Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  Numbly, he reached to hang up his towel, but like the novice he suddenly felt himself to be, he missed the hook. He jerked his hand in correction, but his body had quite simply forgotten the mature grace it had known only yesterday. He tried to halt the swing of the towel and the arch of his elbow but was too late. The pitcher, now mercifully emptied of water, shattered into a hopeless pile of shards.

  Milton-Northern

  10 February 1835

  “Did you break something, John? What in thunder are you doing up here?” The voice made its way up the hall and into the room long before its owner did.

  Twelve-year-old John glanced up shamefacedly from the odd-shaped contraption in his hands. “I was trying to make it work, Father.”

  George Thornton lowered himself to the nearest chair. He was a tall, well-built man of five and thirty, with keen dark eyes and a ready smile. “May I?” He held out his hand, and his son passed him the apparatus which had befuddled him.

  “Oh, yes!” the father enthused when he recognised it. “Barlow’s wheel, the new motor design that I brought home from London. My partner wished me to show this next week to a group of investors. But why is it not working? Was this the crash I heard?”

  John reddened. “I dropped it. I am sorry, Father. Now it is misaligned, and I lost some of the mercury.”

  Thornton fixed his son with a serious expression. “That is rather wasteful, my son, for this was quite costly. You must find some way to repair it.”

  John straightened. “I have some money set aside. I will go tomorrow to buy more mercury, and I am certain I will have it good as new!”

  The elder Thornton returned the wheel with a cheerful grin. “See that you do. I ought to discipline you—what will Wright say if he hears the model was destroyed before the investors even saw it? However,” he eyed his boy with a look that made him squirm, “I doubt you will make that same mistake again. Have you thought how to repair the frame?”

  John turned it about, then pointed to a weak joint in the design. “If I heat it here, I think I can bend it to allow the wheel to spin easily again without compromising the strength of the metal.”

  Thornton nodded in curt satisfaction. “That should work. It is a remarkable discovery, is it not?”

  The boy’s eyes lit. “Father, only think what technology like this can achieve! If it were large enough, we could power anything. We would not need horses to pull our carriages, and perhaps even the steam engine itself will be replaced!”

  “That will be a long way off, John, if it ever happens at all. Nothing else could ever produce so much power.”

  John looked back to the marvel in his hands, unconvinced by his father’s scepticism. “I should still like to see it tried.”

  George Thornton shrugged with an easy grin. “Perhaps someday it will be. Wright, my partner, seems to think as you do. Now, set that aside. I have something of rather great import to discuss with you. Tell me, John, how are you getting on with your studies?”

  The boy shuffled in his chair, suddenly looking anywhere but at his father. “Well enough.”

  “Would you still claim that, if I told you I had spoken with your master?” Thornton queried, his expression searching and hard. Jovial though he could be, his temper was not to be tried, and John knew it.

  The lad dared to meet his father’s eyes. “I expect I should not, Father.”

  Thornton’s face revealed nothing; waiting, as he was, for his son to confess all.

  “I did not complete my report on Constantine. And I did not memorise the third declension irregular nouns.”

  “Yet your master claims you are the ablest boy in his schoolroom. Your scores in mathematics are perfect, and the master says that even with half the effort applied by the other boys, you excel in your Latin and Greek. Why is it, John, that my son should not be giving his very best, when he is capable of far more than he achieves?”

  John stared at the floor, swallowing. He had already grown ashamed of himself, but it needed the convicting humiliation of his father’s discovery to galvanise his resolve to improve himself. “I shall do better.”

  “John—” George leaned back in his chair—“I know you would rather be building machines like this—” he gestured to the wheel—“or working as other boys already do, but I would see you take the opportunity to improve yourself while you are yet young. It is a chance few have had, and I confess, I am envious of you.”

  A reluctant sigh rose from the lad. “Yes, Father.”

  “John…” Thornton hesitated, glancing at his son’s downturned face, and continued. “I have decided to send you to London for school.”

  The boy’s face jerked up in horror. “Father, I promise I will work harder!”

  “It is more than that. I speak of your future advantages. I am afraid it will not be a prestigious school, but Mr Wright’s family in Bentinck Street has offered to sponsor you, along with their own boys. With them, you will learn a great deal more than you can here. Many things are within Wright’s reach which are beyond mine, and you may even establish some connections which will be useful in your future.”

  John forced himself to look up from the floor, his incredulous gaze seeking his father’s. “Will Mother be very unhappy that I am to go?”

  Thornton gave a short, wry laugh. “It has taken me two years to persuade her to it. I wanted to send you to a public school, but she was firmly set against it—even could I have afforded it. At least with the Wrights, she has the comfort that you will be looked after by someone she knows, and people of our own class.”

  Regret dimmed the boy’s features. “I will be sorry to leave her, though, Father.”

  “Your mother is most occupied with Fanny at present. She is not strong, you know, and your mother fears….” The man’s voice trailed off as his cheek flinched in pain.

  “She fears losing Fanny as she did Elizabeth,” John finished in a hushed tone. “Father, if… if the worst happens, may I return?”

  “I expect your mother will insist upon it. She will miss you terribly, John, but I am convinced this is for the best.”

  The boy lowered his head, then with a firm jaw and a determined glint in his eyes, met his father’s gaze once more. “I will not disappoint you, Father.”

  George Thornton stood, and John followed. He placed a strong, work-hardened hand on his boy’s shoulder. “I know you will not. I am already proud of you—although, I do have hopes that your new physical education lessons in London will help you at last become master of this lanky frame of yours! I cannot afford for you to keep dropping my models.”

  A sheepish smile grew on the adolescent face. “I am sorry, Father. I ought not to have touched it, but….”

  “But you found it too intriguing to ignore? That’s the Thornton blood, John. We cannot help but dream of the future. Industry needs men like us, and who is to say? Perhaps someday you will turn this mechanical fascination of yours into something truly remarkable. You might even grow to be one of the greatest men in Milton, with a fine house and a business of your own.”

  John turned adoring eyes to his father. None understood his ambitions quite so well! “Perhaps,” he grinned.

  “Come,” Thornton ruffled his son’s hair. “Your mother is waiting for us to join her at breakfast.”

  Two

  London

  27 April 1837

  She clutched the blankets up to her nose, eyes roving distrustfully about the strange bedroom.

  Nothing here smelt the same, felt as it ought, or cast the faintest shadow of welcome. She had been asked to come here, been granted the proper honours and greetings, but the truth was that this was not her home. Even the furnishings seemed ominous in this dark, ponderously decorated space.

  Margaret shivered under the coverlet and listened to the sounds from the next room. At least she was not entirely alone—he would protect her from the ghoulish shades lurking in the corners of her imagination. She heard a thump, a muttered oath, and then silence. A
larmed, she sat upright, the blankets falling away.

  “Fred!”

  There was no answer at first, save the pounding of her own heart. “Fred?” she called again—more doubtfully this time.

  Her door split open, permitting a narrow vertical crack to the dazzling light outside her cloistered prison. “Margaret, are you still awake?”

  She drew the blankets up to her chin and nodded. “I am afraid to fall asleep.”

  He ambled into her room, nudging the door so that it almost closed… but not quite. “Afraid? Whatever for? You are not afraid of the dark, Margaret. Surely not!”

  She shook her head and watched as he sank into the corner of the too-soft bed.

  “Then what is it? Tell me, my little princess.”

  She quivered, nibbled the tips of her fingers, and confessed, “I am afraid I will be lost when I wake up.”

  The second day of her marriage was almost as surreal for Margaret as the first. She had awakened alone in a strange house, and a strange girl helped her to dress. Her husband—was he really such?—had thoughtfully ordered a tray carried to her room so she might breakfast this first morning in peace and privacy.

  Margaret touched the food apathetically with her fork, her eyes on the folded note he had left on the tray for her. Dropping the utensil, she plucked up the paper in resignation. His words yielded no sentiment, and he had likely expected to receive none in return.

  Margaret,

  I have ordered horses for the carriage every day this week. They will be ready by ten o’clock each morning, should you choose to employ yourself with Miss Dixon. I have also asked Sarah, who will have helped you this morning, to accompany you if you desire.

  When you are quite decided about matters there, I will send Williams to carry out your wishes. I do not know if you would like my personal assistance with these affairs, but I am at your disposal. You needn’t trouble yourself to come to the mill. Just ask Mrs Adams, the cook, to send her boy to bring word and I will come.

  You need not feel obliged to go if you do not wish. Whatever you decide for today, I hope you may pass it pleasantly. I will see you this evening.

  John

  Margaret sighed and dropped the missive beside her plate. At least he was treating her kindly, but she might have wished for a husband who seemed to desire her company. She still shrank in mortification when she remembered the last evening—not at all the wedding night she had expected. What manner of husband would rather shed his own blood than come to his wife? Was she so repulsive to him?

  You forget, he caught you in a lie once!

  Her teeth set. What manner of husband, indeed? Perhaps he was doing them both a service in keeping his distance, and had determined he ought never permit himself to trust her. No man would wish to humble himself before a woman in whom he could not place his confidence.

  She stirred her tea listlessly. She desired his faith, above all else just now. It would have eased her sore, broken heart to have a confidante, even if the only one who might be called upon to listen was… was him. She closed her eyes and willed her pulse to calm.

  How honoured, how comforted she had been when he had made his second offer to her! The pungent impression left by his first proposal had furrowed deeply into her heart, gradually turning and freshening her brittle antipathy. How could she have been so blind to the pull of her deeper feelings?

  He was rigid and hard, yet guided by a deep sense of honour which she had grudgingly learned to admire. And then there was that forceful profession of love, that proclamation that he was but a slave to a newly awakened passion—one which shook him with its very power and depth. No other man made himself so vulnerable, nor dealt with her so honestly. She had not wished to fall in love with John Thornton, but stubborn, impossible man that he was, he had given her no choice.

  For no one else could she have faced the mob that day! No excuse for her feminine safeguarding would suffice—not if she were fully honest with herself. She once told Mrs Thornton that she knew not how she should bear up if she were tried, but now she had her answer. At least Hannah Thornton claimed to possess the courage and presence of mind on a similar occasion to save someone she cared nothing about. Margaret, however, felt sure she would have cowered within the house were it not for the identity of the man she had sent into the lion’s mouth—the very man who held the power to infuriate her like no other!

  How could present circumstances have wrought such a perverse alteration? She dared not confess her wilful, rebellious feelings to him, for fear of his scorn. She had sullied her dignity miserably enough in his eyes. Far better it was, certainly, to behave the proper and dutiful wife—eschewing, if she could, her inconvenient and erratic responses to his seeming power over her. Provoking, troublesome man!

  She picked at her breakfast tray, frowning. It would require a marvellous work to make straight the path laid before her feet. He was a curious man; fascinating in so many ways, yet incomprehensible in so many others. It would take a lifetime to sort him out.

  She dropped her fork. It seemed she would get that particular wish, at least.

  ~

  “G’mornin’, Master!” Nicholas Higgins tipped his worn cap as his employer strolled by his work station.

  John, lost in his own thoughts, halted abruptly and swivelled about. “Oh. Good morning, Higgins.”

  The weaver gave a tug on the lever of his small loom to disengage it. “’Ow fares th’ Mistress this morn’, Master?”

  John’s face jerked in surprise, for he himself had only just considered the title. “The….” His voice trailed off. “I have not seen her today. I trust she is well.”

  Higgins’ mouth worked in sorrow. “’Tis a righ’ pity. Th’ould parson,’e were a good fellow.”

  Thornton heaved a weary sigh. “He was a good friend to me. I am very sorry—and sorrier still for her.”

  “Aye,” Higgins nodded. “She’ll be needin’ some comfort, Master.” His eyes twinkled in fellowship. “I s’pect it’s’ard, hoo bein’ a gen’le lady an’ a’.”

  Thornton’s cheek went rigid. “I imagine that marriage to a cotton manufacturer is not what she desired.”

  Higgins’ brows shot up, and well they might. Thornton had long prided himself on being the most self-assured, masterful man in all of Milton. Now he was but a dejected, fangless swain, longing for a hint of favour from a silent damsel.

  He well knew of what was said of him—that his recent displays of humility caused everyone to wonder over his state of mind—and that every single one of those occasions had somehow or another involved the former Miss Hale. Higgins would be right to wonder, for he had seen more of John’s weaknesses than any other. The offer of employment, the concessions regarding the mill kitchen… the stunning personal request that he and his daughter attend yesterday’s simple wedding, for Margaret’s sake….

  And now he, the unassailable John Thornton was a pitiful coward, and it must be all too obvious that he feared being found unworthy in the eyes of his wife. Oh, aye, a faithful and true husband would he be, but how could even he aspire to her?

  “Well, tha’s a’.” Higgins sighed and dipped his head with a shrug. “Yo’ll take care o’ hoo’, Master. Tha’s a’ she wan’s now.”

  Thornton’s shoulders drooped, and his eyes began to rove beyond Higgins to other parts of the mill. “I hope so.” He lingered another moment, having nothing in particular to say, but grateful for the fraternity of one of the few who had been in favour of his marriage. It was to be hoped that those who loved Margaret might have had her best interests at heart when they encouraged her on this course.

  At length, John’s expression straightened back to his usual, sombre mien. Nodding to his employee, he wandered away.

  Higgins watched him go, frowning and shaking his head. No newly minted husband had a right to look so downcast, particularly not with such a treasure now living in his house.

  John Thornton made his typical rounds about the mill, and eventually
arrived back in his office to stare down a stack of paperwork.

  He shed his coat and took a seat at his desk, but his mind would not apply itself to the tasks before him. It dwelt instead on the bereaved woman who would be waking on her first disorienting morning in his house. What a change in circumstance for her! Material possessions she could claim now in abundance, but he feared that her gently bred dignity had suffered by their union. Lowly tradesman that he was, he was not worthy of her—she had been rather candid on that point in the past.

  Throughout his life, he had railed against the ceiling of the middle class which limited his advantages. He thought that he had at last broken through that barrier, only to have it cast over him once more when he looked into the eyes of the woman who thought him beneath her. It had always been thus—the very moment he began to take pride in achievement, he would receive a harsh reminder that he was no better than a tradesman’s son.

  London

  September 1836

  “John, my boy! By Jove, you are a sight for sore eyes!”

  John started, nearly dropping the pen he held. “Father!” He leaped up from his study desk with a practised grace which his father could not fail to note. A year ago, he would likely have caught his foot on the chair leg and spilled the entire ink bottle.

  “I had not been expecting you! Did Mother come? How is Fanny? Am I to return home with you?”

  “Slow down, son! One question at a time, if you please!”

  “Forgive me, Father,” the boy laughed sheepishly. “I had your letter only yesterday, and you spoke nothing of coming for a visit.”