What You Wish For (12 page)

The dinner was exquisite, though given how rich the food was and how restricting her corset was, Carrie finally understood why ladies in the Victorian era seemed to nibble their food, rather than eat it.

Mostly the women just listened while the men talked, until finally the conversation turned to the taboo subject of the strike.

Fanny questioned Margaret about her taking food to the Princeton district and Margaret explained about John Boucher and his starving children.

“
Well, he knows what to do,” Hamper said. “Go back to work.”

“
If only it were that easy,” Carrie sighed.

“
I'm sorry?” Mr Thornton asked her.

Carrie blushed, for she hadn't meant to say that out loud.

“
I said, if only it were as easy as just going back to work.”

“
Why wouldn't it be?” Hamper asked her.

“
The unions have immense power over these men,” she explained. “If they refuse to join the union or go against the strike, they become outcasts among their people. No one will help them, speak to them or even look at them. Imagine living your life being shunned by everyone around you? Who here would be brave enough to defy the union under threat of those penalties?”

“
How do you know this?” Mr Thornton asked her.

“
I read a lot and have learned something of the union practices.” Well she could hardly say that she had read about it in North and South, could she?

“
So you're telling me that if a man returns to work without the backing of the union, he's an outcast?” Mr Southard asked, seemingly very interested in this news, even though he had nothing to do with manufacturing.

“
Yes,” she confirmed.

“
For how long?” Mr Slickson asked.

“
Until they tow the line again by doing whatever it is the union wants them to do, I suppose. There are many men who would dearly love to return to work, and many who didn't want to strike in the first instance, but they are afraid of the repercussions if they do not do as the union says.”

The men looked at each other, all wondering if this was true and if so, how it would affect them.

“
Mr Higgins has said something similar to me, about the ways and means of the unions,” Margaret confirmed. “And I know for a fact that Boucher would like to return to work.”

“
It looks as though both sides in this war know very little of what the other side is up to,” Mr Southard observed. “The workers think you are cutting their pay to increase your profits rather than weathering hard times, while you think that each and every worker sides with the union, when it appears that many don't.”

“
Perhaps if you could talk with the union leaders,” Margaret added, smiling at the M.P. “You might be able to come to an understanding.”

“
There's too much distrust,” Slickson said.

“
Aye, for you,” Mr Thornton said pointedly.

The conversation moved on after that but as the women left to go to the drawing room, Carrie could hear the conversation turn back to the union. She wanted to stay and hear what they had to say (and maybe share their cigars and brandy!) but that would not be seemly in this day and age.

The men joined the ladies again a little later, but soon afterwards the evening broke up. As their carriage pulled away from the house, Carrie couldn't help but look back at the house and was surprised to see Mr Thornton still on the front step, watching her leave.

She was not surprised to see Mrs Thornton watching from the sitting room, like some Greek goddess surveying her subjects. The look she gave Carrie did not show great affection and indeed if she had possessed the power of the Greek gods, Carrie was in little doubt that after receiving such a harsh look, she would be turning to stone right about now.

A few days later Dr Donaldson suggested that they ask to borrow the Thornton's water mattress for Mrs Hale, since he believed it would help her to rest more easily. Margaret offered to go and Carrie was both pleased and devastated.

She was pleased because this was a pivotal point in John and Margaret's relationship but she was devastated because selfishly, she wanted to keep Mr Thornton's affection to herself.

But she knew that this must happen, that Margaret must protect Mr Thornton, and so she bit her tongue and stayed home while Margaret went to enquire about the mattress.

When Margaret returned home little more than an hour later, unharmed and without having seen Mr Thornton, Carrie grew worried.

Surely today was the day of the riot? Had her presence in this place altered events to such a degree that there would be no riot?

Somehow Carrie couldn't believe that.

“
What was the town like?” Carrie asked.

“
Very quiet, actually. I'm not sure what is going on but there is hardly a soul about.”

Carrie's heart sank, for she knew exactly where everyone was, working themselves up into a frenzy before they marched on Marlborough Mill.

Without Margaret's influence though, Mr Thornton would surely stay in the house where it was safe, while the soldiers handled the rioters. But things had already changed, because Margaret had not seen Mr Thornton when she visited the mill. What if he was caught in the yard this time? Or if the rioters managed to break into the mill and attack the Irish workers hiding in there?

“
Margaret, I think you should return to the mill; I think we need to warn Mr Thornton.”

“
About what?” Margaret asked, confused by her statement.

“
I think that the workers are about to attack the mill.”

“
Whatever for?”

“
Did you not see faces in the mill window while you were there?”

“
I saw no one but Williams and Mrs Thornton.”

“
Well Mr Thornton has brought Irish workers over and the strikers aren't happy. They're going to start a riot.” Her voice was rising with panic and Margaret was starting to give her strange looks.

“
I hardly think that is likely, Carrie. Mr Higgins has stated time and again that this is to be a peaceful protest and that there will be no violence.”

“
Can't you just take my word for it?” Carrie asked. “Please.”

Margaret looked indecisive for a moment and Carrie thought that she might be able to persuade her to return to the mill, but just then Mrs Hale called for her daughter.

“
I must go to my mother.”

Carrie sighed. With no other option, she grabbed a shawl and headed out, running most of the way to the mill. The streets were quiet, eerily so but thankfully she reached Marlborough Mill without incident and knocked on the gates. Williams, the overlooker, let her in.

“
Where's Mr Thornton?” she asked.

“
You'd best wait in t'ouse, Miss, I'll find Mr Thornton.”

“
No, you don't understand. I think the strikers are coming. They know about Mr Thornton's Irish workers and they're going to attack the mill.”

Williams paled but nodded.

“
Get in t'ouse, Miss. I'll tell t'master.”

“
No, we need to barricade the gates!” she argued.

“
They're locked,” he assured her, but Carrie knew they would give away to the strikers eventually.

“
Fine, you go and find Mr Thornton, I'll stay with Mrs Thornton,” she said, taking two steps towards the house but when Williams ran into the mill, Carrie turned and headed back towards the gate.

There was a cart not far away, loaded with cotton bales. She thought that if she could move it in front of the gates, it might shore them up for a while.

Thankfully, though it was heavy, the cart moved fairly easily and she managed to manoeuvre it sideways on to the gate, so that it could not roll away when the gates struck it. She then placed stones in front of and behind each wheel, to stop it moving easily, and stepped back just in time to hear the roar of the crowd as it advanced on the mill. She backed away.

Suddenly she felt strong arms encircling her waist, and she was lifted off her feet and carried into Mr Thornton's house.

Chapter Eight

“
Put me down!” Carrie cried and finally Mr Thornton set her back on her feet and locked the front door behind them.

“
What were you thinking, placing yourself in danger like that?” He sounded angry.

“
I was thinking that I didn't want anything to happen to you or your mill. Besides, I had plenty of time to accomplish my task.”

“
Foolish woman!” he said, dashing a hand through his hair.

“
You'd better go and check on your mother,” Carrie said. When he left, she made her way into the front parlour and watched the crowds as they pushed against the gate. “Come on,” she said under her breath, willing the soldiers to arrive before the gates gave way.

Mr Thornton returned a moment later.

“
You should step away from the window,” he said. “Mother and Fanny are at the back of the house; it's safest back there.”

“
No, I want to see what's happening.”

“
Don't you ever think about your own safety?” he almost shouted. “What if they were to throw a brick at the window?"

“
They haven't broken through the gate yet, they're too far away.”

How wrong could a person be, she wondered a few moments later as a stone hurtled towards the window. She just had time to push John out of the way and turn her back but as the shattered glass washed over her, she could feel a piece of it slice into her upper arm. She had no time to think about that however, since Mr Thornton was lying on the ground, unmoving.

“
Oh God!” she cried, rushing to his side. She heard the whistles from the soldiers when they arrived, and the cries as the rioters began falling under their attack, but she paid them no attention because Mr Thornton's head was bleeding where it had impacted with a table. Her attempt to save him might well have killed him!

“
Come on, Mr Thornton, wake up!” she called, tapping his cheek.

When he refused to rouse she cried out for help and moments later Mrs Thornton, Fanny and two maids entered to see her kneeling over his body, cupping his face.

“
Please, John, you can't die! Wake up.”

“
Fetch the doctor,” Mrs Thornton said to Jane, one of the maids. Although she was just as concerned for her son as Carrie was, she had years more practice at controlling her emotions.

“
But the rioters!” Jane protested.

“
Fine.” Unwilling to wait a moment longer than necessary, Mrs Thornton could see that she was the only one brave enough to summon the help her son needed, and she left without another word.

“
Help me get him to the sofa,” Carrie said and the two maids ran forward to assist her. Fanny was talking nonsense, wondering what would happen to them all if John died but Carrie couldn't think about that yet.

“
Do you have any ice?” she asked one of the maids.

“
Ice?”

“
Yes, you know, frozen water.”

“
No ma'am.”

“
Then get me a cloth and the coldest water you can find.” Jane just looked at her as though she had spoken in a foreign language. “Now!” Carrie barked, and Jane scurried away.

Carrie parted Mr Thornton's hair to get a good look at the wound, and tried to clean the blood up as best she could with his handkerchief. She knew that head wounds always bled a lot and so this might not be as serious as it looked. She held the handkerchief over the wound and applied pressure since there was little else she could do until Jane returned. Thankfully it wasn't long before the maid came back with a bowl of water and a small towel.

“
I drew it fresh from t'well so its nice and cold,” Jane said, placing the bowl and towel on the floor beside Carrie.

“
Thank you.” Carrie dipped the towel in the water, which was indeed very cold, and wiped the rest of the blood away. She rinsed the rag out a few times, then pressed it over his wound. The cold should help lessen the swelling and stop the blood flow.

With little else to do, she sat by his side and took his hand in her free one, letting her tears fall unchecked.

“
Okay, John, I know you can hear me. You can't leave me, okay? This is all my fault, I have messed everything up but you can't die because then I can never put things right! You... you don't know how much you mean to me.” Her next words were so soft that only Jane was close enough to hear. “I love you.”

Moments later John finally began to rouse and Carrie breathed a sigh of relief.

“
Oh, thank god! How do you feel?” she asked.

“
As though my head is about to explode.”

She helped him sit up.

“
What's your name?” she asked.

“
What?” He sounded confused.

“
Your name?” she repeated firmly.

“
John Thornton.”

Carrie held up two fingers.

“
How many fingers am I holding up?”

“
Two.”

“
What year is it?”

“
1855.”

“
And who is the prime minister.” She suddenly realised that she had no idea herself who the prime minister was, rendering the question rather useless.