feather. What a generous thing to do, Meg! We had that lovely house with bedrooms enough to fit all of the children!” Mary’s eyes were warm with affection.

  “I am so pleased that you liked the house,” Meg replied shyly, thinking that at least she had done one good thing.

  “Liked it!” Mary exclaimed, “We loved it. When we found out you had left us all of that money—oh, Meg, Father was so reluctant to take it. He grieved when he learned of your death, and hated to profit from it. But Mr. Thornton told him to take the money and use it to give the children schooling, which we did. Tommy Boucher became a lawyer right here in Milton—he died last year, but his children live nearby. Sam worked in the office at Marlborough Mills, and Sally worked in the clinic with Doctor Donaldson because she wanted to be a healer like you—she never forgot that time you stitched up Tommy’s leg! And the baby entered the ministry and has a parish outside of York.”

  Meg lowered her head, overcome with emotion. Her heart was full to think that the Higgins and Boucher families had prospered, and that the money she had left behind was a means to help them lift themselves out of poverty. She was also moved by Mr. Thornton’s generosity and guiding hand.

  “Mary, what became of Dixon?” Meg asked with some trepidation.

  “She missed you very much. I don’t think she ever got over your leaving. She was pleased to have the house in Crampton, but sadly grieved that you were gone. She was a good friend to all of us, and we took our meals with her on Sundays. She was proud of that house, and when I married, Mr. Thornton hired her to cook at the lunchroom at the mill. She loved bossing the men about and being complimented on her cooking.” Meg laughed at the thought of Dixon bossing everyone about at the lunchroom. Mr. Thornton’s kindness had provided something productive for Dixon to do—and a source of income for her.

  “I saw the clinic as I walked through town.”

  Mary laughed. “Doctor Donaldson insisted on naming the clinic after you—I wish you could have seen how it has grown over the years. That clinic has been a blessing to Milton, as has the school.”

  “Please tell me
about the school,” Meg begged.

  “Mr. Thornton opened the school for his hands’ children. He hired several schoolmasters, and purchased the texts and supplies. He said it was important to train new minds up so they would not have to toil in the mills their whole lives.” She sighed. “He was such a good man.”

  “Mary, why didn’t Mr. Thornton marry?”

  Her friend gave her a frank look. “I don’t think he ever got over you, Meg. Once you disappeared, he never took up with another woman. It had been rumored at the mill that he was pursuing Miss Laurence, not that I ever believed it. Mr. Thornton dedicated his life to the mill and charitable works such as the clinic and school. Father said that if it hadn’t been for his keen business sense, Marlborough Mills might have gone under during the Famine, like so many other mills did. But Mr. Thornton was able to ride out that terrible time. He was a good friend to us, and took an interest in Tommy and the other children. But he was always sad—once his mother died, he lived by himself and did not entertain much. He would visit Doctor Donaldson quite often, and he came to dinner at our home, but otherwise he did not go out into society.”

  Mary paused, watching Meg struggle with her feelings. “Father said he would often come by to talk about you, and reminisce. He was particularly fond of the mirror in his office, and would not let anyone touch it. The funniest thing—he would have a bouquet of roses delivered to his office once a week and he kept those roses on a small table beneath the mirror. Father said it was like a little shrine, and he would often find Mr. Thornton looking into the mirror as if he hoped to catch a glimpse of something. Now that I’ve heard your story, I reckon he was looking for a glimpse of you.”

  Meg was ill with remorse. Everything had changed for the better in this Milton of the future—except for the man whom she loved more than anything in this world.

  “Meg, I forgot,” Mary exclaimed, using her cane to struggle to her feet. “I have something for you.” She moved over to a desk and, opening a drawer, retrieved a wooden box. “Mr. Thornton gave this to me years ago, on the chance that you would return to retrieve it. He asked that I keep it in a safe place, as it was very dear to his heart, and to give it to no one but you.” She blinked her eyes rapidly, as if to hold back tears.