Somehow, each day, Hannah had contrived a way to send word to Margaret of John’s progress. The steam burns along his back and shoulders- of which Margaret had not even been aware on her first visit- had rapidly blistered. The doctors had feared infection, but whether they were less deep than originally thought, or whether Mr Hale’s constant prayers had availed much, they began to heal without incident.
The real concern, one week after the original accident, was that he was still unable to breathe without excruciating pain. It had been decided, after the initial assessment, that administering more laudanum would only diminish his breathing and allow fluid to cluster. The pain he would have borne up under well enough, but since at least three ribs had been crushed under the wall and no longer performed their proper function, his lungs could scarcely draw enough air to fill them. Pneumonia became a genuine worry, as was the possibility that further movement of his broken ribs could end up causing new internal injuries. Haggard and strained were the faces of all who kept sentry over his recovery, from near or far.
Higgins beat a regular trail between the Thornton’s household and the Hale residence. When he was not acting as messenger between the parted lovers, he occupied himself with Union business. He it was who was sought after for wages from the Union’s store of emergency funds. In the immediate aftermath of the explosion, all of the workers’ ire was focused upon the deceased Jonas Sacks and, unfortunately, what remained of his family. Higgins, however, was too experienced to believe that sentiments would remain as they were, and he looked to the coming tide of ill will with a growing disquiet.
It was a tense and dreary Christmas for many in Milton. On Christmas Day, Margaret and her father chose to ignore the embargo on visiting the grey house on Marlborough Street to bring some warm company and a precious measure of good cheer to its occupants. Mrs Thornton looked to have aged ten years, but she greeted them both with genuine gratitude. She was even generous enough to allow Margaret to sit with John, unchaperoned, for a brief interlude- so long as she kept the door open.
Her chest panging in sympathetic agony, Margaret padded softly to the bedside. “Merry Christmas, John,” she whispered, wondering if he were awake.
His eyes, closed only against the constant ache rather than in sleep, snapped open.
“Does it pain you to speak?” she asked quickly, hoping to divert him before he made the effort. “Pray do not trouble yourself. I only wished to sit with you.”
He managed a shadow of his former brilliant smile and reached for her hand. She took it and was immediately surprised by the strength of his grip. He held her hand as if he might never let her go, and indeed, he would fain have retained his grip indefinitely if he had not in that same moment also flexed his stomach muscles, resulting in another torturous spasm.
The hiss of air through his teeth caused Margaret to jump in alarm. “Forgive me, John, I did not mean to!”
He shook his head- very fractionally, it must be noted- and whispered “No. Not you.” His pain-hardened features softened as he lovingly took in every detail of her hair, her gown, and her well-remembered face. “Kiss me,” he demanded hoarsely.
Repressing an amused chuckle at his bluntness, she leaned over him and complied. “Better?” she asked in a hushed voice.
His mouth twitched in pleasure. “More,” he insisted, almost inaudibly.
Margaret may have had her faults, but it could not be said that she was ungenerous. Lavishly she bestowed the favour he sought, wondering how long it would be before she could do so again. It might be many weeks yet before the doctors would suffer him to move about, and even longer before his full strength were recovered.
Eventually he permitted her to take the seat next to him, still clasping her hand. “Margaret,” he wheezed, “the mill? Mother will not tell me.”
“Because you ought not to be talking!” she surveyed him sternly.
“Have to breathe anyway,” he smirked wryly from his pillow. “Tell me, Margaret.”
Her expression became pained and she shook her head. “The boiler, house and all, are destroyed, John. Many of the bricks tore into the main building, and a good section of it came down- some right away, and some later. Several of the looms are destroyed as well, I understand.”
“The workers are safe?”
“Aside from Mr Sacks and his son,” she replied sorrowfully. “But I suppose you knew about that.”
He nodded grimly, for indeed he had refused to rest until his mother had at least assured him that no others had been killed.
“It truly is miraculous, as Nicholas has said. I saw the buildings, John, and I do not know how there was not more loss of life. The mill, though….”
Another hiss escaped him as his face cringed. “All lost.”
She lowered her eyes and nodded, swallowing. “Yes, John,” she whispered. “I am afraid so.”
He was silent for a long while, his thumb kneading over the back of her hand as his mind wandered in thought. “I must write Bell,” he groaned.
“I have already done so. He wished to come, but he had rather a serious cough, and his own doctor insisted that he delay some while. I know he wishes to look over the damage and talk to you about the repairs, but surely that can wait until you are both stronger,” she finished with simplistic hopefulness.
John, however, was shaking his head. “Have to give up my lease,” he breathed. “It will take years to pay back the damages.”
Margaret paled at his bald-faced presentation of the truth, but it was no more than she and her father had feared when they sat in the evenings around their hearth fire. So frequently had the subject arisen between them that together they had pondered an idea- a wild, unthinkable plan, but one which seemed too perfect to ignore.
“John,” she began hesitantly, “where will you go? You told me before that the house is part of the lease. Will you not need to remove?”
His eyes closed and his brows lifted in silent confirmation. “Poor Mother!” he murmured softly.
She tightened her grip on his hand, the sudden intensity of her posture causing him to peer curiously at her. “John,” she trembled, almost smiled, but bit her lip to contain her growing excitement. “Come live with Father and me!”
His eyes dilated incredulously and he tried to sit up until a sharp pain stilled him. “What?”
The light in Margaret’s face was intoxicating. “We have talked it all over, John! There is my mother’s chamber, I think your mother would find it comfortable enough. It is certainly not what she is used to, but it cannot need to be a permanent arrangement, of course. There is little enough extra space, but there is a modest little area, your mother could at least have Jane with her, and-”
“And where do I sleep, Margaret?”
Her cheeks burned at the suggestive flicker of his quiet smile. “I thought… that is, we decided-”
He gasped, and through a monumental effort, slowly raised from his pillow.
“John, you mustn’t!” she protested.
His face contorted with pain, but after a hellish battle, he at last was propped up on his elbows. He offered her a sideways grin of reassurance. “Easier to breathe anyway,” he winked. “So, you were saying, my love?”
She was still regarding him with a mixture of embarrassment and uncertainty. To give herself a moment to recover, she stood to rearrange the pillows behind him.
“Thank you,” he sighed. Cautiously he relaxed back upon them and was pleased to discover how much easier it truly was to breathe from this position. His mother- bless her- had scarcely permitted him to shift his posture, so great was her fear of a lung injury. Pneumonia, he thought fleetingly, would be equally dreadful, and he instantly resolved to make some changes to her carefully prescribed convalescent plan.
All of this while, his probing gaze never left Margaret. “Now, back to what you were saying… if I count correctly, that only leaves your father’s chamber and yours. I hope your father will
forgive me, but I do not think I would be comfortable sharing his quarters.”
The vivid colour flashed again to her cheeks, but she forced herself to stammer out a reply. “I thought… perhaps if we married right away… when you are strong enough, you understand….”
“Strong enough!” he choked back what surely would have been a most painful laugh. “Call the minister! I am strong as a horse!”
“John,” she chuckled at his determination, “you cannot be moved yet.”
“Step back, Love.” He grimaced and pushed himself upright once more. Gritting his teeth and screwing his eyes tightly closed, he began to roll his feet to the floor.
“John, what are you doing? Oh, do, please stop! You may harm yourself further!”
He stopped, panting and cringing from the pain. “I cannot marry you flat on my back!”
She tilted her head and crossed her arms. “You also cannot get out of bed attired as you probably are. I ought not be here as it is!”
He glanced down and coloured. Though he was covered head to toe in bedclothes, it was still highly unsuitable apparel before a lady- an unmarried lady. Looking back up, he graced her with a provocative grin. “If you do not like these, I can go without.”
Margaret’s hands flew over her mouth, her eyes as round as the tea saucers he had bought her. “John Thornton!” she cried. She choked and sputtered, her pale face dusted with becoming little blossoms of mortification.
John was as shocked at himself as she. “I am sorry, Margaret,” he rasped, carefully easing himself back to a resting posture. “I do not know what came over me.”
Margaret was still coughing and fighting for composure. “What has that doctor given you?” she scolded.
An impertinent grin still lingered on his face. “Hope,” he winked. She was shaking her head and had begun to shriek with helpless laughter, finally appreciating the humour of his flippant comment. They had had precious little to laugh over of late!
He took a moment to catch his breath and to allow Margaret to settle herself. “Can you really mean it, Margaret? You would marry me now, when I have nothing left?”
The serious tone he had turned to at the end deserved a kindred response. Daintily clearing her throat, she sobered. “Yes,” she took his hand and squeezed it in affirmation. “I would, John. Nothing else matters now- I only want to be with you.”
He relaxed at last, dropping his head back upon his raised pillows with what looked to be a permanent ray of sunshine lighting his features. Lifting her hand, he tenderly kissed it and rested it gingerly above his broken chest.
“Margaret,” he interrupted his happy silence after a moment, “it is not a very large house. We shall not have to share quarters with my sister, shall we?”
She blanched. “Oh, dear, I had quite forgotten!”
She started to apologize for her unforgivable omission, but his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Fear not,” he consoled her. “Watson made her an offer a couple of days ago, and she found it an agreeable alternative to remaining here.”
“Oh.” She blinked and began to smile in relief. She naturally would have found some way to live with Fanny Thornton, but… gracious, what a comfort that it would be unnecessary!
He was toying with her fingers, tracing the length of each one meditatively and studying the minute details of her hand. His thoughts he did not voice, but beneath the obvious delight shining in his eyes, there were traces of worry.
Margaret was not wholly ignorant of his concerns. It was asking a deal of him to suggest that he take up abode in another man’s house- and a modestly proportioned dwelling at that. Despite his avid interest in a quick marriage, she knew him well enough to expect objections, once he had recovered from the first flush of his enthusiasm. It only made practical sense to her- after all, it would be some time before John might recover his strength, and if he had a substantial debt to Mr Bell to repay… but his pride would surely suffer.
Well, they would simply have to discuss that further when the time was ripe. She smiled as he began drawing invisible circles around the base of her ring finger. If she had to guess, it would not be long before the final decision would be before him.
As if reading her thoughts, he lifted his eyes to hers. “Would you ask your father to come in? It is past time I spoke to him.”
~
Nicholas Higgins’ fears about public sentiment proved prophetic. Only a few days after Christmas, a number of Union members and leaders once again commandeered Mr Hale’s lecture hour at the Lyceum Hall. It was a noisome and fractious crowd which gathered there, but the prevailing feeling seemed to be general frustration rather than directed anger. Higgins lingered uneasily to the side, carefully observing individual faces.
A few of the younger, less wise attendees railed loudly against Jonas Sacks- as though that miserable old devil could be made to recompense them for their losses. Higgins chewed his lip nervously. It was well that he and another kind-hearted neighbour had taken in Sacks’ widow and remaining three children, for he feared the lone woman and her babes would no longer be safe on their own. One foolish young buck went so far as to cast blame on poor Mildred Sacks for throwing her husband out, for surely that act had exacerbated the man’s boiling resentment against his employer. Higgins only shook his head.
At last, Miles and some of the other shop leaders took control of the discussion. Though the disaster at Marlborough Mills immediately affected only those employed there, the Union was hemorrhaging dues to support them. This caused strife enough, for the strike pay was intended to be precisely that- monies set aside to keep workers along the picket lines and out of the factories during lean times. Enough persons of influence had been affected, however, that a motion to provide two weeks’ pay during this emergency had carried the day. A number of the other mill employees had found this move highly irregular, however, and meant to make their voices heard.
Meanwhile, men from Hamper’s, Slickson’s, and several of the smaller mills feared they might lose their jobs to some of Thornton’s displaced workers. While they themselves confessed to no disparities within their ranks, all knew that most of the masters would be only too glad to snap up some of what they thought to be Thornton’s best. Thornton’s more modern mill and somewhat better pay had always afforded him a choice among the most skilled weavers, and now those craftsmen had nowhere else to go.
In the end, nothing at all was resolved upon, for what was there to do? The meeting devolved into a shouting match, with Slickson’s men accusing Thornton’s men of conspiring to rob them of their employment, and Thornton’s men taking offense to the men at Hamper’s, who had gone back to work after the strike under the agreement that they would not contribute to the strike fund which was even now feeding their families during this emergency.
Higgins had in the past proven himself as hot-headed and eloquently persuasive as any, but he had chosen a neutral position in this war. There was no clear solution, and no attainable objective he could rally behind. In time, the flux of unemployed mill workers would be absorbed into other factories, but it would be a painful metamorphosis for all of them. Many might find themselves taking positions of far lesser pay in a job they knew little about, for the textile mills were loath to hire on in the winter.
Additionally… he sighed. He could never again bring himself to speak a word which might be perceived to go against Thornton. Though no one was directly casting blame at the master of the destroyed mill, it would only be a matter of time before public frustration led to irrational accusations. Thornton was not at fault, and he was not at all bad, as masters went. As a matter of fact, had they been allowed to continue their working relationship, he thought he could have truly come to admire the dynamic young master.
The most humbling knowledge was that the man’s selflessness and quick thinking had saved his life, or at the very least spared him the crippling and excruciating injuries that he himself now battled. Lastly, there was Miss H
ale, who had been so kind to his family. How it would break her tender heart if he were to turn against her betrothed! No, he could not bring himself to engage in this particular Union conflict. The best he could hope to do was to remain a cool head among many who were not.
The meeting began slowly breaking up, with one or two factions yet swearing to loiter until something had been settled. Higgins let his arms drop wearily to his sides. There was little else for it but to collect poor Mr Hale, who sat dutifully outside the lecture hall, and to escort the gentleman home. He was still frail, and likely never would be strong again, but he seemed to find comfort in his established routine and the hope of making himself useful.
“Ah, there you are, Nicholas,” the old gentleman smiled faintly in relief. “I do hope your meeting was productive.”
“Now’ but yo’ could tell,” he shook his head. “’Tis a bad business, sir.”
Mr Hale rose to his feet and donned his top hat. “It is, indeed. I have not yet heard from my good friend Mr Bell, but I do hope he may think of some way to repair the mill!”
Nicholas shrugged as they began walking. “’Twill cost more’n t’will gain, sir,” he retorted glumly.
“That cannot be true! Surely it is well worth the effort, for if it is a sound endeavour to build a mill, it cannot be less fruitful to repair one.”
“Aye, sir, but nowt now,” Higgins frowned, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Mills’ a’ ‘ard ‘nough set. In a few years, may’ap. I dinna’ what’s to be done ‘til then.”
Mr Hale, his soft heart aching for all of the misfortunes about him, lapsed into remorseful silence. They walked gently, in deference to the older man’s more tender health, but as they came to a particular turn, he spoke up again. “We may as well walk to your home, Nicholas. I am sure Margaret is with the children this afternoon, and I confess, it would cheer my heart to see them as well.”
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