Chapter 14. Who Stole the Tarts?

The days following Mrs. Hale's death and Fred's departure from Milton were filled with sad activity and too much time for contemplation, as far as Meg was concerned. She was deeply thankful for the presence of Mr. Bell, who served as a source of great comfort to her father. They spent many hours in Mr. Hale's study, and Mr. Bell did what he could to elevate Mr. Hale's thoughts from his ongoing obsession that his family's removal to Milton helped to hasten his wife's death.

Meg sent word to Doctor Donaldson that it might be a week before she returned to the clinic. He wrote back telling her to take whatever time she needed to assist her father and grieve her mother; he would be glad to welcome her back when she felt it was time to return. Besides, he informed her, Nicholas Higgins was working out very well in his new capacity at the clinic, and might be willing to assist the doctor, with some guidance and instruction. Meg would be deeply missed, but he would carry on without her for as long as was necessary.

The day of her mother's funeral dawned gray and chilly, and it was a small party that made up the mourners at the church. Meg sat between her father and Mr. Bell. She was touched to see Doctor Donaldson seated behind her, and Nicholas and Mary seated several pews back. Doctor Donaldson placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she turned to him with a silent look of gratitude for his supporting presence.

She felt less grateful to see the Thornton family arrive and seat themselves across the aisle from her father. Mr. Thornton spoke his condolences in gentle tones to her father, and greeted Mr. Bell, but said nothing to her. He would not meet her gaze, and Meg knew her tryst at the rail yard was fresh in his mind. He must suspect the worst of her. She went hot and cold as she contemplated the light in which he viewed the incident. She was relieved when the vicar rose and stepped into the pulpit, forcing her to turn her thoughts to the funeral service.

From the corner of his eye, Mr. Thornton studied Meg's pure profile. She was so lovely, he thought regretfully. It was difficult to believe that this slim, grave girl in black was the same wanton woman he had seen at the train station, in the arms of a strange man. He felt a black rage as he remembered seeing her soft arms around the stranger's neck as she had kissed and embraced him.

He could not reconcile that woman with the one who sat across from him now. She wore a black mantilla over a black bonnet, and it made her skin appear to be made of ivory. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but she appeared calm now, holding her father's hand in her lap. She was seated between Mr. Hale and Mr. Bell, and Mr. Thornton found his eyes often strayed across the aisle of the church to see how the service affected her.

She did not cry, but appeared composed, as if emptied of emotion. As he glanced at her pure profile yet again, he saw Mr. Bell take her hand and pull it through the crook of her arm, and she settled her head momentarily upon his shoulder. Mr. Thornton felt a wild, strong yearning-if only he might have the right to sit next to her, to feel her soft hand in his and the weight of her head upon his shoulder. But he did not have that right-she had rejected his proposal of marriage.

He remembered the events of that day clearly and although hurt, was puzzled as well. She had told him no, but her eyes were at war with her words. She had looked at him with a warmth and regret that belied her rejection, and made it hard for him to believe that she did not care for him. The day of the riot, her relief at his wellbeing had found expression in exclamations of gladness and tears. How could she act that way and not care for him? Perhaps she did care, but was afraid to act on her emotions.

He looked at her again, and envisioned her once more in the arms of the stranger at the train station. His hope died, and he abruptly turned from her to study the pulpit in front of him. It was apparent to him now that her heart belonged to the man at the Outwood Station.

Meg felt Mr. Thornton's eyes upon her; she was as aware of his glance as she was of the beat of her heart. She refused to meet his gaze; she was deeply ashamed of what he must think of her, and in what light he regarded her supposed tryst at the station. She had been in this time period long enough to realize that it was scandalous for a single woman of breeding to be with a strange man late at night; it did not matter that he was her brother, because she could not tell him that he had been in England. As a magistrate, Mr. Thornton would be duty bound to pursue the laws of the land. She would never want to place him in such a predicament, or to endanger her brother.

She startled as her father and Mr. Bell stood; the service was over, and it was time for them to leave the church and greet their small group of acquaintances in attendance. Meg supported her father down the aisle of the church. He leaned upon her quite heavily, and Meg thought with despair that he had aged ten years in the past fortnight.

As Meg accepted the condolences of Mrs. Thornton and Fanny, she steeled herself to speak with Mr. Thornton. However, before he could reach her, she saw an official in uniform pull him aside for conversation. Her heart lodged in her throat; could this discussion concern the death of Leonards? Impossible, Meg told herself sternly, surely other business goes on in Milton.

However, when the same inspector showed up at her home the following day and questioned her sharply regarding her whereabouts the evening of Leonards' death, Meg knew that trouble was brewing. Apparently, the grocer's assistant had witnessed some drunken impertinence to a young lady, and was certain that it was Miss Hale who was thus accosted. He had seen her face quite clearly at the station that night and would swear under oath that she had been there.

Meg denied being at the station, and was coldly civil in her responses to Inspector Mason. She despised herself for lying, but had no intention of incriminating her family or herself. If only this investigation had waited until Fred was safely back in Cadiz! She chafed under her lies, and guilt threatened to consume her. The inspector informed her in no uncertain terms that she might be summoned to a formal inquest into the cause of Leonards' death; when he finally departed, she was in a frenzy of anxiety. Unable to contain herself, she threw a shawl about her shoulders and struck out for the clinic.

As she entered the door of his office, Doctor Donaldson looked up from his paperwork. Seeing the expression of misery and fear on her face, he set his work aside, and strode around the desk to clasp her shoulders and settle her in a chair.

"Meg, you are not well. What is it?" he asked in a deeply concerned tone.

Meg responded softly through bloodless lips, "Doctor Donaldson, I have done something very wrong, and have compounded that wrong by lying about it."

He shushed her. "Wait here, I will return immediately." She heard him stride into an adjoining room and speak sharply to Nicholas Higgins, who was sweeping one of the examination rooms. She heard the front door open and close, and Doctor Donaldson returned.

"I have asked Higgins to run several errands for me, and to return tomorrow. I told him you did not feel well, and I was going to examine and prescribe to you. Remember that if he asks how you are feeling." He looked steadily at her, and said softly, "What do you think you have done wrong?"

She raised her eyes to his. "I am responsible for that man Leonards' death."

Doctor Donaldson sat down opposite her, and pulled his chair closer so that he could hold her hands in his own. "Why do you say that?" he asked carefully.

With a shuddering breath, Meg told him all of the events of that night. "If I had not pushed him, he would not have fallen and struck his head," she concluded. "It is my fault that he died."

Doctor Donaldson shook his head. "You might have helped to hasten his end, Meg, but not by much. I did the autopsy on that man, and he was quite ill. He drank to the point that he had done severe damage to his bodily organs. He might have lived another few months, at best, but would have died soon from internal bleeding and organ failure. It was an accident that he struck his head-you merely shoved him to enable your brother to escape from his clutches."

Seeing her obstinate expression, he continued, "You must not go forward and admit to this-he would have died anyway. His disease was too far gone, and he showed no inclination to give up gin, from what I have been told. If you admit to being at the station, you will have to say why you were there, perhaps endangering your brother's safety. I would advise you to remain silent and learn to live with your guilt."

She burst into hysterical tears. "This was not supposed to happen," she sobbed out, feeling the control that had held her tightly in check ever since she had come to Milton snap. "I was supposed to save Mr. Thornton's life and go back to my own time, not be involved in a murder!"

The words were out before she could stop them, and she clapped her hand over her mouth, as if by doing so she could make the words unspoken.

Doctor Donaldson looked at her warily. "What do you mean?"

She sighed and closed her eyes. She had longed to tell someone, anyone, about her strange trip into the past. She wanted a confident so desperately. It appeared the time had come to share her story. She took a deep breath, and said steadily, "I am not Margaret Hale, Doctor Donaldson. My name is Meg Armstrong, and I was born in 1898. I came back through time to save Mr. Thornton's life and prevent a riot at Marlborough Mills. I am an imposter."

Without taking his eyes from hers, Doctor Donaldson reached down and opened a lower cabinet. He extracted a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, and poured a finger's breadth into each glass, handing one glass to Meg.

"I believe you will need a drink to tell this story, and I will need one to listen to it," he explained. "Go back to the very beginning and tell me everything."

********

An hour later, Meg had sipped half of her glass of whiskey and felt much better about the situation-or maybe she just didn't care anymore. She had never drunk hard liquor before, and it gave her a dreamy, all-is-well-with-the-world outlook.

Doctor Donaldson sat and quietly pondered all that she had told him before he drained his glass. Looking at her, he sighed and finally said, "Meg, I have suspected for quite some time that you were not who you appeared to be. No gently born young lady learns to sew a wound as well as you did by following a country doctor's advice. No young woman I have ever met has your knowledge of allopathic and homeopathic medicine, or your knack with diagnosis. I must confess, however, that I did not expect to hear you were from the future."

"Do you believe me?" Meg asked fearfully, "or do you think I am crazy?"

"You are one of the sanest people I have ever met-how could I not believe you? Your story is too nuanced and detailed to be a dream or fabrication. I don't understand how you came here, and I certainly don't understand what could have become of the real Margaret Hale, but I do believe you."

He hesitated, and looked at her with a gleam in his eye. "I know you have much to figure out about your situation, and I will help you in any way that I can. But just for an hour or so, please tell me about advances in medicine over the past-did you say sixty years?"

So they sat together for a quiet hour, and Meg told him of vaccines and advances in operations and medicines, of anesthetics and diagnoses, and of morphine and opiates. He asked many questions and probed for numerous details.

At last he sat quietly, and exclaimed, "If only I could go through that mirror with you into the future! How I would love to see it all. But, alas, this is my time." He heaved a heavy sigh, and smiled wryly. "But tell me how I shall get on without the best assistant I have ever had, when it is your time to return?"

Meg unexpectedly felt herself tear up. "To tell you the truth, Doctor, I'm not so certain that I want to go back now. And at this moment, I don't see how I can. My father-I mean, Mr. Hale, is lost without my mother. I don't see how I could in good conscience go now. And until Nicholas Higgins finds a job that enables him to adequately support his expanded family, how can I leave him?"

Doctor Donaldson smiled. "You have grown attached to Milton and its people, haven't you, Meg?" He lifted the glass of whiskey from her hand. "And unless I'm much mistaken, you are close to being tipsy. I had best walk you home."

Meg waved him off, struggling to her feet. "Nonsense, I'm fine. I only had a few sips of your demon whiskey." The room spun about for a moment, and she widened her eyes at how woozy she felt.

Ruing her predicament, she smiled at Doctor Donaldson; however, he did not return her smile. She saw his gaze sharpen on something behind her.

She wheeled about, and found Mr. Thornton standing in the doorway, a look of disapproval on his face. His darkening glance took in the glasses and the bottle on the table.

"Doctor Donaldson, have you been plying Miss Hale with spirits?" he asked in a grave voice.

"Yes, Mr. Thornton, I have," the doctor replied in a dignified tone. "Miss Hale was in hysterics when she reached my office, a delayed reaction to her mother's death. Rather than slap her or administer a sedative, I gave her a medicinal shot of whiskey." He ruined this somber speech by winking at Meg, which set her off into a fit of giggles.

"Medicinal shot of whiskey, was it?" Mr. Thornton said grimly. "I believe you both are drunk." Turning to Meg, he explained. "Miss Hale, I have just come from your house. Your father is worried that you have been gone several hours and left him no word of where you were going. I guessed that you might be here, or in Princeton, and told him I would find you."

Instantly repentant, Meg gathered her shawl around her and turned to Doctor Donaldson. "Thank you," she said in a soft voice, "for the whiskey and for listening to me." She kissed him gently on the cheek, and he chucked her under the chin.

"You are a good girl, Meg," he said gruffly. "If I had a daughter, I would want her to be just like you." He leaned forward, and whispered in her ear, "Remain silent about what we spoke of earlier. Not a word to anyone."

She nodded and gave his arm a squeeze. "I will. I shall see you tomorrow."

As she moved toward the door, she stumbled and Mr. Thornton caught her by the arms and without thinking steadied her against his chest. She laid her head on his shoulder for a brief moment, relishing the contact, before she remembered that she had vowed to keep her distance from him.

With exaggerated dignity, she pulled herself upright, and looked up at him with her luminous eyes. "I am sorry," she said, enunciating each word with painful precision, "but I seem to be a bit off balance. If I walk in the fresh air, I shall feel right soon enough."

Mr. Thornton grimaced, and grasped her arm. "Miss Hale, please hold my arm and let me walk you home. You are in no shape to go alone."

Meg protested, but he would listen to no argument. Before she quite realized how it came about, she was strolling down the streets of Milton with her hand firmly ensconced in the crook of Mr. Thornton's arm.

They did not speak at first, but walked along lost in their thoughts. Meg thought Mr. Thornton was disgusted with her-since her refusal of his proposal, every encounter appeared to give him a deeper dislike of her, with the crowning moment of her fall from grace being what he had observed at the train station. What he had witnessed in the doctor's office would no doubt put her beyond the pale in his esteem.

Mr. Thornton, however, was not thinking of the scene in the doctor's office, as she suspected. He was deeply troubled by information recently imparted to him by Inspector Mason concerning the case involving a man's death at the train station. Mr. Thornton knew that Miss Hale had been at the Outwood Station that fateful night, but according to Mason, she denied that she had been there.

Mr. Thornton did not suspect her of taking part in the unfortunate incident, but he was deeply troubled that she would not tell the truth. It implied that she indeed had something to hide. He had told Mason that he would look into the case, but had no idea how to proceed. He did not want to ask her point blank what she had been doing at the station that night, and why she had lied. In truth, he was afraid of what she might reveal. He did not think he could bear to have her confess that she had been with the man she loved that night, and that she was doing all that she could to shelter that man from exposure. Yet, for all that, he felt he had to ask.

"Miss Hale," he began in a determined tone, "I must ask you...."

She interrupted him. "Please, Mr. Thornton. I am not up to answering questions at this time. I am tired and I don't feel well." She was growing sober and felt more than a little sick. Please don't ask me questions that I cannot answer truthfully, she thought in panic. She was terrified that if he questioned her too closely, she would crumple and pour out the whole story to him, and he would have to act in the capacity of the magistrate that he was.

His heart fell at her refusal to even entertain his queries, and he despaired of her character. It was impossible, he thought, given all that had happened that he should love her still. Yet - he did love her still. He impatiently pushed the thought away. Given her actions with that unknown man, he could not allow himself the weakness of loving her, he thought resolutely. However, he could save her as she had saved him. The silence stretched between them, and he searched for a topic of conversation to lessen the tension between them.

"Miss Hale," he said suddenly, "I noticed the other day that that union man, Higgins, was visiting your home. Are you friends with him?"

She looked up at him in surprise. "Yes, he is my friend. He recently lost his daughter, who was a very good friend of mine. He is now working at the clinic with Doctor Donaldson, sweeping and helping with the patients."

"Do you think it is a good idea to concern yourself with the lives of men such as Higgins?" he asked.

She stopped walking and pulled her hand from his arm. "What do you mean by 'men such as Higgins'? He is a man, like you. He may not be a master, but he has a dignity and purpose in life just as you do."

Mr. Thornton was aggravated at the turn the conversation had taken, "I know that. However, I believe it may not be such a good idea for you to involve yourself in his life, or the lives of the people in Princeton."

"Why? Don't you, as a master, concern yourself in the lives of your workers?" she asked curiously.

"No, I do not," he replied promptly. "If they do their work and keep to their hours, I am satisfied. I am neither their father nor their brother, to concern myself with what they do in their off hours."

"But surely you are interested in how they live, how they get on?" she asked, almost pleadingly.