Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  Margaret was cradling the kitten to her face to wipe the tears away. “Mamma s-says I can-not take He-Helen to London!” she sniffled. “She s-says Aunt does not l-like animals!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he grumbled. “She will be here when we return. We are only going for a fortnight.”

  “But she will not remember me!” wailed the plaintive voice. “She will be almost grown, and she will forget about me.”

  “Look, Margaret, cats care little enough for people. They only like being fed. I daresay Helen likes the back door of the house as well as the front. Bring her some milk when you return, I suppose. She will remember you then.”

  Scandalised blue-green eyes widened at his dismissal, and her lip quivered. “Helen is my f-friend!”

  “Oh, come, Margaret, we do not leave for three more days yet. Why all this fuss?”

  She scrunched the limp, pliant little creature to her cheek once more. “Edith’s nurse won’t let her play with me,” she murmured into the cat’s fur. “She says I am a p—a p….” Another sob shuddered the small child.

  “A pest!” Frederick doubled, bellowing with laughter. “Dearest, now I see! Edith’s nurse is pretty strict. Perhaps if you stayed in one room, instead of wandering and frightening her.”

  “She doesn’t like me at all,” pouted the quivering mouth. “I don’t want to go, Fred!”

  “Oh, Margaret, you do take it to heart so. Last time was quite a bore, I confess. Perhaps if we are very polite, we may go back to the park, like we did last year. Do you remember the fountain?”

  Her sanguine countenance raised to him once more and she nodded. “Will the geese still be there?”

  “I think so, but you had best not chase them this year. Remember how angry Uncle was?”

  “I did not chase them. I was only looking at the babies.” Her face fell. The cat, at last weary of being held against its will, spun about in her grip, and in no uncertain terms exerted its independence. Margaret released it, for she had already encountered unpleasant scratches from this particular feline. When it had gone, she stood grumpy and dejected, watching the crooked tail as the half-grown cat stalked from the woodshed.

  “Come, Margaret, cheer up,” her brother coaxed. “Let us think of something fun we may do before we leave for London.”

  Her innocent face gazed up at him, and he warmed with affection. She was adorable, his little sister. Dark, wayward curls sprang for expression beneath her prim bonnet. Clear, intense eyes surveyed him gravely, and soft, pure cheeks rounded to a purposeful chin. It was Edith who always claimed the beauty when the two cousins were together, but if a twelve-year-old boy might have an opinion on the subject, he much preferred his own sister’s vibrant personality and the way it shone forth so markedly, even at four years of age.

  That determined character sparkled now with renewed inspiration. “What can we do, Fred?”

  He made a show of deep thought, chewing the sides of his cheek and holding her in a playful, suspenseful stare. “I know! Let us go peek into the parish charity basket. Do you suppose that ugly green dress is still there? I wager no one has taken it yet.”

  Her cheek dimpled in boredom. “It is. I saw it yesterday.”

  “Hmm.” He tapped his finger to his lips, as if deliberating a great plot. “What could we do with it? Make a straw man and dress it? We could stand it up on the lawn and frighten Dixon!”

  Margaret did not immediately leap at the idea as he expected. She turned away, gazing over the yard towards their mother’s rose garden. Frederick chuckled again. She was so serious for such a small girl!

  A moment later he realised Margaret’s senses had been sharper than his own. Beneath the prickly bushes rooted a brown nose, then Farmer Grady’s greying hound emerged soon after. Spotting the children, he wagged his tail and made his friendly way towards them. Children, as any dog knows, are always good for a little petting, and the two Hale children were no exception.

  A wicked notion struck Frederick, and he laughed aloud. “Margaret, would it not be funny to put the dress on Dane here? Oh, only think of him running through the church yard tomorrow!” He dissolved into hoots of laughter, imagining the scene. He would never do it, of course, but the shocked faces of the assembled parishioners would almost make up for the punishment he would be sure to receive later.

  Margaret had gone still, her eyes bright and wide. She stared up to him in mute astonishment, and if he had to conjecture, he might have feared that she would carry out his suggestion. He almost thought to warn her off of mischief but just then they heard their mother’s voice from the house.

  He sighed. “Well, come along, Margaret. I suppose it is time for evening tea.”

  The evening tea had been a silent affair. John Thornton had taken his customary seat at the head of the table, but at the foot was the new mistress of his home.

  It was not without some tense disquiet that he had observed his mother starting for her old place, then thinking better of it. Margaret had glanced between them with a look of unease as she had taken the chair which was now hers, but whether it grew from regret over her new circumstances or remorse for his mother’s discomfort, he could not say.

  His mother had been firmly set against this course. He fingered his silverware as his gaze flitted between the two women at his table. Margaret kept her head bowed and scarcely touched her food, unable to counter the other’s frosty reception. His mother, seated halfway between them, looked only straight ahead with a serene hardness to her countenance.

  John sighed. He would have to speak with her again. He had offered Margaret a home, and he would not see it become a place of misery for her. Perhaps he might have done better to have asked his mother to stay with Fanny a few days while Margaret became accustomed to her new surroundings, but to do so now would cause even more discomfort for all.

  At last the stilted proceedings concluded, and the Thornton family—all three of them—retired to the drawing-room for a quiet evening. John found his paper, but his eyes were ever lifted over the edge as he watched his new wife in the firelight. Heavens, but she robbed him of breath! Even now, in full mourning as she was, there was a sensual grace about her figure which cried out to him, enticing him in a way he was helpless to deny.

  She held a book, but it seemed her mind would not exert itself this evening, for it slanted listlessly as she stared vacantly into the fire. The flames glowed softly over her ivory features, stony and expressionless as her thoughts wandered. He would have given a great deal to know what lay on her heart this night and with what measure of optimism she looked to the future. Perhaps she, like he, was not entirely without hope, but the dream of winning her affections appeared monumental to him.

  How long will I be able to bear it?

  To have Margaret in his home every day, carrying his name and presiding over his household, was simply too tempting. The lush curves of her figure, the soft ringlets of her hair where her pins had worked loose… she was so real, so easily drawn under his power at last! Only a thin door stood between his room and hers, and… well, by heaven, it was his right!

  But there, she had sworn only her life and her future. Her heart was not yet his, nor could he force it to become so. To ask what he wished of her when she would respond only out of obligation… he shuddered in revulsion. It was in every way abhorrent to him.

  His hands trembled as they gripped the edges of his broadsheet. Swallowing hard, he bade himself to look away from the haunting vision that was his legally wedded wife. If he did not, he would not be able to vouch for his sanity.

  He stared unseeingly at the headlines scripted out before him, his jaw clenched. Somewhere to his right, he heard his mother at last setting her needlework aside, and his body sagged in relief. Finally, the uncomfortable evening was drawing to a close.

  Margaret had noted the change as well and was looking curiously to Hannah Thornton. He shifted his paper and caught her eye. “Margaret, it is Mother’s custom to lead the household i
n prayers every night before we retire. I hope you will feel inclined to join us.”

  “Oh. Of course, Mrs Thornton.”

  His mother lifted a cool brow as she surveyed the younger Thornton lady. It seemed they would have to come to some agreement about what they were to call one another, but she appeared content to keep Margaret in her place as an outsider. John, however, was scowling very faintly in her direction.

  The household had gathered, the evening devotional completed, and at length, John rose from his seat. He extended a shaking arm to his wife. “May I see you upstairs?”

  Eyes wide, lips pale, she accepted. Small fingers dug painfully into the flesh of his inner arm as she conveyed to him far more tension than she likely realised. Her unease abated only a little as they left his mother behind, and mounting the stairs with her thick skirts required her full concentration.

  His heart twisted in sympathy. There seemed nothing he could say or do to alleviate her suffering. He could but grant her space and see to her every want, and perhaps in time, she might grow to be more at home. Drawing up at her door, he moved his arm and her hand slid away.

  “Have you everything you need?”

  Her throat worked as she gulped nervously and nodded. She was looking at his feet again.

  “Jane or Sarah should be in shortly to help you. I…” he stopped, unable to find more words.

  It seemed unjust to tell her how his soul leapt for joy that she had come into his life, regardless of the circumstances, but churlish somehow to leave her without some assurances of his felicity in their new relationship. He reached hesitantly for her hand. “I wish you a pleasant evening,” was all he could manage.

  She lifted curious eyes to him. Round and softly dilated, they studied him for a breathless second. “You… you will wish to…” she paused and drew a gasping breath. “You will knock later?”

  His stomach pitted. So, he had not made his intentions clear enough. He released a taut sigh. “Let us speak in privacy.”

  Her nervous hands fumbled with the door latch, and then they stood together in the dusky room. “Listen, Margaret,” he began, his tense fingers kneading his brow. “It is only right… After all, you are in mourning, and… and you know, it has surely been a trying day for you….”

  She gazed at him in complete silence, no emotion flickering across her vivid features.

  “So, you see, there can be no need, not tonight,” he ground out, his teeth biting down on his tongue and his left fist clenching. He must escape soon, or he would make a liar of himself! Her skin looked so soft, and she smelled of roses…. He began to groan in self-pity but covered the sound by clearing his throat.

  “I see.” That was all. No change in expression, no movement to step back from the door and release him from the confrontation. Her nostrils fluttered, the only symptom to betray her unease.

  “I assumed you would be relieved.” He rubbed his palms surreptitiously along his trousers. They were positively aching with his need to reach for her!

  “I can see that you are.”

  His mouth fell open. “I only think of you!”

  He watched her cheek muscles tighten and her expression harden. “Mr Thornton, we both know I brought nothing to this marriage but myself. I wonder, sir, why you took the trouble if you do not intend to….” She stopped and squeezed a sudden tear from her eye.

  “Margaret! You cannot expect that I—”

  “Please hear me out, sir!”

  He swallowed his protests and waited for her to compose herself.

  She seemed to be choking, exerting every shred of her remaining strength to bite out the words before her shattered tones betrayed her. “I am the interloper here, Mr Thornton. Your mother does not welcome me, your staff no doubt wonder what you are about, and my support must have come at a very dear price. I pledged my obedience to you, sir, but if you intend to treat me as a poor relation rather than a wife, I beg you would reconsider before it is too late!”

  He stared, flabbergasted. “Too late? It is already so! What would you prefer? That I force you? That I demand your compliance without regard for your own feelings? A fine proof that would be that I truly am the monster you have always believed.”

  “I neither believed nor implied any such thing! But I am not such a fool as to fail to acknowledge the reality of our circumstances. It is your duty, and your right….” Here, her voice at last failed her, and her features pinched, as she clenched her eyes and covered her mouth with a gasp.

  “A duty, you say?” he snarled bitterly. “I should say my duty now is to care for my wife. You speak of rights as though I had hired your services! I know well enough that I am no more than a tradesman, capable of thinking only in terms of buying and selling, but I shall never intrude where I am not welcome. Rights, indeed! You may be pleased to consider yourself the martyr—the noble wife who silently bears all manner of humiliation in the name of feminine dignity—but I would be no better than a beast who takes a woman against her will. I am sorry, but you have judged me wrongly if you thought me capable of that!”

  Her body was heaving with restrained sobs, the cords in her neck raised as she sniffled and strove valiantly to remain on her feet to meet his heated gaze. “You would shame me, then?”

  He turned away with a furious hiss, raking his sweating hands through his hair. There was no pleasing the woman! He thrust his fists to his hips and paced away from her, taking care to keep his distance from both the woman and the largest piece of furniture in the room, lest he should sweep her to it and kiss her until he could think clearly.

  “You and I both know that it will be noticed,” she protested through growing tears. “Your mother has a poor enough opinion of me!”

  He stopped, narrowing his eyes in tight scrutiny. “Is that what this is about? You fear that my mother will make things harder for you if she assumes you have refused me?”

  She made no immediate answer but the continued working of her jaw. He almost turned away in finality, but a desperate whisper called him back. “She could think worse things!”

  He spun round, staring at her pale face. This was a difficulty he had not considered. He began to breathe again, deliberating. Refusal… or unchastity. He would tolerate neither disgrace to be attached to his wife—and she was correct in assuming his mother knew intimately all the workings of the house.

  He nodded, sighing in resignation. “Very well.”

  She flinched as he started towards her again, but froze in wonder when he did not go to her, but to the writing desk. He searched the top drawer until he found the pen knife, then rolled up his sleeve. “Sir?”

  He glanced at her, pressing his lips, then drew the blade across the hard muscle of his forearm.

  “Mr Thornton! What have you done?”

  “Pull back the counterpane,” he commanded brusquely.

  Her brow furrowed, she did as he directed. He pinched the shallow wound until a respectable pool of blood had formed, then bent to create a gory smear across the sheet. Grimacing at the vulgarity of it all, he straightened.

  Margaret looked as though she were about to faint. He started in concern. “You are not troubled by the sight of blood?”

  She shook her head, dazed. “No, but… I had not expected you to….” Her hands gestured vaguely in the direction of his wounded arm.

  He clenched his jaw and rolled his sleeve down once more. The slight cut was already closing up, but he did not wish to distress her further by making her look upon it.

  “I cannot ask it of you yet.” He completed the task of buttoning his sleeve and looked back to her. Some of the colour had returned to her cheeks.

  He drew near and held out his hand. Hesitantly, she received it. “I am pleased that you are here. It is not my wish that you should feel unwelcome in any way. My mother… it will take time, Margaret. For all of us. Do you understand?”

  She swallowed and nodded blankly.

  His expression softened. “I will bid you a good night, the
n.” He permitted a flicker of hope to shine in his eyes as he gingerly lifted her fingers to his lips.

  She allowed the intimacy without comment. Only after he had returned her hand did she offer a quiet, “Good night… John.”

  He retreated to his own room via the hallway rather than through the shared door. There was no need to emphasise to her so early that he would be little more than thirty feet away as she slept… nor did he think he could walk across her chamber again without somehow stumbling and humiliating himself.

  He felt like a gangling youth again with her in his house! The intent way she scrutinised his every move, as if weighing him against the ideal gentleman she had not married, wholly unnerved him. Fool that he was, however, he could not help thrilling in the fact that her attention was fixated on him alone, and no man but himself had access to her bed chamber. He fumbled with his own door latch, in much the same way Margaret had struggled with hers.

  John stripped down until his chest was bare, then found the mirror at his washbasin. The only relie to be had this night was cold water, and for a mercy, there was plenty of it. He splashed raucously, heedless of the mess he created on the floor and the aching protests of his chilled muscles. If he could not seek divine blessing in the arms of the enticing woman in the next room, he would chastise his own flesh until it yielded in humbled submission! He almost succeeded.

  His head finally clearing somewhat, he reached for a hand towel to dry his face. It was in the mirror that his eyes caught the unfamiliar flash of candlelight pouring from beneath the door, and the faint shadow dimming it as a figure moved within. Without the noise of splashing water to distract him, he heard each sound… bare feet… a sigh… the counterpane as it rustled… the groaning of the bed frame.

  The towel was shaking in his hands. He stared at it, clumsy and awkward once more as his fingers fumbled to make sense of the damp cloth. Something dulled his vision—perhaps it was the memory of how her sheets had felt against his skin, or the warmth of her mouth still lingering on his lips from that one kiss they had shared all those hours ago.