A MOTHER'S FINAL GIFT

CHAPTER 8: FIFTY-FOUR MINUTES

CHAPTER 8:

FIFTY-FOUR MINUTES

Striding into the reassuring familiarity of the mill house, John Thornton was relieved to know that his mother and sister would not be present, for they were currently dining with the Latimers. John's attendance had likewise been requested, but he had declined, on account of the volume of work that demanded his attention. This was the main justification for his spurning of the solicitation, but frankly, he rather suspected that the others harboured a ploy to push him and Miss Latimer together − a plan he did not support one little bit.

Anne Latimer was amiable enough and he had no real reason to dislike her, for after all, he was a single man, and could do whatever he darn well pleased. He was just not in the mood to be played like a pawn in a tasteless game. Besides, his pathetic heart was otherwise engaged, gifted to a woman who had no desire for it. Either way, he was grateful for his family's absence, as for one, he could not temper their pestering about his state of dress, his injuries, or whether he had eaten enough. But more so, he was thankful that he would not have to defend his intention to visit the Hales to his mother, who no doubt, would have a few choice words to say on the matter.

Darting up the stairs, he elected to take a bath. He instructed the servants to make it hotter than usual, anticipating that the scorching water and climbing steam might sharpen his spent spirits. Wincing at the scalding intensity that assailed and near enough stewed his foot and ankle, John lowered himself into the copper tub. He scrubbed at his long limbs and strained muscles with rough zeal, spitefully hoping that his scouring would not only cleanse his skin, which was smeared in grit and sweat, but would rid him of his embedded feelings of humiliation.

Noting the large and darkening welt, which dominated most of his knee and shin, he fingered it softly, just to be certain that it was not fractured. Flinching, he glowered at the fact that the bitter battering and bruising he had felt at Miss Hale's refusal had previously been hidden within, but now, he had a bloody great shiner on the outside to prove it, like some sort of taunting mark of shame. After he could wash no more without blistering his flesh, he reclined in the bath, allowing himself to be soothed.

John decided to divert his focus by deliberating on business affairs. He embarked on mapping out his strategies for the following days and weeks, itemising his numerous tasks, appointments, and correspondence in his head. Matters at the mill had become more complicated than ever since the strike and he seemed to be constantly tackling fresh trials. Despite what others might think, the mill mattered more to him than affluence and position. No, those things had their merit, he supposed, but to him, the place and the livelihood held a much more personal importance.

After near enough a decade of constant deprivation, scrimping for every coin, just to keep a roof over his mother and sister's head, it was a relief to finally be able to work his way up to becoming a master and John was proud of himself for finding something he excelled at. So, that is why, for the past five years, he had devoted himself to Marlborough Mills, because to him, the buildings were not just brick and mortar, but rather, it was the first place he had truly felt at home, truly felt secure, truly felt alive, in ten long years.

But now, all that had changed. In the past, his work had been a solid foundation to clutch at, after an age of instability. No matter what happened in his personal life, or in the ever-shifting world around him, he could count on the logic that was machines, manufacturing, and Milton. However, since the walkout and riot which had been almost seven weeks ago−

He stopped abruptly.

An excruciating truth slashed at his core.

Almost seven weeks?