Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  “The captain and his officers were instead set in a boat which was found some days later by the Amica. They all survived, but the mutineers took the ship to South America, where most of them scattered in fear of their lives. Some poor devils were caught and hung regardless, and mad Captain Reid given his old command back.”

  He sighed in sympathetic exasperation. “I cannot condone the mutiny, but there seems little justice in the matter. I may as well tell you, Mother, I have promised to do what I can for him, if I ever find a way.”

  Hannah had tilted her head back over her shoulder as he spoke, the infamy of it all registering as shock over her stark features. She did not answer when he had finished—instead, her eyes drifted slowly to the floor.

  “Mr Lennox spoke of a cousin,” she at last ventured in a subdued voice.

  “Margaret grew up with her in London. She married Lennox’s brother, an army captain, just before the Hales moved to Milton. She has gone with her husband to Greece. They have a child by now and are expected to return to London sometime later this year. When they do, Mrs Hale’s sister—a Mrs Shaw—will likely return as well. She had been travelling in Italy, but the last word Margaret had placed her in Paris.”

  She rounded on him at last. “She has family to aid her, and yet she stayed here… with you. John, she… she loves you!”

  He smiled tightly. “Does that trouble you?”

  She blinked in wonder, turning again to the window. “I hardly know! I had prayed for this, John, but I could not have believed it!”

  “I scarcely can either—my arm will soon go black and blue from pinching myself! Nevertheless, it is true. Mother, will you not be happy for me?” He placed a hand on her shoulder, inviting her to turn into his embrace.

  She held strong and defiant for a few doubtful seconds, then surrendered to his beckoning. He drew his arms tightly about her, sensing the extraordinary new shiver present in her bearing. She sniffled—very quietly, it must be confessed—and allowed her son to hold her.

  After a moment, her shoulders shook in a weepy chuckle, and she brushed a stray tear from her eye. “And to think of the airs she once gave herself! My son, my good John, you have won her over at last, fine lady though she thought herself!”

  He gave a short, heavy laugh of his own and looked down to her dewy eyes. “Do not claim she is the only one who has changed, Mother, for you would fail to credit the good work that her grace has done in me. I am not the same man I was a year ago.”

  “You have ever been the same man, John. You may be less reticent than formerly, and I have certainly questioned some of these new practices you have enacted at the mill, but your heart is as true as it ever was. She cannot take the credit for that.”

  “No, I owe that to you. You always had faith in me, Mother, even in the darkest days when disgrace was my only other companion. I never thought to find such pride and honour in life, or such glad joy in all my duties, as I do now, and I must pay homage to you both for that. I have been blessed with two fine, strong women to love, and who are not afraid to chastise me properly when I deserve it!”

  Her deep-set brow crumpled in a sudden ripple of laughter, and she patted his cheek. The tears stood in her eyes, but a reluctant smile fought for expression.

  “She may be a penniless girl, John, but never was there such a discriminating lass. If you have overcome her pride and won her affections, you have done more than I thought possible. I’d like to hear all of those who once doubted and scorned you see you now!”

  Weston

  October 1839

  “Why, it is you, Thornton! By Jove, I never thought to see you. How have you been keeping, old fellow?”

  John’s back was turned, and he eased the heavy textile bolt from his shoulder. He had no need to round on the voice addressing him to identify the speaker, for he recognised it well enough. He squared his shoulders and looked back, his face a mask. “Good afternoon, Harold.”

  Harold Wright, the nineteen-year-old son of the egregious Daniel Wright—and three years John’s senior—offered his former companion a flippant grin. “What are you doing in a dry little purlieu like this, Thornton? I thought you were a Milton chap, through and through!”

  John, his cheek flinching somewhat, faced down the other. He had grown taller in the two years since they had last seen one another and now stood half a head above his old school comrade. “Not all are fortunate enough to live in Milton.”

  Harold permitted a flash of discomfort in his eyes but quenched it almost immediately with an easy shrug. “No, I suppose not. Devilish shame, all of that. Still, I had not thought to find you here. You must forgive me, I had no word of you these last two years.”

  “I do not doubt that.” John’s shoulders tightened with the urge to return to his work. He took some measure of satisfaction in his duties, while there was no pleasure at all to be found in discussing his misfortunes with one who, happy and blessed in life’s circumstances, was far too apt to make light of another’s trials. He was too well-brought up, however, to simply turn his back.

  “What are you doing in Weston, Harold?” he growled.

  “Oh!” Harold’s cheerful grin returned, and he beckoned to a statuesque blonde who yet persisted in examining the window dressings of the shop. She came, taking Harold’s arm, and raised crystal blue eyes to John. “How clumsy of me. John Thornton, may I present my wife Mildred—formerly Miss Harris. Surely you two must remember each other.”

  John did, in fact, remember the lady. His very shoes felt too tight as memories of his awkwardness in her presence returned to taunt him.

  “We are just returning from our wedding trip at the seaside. My dear Mildred wished to step off the train for a respite and look about some of the shops here in this quaint old town.”

  The lady dipped a demure curtsey, then cast her gaze properly low. John inclined his head. “Madam,” he greeted her respectfully.

  So! Daniel Wright had at last contrived to wed his son to Abram Harris’s daughter! That was surely a match to please the old tycoon’s heart. Harris was one of the cleverest rail financiers in London, and even years ago John had seen the direction of Wright’s desires for that association. Harold had certainly got the fine end of the bargain, but he wondered if the young lady fancied her own lot.

  He had met Mildred Harris frequently during his time living with the Wrights. Most of those occasions had been family dinner parties when he was still a gawky adolescent and she wore her hair down like a girl. She was a fair little thing then, and he had often been forced to dance with her in the family’s music room. He still shuddered at the memories.

  John schooled his features into a neutral expression, reflecting on the tender age of the bride. It seemed that the two eager fathers had hardly wasted a moment in arranging the match, for Mildred could not be much more than eighteen, and Harold barely a man himself. If John thought sourly to himself, Harold indeed qualified for the distinction of such a title. Well, it was certainly none of his business.

  “Congratulations to you both,” he offered evenly, and with only a little sincerity. “If you will excuse me….”

  “Thornton!” His employer, Mr Davis, drew to his side, halting his retreat. “Bring out the new emerald chiffon from the store room for the lady, and the matching velvet as well.” This he spoke to John, but he turned next to the Wright couple. “My boy will have those brought up directly for you, ma’am.”

  Boy! John cringed, sensing his mortification complete. He did not need to glance back to sense the triumphant smirk in Harold’s eyes. Instead, he obeyed, allowing the scorn to heap upon his shoulders until such time as he might vindicate himself. The samples were procured and brought for the lady’s admiration, and John would have liked to withdraw, but found his continued assistance required with the couple’s purchases.

  As he waited, wishing he were invisible, he could not help but notice how the young Mrs Wright’s gaze continually drifted in his direction. He drew back slightly, his
ears burning with shame at the ignominious circumstance, but she only looked his way the more noticeably as he presented the various samples for her. Conscious, as he was, only of his own fall from grace, he attributed her attention to little more than amused derision.

  This was, in fact, far from the truth of the matter. Younger though he was, work had hardened his physique and care had aged his features so that the no longer innocent eyes of the new wife found much to appreciate in the figure before her. If John was oblivious of her admiration, however, her husband was not. Harold interjected himself neatly, dismissing each of the samples John had brought as of inferior quality and requiring him to cart as many more back for the lady to inspect.

  Only after a miserable half an hour was he able to pass off some of those duties to a much younger stock boy, whose usual job it was to sweep the floors and tidy shelving. Before they were satisfied, and to his very great chagrin, John’s strength and height were again required to procure two final samples the lady wished to inspect.

  At last the affluent young couple had settled their purchases, and John sighed in relief. He tried to disappear back into the store room, but Harold sought him out deliberately before they departed. “Well, old chap,” he stood aloof, not offering his hand, “it was jolly good to see you again. I am certain my father wishes you his best.”

  John straightened, his shoulders stiff, his chin jutting in that dogged way that his mother employed so well. “Indeed,” he agreed icily. He crossed his arms, but abruptly uncrossed them again to perform a cold bow to the lady. Blushing, she received his unwilling compliment and quickly turned her back, a mannerism he deliberately misinterpreted as contempt.

  It was in a sour mood that he made his way home that night. He hunched within his thin coat, his hands shoved crudely into his pockets. He cared little for proper appearances at the moment—it was only the chill of the evening and his own bruised pride which concerned him. How dare Harold Wright waltz before him like that, parading his little heiress and patronising about his father—as though a man’s suicide and the subsequent ruin of his family were merely a trifling affair!

  “Had no word these two years…” John nearly bit a hole through his cheek. I should think not! What recognition or assumption of responsibility had ever troubled Daniel Wright? He had his own interests well protected after that shameful speculation, though plenty of others had lost the shirts from their backs. Wright had broken no law of man, and that was the best that could be said for the aftermath of that debacle. What financial tragedies had befallen those who had trusted in him were quite another matter!

  So bitter and brooding was he, that all his usual reserve was entirely worn down. When, only a street away from his home, the typical group of young boys came out to taunt him, he did not shrug them off as he did every other night. To catcalls of “Foundling!” and “Ragamuffin!” and several coarser descriptions of his heritage, he snapped up his fiery gaze.

  His height made two of any of them, but he had always found it beneath his dignity to acknowledge their harassment. He had taught them early that it was utter folly to throw rocks or mud, but just as readily they had learned that he would not punish them for words alone. Tonight was different.

  Gritting his teeth, he lashed after the nearest boy, snatching a flat stick they had been using for their sport. “Go home!” he snarled, slicing his makeshift weapon harmlessly—albeit with threatening accuracy—close upon their heels.

  “Go, all of you worthless scoundrels, and do something useful for once!” He ran a short way after them, his long strides proving that he could catch them easily, should he desire, until he felt them sufficiently in awe of his wrath. Nearly spitting with disgust and rage, he flung the stick after them and spun on his heel to sulk the remaining distance to his door.

  He found it open, with his mother standing before it. Hannah Thornton observed his sullen manner and tilted her head curiously in the direction from which he had just come. “What was that about, John?”

  He sucked in a long, fresh draught of the autumn air, purposefully shedding his brittle thoughts at will. He had become supremely adept at that, and never more so than when he wished to project confidence to his mother. “Nothing to trouble yourself about, Mother. I only set them about a more constructive amusement.”

  Her dark brow edged upward. “Strange that you should suddenly go about it with such vehemence, when you have never troubled yourself before.”

  He forced a brave smile. “Quod dignum sit facere, dignum est facere bene,” he pronounced, pleased and not a little surprised that the Latin slipped so easily from his tongue after so long. Anything worth doing is worth doing well.

  He had taken that idea to his heart, and it was a refreshing perspective after his humiliating encounter. John Thornton need grovel in shame before no man! Work was his passport to independence and honour, and he would continue to set about it with a single-minded obsession.

  Hannah Thornton cast her eyes to the heavens with a supplicating look, then sternly cocked her finger at him. “Do not spout that heathen gibberish at me, as if nothing is the matter! What troubles you, John?”

  He pressed his mouth closed. She shook her head and sighed in exasperation. “Well, go on then, if you will not tell me about it. Only do not frighten your sister!”

  “It is only a little matter of wounded pride, Mother, and nothing more. How is Fanny this evening?”

  She gestured helplessly towards their abode, blinking in some sudden percolation of feeling. “She is better than yesterday. It comes and goes, John, but she has been up looking for you this last hour.”

  He pasted a cheerful smile to his face as the realities of his own existence settled comfortably around him once more. This was home, such as it was, and all Harold Wright’s airs could not rob him of the dignity he had found in sheltering his little family.

  “Come, Mother, let us set in on that excellent porridge I know you must have ready by now.” He wrapped a long arm about her shoulders to steer her inside, but she looked up to him with some pleased defiance.

  “It is potatoes and carrots tonight, saucy young man!”

  “My, we are living high, are we not?” He held the door for her as she tartly elbowed him in the ribs, but his eyes searched for the sleeping pallet in the corner. “Fanny, dearest, how are you this evening?” he crooned, walking gently closer.

  A restive little face greeted him—the streaked face of a child no longer a toddler, but not yet a young girl who dwelt most of her days in uncomfortable health and even worse humour. She rubbed her dark eyes, as if in indecision, then at last extended her arms to him. He lifted her, then settled them both into one of the two chairs by the wobbly table.

  “Why, my princess, you have grown this week! Let me see, were you not just to my shoulder last week when you sat on my lap? I think you are nearly an inch taller now.”

  She stretched proudly, a smug grin easing the surly expression away. “Mamma says I may have a new frock when you are paid, John.”

  “Did she, now? That is excellent news! You will have to eat well tonight, and no complaining, I should say.”

  “John—” his mother interrupted, her face pale—“I had meant to talk to you about that before Fanny said anything. Have we enough saved that I might buy a little of Mr Davis’ leftover bolt ends?”

  “We’ve just over sixteen pounds put by. A healthy sum, is it not?”

  She shook her head vigourously. “Not by half, John, not if you intend to pay back all those debts. I will ask among the neighbours; I think I shall have no trouble procuring scraps to make Fanny’s dress decently long enough for her.”

  “I may be able to obtain some little material tomorrow. Allens are expected to make a large order, and there are always bits and ends rejected. Mother, you bring to mind something else that I intended to speak to you about. I have thought of taking porter work by nights at the rail station. Would you feel safe to be alone here at night?”

  “John!”
she protested. “Do not even consider it. It is not myself I would fear for, but you! You cannot work all day for Mr Davis, then all night at the station. You will kill yourself!”

  “I am strong, Mother, and I could nearly double the amount we are able to put by every week. Think how much sooner we will have paid everything back and can live free from this shadow over us!”

  “It is out of the question! I will not sacrifice my son for a few extra shillings. You already work better than thirteen hours out of the day as it is, and sometimes longer!”

  “Which leaves five or six, at least, when I might work a little more. And you know, Mr Davis intends to hire a new stock boy as his shop is prospering so well of late. If he is quick enough, it might be an hour or two less that I will have to work each evening.”

  She snorted expressively. “His shop is prospering because he finally has an able clerk to keep his inventory and ordering records straight, to say nothing of the better floor plan you devised for his warehouse. A year ago, he sold only bargain drapery goods, but now he is attracting such a clientele that his shop is finer than most in Milton. He ought to pay you the extra shilling rather than hiring another useless boy.”

  John shrugged. “It is his business. He may bring on a dozen lads, or close up his shop tomorrow, and it would not be for me to judge what is best by his account books. Were I an employer, I would not feel obliged to share or explain such decisions with my workers. Let us not change the subject, Mother.

  “I am well able to bring in a little more each week with additional work. I could go to the station directly after the draper shop, work through eleven or twelve, and return in time to rest for the next day. You need a new dress as badly as Fanny, and she cannot grow strong on water-porridge every day. If I brought home an extra six or eight shillings per week, you would both be better off. And think, within a couple of years we might even be able to move back to Milton! I know I could find good work there, once my name is cleared, and do we not owe as prompt a repayment as possible to Father’s creditors?”