Somewhere in the World

Chapter 27

Lovell, Massachusetts

April 1864

Margaret sat by the parlor window in the waning afternoon sun. She knew she should light a lamp, but it was pleasant to sit and sew as the shadows lengthened and the breeze blew sweetly. She was hemming linen napkins; the set she had inherited from her mother had become frayed and stained from daily use, and she had decided it was time to create another set. She turned a final corner under and stitched it in place before setting it aside for Mrs. Thornton's embroidery needle. Margaret was adept at hemming, but could not match the precision and beauty of her mother-in-law's needlecraft. She was content to let the older woman sew the fussy monograms in crimson thread.

She stood at last and stretched, checking the watch pinned to her breast. It was too early for tea, too late to go to hospital. The mill's whistle would soon sound and Mrs. Thornton would return from her day spent working at the hospital; time enough to send for the tea tray then. Glancing out the window, she wondered where John was and what business kept him at the mill.

Once his fever had abated, Mr. Thornton had begun a steady if slow recovery. His leg would not bear his full weight at first, so he was forced to maneuver with the use of a crutch. His infection, combined with his time bedridden as an invalid, had sapped a good deal of his strength so that the smallest exertion left him exhausted. The herbal tinctures prescribed by Dr. Donaldson helped him sleep at night, but he seldom rose refreshed and he complained of headache. Over time, his wounds healed; although his leg bore an ugly scar, he had no physical complaints aside from a limp when he overexerted himself. Margaret knew that he prided himself that his limp was barely noticeable, and he faithfully used the cane his mother had commissioned from a local woodworker.

However, nightmares continued to haunt him. The first weeks after his return, he would cry out in his sleep several times a night, and awake bathed in a cold sweat. He would not discuss his dreams with Margaret, but she knew they concerned the horrors he had experienced on the battlefield. He shouted incoherent warnings so loudly that they drew her to him from her own room; and he often looked haunted when she woke him. As time passed, these incidents abated, but they never quite went away. Margaret had broached the subject with him several times, hoping he would share his trauma with her and thus rout his demons, but he smiled absently and claimed he did not remember.

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Bringing the mill back to operation had been a difficult endeavor that required the assistance of his mother and his brother-in-law. While he had been anchored to the settee in the parlor, some of Chilton's other mill owners and several representatives of the Army had paid him a visit. The Army officials explained that their troops were in grave need of uniforms, and asked if they could count on Chilton Mills and the other manufacturers to produce cloth for these uniforms. Mr. Thornton agreed, given the U.S. Government was willing to provide the funds to restart and refit the mills to produce the heavier cloth. It was agreed and the mills opened once more, providing employment for men too old to enlist, women, and returning soldiers.

The long hours involved in converting and operating Chilton Mills took a toll on the Master. He would arrive home so exhausted he could barely sit at table during dinner, and would doze off in his chair once the meal was finished. Margaret worried about a relapse, which made her short-tempered with him more often than she would like. She regretted her sharpness, and found herself close to tears as often as she gave way to her anger. She was confused and uncertain what to do.

He never spoke of the night she had shared a bed with him—she wondered if he remembered it at all, given his silence. And if he did remember, why did he not question her as to what happened? How strange he had no recollection of what had been so momentous for her; had their time apart cooled his ardor? Or did he still weigh her heedless and unkind actions early in their marriage in the balance—her constant turning from him to maintain a distance, her unkind refusal of his first proposal, her coldness in the early days of their marriage, and her bitter outburst at her mother's death. Late at night when she was unable to sleep, she recalled and regretted every unkind word or thoughtless gesture that might have brought him pain, and soaked her pillow with hot tears.