In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (4 page)

                  
She rushed past him to make her impassioned plea.

                  
“Stop! Do no violence. He is one man and you are many. The soldiers are coming. Go in peace. Your complaints have been heard.”

                  
“Will you send back the Irish?” a hostile voice shouted over the hush.

                  
“Not at your bidding!” the Master bellowed contemptuously in reply.

                  
The mob roared in frenzied fury at his obstinacy.

                  
“Go inside, this is no place for you,” Mr. Thornton demanded of the woman standing beside him as he brusquely endeavored to maneuver her inside.

                  
“No, you did not see …” she protested as she threw her arms around his neck, convinced that her presence would protect him from violence.

                  
“Go inside,” he commanded again, seething with anger at her stubborn resistance. Did she not see the danger of the situation?

                  
He fought to disengage himself from her hold, but as he turned to force her inside, a rock grazed the side of his head. A blazing light flashed before his eyes. He stumbled in shock before the world began to spin and all turned black.

                  
Margaret let out a cry as the strong man in her arms swayed and began to sink to the ground. She grasped at him, vainly trying to stay his fall, but his weight was too much for her to bear. Nevertheless, she clung to him at her own peril and awkwardly managed to break his fall as she, too, tumbled to the ground, collapsing with him in a tangled heap.

                  
She slid her shoulder and arm out from underneath the weight of his torso, and gently rolled him onto his back, scrambling to her knees to kneel beside him. She paid no heed to the awed hush that had descended over the crowd at his toppling.

                  
She vaguely registered the sharp whistles of the mounted soldiers who brandished their sticks to disperse the mob. Her only focus was the man who lay on the hard stone floor before her. Hovering over his inert form, her eyes wide in horror, she bewailed her guilt in causing such a calamity.

                  
The terrifying thought came suddenly that he might rise no more. She froze in shock for a moment as she looked upon his pale face before she tore at the cravat binding his neck so that he might hopefully revive. With trembling and hesitant fingers, she gently pressed at his throat to detect a pulse, and let out her breath as she felt the steady beat of life within him.

                  
Flustered and confused as to what she should do next, she scanned the mill yard and discerned that no one was coming to their aid. Chaos surrounded them. She bent over the stern Master and called his name, but he did not stir.

                  
Despite her fear, she studied his face in fascination. The hardened lines that made him so formidable had vanished. She took note of his long lashes and the lips which were parted in repose. Margaret could see now the innocent boy who had lost his father and toiled so unselfishly for his family’s sake. A wave of compassion swept over her as she thought of how much he must have endured.

                  
She leaned closer with great concern and called his name gently. Reaching out her hand tentatively to touch his wound, she noted the darkened shadow on cheek and jaw that declared his manliness. She began to retract her hand when his eyes fluttered open and he stared bewilderingly at her.

                  
She gasped in surprise, the corners of her mouth edging upward in relief at his awakening. “Mr. Thornton, are you all right?” she asked, her expression etched with care.

                  
He gazed at her in open confusion and wonder before the furor of the fleeing masses and the soldiers’ horses met his ears. He jerked his head to the side, his brow furrowing once more.

                  
“The soldiers have come; your Irish are safe,” she swiftly assured him.

                  
He sat up quickly, wincing at the pain in his head. He brought his hand to his injury and withdrew it to find traces of blood.

                  
Margaret hurriedly retrieved a handkerchief from her skirts, but before she could make use of it, he was endeavoring to raise himself up.

                  
She rose quickly to steady him, as he staggered from dizziness. “Pray, take care! You have been sorely hurt!” she urgently pleaded, her hands catching him on either side of his chest. “I will help you inside,” she stated firmly as she slid one arm around his waist and drew his arm over her shoulders. She was confident in her actions, having once helped a farmer who had turned his ankle in the fields.

                  
Dazed and faintly nauseous, Mr. Thornton said not a word, but allowed her to assist him through the door to climb the stairs to his home. With every step, he felt his head clear, the steady motion reviving him.  

                  
He turned his attention to her, aware now of her uncommon aid. She was looking down, careful in her determination to match their steps as they slowly climbed the stairs, but he could not stop gazing at her in wonderment. He dared not speak or do anything that would break this sacred moment when he could feel the warmth of her body next to his, her arm curled around him possessively. Her auburn curls were so close to him, he could breathe in the subtle fragrance of rosewater and almonds.

                  
He marveled in the sublime privilege of laying his arm about her shoulders and endeavored not to move a muscle to take advantage of his position or to burden her with his weight unduly. He had long dreamed of being so close to her, but had never imagined he would experience the bliss of being in such close contact. A shudder of longing passed through him as he reveled in this sweet intimacy and dreaded its surrender. How he yearned to claim the right to always hold her thus!

                  
When they reached the drawing room, she helped him to the sofa and, perching herself next to him, began at once to gently wipe the blood from his wound with her handkerchief.

                  
Leaning toward him attentively, her face mere inches from his, Mr. Thornton stared at her, enraptured by her nearness and the look of concern in her expression.

                  
She felt his eyes upon her. Her heart beat wildly in her breast as she studiously avoided his gaze and continued to tend to him.

                  
Mr. Thornton’s chest ached with emotion as he watched her lavish her care upon him. When he could bear it no longer, he grasped her wrist to stop her.

                  
She brought her gaze slowly to his, and drew in her breath at the tenderness in his clear blue eyes. Mesmerized by his stare, she remained motionless as she watched his eyes drop to her lips, which quivered almost imperceptibly in response. She could scarcely breathe. Her own gaze moved helplessly to his mouth which edged ever closer to hers.

                  
The sound of rustling skirts and quickened footsteps burst into the room.

                  
Margaret jolted upright and took a step back, her pulse racing.

                  
“John, what has happened?” Mrs. Thornton called out in consternation as she and Fanny emerged from their hiding place.

                  
“Johnny, you’ve been hurt!” Fanny shrieked, and stifled a cry as she fluttered her hand before clasping it over her mouth in frenzied horror.

                  
“He took a blow to the head,” Margaret explained weakly, unable to stop the effusion of blushes that rose to her face. She cast her eyes to the floor, mortified at the thought of what his mother might have seen.

                  
Mrs. Thornton glanced at the girl warily as she rushed to her son’s side. Margaret stepped aside.

                  
“It’s all right, Mother. I am well recovered,” Mr. Thornton assured her, standing up to prove his words. His mother worriedly ran her hand along his head and fondly stroked his cheek as she assayed to discern for herself the nature of his injury.

                  
Mr. Thornton chaffed at such motherly affection in the presence of Miss Hale and broke from his mother’s grasp. “I must talk with the police and see after the Irish,” he proclaimed as he began to take his leave, his nerves still tingling with the thrill of the intimate moment that had been interrupted.

                  
“I must go as well ... my mother will expect my return,” Margaret faltered, eager to make her escape. Her cheeks burned with shame and excitement, and her body fairly trembled in his presence.

                  
“No,” he exclaimed in dismay, his eyes flashing briefly. He noted that her white skirts were smudged with dirt — the battle scars she wore for coming to his aid. “The streets may yet be dangerous. I will arrange an escort for you. Please wait. I will return shortly,” he declared in low tones as he turned to go once more.

                  
“John ... wait! You are not properly dressed,” his mother pointed out, her eyes fastened on the open collar of his shirt.

                  
Mr. Thornton colored, touching his fingers absently to his throat in surprised confusion.

                  
Mortified to find Mr. Thornton’s cravat still clutched in her hand, Margaret hesitated. With her head erect, she stepped forward to hand it to him, blushing furiously as she resolutely avoided meeting his gaze. Her heart hammered in her throat.

                  
Mrs. Thornton and Fanny raised their eyebrows in astonishment as Miss Hale presented the missing ribbon of black silk to its owner.

                  
Mr. Thornton took it from her gently, their hands barely touching in the awkward exchange. She retracted her hand swiftly, but he observed in a glance the soft pale skin of her wrist and the delicate slender fingers that must have freed him from the strict bindings of his collar. A flood of warm feeling coursed through him.

                  
Mrs. Thornton hastened her son to the ante-room and helped tie his cravat. She threw a suspicious glance at their guest before she returned her inquisitive gaze to her son. “What in God’s name happened?” she hissed, tugging with forceful precision at the fabric about his neck.

                  
“I was knocked senseless by an object thrown by the crowd,” he answered in vague defense, feeling heat rise to his face.

                  
“What on earth possessed you...?”

                  
“Will you stay here with Miss Hale while I speak to the police?” he interrupted her, impatient to escape her pressing questioning. “I will return as soon as I can.”

                  
“Are you certain you are well enough to go out?” she posed as she scanned his face intently.

                  
He gave her a crooked smile. “Do not fret, Mother. I am recovered,” he responded. Although his head still ached, he felt he had answered her honestly.

                  
Mrs. Thornton’s stomach churned as she watched him leave. She felt the cords of some ill fate begin to wind their web around them all.

                  
Jane entered the drawing room after the Master had gone. Although she appeared to glance timidly at Miss Hale, she lowered her eyes knowingly.

                  
Margaret spoke as soon as Mrs. Thornton returned to the drawing room. “I thank you, Mrs. Thornton, for seeing to the water mattress, but I really must go. My mother is not well ...”

                  
“The streets are dangerous, Miss Hale. Surely you can wait ...” the elderly women postulated, raising her chin and narrowing her gaze disapprovingly at the girl’s impatience.

                  
Margaret endeavored to maintain a calm composure, but she wrung her hands restlessly as she cast her eyes about the room. “I am familiar with all the streets. I am certain I can find safe passage home. If you will please excuse me, I must get home to my mother,” she declared and turned to leave, desperate to escape the curious scrutiny of three pairs of eyes.

                  
“What happened?” Mrs. Thornton muttered to herself as she watched Margaret briskly walk away.

                  
“Did yo’ not see?” Jane answered her mistress in hushed tones, her eyes wide with incredulity.

                  
Mrs. Thornton jerked her head to observe the servant as Fanny rushed to Jane’s side in excitement.

                  
“See what, Jane? Did you see what happened to my brother?” Fanny asked in her eagerness to know every detail of the sordid event.

                  
“Aye, I had a right good view from the top windows at the far end of the house. The Miss were down there with the Master,” Jane revealed with importance, glancing at the mistress of the house, who listened intently although she stood stiffly apart from the younger girls. “She said something to the crowd and then threw her arms about his neck just before he was struck down!”