Fanny had helped to spread the word of what had happened, having swiftly carried herself to call on Violet Grayson to tell her of her brother’s fate.
Jane had also taken every opportunity to tell everyone she met at the marketplace that morning. Martha said not a word, for she would not deign to know whether Mr. Thornton was in favor of marrying Miss Hale or not. It was not her place to express an opinion on such a matter.
As the course of gossip wound its way through the town, Margaret was at home reading to her mother. It had been days—it seemed weeks—since Margaret had seen Bessy. Now that her mother was feeling better, Margaret was eager to see her friend after the uproar of the riot. So, as soon as she saw her mother was fairly comfortable (Mrs. Hale said the water bed was an improvement), she stole away to the Princeton District.
Along the way, as Margaret traveled the byways of the crowded living areas of the mill workers, she noticed she was an object of interest. A few people pointed at her, directing others to look her way.
She was relieved to be out of the public view when she arrived at the Higgins’ dwelling and Nicholas let her in.
“Were it yo’ they’re talking about?—at the riot?” he asked straightaway with urgency. “Were it yo’ they got to make the Master come out?” His face was worn with care, but his question marked a new crease of concern.
Margaret’s face turned pale, and she bowed her head. “Yes,” she said, shuddering at the awful memory.
“I’d like to take the lot of them who put their hands on yo’ and give them a thrashing,” he growled beneath his breath. “Yo’ see now how dangerous it is to mix with the masters?”
“Don’t listen to him. He’s terrible put out about the riot,” Bessy called out from her reclined position in bed.
Margaret went to her, as Nicholas followed with more questions.
“Did they hurt yo’? Did they cause you injury?” His tone was both tender and fierce.
“They treated me very roughly, but I’ve no injury on their account,” she answered, wishing to be done with any re-living of yesterday’s events.
“I’m glad of that, to be sure. But a price must be paid for what they did to yo’. It’s said that Boucher’s the one that saw yo’ and called yo’ out. Were it him?” he persisted, eager to fix his fury on some solid entity.
“Yes—but don’t hurt him for my sake!” she called out as he stormed towards the door. “He’s had enough trouble,” she added fervently, but he was already gone.
Margaret turned back to Bessy with a pained expression.
“Father is like to only hurl fiery words. I don’t believe he’ll hurt a waif of a man such as Boucher,” Bessy said. “He has no patience for those who broke the strike by running to cause trouble at Thornton’s. Now that they’ve lost the strike, all the work the Union has done this past year is for naught.”
Bessy studied Margaret for any sign of yesterday’s inflictions. “Yo’ look as if naught has happened! I knew if it were true—if it were really yo’ who was there in the middle of it all—that you’d be brave. Yo’ve more courage than most men I’ve seen.”
Margaret made a noise in protest.
“But now, yo’ must tell me all,” Bessy said, “for they say Thornton came out of his house right away to save yo’ and they saw you in the Master’s arms.”
Margaret buried her face in her hands. “Oh, has it truly become the talk of the town?”
“It’s true then,” Bessy whispered with a sense of wonder.
“I was frightened…and I ran to him…I felt safe there,” Margaret stammered, showing her face again and looking to Bessy with imploring eyes.
The sickly girl moved to comfort her friend’s distress, covering Margaret’s hand with her own. “Yo’ were afraid and ran to safety—as anyone would.”
“But now…what will people think?”
“There’s no need to fret over that. The Master will surely come and ask yo’ to marry him,” Bessy said to assure her.
Margaret dropped her head.
Bessy saw the guilty look on Margaret’s face when she looked up again. “Yo’ll not be telling me yo’ve turned him away!” Bessy exclaimed.
Margaret moaned and buried her face in her hands again. “Oh! I don’t know what came over me. He saved me that day, and I argued with him. I spoke to him so coldly.”
Bessy studied her friend’s penitent position for a moment. “Do yo’ care for him?” she asked gently.
“I don’t know!” Margaret burst out. “My heart flutters whenever he is near me, but we can never seem to agree.” She looked to Bessy for understanding.
