A shout, the crack of a whip, and the sound of splintering wood broke his momentary reverie. He looked just in time to see the corner of a heavily loaded cart collapse to the ground, toppling a mountain of cotton bales onto two waiting workers. He bolted for the nearest door, weaving past the obstacles in his path with determination as others rushed to the windows at the sound of the chaos outdoors.
He ran, taking care not to slip or stumble over ice-encrusted mud tracks that scored the yard’s terrain. “Help them!” he barked to one who stood gaping in shock.
Those closest at hand had already heaved bales off one hapless worker who had been caught under the falling load. But there was yet another who still needed aid.
Shouts and grunts filled the air as the Master joined the group of men ferociously hauling bales away to find the trapped victim. Mr. Thornton’s bellowed directives punctuated the frenziedscene, swiftly turning anarchy into organized motion. Seconds later, they uncovered a gray lifeless form.
Lying on his side, unconscious, the young man looked as pale and still as death.
“It’s Jem Daugherty!” one cried out.
“Call a doctor!” Mr. Thornton instructed one of the standing onlookers as he himself bent over the unmoving worker.
“His wife, Jenny, is a spinner,” a fellow hand blurted out in fear.
“Fetch her,” the Master allowed, uncertain how gravely injured the laborer was. With trepidation, he reached out to check for a pulse at the victim’s neck and let out a breath of relief as he felt the rhythm of life coursing within.
A few men gently maneuvered the hurt man onto his back while others ran for blankets and a cot as their master ordered.
Mr. Thornton studied the condition of the man who lay at his side. A small trickle of blood streaked down from tousled brown hair to the high cheekbone of a thin face. He could not be above five and twenty, Mr. Thornton mused, as he noted the smooth youthfulness of the skin about the closed eyes. A tiny crystal of snow landed on the still face, melting instantly. Other drifting snowflakes lazily stuck to the threadbare woolen coat, heedless of any human drama—claiming all objects as nature’s canvas.
The boyish innocence of the face struck Mr. Thornton, and he wondered, for a moment, how much harshness this young life had endured. With a feeling of sympathy and some bitter pride, he recalled the hardships he himself had faced at a young age.
A sudden rush of pounding footsteps broke his thoughtful trance. He looked up to see the frantic approach of a figure who slipped and clambered over frozen ground, holding her skirts out of the way of her fast-moving clogs while her informants trailed behind her perilous clip.
“Jem!” Her panicked cry cut through the solemn yard, halting the men who were now leading the horses away from the broken wreckage.
Mr. Thornton stood up from his crouched vigil, mesmerized by the sight of the approaching girl. No shawl protected her from the bitter cold. Cotton lint clung to her drab calico dress. Underneath the head cloth that covered her hair, her face was contorted with terror. Fear flashed in her eyes as her glance scarcely acknowledged the Master and fastened instead on the fallen figure on the ground.
“He’s alive,” Mr. Thornton declared helplessly, stepping away as she rushed forward to take her place at her husband’s side. She dropped to her knees and took the beloved face into her hands, calling his name over and over, entreating him to wake. Then, continuing to caress his face with one hand, she moved the other to cradle her swollen belly.
A flush rose to the master’s face as he recognized she was with child, and he turned from intruding upon such a tender scene between the young lovers.
“Jem! Oh, Jem!”
A cry of joy from the girl made the Master turn again. He let out his breath in relief to see the fallen man’s eyes flutter open and his hands stir. The bent-over figure covered her husband’s face with fervent kisses.
“Jenny,” the injured man acknowledged in a feeble voice. He winced in pain as he raised a hand to touch her.
For this sign of his devotion, the adoring wife planted a fervent kiss on his lips, as heedless of any observer as if they two alone existed in all the world.
Mr. Thornton looked away, feeling a faint creep of embarrassment stain his cheeks at the thought of the intimate nature of their relationship. He murmured a word of gratitude to see the swift approach of the doctor and Williams, the overseer.
He gave orders to be informed of the doctor’s report and retraced his steps back to the mill. Only now did he feel the biting air, which chilled his bare forearms and whipped through the thin cotton of his billowing white sleeves.
He attempted to resume his day and gave little thought to the injured man until Williams entered the master’s office to report that Daugherty had a bruised rib and possible concussion and that the doctor had prescribed at least two weeks of rest and a careful watch over his head injury for the next few days.
Alone again in his private space, Mr. Thornton looked out at the scene of the mishap where the desperate girl and her young husband had been. Before he left for home, he gave instructions to his clerk that Jem Daugherty be paid two weeks’ wages while he recovered from his injuries and his wife be given two days’ pay to tend to him. If chance had sovereignty to deal a blow on the hapless, then he would counter it with a stroke of reasoned mercy. Nobody would deny his own authority to do as he saw fit under any circumstance.
“It’s so dim and cold in here! Couldn’t we light a few more candles and put on more coal?” Fanny shivered in her seat to show her discomfort as a servant placed a covered dish of potatoes and stewed lamb on the immaculately set table that evening.
“You might see fit to wear your woolens or a warm shawl at present until the weather turns. We must economize during the long winter months, just as we always have,” her mother returned.
“I don’t see why we can’t make ourselves more comfortable when we’re rich enough to do so! The Hampers certainly do.Henrietta’s drawing room is equal to ours, and yet it is always warm there when I go to call.”
“And so we, too, always accommodate our guests by laying more coal on the fire, Fanny,” her mother calmly insisted.
More annoyed by her mother’s placid tone than the logical rebuff, Fanny huffed in response. “Well, I don’t want to host my friends here. There’s always so much noise outside that I’m embarrassed to have them know what I must endure daily. Why today there arose such shrieks from the yard that I lost all concentration on my piano piece!”
