Page 11 of Cinders and Smoke

Managing Director

Darcy-Bingley Enterprises

Thornton grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and scrawled a wire to the man who ran Great Britain’s largest industrial conglomerate, an empire spread across a dozen industries and three continents. Higgins agreed to dispatch one of his watchers to the railway station’s telegraph office.

When Marlborough’s new overseer returned, Thornton explained what he had been about. “I have presumed upon a very limited acquaintance with the man who runs DBE. I explained to Mr. Thomas Johnson that I have a complex problem with excess labor. I wondered if he could employ any of our Irish workers who are surplus to our requirements and are willing to work in DBE’s Manchester mills. I told him I would happily pay their train fare and one month’s housing allowance.

“I am not certain how Mr. Johnson will reply, but by all accounts, DBE is a generous employer and is constantly expanding. I hope that he will listen to my appeal.”

Margaret looked troubled. “What about those who do not want to work in a factory but wish to return to farming: what of them?”

Higgins straightened. “Wull, Miss Margaret, while Master Thornton seems ta hae some connection with one side of th’ Derbyshire lot, I might ’elp with t’uther.

“Ye may recall my stories about my days at Selkirk. ’Twasn’t all shovelin’ horse manure, ye know. Got to know Mr. Tomkins, Selkirk’s steward—’e was not much more than an ’opped-up footman then—and I would wager that ’e might ’elp find some open tenant farms at Selkirk, Pemberley, and Thornhill.”

Thornton continued and completed Higgins’s thought. “I am certain that Marlborough might find a way to cover one year’s reduced rent.”

Higgins looked offended. “Nay, Mr. Thornton, the estates’ masters would never presume on your good nature. I am sure they would follow old Mr. Bennet’s practice after Mr. Watson’s mill burned down in Meryton in the year eleven. ’E let sever’l families live on ’is estate rent-free until their first ’arvest came in.”

Another telegram was composed and dispatched to Matlock.

∞∞∞

Watching the exchange between the two men, Margaret’s heart softened. She had always seen Nicholas as a kindly uncle, perhaps even a bit of a father, because his bluff nature was so different from her bookish parent. Observing him with John, she saw the young man soaking up paternal direction. Thornton’s need for an older man in his life had never been more apparent than in the last hours. And his open acceptance of Nicholas tipped something deep inside of Miss Hale. She looked more closely at the master of Marlborough Mills.

And saw something that disturbed her.

Her left hand shot out and grasped Thornton’s left wrist, turning it to confirm what she had seen.

Thornton winced—not at the idea of her touching him but at the absolute fact that her grip was…

He winced and inhaled sharply.

“John,” she urgently prodded, “what is this?”

When she let go, he lifted his arm and turned it, looking at his forearm.

An ugly bruise covered three inches of skin, purpling where it was not green and yellow. “I have no idea. I noticed it earlier. I must have banged it upon something.”

“Something quite hard, I think, young sir,” rumbled Donaldson, who strode over. “If you would allow me a moment here.” The doctor carefully lowered the young man's arm after appropriate manipulations accompanied by ‘hmmms’ from Donaldson and small yips from Thornton.

The doctor looked at Margaret. “You may recall, Miss Hale, my opinion that your head injury would have been much worse but for a fortunate deflection of the rock.”

He pointed at Thornton’s arm. “The size and shape of Mr. Thornton’s contusion tell me that he instinctively shielded you from the incoming missile. He could not prevent the impact entirely, but, like the duke said, ‘It was a close-run thing.’ As Wickham did for the nation at Hougoumont, Mr. Thornton undoubtedly saved you.

“I fear that you are beginning to pay the price for your heroism, young man. I do not believe your arm is broken, but you can surely expect considerable swelling.”

Margaret teared at the idea that Thornton had suffered for her audacity in approaching the mob. Thornton leaned toward her at the catch in her throat while Donaldson busied himself padding and wrapping the bruise. “Now, none of that, Miss Margaret, none of that. Your bravery was inspiring to see. That I was too slow to join you on the front line will be to my everlasting shame. You began this night as a gentleman’s daughter, so far above my aspirations yet, to my mind, still within reach.”

Then he gulped and looked down, his native insecurity overtaking him. “Then the realities of my life harshly imposed themselves upon your person.

“How can I hope to raise myself in your regard? I am naught but a glorified mechanic and a suicide’s son. You are Milton’s treasure.”

∞∞∞

His humility and despair broke Margaret’s heart. She gripped his right hand, stopping his recriminations. “John Thornton: to use your own words, none of that! The question of station is utter foolishness. I may have been born to a man and woman of gentle birth. That fact does not confer greater goodness upon me than Mr. Higgins’s darling Bessy.

“There is a young woman in full possession of the virtue to which I would aspire. She looks not at her lot in this world, but instead to the place she will occupy in our Father’s kingdom. She should be the vicar’s daughter—not me.