She turned to take in the rest of the room. His mother’s touch was little felt here, in this shrine to his work and thoughts. The furniture was large and strong, but simple, and even with its master absent, the room reflected his general good cheer and contemplative nature. She looked carefully about, trying to imagine John himself seated at the desk, his blue eyes sparkling and his lips curved with humour as though her interruption had been a pleasant one. She began blinking rapidly.
At the rear of the study were shelves of order books and ledgers, all neatly arrayed for quick access from the seat at his desk. Evidently, he brought a deal of his work home with him in the evening hours. Another little smile quivered on her lips, finding something in him to admire even in so minor a thing. Wandering near, she allowed her fingers to trail over the burnished wood of his perfectly ordered desk, and that was when her eyes fell upon the ring box.
Her breath catching, she took the seat at his desk. With trembling hands, she reached toward it, then stopped herself. Her eyes began to blur and her throat choked with emotion. As her hands withdrew once more, she glanced down at a paper before her, bearing her name at the head. She drew the paper close to study it.
It was his plain, understated letterhead; the same on which he had written his only other letter to her, as well as that one bitterly regretted note to the police inspector. It looked as though he had made a beginning at writing her once more, but had suffered from indecision or other pressures on his time. Perhaps it had even been merely a cathartic exercise, one intended to relieve his anguished feelings. All that he had written were the greeting and a scrawled closing, but this time, the wording was so intimate, so revealing of his heart, that her breast began to heave as she read his tender words to her over and over.
To my dearest Margaret,
Yours forevermore,
John
Tears started tumbling down her cheeks, and biting her lip once more, she reached in determination for the ring box which he had apparently intended for her. It opened with a creaking sound, revealing a small, bright diamond ring. It was flawless and delicate, and though it may not have been of wondrous value- as diamonds went- it had the look of a ring blessed by many years of wedded harmony. Clearly it was some treasured heirloom… and he had tried to give it to her.
She felt unworthy to touch it. How many times had she refused it? Leaving the box open so that her tormented spirits might still look upon it, she pushed it away from herself. Oh, her beloved John! She draped her head upon her arms and gave herself over to her tears. What was she to do if his injuries proved too much for him? How could she be expected to go on without him?
An agonized cry wracked her and she began to weep and sorrow as she had not done even for her mother. That had been different; her father and Fred had depended upon her, and that knowledge alone had given her strength. Here, she was all alone, and none could know the depth of her fears or the bitterness of her regrets! How long she stayed thus, she could not have told, but at length a cool hand at her shoulder bade her lift her head.
“Margaret,” Hannah Thornton called softly.
She started, at first embarrassed to be found in this room and in such an attitude, but there was no hint of reproof in Hannah’s pale, drawn face.
“How is he?” she begged tremulously.
Hannah blinked and gave a miniscule nod. “He is resting. He sustained a blow to the head, but he has awakened a few times and spoken to us, so it does not appear to be serious. The concern is that he has several broken ribs, and the doctors were fearful that a lung might have been punctured. It does not appear now that that has been the case, but they caution that he must not be moved. We still do not know the full extent of his injuries. The next several hours will tell us if there is something more than we presently know.”
Margaret viciously swiped a tear from her cheek. “Mrs Thornton, I know it is not proper, but….”
Hannah pressed her lips in understanding. “You may see him. He asked for you earlier. Your father has arrived, and is already sitting with him. I told him I would send for you.”
Margaret could find no words, but she clasped Mrs Thornton’s hands in grateful effusion. The older woman stiffened, but managed to offer a grim smile. “This way, Miss Hale,” she intoned, with all of the dignity and grace one might be able to expect of her under the circumstances.
~
Margaret found her father, his face grey and lined, posting watchful vigil over the man he held as a son. Mr Hale glanced up quickly at her arrival, sighing in relief. “There you are, my child. Come, sit with me.”
Her steps bent obediently toward him, but her gaze dwelt steadily on John’s rising chest. It moved still, but only fractionally, and Margaret could easily imagine the pain that such breath must cost him. His face was bruised, and gave evidence of having been hastily cleaned of blood. There was a bandage wrapped over his forehead, with a bulk of wadding just behind his ear where he had apparently been stricken by some object. How fortunate that the blow had not been more serious!
“Please excuse me.” Hannah Thornton interrupted her survey of John’s injuries. “If you will sit with John now, I must see to some other matters. I imagine I will have time enough to remain at his bedside.”
Margaret’s eyes snapped back to that good lady, and though her father might not have detected it, Margaret did not miss the weariness or the sacrifice in her voice. Had the Hales not been present, no force lesser than the hand of the Almighty could have torn her from her son’s side at this hour. She looked to Margaret, and a deep understanding passed between them. Hannah was consigning the light of her life, for now, into her hands.
Margaret felt the full weight of such an honour. Her eyes clouded once more, and before Hannah closed the door behind her, Margaret grasped the worn hands tightly in both of hers. “Thank you!” she whispered meaningfully. Hannah blinked, nodded curtly, and retired.
“Sit, Margaret,” her father gently insisted. She took a seat near him and resumed her careful inventory of John’s condition. His body was covered with a blanket, but he appeared to have had his shirt cut off, for his shoulders were bare. She ought to have been petrified by embarrassment, but she felt only overwhelming concern.
“Father,” she pleaded softly, “is he… will he…?”
Mr Hale opened his mouth to answer, but a low groan from John interrupted him. At the quiet sound of Margaret’s voice, he had roused to wakefulness, if only for a moment.
“John!” she cried, and rose to lean over him.
His response was a pained grimace- the best he could do for a smile- and his lips mouthed her name.
“Shh, do not try to talk,” she soothed. “Father and I are here.”
“…Mmmm…” he cringed in agony and ceased the attempt to speak her name.
“John, I am here,” she reassured him again. Her fingers stroked over the blood-thickened hair at his brow and he let his eyes fall closed. Tearfully, she pressed a tender kiss to his streaked forehead. Slowly, with a measured effort, his hand lifted to her. She clasped it eagerly, careful not to jostle his arm overmuch and thereby unsettle him.
Assured of her presence and comforted by her firm grip, he lapsed once more into arduous slumber. Margaret glanced helplessly to her father, for she was now constrained to stand at his side if she wished to continue holding his hand. Mr Hale, once a young lover himself, smiled indulgently and slid both of their chairs nearer the bed. Margaret took her seat gingerly, poising herself at the edge of her chair lest she wrench his arm and cause him more pain.
“Father,” she whispered- more softly than before, “how badly is he injured? Surely you have seen such cases, back in Helstone when you visited the parishioners! What is to be done?”
Mr Hale’s kindly face drooped in worry. “I do not know, my child. They have bound his ribs- a dreadful process!- but we cannot know what internal injuries he may have. The doctor has given him laudanum to help him rest, for ev
en breathing must be quite painful to him. I expect that is the best man and his medicine can do for now.”
Margaret’s head dipped low, and a tear shimmered at the tip of her nose. Her shoulders shook with the effort of containing her tremours. She must remain stout and true, for John’s sake! She would not disturb him with her grief for all of the world, nor would she wish to burden her father by baring her sorrows before him.
Valiant though her efforts were, Mr Hale’s faded eyes had seen too much loss and trouble through the years for him to fail to recognize his daughter’s distress. He placed a soothing hand upon her shoulder. “My child,” he counseled gently, “fret not, for are not a man’s days numbered, and is not even the hair of his head precious? Come, my dear, let us bow our heads together.”
Margaret sniffled pitifully and, after a moment, nodded in resigned agreement. It was what she ought to have done before, but to her shame, her fear had overcome her. Humbled, and not a little comforted by her father’s quiet wisdom, she joined him in petitioning the One who held the breath of life in His hand.
~
The following morning discovered Margaret, stiff and weary, roused early and prowling about her drawing room. She was anxious for news of John, and his blessed mother had promised to send word of how he had passed the night. This first night would tell all, or so the doctors claimed. If he had rested quietly, and not begun to cough blood or shown some other dreadful symptom, he had a good chance.
The news she sought was soon delivered faithfully, and by a welcome face. How or why Hannah Thornton had ensnared this particular messenger, Margaret could not tell, but she was relieved beyond words. Nicholas Higgins trod wearily through the door, looking as though he had neither slept nor eaten since the previous day.
“Nicholas!” Margaret heedlessly embraced him, so relieved was she that he was well. “Do, please sit down. Martha! Ask Dixon to send in something for Mr Higgins!”
Nicholas waved. “Nay, Lass, yo’ dinna’ need to fret ‘bout me.”
“Nonsense, Nicholas! You must keep up your strength. I am sure you have had much to occupy you.”
He sighed, nodding. “Aye, then, do as yo’ will. I’m near to clemmin’ if yo’ mu’n know.”
“Nicholas,” she settled intently before him. “What news do you have?”
He took in her tormented posture, her piercing gaze, and gave a reassuring nod. “Master’s no worse, Lass.”
Margaret’s eye closed and she shuddered in profound relief. “Oh, thank God!” she cried. “Nicholas, what else?”
He shrugged. “’E’s wakened, but na’ for long. Th’ould Dragon says ‘e’s taken some broth….”
“Nicholas!” Margaret was shocked into sudden laughter. “You cannot call Mrs Thornton that!”
A wily grin tugged at the old weaver’s face. “Nay, Miss, I just wanted to liven yo’ a bit. Take ‘eart, ‘tis na’ the first, nor the last time I’ve seed the like. Master’ll be on ‘is feet soon ‘nough, Lass, don’ yo’ doubt it.”
Margaret sighed, the bitter coil of dread loosening its hold on her heart. “Thank you, Nicholas. What happened yesterday? Did you see anything? Miss Thornton said someone had tampered with a valve!”
Nicholas’ face set into grim lines. “Aye, Lass, I saw’t a’.”
Margaret leaned close, eager to hear all, but Martha came at that moment with a tray for him. Forgetting his manners or the house in which he sat- for only a moment, mind you- he tore ravenously into the biscuit and cold meat set before him. Blinking and looking to Margaret with abashment, he quickly composed himself. He made to apologize, but Margaret absolved him with a light smile and a wave of her hand.
Nicholas swallowed his bite of cold meat and cleared his throat. “’D’yo’ mind Sacks?”
Margaret squinted thoughtfully. “Yes, I think so. I remember you speaking to John about him. He was causing some trouble with the Union, as I recall.”
Nicholas nodded as he gulped down another mouthful of biscuit. He wiped his mouth hastily and set the tray aside so that he could speak without interruption. “’E’d a lad- a good lad- named Willy. Master ‘ad me schoolin’ the lad ‘round the mill. Yest’rday we looked in on the boiler because Master ‘ad a thought ‘bout a new ‘conomizer-”
“A… a what, Nicholas?” Margaret’s brow wrinkled in confusion.
“A…” he gestured vaguely with his hands, his own face puckered in an attempt to explain. “Nay, Lass,” he at last gave up in defeat. “I canna’ ‘splain, but it makes the boiler more ‘fficient.”
“Oh.” She leaned back, perplexed. There was a deal about the mill she did not understand, but John seemed to hold all of those technical details in his clever mind. Once more awed at the marvel of it all, she merely shook her head and asked him to continue.
He sighed again, the weariness settling more deeply over his features as he relived the harrowing experience. “We three were walkin’ to the boiler- there were others, mind, not so close- but we were jus’ comin’ to’ the boiler ‘ouse when Willy shouted out for ‘is da’. Sacks were just steppin’ away when Willy ran up. I dinna’ see more, because then Master grabbed me and threw me on the ground.”
Higgins stroked his chin, his eyes closed, while Margaret tilted her head at an utter loss. “I still do not understand, Nicholas. Young Willy’s father was there? I thought he was no longer employed at the mill.”
“Aye, Lass, ‘e wasn’a. Snuck in, ‘e did. ‘T’was ‘e ‘o tweaked the valve, and ‘is lad saw it.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Poor devils.”
Margaret’s eyes widened in alarm. “Was it Mr Sacks who was killed? I heard a man had been.”
Higgins gritted his teeth in remorse. “Aye. ‘E and ‘is lad. ‘Is poor wife!”
Margaret leaned back against her chair, stunned. “Oh, Nicholas, I am so sorry! You thought a great deal of the boy, did you not?”
Nicholas had been rubbing his hands roughly over his eyes, and whether it was from mourning or lack of sleep, Margaret could not be sure. “Aye,” he mumbled brokenly. He harrumphed a little, ashamed at his weakness before a lady, and addressed himself once more to his tray.
“’T’were the master’s idea,” he remarked after a few bites. “The lad workin’ wi’ me.”
Margaret smiled comfortingly. “You said that before.”
“T’isn’t fair, Miss,” he muttered. “When I think on my poor Bess, hoo’ suffered, and now that good lad….” His voice choked, as though even his throat rebelled against further utterances of his griefs.
He poked at the remainder of the biscuit, crumbled now over the plate, before continuing. “Master saved my life, Miss. I didn’a see what ‘e did- the boiler plate wen’ ri’ o’er our ‘eads. I’d’ve ne’er got down. When the blast were o’er, Master were on top o’ me. Kept me safe, ‘e did, but some o’ the wall came down on ‘im.”
“And the others? Were others hurt as well?”
“Master were the ‘ardest ‘it,” Nicholas assured her. “Some others was ‘urt- some broken arms and bruises, but a’ in a’, Lass, ‘tis a wonder ‘t’were no worse.”
“What of the steam? I have heard of boiler explosions causing tremendous burns, and even starting fires! How did everyone escape?”
Nicholas began to smile for the first time in several minutes. “The boiler ‘ouse were brick, Miss, an’ set back from the main buildin’. Master ‘ad it fitted wi’ steel beams and a tile roof some years back, so no wood in that room. No fire, Miss. The steam, t’was ev’r’where, but we were far ‘nough back, the burns weren’t so bad. Master fared worse, but most o’ the steam went t’other way.”
Margaret set her chin upon her hand, thinking over the layout of the mill yard. She was only vaguely sure of where the boiler house must have been located- that had never been a part of her tours on her brief visits there. Still, there was only one area which remained hazy to her, and it was near the back of the main building which housed
the massive looms. “Nicholas,” she asked slowly, “what of the rest of the mill?”
He shook his head, fixing her with a hollow expression. “’Alf o’ it’s gone, Miss.” He rubbed weary hands over his face once more. “I still say t’were a right mir’cle we weren’t a’ killed, but the mill, Miss….”
Margaret groaned, sinking back in her chair. “What is to be done!” she exclaimed, more to herself than to Nicholas.
His head still wagging, Higgins stood. “I dinna’, Miss.” He sighed wearily. “I’ll thank yo’, Lass, for the biscuit. I mu’n look in on some o’ the ‘ands.”
Margaret saw him to the door. “Come again as soon as you can, Nicholas,” she urged. “How are Mary and the children?”
“Well y’nough, Miss. I’ll stop by soon,” he promised, and went away.
Margaret stood alone in the doorway of her comfortable, secure house, and wondered about all of those families left without a livelihood. What could she do? Helpless, and unable to consult the one who would likely have a sound answer for her, she resorted to resting her head against the door frame and counting the tears as they dripped to the floor.
Chapter Thirty-One
No rebuilding efforts were to be initiated at Marlborough Mills. Without the active, brilliant mind of the master to lend inspiration, and lacking the proper finances, there was none to begin the labour.
The paper was full of the hideous details of the explosion for several days. Mr Bell, as the landlord, had naturally received word immediately- though it was Margaret who had taken up her pen, rather than Mrs Thornton. It had been the very least she could do, for she was not able to sit daily at John’s bedside as his mother had been forced to. The older woman’s impressive vitality was more a testimony to her fierce devotion than her already remarkable physical endurance. She had scarcely left her son’s chamber even to sleep.
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