by Nancy Klein
Meg stared at the box with apprehension, as if it were a venomous snake. Mary set the box beside Meg and moved toward the parlor door. “I will leave you to examine it in private. Will you stay to dinner? I would like you to meet my family—oh, do not fear, I will not tell them who you are. I will say you are the daughter of an old friend of mine.” When Meg nodded, she left her alone.
With equal parts longing and reluctance, Meg lifted the lid of the box and set it aside. Inside were a number of items that, to the ignorant eye, might appear strangely haphazard; each item had deep meaning for Meg, as its owner knew it would. Her throat constricted as she recognized Mr. Thornton’s pocket watch and quill. She touched each item with reverence, thinking that they had last been in his hands. Her heart sped up when she found the gloves she had left behind in Mr. Thornton’s office. They had been carefully folded, and although yellow with age, were pristine in appearance, as if he had kept them hidden away from prying eyes. He kept my gloves, just as I kept his, she thought. She pulled them onto her hands, as if they would bring his spirit close to her. It has been only hours since I took these off, she thought with wonder, but they are over sixty years of age!
Her eyes filled when she spotted the small posy she had given him, practically unrecognizable but for the faded red ribbon. She carefully lifted it from the box and powder drifted down from the decomposing petals and leaves, emitting a hauntingly sweet fragrance. She placed it carefully back and was about to replace the lid, unable to bear more, when she spotted a small book. She opened it. The name J. Thornton was written on the frontispiece in his distinctive handwriting. She leafed through a few pages, and found they were all covered in the same strong hand. Meg realized that this was his journal. A sob escaped her—he had left her an account of his life, dated from the time she had left him.
She lifted the journal and a small missive fell to the floor. Bending down to retrieve it, she noted that it was a letter, carefully folded, stamped with red sealing wax imprinted with the insignia JGT—his initials. With shaking hands, she broke the seal on the letter and spread the sheet before her. Taking a deep breath, she began to read:
My darling,
If you are reading this, you did indeed make your way back and found Mary once more. I hope this finds you well, and that all has turned out as you hoped it would. I pray you are successful in your practice as a doctor, and that your life will be full and happy. Despite what you said about being wed to your profession, I hope you will find someone to love. As for myself, I found the love of my life, and know that no one else could ever measure up to her. I would not trade the brief time I had with you for a lifetime with another woman. My hours with you were full of sunlight that will keep me warm to the end of my days. I am an old man now, but you are still fresh in my memory—and constant in my heart.
Be happy, my precious girl, and know that I keep you close to me always.
I love you,
John
Crying convulsively, Meg clasped the letter to her breast, unable to process all of the emotions coursing through her. After several minutes passed, she picked up the journal and began to read. She was astonished to find that each entry was addressed to her, as if it were his means to share his life with her. She read of his efforts to bring Marlborough Mills back to its former production, and how he had succeeded beyond his (and his fellow masters’) wildest expectations. She read of his deepening friendship with Doctor Donaldson, and how the men would meet together over dinner to discuss the clinic—and Meg. The good doctor told me many stories about your nursing and the good deeds you did for others. Our talks helped me to paint a fuller picture of your life, he explained. He told her of his friendship with the Higgins family, and of the plans he put in place to help Nicholas, Mary, and the Boucher children.
He described the improvements he had made to the mill to help his workers, as well as the output of the mill, and how relieved he was that through careful planning, Marlborough Mills was able to survive the Cotton Famine. He wrote of his mother’s death, and his loneliness and longing for Meg at that time, of how he dreamed that she returned to spend her life with him. He carried her gloves with him everywhere, tucked close to his heart, and would often study them in quiet moments. Throughout the entire narrative, she could feel his love reaching for her across the years, a wild keening that called to her heart with hopeless yearning. Near the end of the journal, he wrote:
We were born for each other, despite your protests that we were not meant to be together. Perhaps the Fates were reluctant to grant so much happiness to one mortal couple. Our lives together might have rivaled the sun in its splendor.
As she read this, Meg gave forth a heaving, painful sob. Her grief weighed on her to the point that she felt as if all of the air had been forced from her lungs by the weight of her crushing despair. She leaped up from the settee, scrambling to gather her hat, pushing the journal into her reticule. As she reached the door, it opened and Mary stood in the entryway.
“Mary, I—I cannot stay, I must go,” Meg cried out.
“Oh, my dear, what has happened?”
“I—I must go, I must go at once,” Meg insisted. She kissed Mary and fled from the room. Mary heard the door slam behind her and stared in bemusement.
Meg hurried along the dusky streets of Milton, uncertain where to go. I belong nowhere—I have no home, she thought in despair as she wandered the quiet streets and watched the streetlamps begin to wink on.
In the dying light of day, she found herself walking through the old graveyard where she had first met Bessy Higgins. As before, in her haste, she stumbled over a tombstone protruding from the grass, and fell against another, larger stone. Recovering her breath, she gazed at the stone in front of her. It was plain, engraved with a name and, below it, date of birth and date of death. John G. Thornton, the stone read. Beneath the dates, a second inscription was hidden by the grass. She tore at the growth until the inscription could be read:
For saints have hands that pilgrim’s hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.
She fell to the earth and wept in abject grief. She remembered her words: that perhaps they were not meant to be together. A wave of anger swept through her as she cried out, “Of course we were meant to be together!”
How stupid I have been, how blind! The realization crashed down upon her head like an ocean wave. All I ever wanted was to spend my life with John Thornton! How could I have ever thought being apart would be right for either of us? How could I ever think he would turn to Ann Laurence, given the perfect understanding we shared? Idiot! She smote her forehead with her fist. What should she do?
Go to the mirror, a small voice urged. She started up from the damp, rank grass. I must go back! I must get back to him through the mirror. As she reached the mill, she was relieved to see that the courtyard gates were open. She slipped into the warehouse, and called out tentatively to see if Mr. Windsor or any of the other workers were still there. All appeared deserted, so she sped quietly down the hall to the office and tried the door knob. It was locked. She nearly sobbed in frustration to find her way blocked before she remembered her hair pins.
Pulling a pin from the coil of hair on the back of her head, she kneeled in front of the door knob and inserted the pin carefully. She had tried this trick many a time at the orphanage to raid the pantry, and although her skills were rusty, they were not forgotten. She practically fell into the room when the door opened. The office was gloomy, and she allowed her eyes time to adjust to the darkness. She spotted the lamp and lit it.
She moved before the mirror and touched the crack—but nothing happened. Frowning, she removed her hand and touched it again, but still nothing occurred—no flash of light, no roar of sound. His gloves, she remembered, and reached into her reticule, frantically searching for Mr. Thornton’s gloves before she remembered they had not been on her hands when she came through the mirror. In frustration and panic, she slapped her hand against the glass. It swung on the wal
l and teetered before falling and shattering into a hundred fragments.
It was broken—what had she done? She stooped next to the wreckage and picked up a large shard of glass, only to drop it immediately as she cut herself on its sharp edge. She put her finger into her mouth and sat back on her haunches as large tears rolled down her cheeks. It was too late—the mirror was destroyed. She could not get back. Frantically, she picked up the glass fragments and attempted to fit them back in the frame, as if she were assembling a child’s puzzle. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not put Humpty together again. It was useless.
She cried as if her heart would break. All I ever wanted was John Thornton—why did it take me so long to realize it? How did I manage to fix the future for everyone but us? He was my heart’s desire, and I have lost him.
As if reading her mind, a voice behind her inquired, “So you have found your heart’s desire!” Meg whirled about, and fell back onto the floor. Clothilde stood beside the desk, arms across her chest, gazing at her.
Chapter 22. It’s My Own Invention
“Clothilde!” Meg stared up at the fortune teller, unable to believe her eyes.
The woman looked at her with amusement. “You have not answered me,” she repeated. “Is it true that you have found your heart’s desire?”
Meg nodded, unable to speak, and Clothide smiled broadly. “I thought you would.” She studied Meg for a moment, her eyes bright with mischief. “And have you discovered who you are?” At Meg’s blank stare, the fortune teller laughed. “I take your silence to mean you have not.” She speared Meg with a glance. “Tell me, were you successful in Milton?”
Meg wiped the residual tears from her eyes. “Yes, I believe I was—I stopped the riot, and saved—those whom I think I was supposed to save.” She paused. “Clothilde, whatever happened to the real Margaret Hale?”
Clothilde waved her question away with a languid hand. “We shall come to that presently. How did you do living in Milton—how were your family and the people that you met?”
Meg thought of the beautiful, ailing woman who had been her mother for such a short time, and the kind, gentle man who had loved her. “Mr. and Mrs. Hale were wonderful—I could not have loved them more if they had been my real parents. Dixon was so special, looking after me, and Nicholas and Mary Higgins were my dear friends, as was Bessy. Mr. Bell and Doctor Donaldson—I do not know what I would have done without them.”
“So, you felt like you belonged?” Meg nodded, mystified. “You do not mention John Thornton,” the fortune teller continued, a disconcerting gleam in her eyes.
“I loved him,” Meg replied. “No, that’s not right, I still love him. I will always love him.”
“And yet you left him. Why?”
Meg swallowed. “My mission was over. I could do nothing to help Bessy or Mrs. Hale, or the Bouchers, but I saved Mr. Thornton and Nicholas, and the mill. Nothing remained for me to do. When I saw you in the street in Milton, I was certain that you were telling me that it was time for me to come back to my own time ….” She stopped abruptly. “Only, I have no life. The family I thought was mine isn’t mine after all, and I don’t know where I belong.” Meg stared at Clothilde. “What has become of my life?”
“Was my presence on that street the only reason you came back?” Clothilde asked.
Meg shook her head. “No. I came back because I was convinced I wasn’t the right woman for Mr. Thornton—I thought he was destined to marry Ann Laurence, but I have found out I was wrong.” She covered her mouth in a futile attempt to muffle her sobs.
“You foolish child,” Clothilde chided, stooping to bring herself to eye level with Meg. “You were not meant to save everyone. And you were meant to save John Thornton not merely by rescuing him from the riot. You were meant to save your own life—and find your heart’s desire.”
Meg’s heart began to beat wildly. “What do you mean?”
“Search your heart and tell me,” the fortune teller urged. “You know the answer.”
Meg stood abruptly, wiping damp hands on her skirt. “Is this a game to you? Why are you asking me all of these questions, but refuse to answer mine. Who are you?”
Clothilde stood slowly. “The question is—who are you?”
Meg’s mouth went dry. “Who am I?”
The fortune teller smiled at her confused expression. “Do you not understand? Did you not know the day you looked in the mirror and saw yourself? You are the same person you have always been.” Seeing Meg was mystified, she added, “You are Margaret Hale.”
Meg stared at her, unable to wrap her mind around the fortune teller’s words. Noticing that the girl was unsteady and pale, Clothilde grasped her elbow and helped her to a chair behind the desk. Meg took a deep breath and exhaled. All of this time, she had been concerned about Margaret Hale’s whereabouts, wondering where she was and when she would return, only to find out that she was Margaret Hale? Impossible!
She glared at her nemesis. “How could I be Margaret Hale? I was born in London, years after she was born—I never lived in the country—I never knew my parents. Margaret Hale had a family, a place in the world. How could we be the same person?”
Clothilde shrugged her shoulders. “How is it possible that you traveled through time? Meg, I have followed you your entire life—believe me when I say you are Margaret Hale and Meg Armstrong. Margaret and Meg are one in the same. I am responsible for your dual lives, and the strange turn that your life took.”
Meg gaped at her. “I don’t understand. How can that be? Who are you?”
The fortune teller sat upon the edge of the desk and crossed her arms on her chest. “Do you remember the story that your father—Mr. Hale—told the night that John Thornton first came to your house for tea, about the Moirae?”
At Meg’s nod, Clothilde gazed steadily at her, a strange smile on her face. The truth dawned. “You!” Meg exclaimed, “You are one of the Moirae!”
Clothilde clapped her hands in satisfaction. “Very good, my dear! Yes, I am one of the Fates.”
“I thought you were mythical creations.”
“Just because mankind no longer believes in us does not mean we do not exist. We are very real, as many a man who crossed us has found to his profound regret. I am Clotho, the weaver of the thread, and it has fallen to me to guide your second life. You see, when you were Margaret Hale, you rejected the fate that had been cast for you and made my sisters very angry. But here, let me start at the beginning and tell you everything.” She settled herself comfortably upon the desk and took up the thread of her story.
“The original Margaret Hale was a lovely and privileged young woman, but spoiled and selfish. You were not a bad person, just self-absorbed. It was a mistake for your parents to send you to London with your aunt—you learned to love a life of ease and fashion too much while you were there. You came to consider life as a series of pleasures owed to you, without work or struggle. The fate that my sisters and I decreed for you was to go to Milton. We determined that you were to insert yourself in the day-to-day life of the workers, help the poor and indigent, and, most importantly, stem the tide of the riot, saving John Thornton’s life. Please know it was not dictated at this time whether you were to marry John Thornton or not—that was to be your choice. But there was important work for you to do in Milton, and it was imperative that you stay there. Such was the fate that I spun for you, and such your fate should have been but for your heedless actions.”
Meg looked at her fearfully. “What do you mean?”
The fortune teller’s visage grew grim. “You decided that you did not want to remain in Milton—you were miserable the moment you heard about the impending move to the North, and you made your father very unhappy with your complaints and weeping. Your mother might have grown resolved to the move, but your sadness compounded the sense of loss she felt, and helped to make everyone dissatisfied.”
Meg felt ashamed of her behavior. At the same time, Clotho’s words began
to conjure up latent wisps of memories previously unrecalled. “I—I remember something about a parsonage surrounded by hedgerows of roses, and a green lawn—sunshine, and tall shade trees, and espaliered pear trees in a small, walled garden; and boxes stacked up, awaiting shipment,” she said in a dream-like daze. “I remember boarding a train before everything went black.”
Clotho nodded in satisfaction. “Before you arrived in Milton, you began scheming about returning to London. Your mother was ill and your father distressed, but your grief at your own situation was such that you felt you must leave Milton immediately. You wrote to Henry Lennox, as you learned later, telling him you had reconsidered his marriage proposal and would gladly accept his offer. When you purchased a train ticket to London, my sisters knew you were determined to defy your decreed fate, and they became very angry. Lachesis measured the thread of your life short, and Atropos cut it, condemning you to death. But I intervened.”
She broke off. “You do not understand the entire chain of events that your absence set off, Meg—it was not just John Thornton and the rioters who were affected. It was critical that you be in that place at that time to prevent Milton from becoming a ghost town and blighting so many lives.” Clotho met Meg’s glance. “I saw something in you—something that I believed was redeemable, given the right set of circumstances. So, I unraveled the thread of your life and began again, making another life that would be Margaret Hale but not the same Margaret Hale.”
“I left you as a newborn outside an orphanage in London. My sisters were angered by my decision, but agreed on the condition that you suffer some degree of hardship and live a life of privation rather than privilege. You spent your early years at the orphanage doing hard work—you were cold and often hungry. You were not petted or cosseted, but given heavy labor to accomplish. And you responded as we wished—you were generous and loving to the other girls and the women who ran the orphanage, and your cheerful attitude made you a favorite. All along, you still had the same fate facing you, although you did not know it—it was imperative that you go to Milton to save John Thornton, and it was my task to prepare you for that fate.”
