Chapter 8. The Lobster Quadrille

When Dixon returned from the wigmakers with a surprising sum of money from the sale of Meg's hair, she helped Meg dress for the Thornton dinner.

Meg did not care what she wore, but Dixon insisted she select a gown fitting for her role as Miss Hale, a London lady who would no doubt be the belle of Milton, given what Dixon had seen of the hard-featured, slovenly dressed young women thereabouts. Meg asked Dixon to select a garment for her, and Dixon chose a gown the color of green sage, with knots of ribbon about the low cut neckline that showed Meg's lovely shoulders and arms to great advantage.

The loyal servant brushed Meg's hair until it shone and had to admit that the shorter hair suited her. She produced a thin gold shawl, several bracelets to adorn Meg's arms, and a pair of diamond drop earrings that belonged to Mrs. Hale. She stood back to admire the effect.

"Miss Meg, go show your mother how well you look," Dixon urged.

Mrs. Hale was resting in bed, having experienced a restless night and taken several doses of the laudanum that Dr. Donaldson had left.

Meg went quietly down the hall, lest her mother be sleeping. She was pleased to see her mother sitting up in the chair by the bed, reading a letter.

When Mrs. Hale saw her daughter, she looked critically at her hair but said nothing. Dixon had explained to her earlier that Meg would rather use the time it took to tend her hair to tend to her mother instead, and Mrs. Hale was touched by her daughter's thoughtfulness. Meg spent quite a bit of time of late preparing small meals for her, and ensuring that she took her medication and drank the herbal teas that Dixon brewed. She had never known her daughter to show her so much care and affection, and Mrs. Hale was deeply grateful.

If the truth be told, the hairstyle suited her, Mrs. Hale thought affectionately. She looked lovely in the gown, and Mrs. Hale's motherly heart swelled with pride. Tears sprung to her eyes as she held out her hands to her daughter.

"Oh, Meg, how lucky I am to have you," She exclaimed, and her eyes dimmed with tears. "And how I wish I could see your brother again," she sighed yet again.

Meg sat down on the bed next to her mother, and held her hands in a comforting clasp. "Would it not be dangerous for him to come, Mama?"

"Yes," sniffed Mrs. Hale, "but I do so long to see him." She looked at Meg plaintively. "Would you write to him and ask him to come home so that I might see him one last time?"

Meg weighed the dangers in her head, and responded slowly, "Let me ask Father what he thinks." She was unsure where to direct such a letter, but perhaps Mr. Hale would know.

She rose from the bed. "I must go down to Father and Mr. Bell, so we will not be late. Dixon will bring your dinner soon." Bending down, she kissed her mother and wiped a tear from her cheek. "Do not fret, Mama. We will sort this out."

As she strolled between her father and Mr. Bell on their way to Marlborough Mills via Princeton, Meg thought about her mother's request. If she were to write to this brother and tell him how ill his mother was, she knew he would probably hasten home, given how close-knit the Hale family was. Mrs. Hale's bond with her son was exceptionally close, Dixon had explained.

His appearance would act as a tonic to her mother, Meg was certain, but she was afraid for Fred's safety. There was a reward on his head, and he would be in certain danger the moment he set foot in England. She longed to ask her father, but did not wish to add to his worries-or heighten his concern for his wife's health. At yet, he was in a pleasant state of denial as to how ill she really was, and Meg was reluctant to be the one to enlighten him.

They arrived at Francis Street, and Meg excused herself, telling her father and Mr. Bell she would be but a moment. She walked quickly along the alleyway, holding her skirts up to avoid the dirt of the street, and felt many eyes follow her. When she reached Bessy's home, she knocked quickly on the door, and Higgins answered.

His eyes lit with appreciation. "Well, Miss Meg, don't you look a sight?" he said softly. "Bess, your friend has come to show you her finery," he called over his shoulder.

Bessy and Mary exclaimed over how lovely Meg looked, and surreptitiously fingered the material at her hem and neckline.

"Meg, you have cut your hair," Bessy exclaimed, and Meg thought with resignation that Bessy was probably the first in a long line of people who would remark on her hair this evening. Her father and Mr. Bell had exclaimed over it already, but other than remarking that she looked well, had said little else and turned the conversation to other topics.

After several pleasant moments went by, Meg explained that her father and his friend were waiting, and she must go. Bessy and Mary hugged her affectionately, and wished her a wonderful evening.

Higgins walked her to the door, remarking in a low voice, "There has been some talk of Thornton bringing in Irish workers to break the strike. Have you heard naught of that, Miss Meg?"

Meg felt a cold knot form in her stomach, and replied that she had not.

Higgins shook his head grimly. "I hope there's no truth in it. There will be hell to pay if our workers hear of such a thing." He wished her a good evening, and Meg rejoined her father and Mr. Bell, more troubled than ever.

********

After days of preparations for the grand dinner, Mrs. Thornton was satisfied that all was in order. The finest food and delicacies had been ordered and prepared for each course. She had restocked their wine cellar, and ensured bottles of port and brandy stood ready for the men. The table glittered with her plate and crystal, and the soft linen table settings were crisp and set to perfection. All was ready for their guests.

Mr. Hale and his party were among the first arrivals, as Mr. Hale had a morbid fear of being late and giving offense. Mrs. Thornton stared at Meg's hair, but other than offering her an icy greeting, said nothing else.

While her father and Mr. Bell chatted with the matriarch, Meg carried on a desultory conversation with Fanny, who fidgeted and fussed with her sleeves and gloves.

"I am sorry your mother is not well," Fanny said at length. "Do you suppose she might want our water mattress?" At Meg's blank expression, Fanny continued, "It is a mattress that fills with water, gives great comfort to the back."

"Thank you, that is very kind," Meg responded, thinking such a device might indeed give comfort to her mother, who was having difficulty sleeping through the night. Fanny smiled and walked away to greet a gentleman and young lady who had just arrived, leaving Meg by herself until Mr. Bell noticed and joined her.

The room was nearly full when Mr. Thornton made his entrance. He had been delayed by business in the mill; in fact, his Irishmen were due to arrive by train late that night. He and Williams planned to meet the train as it arrived to escort the workers to lodgings they had set up temporarily in the mill until more permanent arrangements could be made.

As he moved into the room, he was greeted by his banker, Mr. Latimer, and his daughter Ann. He extended his hand politely to her, and Miss Latimer placed hers in his and curtseyed gracefully. Miss Latimer had been to boarding school these past several years, and was considered finished, although Mr. Thornton was uncertain what that meant. He supposed she was ready for marriage, and in pursuit of a husband, as most young ladies her age were.

He knew that his mother considered Miss Latimer a superior young woman who would suit him very well as a wife. She was soft spoken and had no opinions of her own that he could discern, unlike some other unnamed woman of his acquaintance. She would make a perfectly unexceptional bride, but he was beginning to realize that perhaps he did not want unexceptional; perhaps he preferred extraordinary and maddening.

Mr. Thornton surreptitiously scanned the room as Hamper droned on about his fears concerning the strike. From what he could tell, Miss Hale had not yet arrived. A sense of disappointment overcame him; she must have remained at home to care for her ailing mother. His eye lit upon a young woman across the room with her back turned toward him.

She was deep in conversation with Mr. Bell, and wore a lovely light green gown the color of spring that revealed her beautiful shoulders and accentuated her slim waist. What caught his attention, however, was the fact that she wore her hair down-and it was short. It fell just past her shoulders in shining waves. Most of the women of his acquaintance wore their hair long, binding it up in braids or twists or curls; even his mother plaited her long hair and wound it about her head. Yet this fashionable miss wore her hair short. He wondered if she had suffered a fever or sickness where doctors often recommended cutting the hair to help the patient feel cooler and more comfortable.

The thought had no sooner passed through his head when he saw Mr. Bell nod toward him, and the woman turned and looked at him. It was Margaret Hale.

Mr. Thornton was shocked. Why had she cut her hair? It was not what young gentlewomen did. Yet, somehow, it suited her. Her hair framed her face and curled about her shoulders in casual disarray, swept back at her temples with tortoiseshell combs. All the other women had their hair carefully controlled and subdued, but Miss Hale had left her hair to its own devices. He had a sudden image of her beautiful hair spread upon a pillow, and his fingers curled into fists as he imagined running his hands through its cool silkiness. His eyes met hers and she arched an eyebrow as if to ask why he was regarding her so steadily. His face darkened to be caught out staring at her.

Meg knew she was being watched as she spoke with Mr. Bell, and had not been surprised to find it was Mr. Thornton staring at her, his forehead crinkled in consternation. Her hair, she thought in exasperation. Everyone had been looking at her askance all evening. With a strike going on and the pending threat of starvation and potential for violence, Meg thought in disgust, you would think these Masters and their wives would have bigger issues to concern themselves with than the length of a young nobody's hair. Meg returned his gaze coolly, and he moved across room toward her.

"Ah, Thornton," Mr. Bell exclaimed, "I hope you don't mind me inviting myself to your dinner party. Mrs. Thornton throws the finest dinner parties in Milton," he informed Meg suavely.

"You are always welcome, Mr. Bell. I hope you are not worried about the strike. It is nothing we cannot ride out." Mr. Thornton responded, extending his hand to Mr. Bell. The two shook hands briefly before Mr. Thornton turned his full attention upon Meg.

"Good evening, Miss Hale," he said formally, bowing toward her.

Meg offered her hand to him to shake. "Good evening, Mr. Thornton."

His pleased expression transformed his usually stern countenance, and Meg found herself thinking once again that he was quite handsome when he smiled. He clasped her hand in his, holding it for a fraction longer than politeness required. She gently extracted her hand, and her fingers slid over his. She was amazed to feel an electric thrill yet again at the contact. Glancing up quickly, she saw his eyes darken and intensify, and knew that he had not been immune to her touch, either.

Taking a small step back, Meg continued, "My mother could not attend tonight. She is tired of late, and resting at home."

"I am sorry she could not come," Mr. Thornton responded gently, and his expression was one of genuine regret. Meg inclined her head politely. He stood gazing at her, and Meg was on the point of asking him how the strike was affecting him when another Master approached him and asked to speak with him. An expression of irritation crossed Mr. Thornton's face, and Margaret could see him return to his stern mien.

Begging her pardon, he stepped away. Mr. Bell said in amusement, "Imagine Thornton leaving the loveliest woman in the room for that snake Slickson. My dear, you must allow me to introduce you to several acquaintances of mine."

Meg cast a glance at Mr. Thornton and Mr. Slickson, and wondered if they were speaking about the Irish workers rumored to be bound for Marlborough Mills. She fervently hoped that Higgins was wrong; such an action would inflame the angry passions of the strikers to act against the masters, no matter how much the union leadership cautioned their members against such action. She thought of fabricating some excuse to draw near to Mr. Thornton, but could not devise anything that was believable, given that both men had retreated to a far corner of the room.

As Mr. Bell placed Meg's hand in the crook of his elbow to escort her across the room, Meg turned and stood before him. "Mr. Bell, would it be possible to step outside for a moment?" she asked faintly. "It is stiflingly hot in here."

"Certainly," he agreed with alacrity, and escorted her down the steps and out onto the landing overlooking the mill yard.

They stood gazing at the clouded sky and breathing in the cool night air.

"Mrs. Thornton usually keeps this monstrosity of a house as cold as the grave," Mr. Bell said in a light tone, "but on nights such as this it takes on the properties of a hothouse. Are you feeling better, Meg?"

"Much better," she responded gratefully. "I think I may be strong enough to make it through the ordeal of dinner."

Mr. Bell laughed and tucked her arm into his again as they made their way back to the dining room.

********

Engrossed as he was in his conversation with Slickson, Mr. Thornton nonetheless noticed when Margaret left the room and again when she returned. He was irritated to see her on the arm of Adam Bell, his landlord. Mr. Bell's little jokes often pricked and annoyed him, but he held his tongue because he needed his patronage and support, especially now that the strike cast a pall over not only Marlborough Mills but all of Milton. Still, he felt an inexplicable resentment that she could unbend herself enough to chat easily with Mr. Bell, something she never seemed capable of doing with him.

Dinner was soon served, and the guests took their places around the table. Meg was somewhat cowed by the extensive place settings, glasses, and plates, but her careful observation of Fanny and Mrs. Thornton showed her how to proceed. The conversation flowed pleasantly, and Mr. Thornton showed himself to be a charming host, introducing topics that showed he was interested in many pursuits beyond that of manufacture.

Meg was silent, content to listen to him speak. He had a deep and resonant voice that was very pleasant to the ear, and she continually snuck glances at his face. He had never looked so relaxed, or so handsome.

She was beginning to feel quite in charity with him, when Fanny looked up from her soup and cast a sly look at Meg. "One of our servants saw you deliver a basket to one of the striking families the other day, Miss Hale," she said maliciously.

An icy silence settled over the table, and numerous pairs of accusing and shocked eyes swung toward her. Meg lowered her soup spoon and replied calmly, "I have left food for any number of families who no longer have the wherewithal to feed themselves."

Fanny tittered, "Our maid also saw your servant at the wigmakers this afternoon, selling hair. I presume it was yours, since your hair is so unfashionably short now. Is your family desperate for funds as well? I would have thought the wages that Dr. Donaldson pays you would be sufficient."

Meg heard a disapproving murmur from several of the guests, and put her spoon down with a decided clink. "No, my family's funds are more than sufficient," she replied to Fanny, her tone implying 'not that it is any of your business.' "I intend to use the money from my hair to buy food and fuel for the striking families," she said clearly, and turned a defiant face toward Mr. Thornton as if to say, think what you will.

"You did no one any favors, Miss Hale, with your interference," Mr. Thornton responded sharply, his face cold and disapproving. "You are only prolonging the strike and, by association, the misery of the hands," he proclaimed. Several of his peers muttered, "Here, here."

"Tell that to the mothers of starving infants and their dying children," she flashed back fiercely, eyes snapping and cheeks flushed with indignation. "The poor and indentured understand little of the ways of the masters of this world. If by my actions I save the life of even one baby, then my 'interference,' as you call it, is well worth it. And I would sell my hair again, or my jewels, or my gowns to help them." She sat back, her breast heaving in anger, and met his offended gaze unflinchingly.

Mr. Thornton was astonished. No woman had ever spoken to him in such a manner. Before he could reply, Mr. Bell laid a comforting hand on her arm and said soothingly, "Our Meg is new to the ways of Milton, but her heart is in the right place. You are a credit to your father, my dear." Mr. Bell nodded across the table at Mr. Hale, who abhorred conflict of any kind and sat looking worriedly at Mr. Thornton.

Meg smiled at Mr. Bell, a dazzling smile of breathtaking warmth that transformed her from an angry girl to a strikingly beautiful woman. Mr. Thornton was staggered by that smile, and experienced a brief pang that she had never directed such a smile at him. Mr. Bell called her Meg-was he on such terms of intimacy with her? He felt a queer weight settle on his chest. What was it about this infuriating and brash young woman that captivated him so, in spite of his better judgment?

Fearing that he had already paid Miss Hale more attention that she deserved, Mr. Thornton picked up his wine glass and, turning to Ann Latimer, inquired about her year abroad. For the remainder of the dinner, he did not speak to Meg and she made no attempt to capture his attention.

When dessert was finished and Mrs. Thornton rose from the table, the men remained at in the dining room to drink port and smoke cigars, while the women retired to the parlor where Fanny seated herself at the piano and proceeded to play several off-key and off-kilter tunes. The wives of the masters sat in a small group, discussing various topics such as children and the price of goods.

Meg sat by herself, apart from the larger group. Coming from the south of England, she was already branded an alien; her youth and beauty combined with her work at the clinic and sympathy for the striking workers solidified her role as persona non gratis among the women in the group. No refined lady would be so outspoken as to contradict one of the leaders of industry in Milton-or cut her hair.

Meg did not mind; she had no desire to take part in the superficial chatter she heard, and her father and Mr. Bell would join her soon enough, hopefully bringing this interminable evening to an end. She sat off to the side from the others, next to the fire, and was content to stare at the flames and listen to Fanny's mediocre performance.

The sound of her name brought her back to the present, and she looked up. Fanny was waving to her from the piano.

"Miss Hale, would you care to play for us?" Fanny inquired gaily, a malicious smile upon her face.

"I would much rather hear you play, Miss Thornton," Meg demurred, unwilling to perform in front of strangers.