“Mother!” he shouted as he carried his burden up the grand stairway. He called for help once more before he gently laid Miss Hale down onto the sofa. Crouching by her side, he placed a hand on her cheek, then pressed to feel for a pulse at her neck and heaved an audible sigh to find it.
“Oh, Margaret, I thought I had lost you!” he murmured, his body quaking with a surge of emotion. He cradled her head in his hands, willing her to wake to witness his passion. As he worriedly studied her unmoving face, he brushed a trembling thumb over her lips—those lips that had spoken so vehemently against him at dinner days ago. “There will never be another woman like you. I love you,” he told her in fervent, hushed tones.
Approaching footsteps sounded on the stairs. He stood up quickly, a faint stain of crimson coloring his cheeks.
“Heavens!” Mrs. Thornton exclaimed, rushing to him. “Whatever happened? How is Miss Hale here?” She kneeled to examine the girl.
“She was knocked to the ground. The rioters took her captive,” he feebly explained, pacing the floor in agitation.
Fanny screamed to see Miss Hale’s lifeless form. “Is she dead?” she asked, hovering a distance away, her hands over her mouth.
“Shush! She is not dead. But she’s received quite a blow,” her mother answered.
Mr. Thornton heard the note of serious concern in her voice. “I’ll fetch the doctor at once,” he announced and turned to go, his head buzzing with desperate fear.
“John!” she called him back, giving him a wary look. It unnerved her to see him half out of his senses. “You must go down to meet with the police. And see to the Irish. I will take care of Miss Hale.”
He hesitated, then nodded and left to do what he knew he must. But his legs plodded heavily in their resistance to leave her. He used every ounce of deliberation to resist the powerful urge to stay where his every hope of happiness lay.
“Fanny, get Jane down here at once,” Mrs. Thornton commanded, as soon as her son had gone.
When the maid appeared, she received orders to go fetch the doctor. “But Ma’am, the streets are too dangerous,” she insisted, wringing her hands.
“For pity’s sake! I’ll go myself, then,” the older woman said. “Try giving Miss Hale some smelling salts, and take care no blood gets on the sofa,” she directed as she hurried out of the room.
Jane went for the smelling salts while Fanny approached Miss Hale. “There, there,” she soothed the unconscious girl, “the doctor is coming.”
“Did you see what happened?” Jane asked when she returned.
“No! What?” Fanny’s eyes opened wide, ready to absorb every tidbit of gossip.
“Martha saw everything from the top corner window. She was so worried about the Master,” Jane began, her voice somewhathushed. She glanced slyly at the prone figure before them before continuing with eagerness. “The rioters kidnapped her—“
“Kidnapped! How?”
“We don’t know, but they carried her to the front of the crowd—their dirty hands holding her like a prisoner. Martha says it was to bring the Master out to save her.”
“And he did, didn’t he?” Fanny knew her brother was stupid enough to put himself in danger for another.
“That he did. But you won’t believe what happened next.” Jane looked again to see if Margaret might be waking. “She threw herself into his arms—clung to the Master for all to see!”
“No!” Fanny was incredulous.
“Indeed, and then the police came. That’s when she was knocked to the ground, in all the scrambling to escape.”
“Why, he’ll have to marry her!” Fanny exclaimed, piecing together the outcome of such a scandal. “No doubt she’ll rejoice in that. Any girl in town would. But my brother has never wanted to marry. He’s never been interested in anyone. He’s only interested in his business and his books.”
While they spoke thus, the injured girl stirred, and the two gossipers remembered to administer the smelling salts. Margaret turned her head and groaned. Her eyes fluttered open, but her vision was blurry. Pain emanated from her head. “Where am I?” she said and propped herself up.
“Oh no, Miss Hale!” Fanny said in alarm, gently guiding her to lay back down. “You are hurt. You’re safe now at our house. Mother has gone to get the doctor.” She patted Margaret’s hand.
A vague remembrance of what had happened returned to Margaret’s befogged mind. There’d been piercing whistles, the sickening thud of police batons hitting people, the screams of the fleeing men. But she had been safe a moment before that. She had felt safe in powerful arms.
“Mr. Thornton. Where is he? Is he hurt?” she mumbled as she attempted to sit up again.
“Calm yourself, Miss,” Jane now comforted her. The maid threw a knowing glance at Fanny. “Mr. Thornton was not hurt. He’s taking care of business matters.”
She lay down on the pillow and closed her eyes. A fuller recognition of all that had taken place slowly dawned on Margaret. She shuddered to remember the grip of hands holding her against her will, using her to draw Mr. Thornton into danger. And he had come. And she—oh, she had propelled herself into his arms!—she who would never make such a public display of herself!
