Chapter 6. A Mad Tea Party

"Meg," Mr. Hale exclaimed over breakfast several weeks following Meg's initial visit to Francis Street, "I have invited Mr. Thornton to tea this evening. Do you think you could prevail upon Dixon to bake her cocoa-nut cakes?"

"Oh, Father," Meg replied in some dismay, "I wish you had told me earlier. We took down the curtains in the parlor yesterday to wash them, and they are not yet ironed. That is the only room fit for company, aside from your study, and I know how you hate to use your study for gatherings." She sat studying her bowl of porridge, as if that might provide her with an answer. "Ah well, if he is to come, I will offer to iron the curtains so that Dixon might bake."

Her mother huffed a long-suffering sigh, and looked askance at her daughter. "You know how much I dislike having you do housework." Her face was dark with disappointment.

Meg laid a hand gently on her mother's arm. "I know, Mother, but someone must help Dixon until a suitable girl is found. It is not fair that all of the work fall upon her shoulders." She mentally added, if a suitable girl can be found. Dixon had interviewed dozens of young women, but took umbrage at what she considered the overly independent and rough ways of Milton girls.

Meg thought suddenly of Mary Higgins. Bessy had mentioned during her last visit that Mary was in need of employment, explaining that she did not want Mary to work at the mills. Meg decided that she would offer the housekeeping position to Mary the next time she visited the Higgins' home. If Mary came to work for them, Meg could get to know the young woman who would one day adopt her. She smiled at such an improbable event, thinking that her life had become an entire series of improbable events.

Meg spent the afternoon ironing the curtains, trying not to burn herself or scorch the material. She also baked the cocoa-nut cakes, following Dixon's recipe, while Dixon busied herself with heating water for Mrs. Hale's bath and fixing dinner as well as a few small sandwiches for the tea tray. When all was ready, and the curtains hung at the clean windows, and fresh flowers stood in the vases, Dixon looked Meg over critically.

"You look a sight, Miss Meg," she proclaimed. "It is a good thing that I have enough hot water left over from your mother's bathing for you to take a bath. Go upstairs to change and I will prepare the hip bath for you here in the kitchen." Seeing Margaret's look, Dixon explained, "Your father will not be back until tea time, and your mother is resting. You will have the kitchen to yourself, I'll see to that."

Meg protested that it was too much work for Dixon to fill another tub, but Dixon insisted that Meg could not entertain with dust in her hair or dirt under her fingernails. "Lord, haven't you helped me the whole day? I don't know what I would do without you, Miss Meg, but I would certainly be worn to the bone!"

"Thank you, Dixon, it will be a wonderful treat," Meg exclaimed, and impulsively kissed the servant on the cheek.

Dixon swatted her away, but Meg could tell that she was pleased with the affectionate gesture.

Miss Meg is much more kind and thoughtful that she used to be, Dixon thought musingly. Where she had previously been cool and detached, she was now warm and caring to everyone with whom she came into contact. And Meg's care of her dear mother was as gentle and attentive as that of Dixon herself.

Since coming to Milton, Dixon had observed a change in Meg; she willingly took on whatever chores needed to be done, and she had a tender side for those weaker and less fortunate than herself. But that didn't mean she was meek and mild; she spoke her mind, and did not put on the namby-pamby airs affected by so many young women of fashion. I love three people, Dixon thought, my mistress, Master Fred, and Miss Meg. Lord love her, she's solid gold.

In her bedroom, Meg disrobed as quickly as she could. She still had trouble with her petticoats and corset stays, but she was more adept at dressing and undressing, able to get into bed much more quickly than she had when first confronted with the mound of garments she wore.

Slipping down the stairs to the kitchen, she folded her robe over a chair and stepped into the hip bath, heaving a huge sigh of contentment. She let the fragrant water cover her body and enjoyed the first quiet moment of the day. She debated washing her hair; it would never be dry in time for tea. However, it was dirty, so Meg ducked her head under the water and used the fragrant cake of soap Dixon had provided to wash the long, silky strands. After ducking her head again to rinse, she slipped down into the bath so that her hair floated about her as if she were a naiad as she luxuriated in the warm tub.

When the water cooled, she toweled off and sat by the fire in the kitchen, combing her hair dry with her fingers as best she could. The clock in the hallway chimed seven times, and she started up at the late hour. She must dress and prepare for tea. Her mother was resting, so the role of hostess for the evening fell to her. Knotting the sash of her robe about her waist, she ran up the steps, praying she would not be too late.

********

As the spring dusk settled on the streets of Crampton, and the gas lights winked on in residences, Mr. Thornton ascended the steps of the Hale residence and rapped smartly on the door. Mr. Thornton prided himself on punctuality, preferring always to be early rather than late.

He looked forward to spending the evening with his tutor, and anticipated stimulating conversations about industry and the classics. Mr. Hale had shown a keen interest in the cotton trade at the Master's dinner he had attended, asking numerous questions about the workings of Marlborough Mills. If the daughter of the house were there, Mr. Thornton thought with studied nonchalance, he was determined to be polite.

The door opened, and Mr. Thornton recognized the Hale's servant. He removed his hat and asked if Mr. Hale was in. She took his hat and gloves, and directed him up the stairs, where Mr. Hale greeted him at the entrance to the parlor.

The parlor was a lovely room with brightly papered walls and comfortable furniture. A fire blazed in the grate, and a tea tray sat on a mahogany table next to the cozy arrangement of sofa and chairs.

"Come in, Mr. Thornton," Mr. Hale urged, "Please excuse me for a moment-I would like to check on my wife. I apologize that she is not with us this evening; she does not feel well. I will be but a minute-Margaret should join you momentarily. Please, sit by the fire and warm yourself." He smiled distractedly and left the room.

Mr. Thornton eyed the fire with pleasure. His mother seldom had fires lit in their dining room or parlor except on the coldest nights because she deemed them an extravagance. The fire made the room warm and inviting on a damp evening, and he availed himself of his friend's invitation, stretching his long legs out before him as he settled into an overstuffed chair.

Gazing about the room, he was charmed to see baskets next to several chairs with needlework in progress. Books covered the arms of chairs or were left open on side tables, as if the readers had recently been called away. A chessboard sat on a table beside the fireplace; it appeared that a game was underway and awaited opponents to take up the battle. His mother's ideas of tidiness would never allow for such signs of occupation, but he thought these items gave a glimpse into the interests of the family, and made the room more inviting.

A sudden sound made him turn, and he rose quickly from his seat as Meg came rushing into the room.

"I do apologize," she said breathlessly, "I lost track of time. How are you this evening, Mr. Thornton?" she asked politely, extending her hand for a shake.

Mr. Thornton stared at her a moment, at a loss for words. She was dressed in a soft gown of cream-colored linen, and her face was scrubbed clean and glowed in the firelight. Her hair hung down her back in a thick plait, and damp wisps created a halo of reddish brown curls about her face.

Miss Hale's plait made her look like a schoolgirl, he thought. As he stepped closer to take her hand, he caught a delicious scent of roses and lavender. She had obviously just come from bathing, and he had a sudden image of her rising from the bath, water sluicing down her fair skin. He abruptly thrust that image from him and took her hand in a gentle clasp, feeling the warmth and softness imprinted on his palm in a sort of sensory memory.

Look at me, he thought, and as if he had spoken aloud, she raised her clear, untroubled eyes to his.

"Margaret, would you serve the tea, please?" Mr. Hale's plaintive voice broke the spell as he entered the room, and Meg slid her hand reluctantly from Mr. Thornton's grasp, turning her attention to the tea tray. With quick, graceful motions, she filled the cups, carrying the first to Mr. Thornton, and offering him the pitcher of cream and the sugar bowl and tongs. When he had prepared his cup to his satisfaction, she offered him a saucer and the plate of cocoa-nut cakes, and he accepted several.

Meg then took a cup to her father and extended her hand to him with a mischievous smile. Her father smiled at her in turn, and Mr. Thornton watched in bemusement as Mr. Hale took her thumb and little finger in his hand to form a sort of tongs, with which he lifted and deposited a sugar cube into his cup. Smiling with pleasure, Mr. Hale stirred his tea and his daughter returned to the tray to fix her own cup, a half-smile upon her face. This little bit of pantomime lasted but a moment, but thoroughly enchanted Mr. Thornton.

Mr. Hale and Mr. Thornton discussed Plato and Aristotle, the latest inventions in machinery, and various other goings-on in the Milton sphere of influence. Meg was tired and found it difficult to follow their discussions, and she refused to sew or knit because the result was so poor. She picked up the book she had left in the parlor that morning, and, drawing her legs up under her, found herself pulled once more into Sir Walter Scott's tale of Ivanhoe. She had always loved this chivalric story, and soon was immersed in the exploits of the heroic knight in love with two very different women.

Upon finishing a chapter, she found her attention caught by the men's conversation. She heard her father explaining the role of the Moirae, or apportioners, to Mr. Thornton. "We know them as the Fates," Mr. Hale explained. "In Greek, they were the white-robed personifications of destiny, similar to the Roman Parcae, or sparing ones, or the Germanic Norns," he said, warming up to his lecture. "Their number was fixed at three."

Mr. Thornton looked puzzled. "Why were they called the Moirae?"

Mr. Hale explained, "The Greek word moira literally means a part or portion, and by extension one's portion in life or destiny. The Moirae controlled the metaphorical thread of life of every mortal from birth to death, and beyond. Even the gods feared the Moirae, for Zeus himself was subject to their power."

Mr. Thornton smiled. "Do these Fates have names? And what was their role?"

Meg smiled as well, because she could see Mr. Hale was warming to his topic. "The three Moirae were Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Clotho was the spinner who spun the thread of life from her distaff onto her spindle. Her Roman equivalent was Nona, the 'Ninth, who was originally a goddess called upon in the ninth month of pregnancy. Lachesis was the allotter, or drawer of lots, who measured the thread of life allotted to each person. Her Roman equivalent was Decima, the Tenth. And Atropos, the inevitable, was the cutter of the thread of life who chose the manner of each person's death. When their time came, she cut the life thread. Her Roman equivalent was Morta, or Death."

Mr. Hale shifted in his chair. "It was believed that the Moirae appeared on the third night after each child's birth to determine the course of its life. They were responsible for determining the fates of all individuals."

"And what happened to those individuals who did not follow the paths allotted to them by the Moirae?" Mr. Thornton asked curiously.

"Ah," said Mr. Hale with a small smile, "Legend tells us of dire consequences when people went counter to their chosen course. It was believed that one might rend the fabric of time if one did not follow the path set by the Moirae."

Meg watched Mr. Thornton with interest. He appeared enthralled with her father's lesson on the Fates. His eyes were alight with interest, and his face relaxed and friendly. Her original impression of him was that he was quite plain, with his dark hair and clothes. When he smiled, however, his face lit up and he became quite attractive. His accent was quite distinctive, unlike any she had heard before. She recalled that her father said his family was from Darkshire.

A dark man from Darkshire, she thought in amusement, and remembered the fortuneteller's words: the dark man will show you the way. Her mind raced, and she wondered if he were the dark man. If he were to show her the way, she must watch him carefully and keep abreast of his activities so she might be positioned at the right time to avert his death.

She became aware of a sudden silence in the room. Glancing at her father, she saw him watching her inquisitively as he raised his teacup. "We are in dire need of more tea, my dear," he said in his dry, teasing voice.

Meg realized that she had been negligent in her duties as hostess, and rose at once to rectify the situation. She took Mr. Thornton's empty cup from his outstretched hand to refill it. He looked amused, and she was struck with a sudden urge to throw him off balance. She had noticed from the corner of her eye that he had carefully observed her pantomime of sugar tongs with her father earlier, so when she set his cup and the sugar bowl down beside him, she extended her hand to him in the gesture she used with Mr. Hale. He glanced up at her in puzzlement, and she smiled at him.

"Do you care for one lump or two?" she asked impudently, and saw surprise and amusement lighten the expression in his eyes.

He hesitated momentarily before he carefully took her hand in his own and helped himself to two lumps of sugar. His hand was warm and his clasp was firm; with dismay she realized that his touch elicited a spill of attraction deep within her.

"Thank you, Miss Hale," he said softly, and Meg was dismayed to see an expression of intense attraction on his face. She had hoped to embarrass him, and had instead kindled interest.

Meg regretted her impulsive gesture immediately. It was a bad idea to act so provocatively with her father's friend and benefactor; she reddened and retreated abruptly to the tea tray. She could still feel where he had touched her, and she regretted her foolish action. She had been sent here to prevent this man's death, not to flirt with him as she had done with the young soldiers in her care.

Upon serving her father his cup of tea, she begged to be excused for the evening, and left the room so abruptly that she did not see Mr. Thornton's expression of regret and longing.

That night, she dreamt of the fates spinning and measuring and cutting. Meg sat with them, busily tending her own thread, but found it kept getting knotted and tangled. When she appealed to the Moirae, one of them turned her shrouded face toward Meg and mockingly said, "Do as you will, but I will spin your thread as I see fit."

She awoke with the uneasy realization that regardless of where she went or what she did, she was not in charge of her own destiny.

********

When Sunday evening arrived, Meg set off for the Lyceum to join her father and find out what she could of the mill hand's plans for a strike. Her father had been amenable to letting the workers use the hall for the first hour, remarking to Meg that his pupils did not seem to have much interest in ecclesiastic architecture anyway.

As she neared the Lyceum, she saw that quite a large number of workers were headed in the same direction, and many were already ascending the steps to the entry way. Peering over her shoulder, Meg's gaze was caught and held by Mr. Thornton, who stared out of an open window across the street. His expression was grim, and he was joined by several disgruntled looking gentlemen who showed evident interest in the comings and goings from the Lyceum that night.

Meg met Mr. Thornton's gaze, and unknowingly lifted her chin as if in response to the challenge in his eyes. He must know they are discussing a strike tonight, she thought. Perhaps he believes that I support their cause. She turned away from him and went into the building in search of her father.

********

Mr. Thornton felt a crushing sense of disappointment when he spotted Miss Hale in the crowd outside the Lyceum. Could it be possible she sympathized with the workers threatening to strike? If so, she was an extremely foolish young woman.

When he had taken tea with the Hales the other night, he had felt a strong attraction to her. When she offered her hand to him as sugar tongs, as she had with her father, he had felt an electric thrill when he touched her, and could tell from her expression that she felt the same. Yet, here she was at the meeting hall with all of these rough workers determined to turn out, obviously supporting their cause.

He backed away from the window and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter near at hand, determined to put her out of his mind. He had more pressing matters at hand.

********

Meg found her father seated on a bench outside the meeting room. She sat next to him, and took his hand in a comforting clasp. He had fretted whether he was right in letting the men use the room to foment their rebellion against the Masters, but when Meg sensibly pointed out that the men would find somewhere to meet, and wasn't this better than having them plot their activities while drinking pints at the Goulden Dragon, he agreed. They sat companionably on the bench, and listened as Higgins shouted to the crowd to quiet down. Once the noise abated, they heard his voice ring out.

"This is the first time we have ever gathered together. My name is Nicholas Higgins, and I work at Hampers." A cry went up from some men in the crowd, and a similar din was raised as Higgins named each mill: Thornton at Marlborough Mills and Henderson's and Slickson's mills.

He continued, "We know there is lots of work. Orders are flooding in and cheap cotton to meet them. We know some bosses will tell us they can't make our pay, as they did five years ago. They'll have excuses-because cotton is expensive, machinery's backed up, buyers can't pay, so they say they have no money to pay us."

An angry murmur swept through the throng, and one man shouted, "Bosses make up their own rules, what's to keep them from stopping our pay again? They have all the say!"

"We must all work together," Higgins retorted, "Decide on a fair wage and refuse to work for less-and we'll have a say!"

A small, hesitant voice spoke up. "It's all very well for you, Higgins" the anxious man said. "You've got fifteen shillings a week for yourself and two daughters. I've got a sick wife and six children. I can't live on five shillings strike pay. We'll starve."