‘When rising out of the darkness, and one eye opens, then the other…that is the happiest of moments.’

Elizabeth Bennet wakes up, happy to be alive after the riot. But she is not the only invalid. For Kitty, Raspberry, and Margaret Hale also suffered infliction and injury from the fray.

In their efforts to recover, there is Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mr. Thornton who oversees their ladies. They are now fully confronting their desires, and there is no going back. While all this occurs, tragedy still looms in the distance from both the North and the South, in ways that were unforeseen.

Here comes Book III of the Austen Gaskell series!

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Release Date: March 18, 2025
Genre: Historical Romance | Reimagining

A Pink Satin Romance

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Excerpt

Chapter One
Flashes

The Afternoon Ride

 

Half an hour before the riot, Plato Pitcher was riding along, headed towards Frances Street to visit the Bennets and see if his sister was there, when he came upon a strange sight.

Nothing.

In all his time in Milton, he had never come upon the street where there was no one walking about. For reasons that he could not deduce, he was filled with an extreme foreboding, for the silence hung about his instincts with an intense darkness.

Something was wrong.

He could not account for his rash assumption, but something was very wrong indeed.

Dismounting, he knocked on the Bennets’ door and received no word.

“Miss Bennet?” he called. “Miss Elizabeth, Miss Kitty?”

“Mr. Pitcher!”

Plato turned to where his name was called, and he saw Mary Higgins rushing toward him from her doorway. Despite all logic, Plato couldn’t help but view this as the second sign that something was irregular. Mary Higgins barely ever spoke, and when she did, it was rarely ever so loud.

“Miss Mary?” he asked, “What’s wrong here?”

“Have yer heard, sir?”

“No, I haven’t. Something feels strange, and I don’t like it.”

“Yer one of those second sight fellas, eh?” she asked, her voice a little winded. “Did yer hear about the riot tha’ might be happenin’ at Marlborough Mills?”

“Riot?” Plato repeated, his eyebrows scrunching together in surprise.

“Many of the workers found out about the Irish that Thornton brought in to end the strike and they are marchin’ there.”

Putting his arm on her shoulder, concerned, he lowered his voice.

“Crowds like that have been known to get violent. Did Thornton send for the officers?”

“Don’t know ‘bout that,” Mary pressed, “but Plato...the ladies are there.”

“Ladies? Mary, what ladies?”

“Yer sister, Plato. She went there with Lizzy, Margaret, and Kitty. They went to warn Thornton.”

The third sign had come and now his forebodings had come true.

Over Mary’s shoulder, Plato saw Bessy Higgins leaning weakly in her doorway, a heavy shawl around her shoulder and her face sickly.

“Yea, Plato,” Bessy supported, “they went. We’re scared.”

“Oh god,” Plato said. Without thinking another minute, Plato climbed on top of his horse and looked to Bessy and Mary. “Stay inside until this is ended. Commoners don’t want to be on the street if a riot breaks loose. Soldiers won’t be able to tell the difference between an innocent and the guilty running for their lives.”

Egging his horse on, he rode away and headed to Marlborough Mills. Filial duty and devotion took over his instincts and he didn’t take heed to being one man versus a mob.

As he dashed away, Mary went to her doorway as Bessy watched him go.

“What can he do?” Mary asked.

“Help, I guess,” Bessy said. “Then again...he could get hurt, couldn’ he?”

“And we told him to go there.”

“Rasby is his sister. We did right, Mary. Aye, we did.”

 

* * *

 

“Thank you,” Mr. Darcy said as he purchased some meat from the best butcher in Milton. Time had taught him not to bring flowers to the Bennet sisters. After all, they lived in a way where practical gifts meant much more. He grinned down at the side of pork that he had purchased, for the times had dramatically shifted. One poor sonnet would not suit Lizzy. One set of flowers would satisfy her eye, but not her needs. One purchase of ribbon or sheet of music just would not do!

If Elizabeth Bennet were to fall in love with him one day—which he believed that there was a chance of—then he could shower her with all the more traditional ways of doting on a proper lady later. However, her station in life, at present, had obliged him to think very differently, and he wanted to show her how much he was trying.

How much he was taking notice of the shift in her life.

How he was enhancing his outlook on people of profession.

How he wanted to help.

Slowly and surely, he was finding more pathways into her mind and soul, and that was the source and means through which he could finally enter her heart.

He put the meat in his leather bag, slung it over his shoulder and got onto his horse. The state of his being was that of comfortable ease and a sense of self-assurance when he turned onto another street and was surprised when Plato Pitcher was racing down the road, shocking all the passersby. His riding was neither practical, nor prudent for a man who was riding along public streets.

‘Plato,’ Darcy thought, ‘what the devil are you about?’

Realizing that he could not let such reckless riding go on, Darcy rode his horse through the traffic and intercepted Plato.

“Plato!” Darcy roared, about to grab Plato’s reins, ‘slow down, man!”

“I can’t!” Plato cried as Darcy rode alongside him, “They’re in danger, Darcy. I have to help them.”

“Danger? Who?”

“My sister, Kitty and Elizabeth!”

When hearing Lizzy’s name, Darcy’s eyes widened. His spirit transitioned from reprimanding to inquiring.

“What’s happened to Lizzy?” Darcy cried.

“They went to Marlborough Mills to warn the Thorntons about rioters who were coming there. They might be trapped!”

The powers of implication and imagination! Mr. Darcy’s mind jumped from an image of Elizabeth, to seeing her locked in a room while rioters broke in, to get to the family. Then the hungry and enraged faces of the rioters pressed against her beautiful countenance—and any violence that could occur afterwards.

His blood was on fire. His heart raced. For when the unknown attacks the desire to protect someone, a flame ignites from within.

Elizabeth had to be kept safe! Nothing else in the world mattered besides that.

Both men raced along and eventually they reached Marlborough Mills.

 

* * *

 

Margaret’s Declaration

After Elizabeth, Kitty, and Rasby had left to calm down the Irish workers, Margaret watched their progression from the window.

Every instinct to join them was awake, but Lizzy was right. She had to remain there, in case Mr. Darcy returned, and he had gotten caught up in the mob. Either way, she was helping and this way, she could see if any threat were to enter the Mill’s courtyard. And she was correct to.

“Oh my god!” Fanny Thornton cried, “they are here! They’re at the gates!”

“Fanny,” Mrs. Thornton declared as the three women pressed their faces against the window and saw the angry crowd bash against the gates, trying to get to the poor Irish workers who were huddled up in the mill. “Fanny, call John in from the Mill!”

“He might be safer there than out in the open!” Fanny cried. “Look! They might get in!”

Mrs. Thornton gave her daughter a harsh look, Fanny relented, and she left.

“True,” Margaret said, gentler. Her eyes were wide in alarm and also filled with empathy when she looked down at the crowd. She recognized some of the people who were rushing in. Among them was Boucher. Next to him was Custer, the man that Thornton dismissed from his service for being neglectful in the sorting room.

Why did Boucher have to get involved in this? In fact, by the way that he was climbing the gate, he might have even been the one who was leading the mob.

“My word!” Margaret uttered as she watched the crowd push their bodies against the gate, to get inside. “they are using their bodies as battering rams. And retreating a short space, only to come with more united steady impetus against it.”

“And it’s working,” a servant cried. “Look! The gates are giving way!”

Margaret watched Fanny as she left the house, but she didn’t have to go far. Thornton had exited the mill all on his own and had been coming to the house. When Fanny met him, she jumped when she heard the mob roar out, still pushing themselves against the gate. Thornton held her and helped Fanny back into the house. Despite her best intentions, Margaret couldn’t help but resent Fanny’s want of courage. She seemed to be too delicate for her liking—afterwards, she dismissed her harsh judgments. Fanny Thornton was not her favorite person, but the scene was a frightening one, and perhaps Fanny couldn’t help but be terrified. Many people would feel the same sort of trepidation.

“Foolish child,” Mrs. Thornton hissed, nearby.

Now that was going too far. Even though Fanny’s feelings did not have any special place in Margaret’s heart, but Mrs. Thornton ought to have understood that this whole experience was scary to her daughter.

They heard the door open and close, rushed footsteps, and they turned to see Fanny bursting into the room, her cheeks red from the hysterics.

“They hate us!” Fanny cried. “They want to kill us!”

Mrs. Thornton rushed to her and held her as Fanny was on the point of collapsing on the floor.

Mr. Thornton had entered and had approached his mother and sister, ignorant of Margaret’s attendance, for she was still at the window, half-hidden by a curtain.

“The gate holds for now,” Thornton uttered, looking at the yard.

“But not for much longer,” Mrs. Thornton responded, helping Fanny to the sofa. “How soon will the soldiers get here?”

“Perhaps in a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. Just in case, remain here.”

“Miss Hale,” Mrs. Thornton called to Margaret, “come from the window, in case they break in and throw stones at the glass.”

“Miss Hale?” Thornton questioned, unaware that she was present. He turned around and his face grew flushed when he saw Margaret there, peering around the curtain. As if things were not horrible enough! She already had much against his profession and habits, and now she was going to see this? This was more confirmation and more against his favor. He had been progressing at making himself more endearing to her, and now he felt the drawbacks of the reality of his life.

He looked in Margaret’s eyes, and he saw the disturbance that lay there. She didn’t look resentful at him, but the tragedy of the starving workers naturally would draw her sympathy toward them, and apathy toward himself. This was everything that he didn’t want. Would their dance at the dinner party now mean nothing?

“Mr. Thornton,” Miss Hale said, “Lizzy, Rasby, and Kitty sought you in the factory. Did you find them?”

“I did.” He breathed. “They are safe in there, I promise. That door is heavily solid.”

“More solid than the gate?” Margaret questioned, ignoring Mrs. Thornton’s words, and remaining at the window. “Mr. Thornton, I think they are making progress, sir. Look!”

Happy that she was talking to him with nothing more or less than bravery and tolerance, he joined her at the window and did indeed see the gate buckling under the mob’s progress.

“I am sorry,” Thornton apologized, “that you have visited us at this unfortunate moment, Miss Hale. I fear, you may be involved in whatever risk we have to bear.”

Margaret looked at him, resolute.

“Sir, I am here. And I am not afraid.”

They both looked into each other’s eyes and there was an intensity. However, that connection came from two different perspectives that both thought they shared but really didn’t.

On Margaret’s side was the feeling of triumph. She dreaded that her courage should fail her in any emergency, for she feared being a coward. But now, in this real great time of reasonable fear and nearness of terror, she forgot herself, and felt only an intense sympathy—intense to painfulness—in the interests of the moment. She conquered any fear and wanted this to be evident.

On Thornton’s side, he felt that their souls had connected, and she was supporting him. She would not buckle and break under the weight of the moment but stand by him and rally to his side. In that moment, she was everything that he ever wanted.

He desired her. In ways that he could not ever utter.

Tearing his eyes away from the depth of hers, he turned to his mother.

“Mother! You should go to the backrooms and take Fanny with you. Whatever happens, you both will be safer there than in here.” He turned to Jane, the servant. “Jane, go!”

Jane and some other servants left the room, with Fanny crying.

“Not me, John,” Mrs. Thornton said, turning to her son, determined. “I stop here! Where you are, I’m staying.”

Margaret watched as both mother and son looked on each other, with a strong understanding of family loyalty. Whatever she felt for Mrs. Thornton, Margaret could not help but appreciate the protectiveness she had for her son’s life. Their silent strength clashed with the cries and shrieks of the servants in the house, and it reminded Margaret of the hysteria. She looked away from them and back to the factory.

“Lizzy, Kitty and Rasby,” Margaret whispered, “please be safe.”

 

* * *

 

When hearing Margaret’s whispering, Thornton turned back to her and watched her countenance. There she was, standing still at the window that was nearest the factory. Her eyes glittered, her color was deepened on her cheek and lip. She was beautiful!

“Your friends will be safe in there, I believe,” Thornton assured her, “the door is strong.”

“I hope so. I don’t want anything to happen to them or your new workers. Mr. Thornton, the gate is breaking!”

“Shut the windows!” Thornton cried, “shut them, Miss Hale and mama.”

Margaret did so, then helped Mrs. Thornton, whose hands were trembling. While doing so, Mrs. Thornton didn’t look gracious, but contemptuous. Margaret understood her well. Mrs. Thornton was not happy that Margaret saw her showing any sign of weakness. And for Margaret to see it, of all people! The pride of the matter!

Then came the dreaded sound. Of wood creaking, suffering under the weight of bodies pressing against it.  Through the window, they saw the mob’s progress. The gates had now broken and fell over.

The angry mob, mad and starving, had come pouring into the courtyard. They raced in, roaring violently.

“Oh, no!” Fanny cried. “We are going to die. We…” She collapsed in her mother’s arms. Mrs. Thornton, with the help of another servant, picked her up and carried her up the stairs.

“Miss Hale, it would be best if you went with my mother,” Thornton said.

Even though Margaret would have said no at the order, she was too busy focused on the angry voices and stomps that filled Marlborough Mills. She remained by the window, watching the crowd.

“What is to be done?” Margaret said. “How can we calm them?”

“The soldiers will be the chief influence.”

Margaret’s eyes widened at the implications of this.

“Soldiers?”

“Yes. Let them yell! I hope the Irishmen are not terrified by this.”

“They’ve gotten to the door and are banging against it,” Margaret observed, horrified, for her friends were also in there. “That door must hold.”

“Keep up your courage for five more minutes,” Thornton pressed.

“I am not afraid, nor be afraid for me. But five minutes? For the soldiers to come here? Can you do nothing to soothe them, to calm them down? They are poor creatures.”

“The soldiers will be here directly, and that will make them see reason.”

Margaret was horrified. She knew that Thornton had a harsh outlook on his workers, but how much colder was he?

“To reason!” she spat. “What kind of reason?”

“The only reason that does with men that make themselves into wild beasts.”

“Mr. Thornton,” Margaret declared, emboldened, “go down there this instant. Do not be a coward. You are better than this if you just tell yourself so. If you go down there, face them like a man, and listen to them, there will be no need for the officers to exercise your idea of ‘reason’. Speak to your workmen as if they are human beings, for they are! They are starving and driven mad from an inability to support their families. They have been driven to this. Please, show your quality. If you have any courage within you, go out and speak to them, man to man. This will keep them from the mill door, where I am sure that my friends are defending your Irishmen. Protect them and listen to your workers.”

Every word that she said touched him and even went so far as to drown out the enraged voices that rang throughout the mill yard.

“You are right,” he uttered. “When I am outside, do me the courtesy of bolting the door behind me.”

Turning his heel, he left her. Once he disappeared, Margaret immediately regretted her passionate words. What if she was wrong? What if the mob hurt him?

She looked at the crowd again and saw that the mob was bashing themselves against the door. They were going to make their way into the factory, where her friends and the Irish were.

Elizabeth, Kitty, Rasby, the Irishmen, and Mr. Thornton—all of them were in danger.

She would not have it!

“Nothing must happen to them,” she declared. “Nothing must happen.”

She rushed down the stairs, to see Mr. Thornton open the door. With one last look at her, he exited. Margaret did as he instructed and fastened the door behind him.

She leaned against the wood, closing her eyes as she rested her forehead against the door, steadying herself.

Lizzy, Rasby, and Kitty were in the mill house.

Thornton was outside, under her instruction.

She was the one who had not joined her friends.

She was the one who sent Mr. Thornton out there—and placed him in untold danger.

The weight of responsibility, duty, and compassion rose within her.

The workers had the right to voice their complaints.

But Thornton had the right to be protected.

Just as she needed to do whatever she could to keep them from breaking into the mill and attacking her friends and the Irish.

May my courage never leave me, Margaret thought to herself as she became resolved. She unbolted the door, breathed in one last time, opened it, and felt the light overwhelm her as she stepped out of the house and joined Mr. Thornton on his stoop.

And she could not have come out a moment too soon. She was met by a sea of angry men who were shouting, roaring out frantically, rebelling against Mr. Thornton, who they felt committed the worst crime of all by sending for the Irish. In their eyes was the fiery passion that sweeps over anyone when they are possessed by the mania that occurs when you decide to become an angry mob. Individual and independent thought dies, and you all become one collective. When looking on the mob, Margaret saw how young many of the men were. Most of them were teenagers, mere boys! They had turned cruel and thoughtless. Some were men, gaunt as wolves, and thirsting for their prey. Like Boucher, they had starving children at home, and they had been driven mad from hunger, an inability to receive higher wages, provide for their families and also were starving themselves. Circumstances maybe had turned them into wild creatures. But reason could bring them back. She had to hope.

“Miss Hale!” Thornton cried, worried about her being out there with him. Margaret, however, was not going to shy away from her purpose now. Raising up her hands, she appealed to the crowd.

“Please!” she cried to the crowd, “do not use violence! He is one man, and you are many.” She raised her voice even more. “Go! The soldiers have been sent for and they come now. Go peacefully. You shall have relief from your complaints, whatever they are. If you will only appeal calmly from this day forth!”

Boucher came forward, roaring to Thornton.

“Will you send the Irish away?” Boucher cried, threatening and with a fiery rage.

“Never!” Mr. Thornton roared, standing next to Margaret.

Internally, Margaret felt defeated. This last declaration would be the final straw that broke the mob’s mentality. And it did so. Thornton’s staunch defiance instantly led to an uproar. The storm clouds fell over the crowd, the angry shouting filled the air, Margaret saw the mob pick up objects, threatening to throw them at their stubborn master. She knew the meaning. Thornton was in danger, and it was all her fault.

Only one thought came to her: she must save him.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she placed her body in front of his, as a shield. Instinctively, Thornton held her around her waist and then remembered himself. She was endangering herself for him.

“Go inside!” he cried.

“No, I will not leave you here to be harmed! They might not harm a woman. I can protect you.”

She shielded him again as some clogs began to fly their way, from the bitter throng. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that one of the men who were throwing things was Boucher. But there was another man, one particular young man in the crowd, driven by their love of cruel excitement and sadistic mentality, who threw a clog and Margaret only had the ability to close her eyes as it hit her forehead.

White!

All that she saw was white as the pain overwhelmed her, she struggled to remain conscious for a few seconds, and then her eyes closed, overcome by the blackness. She fell against Mr. Thornton, who held her in his arms.

“Fools!” Thornton cried. “You want my death! Kill me then! But see the truth of your evil in where she now lies!”

 

* * *

 

The Fiery Ladies of the Mill

As this all occurred, the other part of the mob had bashed through the mill door and had attacked Lizzy, Kitty, Rasby, and the Irish defenders. While Margaret was collapsing in Thornton’s arms, Elizabeth was leading her sister and friend… and they were fighting back their own neighbors, being overcome by the mob, their reckless passion carrying them so far that they lost any sense of morality or chivalry. To them, any opposition was their enemy. Elizabeth, Kitty and Rasby, were their friends, their fellow beasts of burden, women who were made to toil and labor as they had done so. All of that was forgotten. These three women dared to stand against them, dared to protect the Irish, and so, they were not these ladies’ allies. They were the adversaries.

Bashing against them, their mad energy overcame the women, knocking them with vehement blows and sending the ladies to the floor, unconscious.

As Elizabeth saw Kitty and Rasby on the floor, their eyes closed before hers did, she felt so foolish for bringing them into the situation, as Margaret had felt when sending Thornton to the wildness.

Regrets! Regrets! Regrets!

From inside the mill and outward, ladies of resolution were collapsing under the callousness of the contemptuous crowd.

 

* * *

 

The Calvary Coming In

It was in this precise moment that Mr. Darcy and Plato had rashly driven into the courtyard. They saw Thornton holding Margaret Hale in his arms and they felt the horror of it. Violence had happened there.

When seeing his two friends race through the courtyard, Thornton’s eyes were insistent, and his tone was strong.

“There! In the mill! Save the Bennet sisters and Rasby!”

Needing no other encouragement, Mr. Darcy and Plato rode up to the mill door, scaring any workers out of their way with their powerful steeds. When reaching the door, Plato had his horse rear up on its hind legs. When the horse’s legs came rushing back down to the earth, it knocked the villains who lingered in the doorway to the ground and barred any more workers from entering the place. Both men, of strong height, strength, and powers of intimidation, dismounted and rushed into the mill.

When they entered, it was to a horrible sight. Seeing over the crowd, they saw Elizabeth, Kitty and Rasby lying unconscious on the floor, along with an unconscious Irishman. Two other Irishmen were standing protectively over them. When seeing Plato in his regimentals, the Irishmen knew that they had allies who came for them.

“They attacked the women!” An Irishman cried, but Mr. Darcy did not need encouragement, nor did Plato. Removing his musket from his side, Plato used it like a staff. Darcy found a block of wood along the wall and picked it up.

Darcy was silent rage.

Plato was of a verbose battle cry.

After all, one was a gentleman, and the other a soldier.

With his strength, Plato widened his arms and shoved seven of the people backwards against the wall. He was truly frightening to the workers. 

“Animals!” Darcy wailed, hitting them all with his block of wood, with an anger that overwhelmed all before him.

When Plato roared at the crowd, they began to recoil, out of pure terror of him. As Darcy swung the wood and wounded many in his path, Plato aimed his musket at the throng, and that’s when they all froze.

“Disband and retreat, fools!” Plato roared, and his words were hypnotic. Seeing Darcy wholly unafraid was not surprising, but Plato, who was not the sort to be so fearless in their presence, was altogether a surprise to them. Also, despite the mob mentality of blind rage and resentment, a musket can be very enlightening and remind someone of their individual fears of mortality. When facing the other side of a gun barrel, you cease to be one entity and you regain your own sense of self, self-preservation, self-awareness, humiliation, conscience, and dare it be said, mortification. Everyone in the crowd remembered themselves, or at the very least, remembered their fears. They filed out of the mill like drowning rats, who were scuttling through a small hole that could not fit their great escape. They fell over each other, in their attempt to exit, and Mr. Darcy, blinded by his rage, grabbed the nearest man who was trying to retreat, wielding him around with a fury.

“A woman,” Darcy cried, letting the wood down and beginning to strike the man with intensity. “You call yourself a man, sir!”

The man buckled under Darcy’s blows, almost becoming unconscious. Through the window, Plato could see that the calvary had come. The soldiers had arrived, and arrests could begin to be made.

 

* * *

 

The Arrival of Aid

 

Along the streets, Colonel Forster led thirty soldiers in his regiment. They rode through the street quickly, but not to the point where they caused any danger to passersby.

As he rode along, every now and again, he turned to his left, where Colonel Fitzwilliam rode alongside him. It had been some time since Forster was aware about Fitzwilliam’s attachment to Kitty Bennet and his connection to Marlborough Mills. In Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eye was apprehension and slight alarm.

“Never fear,” Colonel Forster roared over their riding. “We will get there in time.”

“I hope so,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied, warily. “The Bennet sisters have been known to visit that factory.”

This idea had never occurred to Colonel Forster, and the notion of it affected his sensibility.

“What?”

“Yes, Colonel. And I never am aware of their movements, so I have no notion of if they are there or not.”

“It is very unlikely. One cannot fully determine the unknown.”

“Precisely,” Fitzwilliam said to him, his expression even more unsettled, “one cannot. I believe in exploring all possibilities. Colonel, can we not ride faster?”

Colonel Forster understood the impulses of the young, and of the heart. For whatever Fitzwilliam was feeling, was perhaps equivalent to what Forster would have felt if he knew Mrs. Forster might be in any danger.

Ah, Mrs. Forster!

How delightful it always is when we place our situation in another person’s predicament. We see. We empathize. We understand. And we learn to believe. If Colonel Forster even knew that there was the slightest possibility that his wife would be in a place that was stormed by an angry crowd, he would race all the way there, even if his solitary person could do little to assist. It is the nature of any true man when his beloved is in danger.

Now he understood.

Now he believed.

“Company!” Colonel Forster roared, “ride faster!”

Eagerly, Colonel Fitzwilliam urged his horse to quicken. Daedalus, his noble stead, understood his rider all too well, and hastened onward. Together, horse and man became one: on a mission of urgency.

When they arrived at the mill, they rode through the gate and saw Thornton on his doorstep—with a woman laying unconsciously at his feet. Colonel Fitzwilliam recognized her immediately.

Miss Margaret Hale!

Then if she was here, what were the chances...no, it was too terrifying to confront. And yet, confront the possibilities, he must.

Colonel Forster sounded his alarm and led the attack on disbanding the workers. The officers rode through the crowd, driving the mob off, sometimes smacking them in their heads or arms with their clubs. Among the bunch, Colonel Fitzwilliam recognized Boucher and felt an immediate rage at the man’s betrayal.

As the other officers chased the crowd off, and also made arrests, Colonel Fitzwilliam rode his horse up to the front steps, just as Thornton lifted Margaret up and held her in his arms.

Colonel Fitzwilliam stared at her lifeless body, dangling in Thornton’s embrace, and feared the worst.

“Is she...”

“She’s alive,” Thornton pressed, heavily, “but I must send for the doctor, to make sure that she remains such.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam breathed a sigh of relief.

“But Lizzy, Rasby and Kitty...”

When hearing Kitty’s name, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eyes shot open wider.

“She’s here! Where are they?”

“Darcy and Plato went after them in the factory,” Thornton gestured to the mill door. “Bring them inside immediately!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not need to be told such before he rode his horse up to the mill door, jumped down immediately and entered to see Mr. Darcy with a man, limp in his arms.

 

* * *

 

The Falling Moments

Seeing that Darcy was on the point of possibly killing the man who lay trapped in his clutches, Plato rushed forward and grabbed his arm before he struck the worker again.

“Darcy!” Plato cried, “you are killing him. You must stop or be it forever on your conscience!”

Plato had seen such behavior before, where the wildness overtook a man who was driven to the point of grief, chivalry, and protectiveness. It led to a passionate rage, where he forgot himself and the monster that lurked underneath took over. The beast within every human soul, became alive. And the man’s morality lay dormant until the creature was finally subdued. There was only one thing to do; Plato grabbed Darcy’s face and made him look into his eyes.

“Darcy, look at me, man!” Plato hissed, and finally Darcy did so, freezing before he struck the limp worker again. “He is subdued; he will be arrested. We have won. You can stop now. We have to get the women to safety. Elizabeth needs you.”

Hearing Elizabeth’s name gave the desired effect, Darcy’s eyes transformed from a wild man, bent on revenge, to an expression that was softened with compassion, care, and consideration. His soul returned to him.

“Elizabeth,” he sighed, releasing the weak creature from his grasp, and letting him fall to the floor, his eyes fluttering, in and out of focus. This was the precise moment that Colonel Fitzwilliam entered and saw the last moments of Darcy’s rage.

“Darcy!” Colonel Fitzwilliam cried, “where is Kitty!”

“Here,” an Irishman said, picking up Kitty and holding her in his arms. “She needs a doctor.”

“Dear god!” Colonel Fitzwilliam hissed, rushing up to the Irishman and taking Kitty from his arms.

“She’s alive,” the Irishman stressed, “but she suffered a great blow.”

Meanwhile, Darcy rushed to Elizabeth and Plato tended to his sister.

Leaning down, Darcy saw that Elizabeth’s face was covered by her hair, which had come undone. He leaned down and removed it from her face. Seeing her there, with blood trickling down her cheek, made his stomach churn over, feeling sickened.

“There will be blood,” Darcy hissed, revenge overcoming him again as he picked Elizabeth up, “there will be blood spilled for this.”

Darcy turned to the Irishmen, angry.

“How could you let them fight?” He declared, enraged, “they were women!”

“We couldn’t stop them,” another Irishman stated, unashamed and bravely, “they would not shy away. They came to defend us.”

“Darcy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, cradling Kitty in his arms, “you know Elizabeth: would she have stood by?”

Seeing the sense of this, Darcy relented and felt a little ashamed of himself. He knew that he should have apologized for accusing the Irishmen for negligence, but his pride was somewhat affected.

“I understand,” was all that he could muster.

“Come,” Plato demanded, unafraid of being authoritative, “let’s get the women inside.” Plato turned to the Irishmen. “Go upstairs and assure the others that the worst is over. Officers will remain at the doorway so that the crowd won’t return again.”

All three men left, with Lizzy, Kitty, and Rasby in their arms.

When they emerged into the sunlight, they moved around the officers, who were making arrests of the people they had managed to capture.

“Colonel,” Denny cried, riding toward Darcy, Plato, and Fitzwilliam. Looking down, he saw the three women in their arms. “Oh, god,” Denny gasped.

“They are alive, Denny,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “remain for further instruction as the doctor comes. I don’t want to alarm Mrs. Denny until we know that it’s not serious.”

“Yes. Lydia would be horrified.”

“Bring the ladies in,” Thornton cried to the three men. They looked up at him, and he was holding Margaret Hale in his arms, who was also unconscious.

Four women overcome by the same vehemence.

They carried the ladies into the house, and Mrs. Thornton overtook the situation.

“Take them upstairs to one of the spare bedrooms,” she declared.

“My bedroom will suffice,” Mr. Darcy stated so strongly that it would not be denied. “The bed is large enough for them four.” All the men carried the ladies upstairs, into Darcy’s room and began to lay the women down on it.

“Lay that Raspberry girl on the floor,” Mrs. Thornton ordered to Plato. The distinction was too marked to be mistaken. Plato, however, was not one to fear much. He turned to Mrs. Thornton with a cold firmness that was overpowering.

“My sister will lay on the bed, or no woman will.”

“Lay her down next to Margaret, Plato,” Mr. Thornton replied, overturning his mother’s orders. Plato laid Raspberry down on the bed, next to Margaret Hale.

Mrs. Thornton went up to her son.

“John, what are you doing?” She asked him.

“Being master of this house,” he replied. He touched her arm, “please, look after these ladies with the men. I have to go down and see to the Irish. These men can’t be left with the women alone, or the servants will talk.”

“Aye, there will be talk indeed,” Mrs. Thornton replied, forgetting her momentary moral lapse—then again, she did have many of those, which she either forgot about, or excused in her character, as many of us are wont to do. “Send Hannah up here to assist me.”

Thornton went downstairs and ordered Hannah and his sister upstairs to assist his mother.

“You don’t need to be here,” Mrs. Thornton told the men, moving about the room to remove the ladies’ outerwear from them, “this is ladies work now.”

“I know how to dress wounds,” Plato said, removing his regimental coat so that he could assist the ladies more easily, “I will tend to them until the doctor arrives.”

Hannah entered and Plato turned to her.

“Miss Hannah, I will need some warm water, clean white linen rags, smelling salts and if you have any yarrow plants, goldenrod, or aloe plants about the place, bring me them.”

Hannah looked at him, confused.

“What?” She asked.

“Do what he says, girl, and don’t stand there, looking stupid!” Mrs. Thornton declared. Mrs. Thornton’s sudden reversal of attitude only overwhelmed Plato for a few seconds before he accepted that dramatic shifts from prejudice to compassion swung from side to side with this strange woman.

Fanny Thornton entered, and she gasped when seeing the unconscious women. Seeing that her daughter would be no help, Mrs. Thornton ordered her as well.

“Fanny, go and help Hannah with the herb retrieval.”

“Me?” Fanny asked.

“Yes, you. Or am I speaking to another daughter that I have, who I have never met until today?”

Fanny bit her lip and followed Hannah.

As Mrs. Thornton continued to remove the ladies’ cloaks, the men looked queerly at her.

“Too much outerwear can be trying for a sick person,” She explained, “their bodies need to breathe, especially with how confining ladies apparel is.” She handed Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam two fans. “Fan them so that they can get more air on them.”

Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam did as they were bid, as Mrs. Thornton looked at Plato, still with a critical eye.

“Are you telling the truth, sir, and know a little about medicine?”

“Not a little, madam,” Plato said, rolling up his sleeves. “And I may have my defects but lying about my knowledge of wound-tending is not one of them.”

“Very well.”

Mrs. Thornton went to the door and called for another servant, named Jane. As she did so, she glimpsed out of the window and saw that the officers were making proper arrests, the mob had fully broken up, and her son was talking to the officers.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

All was over. In more ways than one.

 

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