Bessy saw the glisten of tears in her friend’s eyes and recognized the truth of the matter. “There’s time enough ahead for agreeing. Yo’ said ‘twas a thing to be considered with the heart. Then yo’ ought to listen to it.”
Bessy searched her noggin for what to say to her—to shine a light on what she was certain lay underneath. “What if those that got hold of yo’ had succeeded in their plan? What if they’d hurt Thornton? You’d be happy never to see him again?”
The question struck Margaret like a sudden blow.
Mr Thornton threw himself into his work to cover the bitterness that darkened his soul. Hundreds of hands would begin showing up to regain their jobs.
As he entered the meeting hall later that morning to consult with the other cotton mill masters, Mr. Slickson put a hand on his shoulder. “Congratulations, Thornton, on ending the strike! Your move in hiring the Irish has worked to free all of us to start our mills working again.”
“And I hear congratulations are in order—you’ll be getting married! My wife says it’s the girl you escorted to dinner who got caught up in the riot. Incredible turn of events! You’ll have your hands full with that one, but you’ve picked a beauty!” Grunts and hums of agreement came from the others.
Mr. Thornton rankled at his assumptions. “I came to discuss business, gentlemen. I’m not ready to talk about personal matters,” he said.
His colleagues exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued at his curt manner.
Mr. Hamper cleared his throat. “I’m taking measures to prevent the Union from meddling with my operations. Any man who wants to work for me, must swear they are not members of the Union.”
“Good thinking,” Mr. Henderson agreed, and the others nodded except for Mr. Thornton.
They looked to him for his response.
“I despise the Union as much as the rest of you for what they’ve done, giving men false hope in making demands that can’t be met. But I’ll not make liars of men. They’ll make their promises to you, but many will not break from the Union.”
“It’s their word broken, not mine. I’ll wager some will be scared enough to break from the Union,” Hamper replied.
Throughout the rest of their meeting, Mr. Thornton noticed the wary glances made in his direction, but he did not care a whit for their opinions on either his business or his relationship with Miss Hale. He never smiled, for although the others were elated to start up their mills again, he himself found little to claim great triumph. He had the Irish hands to deal with, while the orders for cloth were nearing their contract date with no hope of timely fulfillment. The strike had cost him dearly, and it would be all he could do to bring his mill to a level of profit again.
He was relieved to escape their scrutiny when their planning concluded. As he walked along the street to return to the privacy of his office, his mind at first whirled with tasks and priorities of his business. But as he went on, the vision of Margaret in that dim parlor would rise to send him into an agony of despair.
When he arrived, he closed the door to sit in his chair, his open ledger and the contract documents arrayed before him on the desk.
He allowed his thoughts to drift to his sore heart. Although he attempted to forget her condemnatory words, they still stung. How could she expect him to keep the strikers from starving? He had responsibilities only to those who were working for him. When they were not in his employ, he had no moral purview over them.
Her concern about their lack of sufficient food lodged in his mind. How was he to solve such a problem? It was preposterous to consider he should pay his workers in food, or have their mid-day meal delivered to the mill for some kind of daily provision. He paid them a fair wage, and they fed themselves and their families with it.
But as he contemplated the matter, an idea formed in his head that roused him to think again. Not because it would please her to consider it, but because it seemed a possibility that might benefit both men and masters. He would not toy with philanthropic measures. He had a business to run.
Dixon dropped the proper amount of coins into the hand of Mrs. MacLean for the flour and treacle in her basket.
“Have you heard about Mr. Thornton?” the grocer asked, putting the coins away.
“Of Marlborough Mills?”
“The very one. There was a riot yesterday, a mob of striking workers that broke down the doors to his yard.”
“No!” was the response.
“Yes, and that’s not the half of it. Those ruffians got hold of a girl—they say she was the Master’s girl—and made the Mastercome out into the mob to save her,” Mrs. MacLean said, satisfied to see she had sufficiently shocked her listener.
“Did they give a name to the girl?” Dixon pressed, her skin tingling with apprehension at her own guess.
“No one gave any. Do you know who it might be?” the grocer asked with great interest.
“I may or may not. But I’d not sully the girl’s name all about town,” Dixon huffed and turned to go. She nearly stumbled over the cobblestones in her haste to return home, bumping into one poor lad who did not make way swiftly enough for the wide-sized servant.
Out of breath and red-faced, Dixon descended the stairs to the kitchen to unburden herself of the basket she’d been carrying when she saw Martha there, washing dishes.
“Where is Miss Margaret?” Dixon asked between heaving breaths.
