Chapter 3. Pig and Pepper

Meg could not believe her eyes. The handsome, austere man standing before her was the same one who had appeared in her dreams. The details and surroundings had always appeared fuzzy and remote to her, but his face was etched in her memory in startling clarity.

It was him.

He pinned her with his electric blue gaze for one brief moment, his eyes curious and searching, before his attention was distracted. His face contorted with fury, and he shouted, "Stephens! Put that pipe out!" Racing down the small flight of steps, he sped after the man, crying, "I saw ye-Stephens, come here!" Catching him by the collar, he slammed him to the ground.

"Smoking again," the dark man ground out, "I warned ye!"

"Please, sir," the unfortunate Stephens mewled, but the man in black was relentless. Drawing back his large fist, he began pummeling the man unmercifully. When the wretched man moved away from his fists, his furious persecutor drew back his leg to give him a vicious kick.

At the sight of the altercation, something inside Meg snapped. After the damage she had witnessed at the hospital during the war, men bleeding and maimed in what she considered to be a senseless conflict, she could not tolerate violence of any form. Without thought, she rushed over to the angry man and grasped his arm, attempting to stop him from doing any further damage to the wretched Stephens.

"Stop it! Stop this at once! What are you doing?" she demanded passionately.

The man in black turned to her in angry astonishment and spat out, "Who are you and what are you doing back in here again?"

Ignoring his question, she demanded, "Stop beating this man! Who do you think you are, to inflict such injury upon another person?"

Without taking his eyes from hers, he snarled, "I thought I told you to get this woman out of here, Williams!"

"Yes, Mr. Thornton, I took her back to the office and asked her to stay," Williams explained in an aggrieved tone as he attempted to grasp Meg by the elbow.

She shrugged him off and knelt on the floor by the injured man. Lifting Stephens' face with her hands, she cast a critical eye over his features. Touching gentle hands to his nose in a careful examination, she finally heaved a relieved sigh. "Your nose is not broken, but you will have quite a bit of bruising," she informed the bewildered victim. She looked up at the dark man towering over her. "I need hot water and a clean cloth."

"Where do you think you are," he shouted, "an infirmary? Get this woman out of here," he barked again to Williams. Turning his attention back to the unfortunate wretch cowering on the floor, Mr. Thornton exclaimed, "Crawl away on your belly and don't come back. You know the rules."

"Master, please," Stephens whined.

Meg's head snapped up. "You are the Master of Marlborough Mills?" she asked abruptly.

He glared at her. "Yes, I am. This is my mill, and you are not welcome here."

"Please, miss," Mr. Williams urged, pulling her up to her feet.

She turned to leave but the angry man grasped her by her other forearm. "Wait," he exclaimed, staring at her hands. "Where did you get those gloves?" he asked in an odd voice.

Meg gazed stupidly at her hands. She had forgotten that she had put the gloves on. "I removed them from a desk..." she responded blankly.

"Those are my gloves. I misplaced those weeks ago. Where did you find them?" he demanded.

Meg looked at him steadily. "They were in your office. I put them on because my hands were cold. I had no intention of taking your property. I merely wished to keep my hands warm while I waited. I forgot I had them on...." Her voice trailed off. She could not tell him that sixty years from now, she would be searching for clues about the riot at the mill, a riot which had not yet occurred. Mentally chastising herself to be careful in her speech, she quickly stripped the gloves from her hands and held them out to him. "I am very sorry. I was not trying to steal them. Here, please take them back."

He made no attempt to take the gloves from her, but continued to look at her in curious appraisal. His eyes were alert, as if he were aware that something was amiss. At last, he accepted the gloves from her outstretched hand. Her fingers slid over his as she handed him the gloves, and Meg felt an astonishing jolt of energy flow up her arm. Glancing quickly at him, she could tell by his bemused expression that he had felt something as well. He stared at her a moment longer, then reiterated brusquely to Williams, "Take her out of here."

"At once, Mr. Thornton," Williams replied, and tugged at Meg's arm as Mr. Thornton turned his attention back to Stephens, who lay prone on the floor.

"Come miss," Mr. Williams repeated and dragged her along to the workroom door.

Meg glanced back over her shoulder, and saw that Mr. Thornton was watching her. She called across to him in a clear voice, "I am sorry to have angered you, but you should not have beaten that man. Violence solves nothing."

Mr. Thornton's look of astonishment would have made her laugh any other time, but the current situation was far from amusing.

Meg was peremptorily escorted out of the mill by Mr. Williams, who fussed and fumed that she had not remained in the office where he had previously escorted her. "After the tongue-lashing you gave me for taking you into the mill with its dirt and fluff, I did not think you would come back into the work room again," he complained bitterly. "You said you preferred to wait in the office and not soil your gown. Now, Mr. Thornton won't see you at all." When they reached the mill door, Williams thrust her outside and firmly shut the door behind her.

She found herself standing on the cobblestones of the courtyard, wondering where she should go in this strange town. She had no money beyond a few coins-she had left most of it back at the hotel room with Gran, and what little she had she had spent in the fortune teller's shop. She certainly would have no acquaintances, given that she had not yet been born. It hurt her head to think about her circumstances. She looked about, attempting to orient herself, when she noticed an older gentleman hurrying toward her.

His sparse sandy hair receded from his high forehead, and he held his hat upon the back of his head with his right hand, as if he were afraid a breeze might carry it away. Small spectacles were perched on the end of his nose. He had a kindly face, if a bit careworn, and dressed modestly in the curiously old fashioned style Meg had noticed with the other men she had thus far seen.

"Margaret, where have you been? I have been looking for you for hours," he called to her.

She stared at him. How did he know her name? None of her family or acquaintances called her Margaret, but that was her given name.

"Where have you been," the man repeated. "You have been gone since early this morning, and your mother and I have been frantic with worry. I have been looking for you all over town." He gazed at her pale face and pinched features, and added, "Margaret, are you well? You look ill."

"Who are you?" Meg asked, totally bewildered.

He stared at her as if she had lost her senses. Touching her cheek and examining her troubled expression, he said in a low tone, as if speaking to an invalid, "Let me escort you home. Have you suffered a blow to the head?"

"Home?" asked Meg. "This is not my home!"

He looked at her in irritation. "I realize that we have been here a short while, but Milton is now your home. I have heard quite enough of your complaints and laments about our move to Milton, Margaret. You must accept that we are here and we will stay here."

"Please, who are you? What is your name?" she whispered, suddenly exhausted by all that had happened.

"I am your father, Richard Hale," he responded, eyeing her with growing concern.

My father, she thought shakily. I have no father. Or I did, but never knew who he was. She looked once more at the horses and quaint vehicles and oddly dated clothing, and began to tremble.

"What year is it?" she asked abruptly.

He looked at her in exasperation. "What game is this? You are well aware that it is 1855, as it was this morning when you set out on your ramble."

Meg nearly staggered. So the ledger was accurate! She had gone back in time some sixty-odd years. She could not fathom how she had come to be here, but it must be to fulfill the fortuneteller's prediction: You must make right what has gone wrong. It is your destiny to alter the outcome.

It was not a dream, she thought desolately. She had been sent here to alter the future. Meg shivered and allowed the gentleman to place her hand in the crook of his proffered arm and lead her away.

As they moved out of the mill yard and into the streets of the town, Meg was further disoriented to see that the small shops that had been abandoned and boarded up just a brief time ago were now full of wares and bustling with activity. Horses and carriages moved up and down the street, and laundry hung from many second story windows. She stepped carefully to avoid the horse droppings in the street, and was assaulted on every side by noises and odors and the ever-present fog and smoke.

After wending their way through large streets and small alleys, they reached a small hotel at the corner of two busy streets. Margaret was amazed to see that these streets were strewn with peddlers' carts filled with parts of pigs, potatoes, roasted chestnuts, and vegetables. Along both sides of the street, men constructed coffins and shone shoes. Women industriously plucked the feathers from dead chickens, and the street was strewn with feathers. The streets were pure cacophony and unlike anything Meg had ever observed before.

The man who claimed to be her father urged her up a short flight of steps and through the front door of the hotel. They stepped into a small entryway and walked up two flights of stairs. As they reached the top of the staircase, a short, stout woman stepped out of a doorway and moved toward them.

"Heavens, Miss Margaret, where have you been?" she exclaimed in a broad accent. "Your mother has been worried to death, and you running off without a word!"

Meg stared at her stupidly, while the man responded, "Now, Dixon, do not scold Margaret. I believe she is ill." He searched Meg's face with great concern. "She should rest now."

The woman he called Dixon was instantly solicitous. "Poor lamb, it has to be this bad air in Milton. Come with me, and I will get you into bed. You need rest-you do look peaked." She addressed the man pointedly. "Missus would like to see you, master."

"Thank you, Dixon," Mr. Hale replied. He gave Meg one last troubled look and proceeded to enter the room from whence the servant had come.

Meg allowed the woman to guide her down the hall and into a small bedroom.

"Here, Miss Margaret, sit down upon the bed, so I can take your boots off," Dixon offered solicitously. She undid the laces of Meg's boots and slipped them from her feet, then helped her stand to remove her dress and petticoats.

Meg was astounded by the sheer number of garments she had on, and was grateful that Dixon was here to help her. She carefully observed how Dixon undid the tapes for her petticoats, thinking she would have to dress herself later. When Meg stood in her corset and pantaloons, Dixon folded back the covers and helped her into bed. "Now, you close your eyes and sleep for awhile. I don't need you to become ill like your poor mother," Dixon clucked, hanging her dress in the cupboard.

"Thank you, Miss Dixon," Meg whispered, suddenly feeling exhausted.

"Lord, Miss Margaret, since when have you called me Miss Dixon?" the servant said with a snort. "And since when have you thanked me for helping you undress? There is no need for such formality with me. Haven't I been caring for you since you were a babe?" she asked. "You rest now, and ring for me when you wake up. I'll help you get dressed for dinner." Smiling comfortingly at Meg, Dixon whisked herself out of the room and closed the door with a quiet snap.

Meg knew she should be looking about the room for clues as to who Margaret Hale was and why she was mistaken for her, but the events of the day and the oddness her body felt from moving through the mirror overcame her. She felt utterly exhausted and in dire need of rest.

I will close my eyes for a few moments, she thought drowsily, and then decide what to do.

But as soon as her head settled upon the pillow, she fell asleep.

*****

A light tap on the door woke her. Feeling groggy and disoriented, Meg rolled over, looked about the strange room, and wondered where she was. Her eyes snapped open as memory flooded back, and she took in the tiny bedroom and the fact that the light from the window was nearly gone, obscured by fog.

The tap on the door sounded again, a bit more insistent. Clearing her throat, she bade whoever knocked to enter. The door swung open, and Dixon entered the room bearing a steaming pitcher on a tray.

"I thought you might be wanting some hot water and soap to wash up, Miss Margaret," Dixon explained, moving over to a small washstand and placing the tray carefully on its surface. "The streets are so dirty in this nasty, smoky town."

Meg, who had grown up on the much dirtier streets of London, smiled briefly. "Thank you, Dixon. That is thoughtful of you." She hesitated a moment. "How long have I slept?"

"Nearly three hours. It's nigh on dinner time, that's why I've come to fetch you," Dixon replied briskly. "Now, if you go ahead and wash, I will be back in a thrice to help you dress for dinner. Your mother and father are waiting for you downstairs."

"Dress for dinner," Meg repeated. "Do you mean formal attire?"

Dixon laughed. "Formal attire is not required at this hotel. No, I will retighten your corset strings and help you into your dress. You must be half asleep yet, miss." Smiling fondly, she left the room.

Meg threw back the covers and sat up. The corset stays poked into the tender undersides of her breasts, and she silently cursed the person-a man, no doubt-who had come up with such a fiendish device to make women's waists tiny. She wondered if she could dispense with the corset entirely, but feared the gown might not fit unless she wore the constrictive undergarment.

Walking over to the small table, she poured the steaming water into a china bowl and lathered up the washcloth with the clean cake of lavender soap provided. The water felt wonderful on her face and arms, and she pressed the heated cloth against the nape of her neck. She inhaled the lavender fragrance and felt a bit of her tension ease, although the knot in her stomach showed no sign of abating.

She dreaded going downstairs to continue the charade of being Margaret Hale, but did not know what else to do. Until she could figure out why she was here and how to get back to her own time, she must play the role of this young woman and gather as many clues about her situation as possible. She thought back to what had happened in the office when she had come through the mirror, just like Alice through the looking glass. Instead of white rabbits and mad hatters, however, she had encountered an irate Master and a worried father. And what would she do if the real Margaret should show up this evening?

Meg shook her head-there was no time to figure out this conundrum now. She needed to eat and get a proper night's sleep. Only then could she start to work out what she must do.

Another tap on the door heralded Dixon's return. In quick order, she retightened Meg's corset, remarking that Meg's waist seemed smaller overnight. Was she eating properly, Dixon fretted, and no wonder if she had no appetite given the trouble and sorrow all of them had been through with this ill-begotten move to this horrible, dirty town.

Meg remained silent throughout Dixon's rant, unsure what she could say in response to this bitter assessment of her newfound family's situation.

Dixon helped Meg into her petticoats and gown, and forced her to sit in front of a small vanity so that Dixon could dress her hair.

Meg watched as Dixon unpinned her hair and unraveled it to her waist. Meg was astounded to see the length-no wonder she felt as if she were carrying a five-pound weight upon her head. Looking up as Dixon began to brush the thick tresses, Meg asked, "Might we just braid it and leave it down tonight, Dixon? My head is pounding."

Dixon frowned, but concern for Meg's health won out over propriety. "I should pin it up, but I suppose it would not hurt to braid it for one night, since it will just be the master and mistress in a private dining room below. Very well," Dixon conceded, and braided Meg's hair in a neat plait down her back.

"You look like a young girl again, Miss Margaret," Dixon commented fondly. "Now, you'd best hurry along or your dinner will be cold."

"Thank you, Dixon, for all of your help," Meg said sweetly, and Dixon looked surprised, as if she were not used to being thanked for doing such services.

Meg followed Dixon down the curving stairs into a small parlor off the first floor hallway. Mr. Hale looked up from his book as she entered the room, and stood up, smiling fondly. Placing the book aside, he exclaimed, "Ah, Margaret, you look much refreshed. Are you feeling better?" He stretched his hands out to her.

After the briefest hesitation, she walked up to him and clasped his hands in hers. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, and she squeezed his hands and smiled into his warm eyes. "See, Maria, she is feeling better. I told you a bit of sleep would do her good."

Meg turned around and met the lovely dark eyes of an older woman-her mother, she guessed. "Yes, I am feeling much better," Meg said quietly, and sat down on the sofa next to the pretty woman.

"Margaret, where were you earlier today? Your father and I were very worried," Mrs. Hale said in a fretful tone. Her hands fluttered about her lap, and Meg had a strong impression of anxiety, sadness, and something deeper-illness, perhaps? Her features were pale except for flags of hectic color on her cheeks, and her lovely eyes were listless. She had a feverish look about her, Meg thought.

After a moment's silence, Meg hesitantly replied, "I was lost, Mother. Milton is quite large, and I do not know my way around its streets yet. I walked for quite a while before I found myself at the mill." She glanced at Mr. Hale. "That was where Father found me."

"You should not wander about town unattended, as you were wont to do in Helstone," her mother admonished querulously.

"Yes, mother," Meg said meekly, unwilling to argue.

Her mother looked at her with a critical eye, and asked, "Margaret, why have you come downstairs with your hair down?"

"My head aches," Meg explained, dropping her eyes to her lap. "I thought I would leave it down for one evening since it will be just the three of us tonight."

Her mother passed a caressing hand over her cheek. "Poor child, I know you miss the sweet air of our home in the country. No wonder you have a headache, with the smoke and unhealthy fogs we encounter here. If your father had not insisted we come to this God-forsaken place, your head might not hurt as it does, and I would no doubt feel better."