Riot

"Go home! He is one man and you are many!"

The crowd stilled for an instant. The sudden appearance of a woman, and one so well liked as Miss Margaret, had momentarily deflated the restless, rowdy mob of striking workers that filled Marlborough Mill's yard.

"Please!" she pleaded, "The soldiers are coming. Go home before things get out of hand!"

"Will ye' send t' Irish home?"

"Never!" he roared, stepping out in front of her. Mr Thornton was no coward. He would not hide behind anyone, not even a person of such admirable and impressive courage as Miss Margaret Hale.

A wave of violent restlessness rippled through the crowd. They bellowed their discontent like some great, injured animal. Margaret sensed rather than saw the arm, long and half starved from two weeks of striking, swing up high over the sea of flat caps and greasy heads.

She did not see the object hurtling in their direction. She did not hear the smack of brick against skin as it reached its mark, or the grunt of its victim as his body registered its impact. But she did observe the sway of inertia as he tried to steady himself, his arms untangling from the tight knot that had held them over his chest. She saw him stagger forward, unsteady on his long legs, then watched, paralysed as the whole solid trunk of his body collapsed backwards, like some great elm felled in the forest.

Mr Thornton had been struck.

She stared in disbelief at the great and proud Milton Mill Master lying crumpled at her feet. So still, so pale… was he dead? Why had he fallen? She didn't know. There were too many thoughts in her head. Too many feelings. Compassion, of course, and christian concern. Fear, panic and something else… something gripping, alarming, unknown.

She knelt beside him, checking his cotton and wool clad chest for any sign of movement. The chain of his pocket watch glinted up at her. She remembered the wistful warmth in his voice when he had shown her his father's initials engraved on the back. 'G.T.', so he always carried a part of him, wherever he went. It had been the first time she had seen his face melt into some semblance of a smile. The first time she had enjoyed his company as they sat in her father's study, discussing poetry, parliament, and Plato. Her heart sank as she imagined the possibility that it might have been the last.

"'Tis alright lass, the's fight left in 'im yet," said a familiar voice at her elbow. She turned to see Higgins, red-faced and out of breath.

"I came as soon as I 'eard. Fools, t' lot o' 'em" he explained, gently turning the master's head to locate the wound. "Throwin' stones like that. We'll never get t' masters t' see reason wi' us behavin' like wild animals. I warned 'em, miss, I said… ah! there 'tis" he pointed to a penny-sized gash that was oozing blood on Thornton's left temple.

"We need to get him inside," said Margaret, "Nicholas, can you hook his arms about your shoulders? I will help you…"

"Aye, Miss Margaret, give us a moment."

Margaret rose and turned to face the crowd. They had fallen silent. The sight of the author of their grievances struck down by one of their own missives had knocked the wind out of them, and their anger. The union leaders had warned them against such a display. They had said it would only undermine their cause. What would they do now?

"Go home." She commanded, as gently and firmly as she could, "Your master has been struck down by..." She could not bring herself to say the words. She could see the fear written on their faces; the desperation hanging from their gaunt bodies. Poor, pitiful creatures, driven mad with hunger. "Please... Boucher, Peterson, Matthews… You there, Brearley, take your brothers and leave. The soldiers are coming. Please, this is not the way."

"You 'eard t' lady! Clear out!" Higgins cried, appearing at her side. His voice strained under the weight of the Master he had finally managed to hoist over one of his shoulders. "Be gone, t' lot o' yer! Before t' soldiers or t' union get 'old of yer!"

"Nicholas!" Margaret exclaimed, rushing around him to shoulder some of the Master's weight herself. She draped his right arm across her back and held his long, calloused fingers to keep him in place. He was warm, and he was heavy. His eyes were half shut and his mouth hung open, his expression one of acute pain. He mumbled incoherently as they heaved him up the few steps to the front door.

Behind them the mill yard was emptying in a quick and surprisingly orderly manner. By the time the soldiers arrived, there were no more than a few stragglers halfheartedly kicking about bits of debris, an attempt to express their discontent at the unexpected turn of events.

The door creaked loudly on its hinges before slamming into the wall. Margaret paused to catch her breath, before looking aghast at the daunting flight of stairs stretching upwards before them. Even with his great weight shared between the two of them, she was not certain they would reach the top.

"Wu'll manage, miss Margaret," grunted Higgins, as if reading her mind. His gruff voice seemed to rouse the man they were supporting between their shoulders. He startled awake.

"Miss Hale? Miss Margaret Hale, she is here? Where is she?" he said, looking around wildly. Sensing Higgins at his side he leant towards him, pursing his lips and shaking his head "She does not like it here, no. She does not like Milton, or the mill, or even me for that ma..."

"Mr Thornton, I…" she began to protest weakly.

"Miss Hale!" he exclaimed gleefully, twisting his head, blinking slowly, and flashing her an incongruously bright smile. "There you are! Oh Miss Hale… do not be frightened. The soldiers will be here soon." He bent his head towards her, "You smell like a flower Miss Hale." His voice lowered, as if confiding some great secret, "but there are no flowers in Milton."

Margaret fixed Higgins with a pleading, panicked look. What on earth was happening? The man seemed faintly amused. He had seen head trauma before, and did not find the Master's newfound loquaciousness shocking. At least he was still talking, albeit a little indecorously. But the fact remained that his silence would have been far more alarming.

"Come, let's get you upstairs,"

His ramblings continued as they made their way upstairs, although he was not as elated as he had been upon discovering Margaret at his side. He protested his ascension upstairs, saying he was needed at the mill, that some of the orders would be delayed, that Fanny's spending had gotten out of hand, that last night's roast beef hadn't been cooked to his liking…

Higgins had humoured him with short, placating responses, offering a reassuring smile as Margaret's brow had creased and furrowed in worry at the state of their invalid. By the time they had reached the parlour, removed his coat and laid (or rather dropped) his long, hard body onto the largest chaise longue, she found herself chuckling affectionately at his endearing vulnerability. Her heart wrenched when a quiet, almost inaudible "Father, where have you…" escaped his lips as he sank into soft velvet.

Mrs Thornton was just coming up from the kitchens when she came upon Higgins hurrying out the front door. Why, of all the bloody nerve...

"What, had yer fill of the mill, have yer?," she spat at his back, "Come to loot and plunder our home as well?"

Higgins paused before turning to face the formidable woman.

"The Master's taken ill." he said calmly, "'im took a blow to the head, I was going for t' doctor." He glanced thoughtfully upstairs, "'though the soldiers need seein' to, and someone 'as to start cleanin' up the mess."

Mrs Thornton's impassive face drained of the little colour it had.

"John… My boy John! I must go to him!" she began to scramble about with her opulent skirts lest they dare to impede her haste.

"'E's not alone, Mrs Thornton. Miss Margaret's attending to 'im." Higgins interrupted, "She dun't know where t' find t' Doctor, and 'er company seems to be comfortin' 'im well enough."

Mrs Thornton glared at him, her mouth hardening into a grim line.

"Very well. I will go for the Doctor, and see to the soldiers." she said after a seething pause "you can stay here and sort out the mess your rabble left behind!"

After despatching one maid to locate Mrs Thornton, and the other to prepare a fortifying pot of tea, Margaret had asked for some hot water and a clean rag. The sight of blood did not affect her, as she had often accompanied her father on his visits to the ill and infirm of Helstone throughout her youth. Mr Thornton had returned to his state of semi-audible muttering, his eyes half closed. His brows were contracted, and she could see his pupils darting about under the thin skin of his eyelids. His brain was active, perhaps he was dreaming? Higgins had told her this was a good sign, that it was a deeper slumber that presented the real danger.

But she sensed that he was uncomfortable. Beyond the pain of his injury, his frame was tense. His breathing was laboured and he seemed to squirm ever so slightly with every inhalation. She scanned his person quickly, hoping to find how she might provide his body with some relief. Her eyes came to rest on the thick, black cravat that tightly adorned his neck. She hesitated. Could she be so bold?

Lifting trembling fingers to the dark knot, she took purchase on its silky ends. "Forgive me, Mr Thornton," she whispered, "I assured you it is only for your comfort." She tugged lightly at the fabric, and it came undone more easily than she had imagined. She exhaled a sigh in relief; it was done and his breathing seemed more relaxed.

Encouraged by her small success, she took up the rag and dipped it in the hot water. She took his jaw in her hand and gently tilted his face downwards, exposing the wound to allow herself better access. She was surprised at the roughness of his cheek, and absent mindedly brushed her fingertips along the pleasant prickliness of his jaw. She had never felt a man's face before.

His face contorted as she pressed the warm, wet rag to his injured temple. She wasn't sure of the wound's exact location; there was so much blood and bruising. As she padded the area clean she was relieved to find that it wasn't as large as she had feared, and was no longer bleeding profusely. But she was conscious of the small moan of discomfort that rumbled in his throat each time she made contact with the cut.

Higgins had told her to talk to him, to try and keep his senses engaged, but she could think of nothing to say. Inquiring about his comfort seemed moot, petitioning him not to die far too maudlin. So she decided to sing to him. She began quietly, prefacing her performance with an apology for inflicting her talents (or lack thereof) on him when he had no means of escape. Soon she was lost in her song, her caring caresses and this intoxicating closeness to him. The repetition of her ministrations, and the cadence of the familiar melody soothed her into a trance. Had anyone been there to witness it, there could be no doubt that she found pleasure in the quiet intimacy between herself and her patient.

So lost was she that she did not notice his eyes snap open, pupils dilated, to fix her own. She did not register as he studied her face, taking in the full force of its breathtaking beauty at such close range. She did not notice his breath quicken, and his mouth stretch upwards into a warm, amorous smile. She startled when he reached out his hand and grabbed her own, stopping its journey to his face in mid air. She dropped the rag in shock when his finger slipped under her fine, silver bracelet, holding it in place at her wrist, before releasing it, letting it tumble back down to the fuller flesh of her arm.

"There it goes again!" he whispered, his face a picture of delight.

He had heard her voice, calling to him, across a meadow greener than any he had ever seen. She was clothed in the sun, clothed in light, her hair tumbling well past her shoulders and a welcoming smile spread wide across her exquisite face. She wore a veil, and the meadow was now a churchyard. He was wearing his finest suit, and she was his gift on this special day. His birthday, was it? No, that was in December. It was clearly summer; she was barefoot, and the sun was giving him a headache.

She smelled like flowers, and was reaching out for him. Now he was undressed, wearing only his shirtsleeves and trousers. Mother was there, and father, smiling proudly. Fanny was there, chirpy, chubby thing; all curls and pink cheeks; bouncing away on mother's hip. Then there was just her. They were walking hand in hand, beside a river. They were alone. They were together. She was caressing his face. She was singing. She was his.

Now she wore that bracelet. Now her hair was pinned back. Now she smelled like flowers and soap; and she was just inches from his face. She was dressed in everyday clothes. He could not see her feet. Her cheeks were flushed with colour. He held her by the hand. They were back in Milton. Which room in heaven was this?

He took her by her dainty fingers and brought her hand to his mouth. He closed his eyes and placed a lingering kiss on her palm, opening them again to watch her expression. His actions held her spellbound and he smiled as he nuzzled the fragrant skin of her wrist.

He placed her hand on his shoulder and reached up to cup her face. She barely a breath away from him and he treasured the slight tremble of her lips as her eyes glanced down to his own. His thumb traced a lazy curve over the satin of her cheek as he took her in, breathed her in. She was here. She was his.

He pulled her face towards his own, and pressed his lips to hers. His fingertips toyed with the curls that had come undone at her nape, and his nose brushed against her cheek. He moved his mouth against hers. Oh, but this was all of heaven! It was every single room! But why did his head ache so?

He tugged her closer to him, finding relief in reclining further back into the chaise. She had lost her balance and was now leaning over him, both her hands pressed against his broad chest. He held her face fast against his own, daring to trace his tongue across the seam of her lips. Instinctively they parted, and he pulled her deeper into himself as he gently plundered her mouth.

Something outside of them made her pull away. Gaining leverage on his chest, she pushed herself up to look him in the eye. The colour drained from her face as she came to the realisation of what had just passed between them. She had been kissed, and she had kissed. They had kissed. Her and Mr Thornton! Why had she let him? Why hadn't she pulled away? She leaned back away from him and began to scramble to her feet. He began to sit up, never taking his eyes from her, a soft, adoring look on his face. He made to rise to assist her to her feet, but the motion proved too much for him, and his eyes wavered shut as he collapsed back into the plush velvet once again.

"Oh, what have I done?!" she gasped to herself. Confused and horrified in equal measure, she stood staring at his motionless body, her pale hands clutching her face. Was the impropriety of kissing handsome, delirious, mill masters in broad daylight not enough for her? Had she had to have the thrill of killing him as well?

She let out a sigh of relief as she saw his lips move and the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was alive! Just faint from the effort he had made in an attempt to assist her. He still looked uncomfortable. "Oh Mr Thornton, what can I do?!"

She moved towards him, but stopped short, her hands outstretched as if to ward off the temptation to touch him again. Her mind was completely addled, she had not heard the door swing open. She had not heard the footsteps approaching. She had not heard the sharp intake of breath, and the knuckles cracking under the clenching fists.

"I believe you have done quite enough here, Miss Hale" a voice growled behind her.