Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  Hannah Thornton, every bit as determined as her son, crossed her arms with finality. “No, John. If it is our duty to act in good faith, I should say putting by a fifth of your weekly earnings is sufficient. If you do this thing, Fanny and I shall never see you, and you will grow to be nothing more than a ghost of yourself—and where would it end? I’ll not have it, John Thornton! We shall get by.”

  He huffed in exasperation, frowning and turning his attention back to Fanny. The child gazed in some unease between them, sensing that their conversation both did, and yet did not, involve her. He chucked her pointed little chin, trying to startle a smile from her, but was only marginally successful.

  “Fanny,” her mother directed, “go make ready for supper.” Fanny slid down from her brother’s lap, leaving him to face his mother alone.

  “John,” she sighed, sinking into the other chair, “I know what you wish. You have every right to your pride as a man, and to see us restored from disgrace, but I will not have you ruin yourself in the attempt.”

  “Mother—” he tilted her a gentle but determined look. “A little hard work will not ruin me, and it would only be for a time. If you do not wish it, I will not do it, but I will continue to seek odd jobs where I can get them. It may not come to a regular thing, but I cannot rest, knowing I can do more than I do presently.” There was such gravity and resolve glinting in his eyes as Hannah gazed at her boy that she could do little but yield.

  That day marked the beginning of a shift in their relationship. No longer was he merely the dutiful son, obedient to her desires alone. His own will and motivation spurred him. Week by week, three shillings continued to drop into their savings box, but an occasional windfall would see one or two more joining them.

  Earning back the family name became his alone as he steadily took more of the burden upon himself. By and by, she came to look to him as the authority and head of their little household; more than merely the boy she had raised, he became a help-meet and a partner, and eventually a figure of admiration. John had come into his own as a young man, and he gave every promise of becoming yet a far greater one than his father had been.

  Eight

  Marlborough Mills

  October 1855

  “G’mornin, Missus!” Nicholas Higgins tipped his worn grey cap in respect to the young woman crossing the yard.

  She turned at his voice, a ready smile gracing her features. “Good morning, Nicholas!” she answered cheerfully. She glanced to her left, dodging a drayage cart, and wove her way towards him through the yard’s foot traffic.

  “Goin’ to see the master?” he teased.

  “Mr Thornton?” she scoffed. “You know I do not like him.”

  “No more do I,” he winked. “Come on, Missus, I were goin’ there m’self.” He offered his elbow, and she hooked her arm through his.

  “Is it the same loom again?”

  “No, th’ cotton i’self. ‘Tis a ragged lot we’ve got in now. Master said we’d some orders wha’ didn’a need th’ finer weave, so I’m to ask where to send it a’.”

  Margaret nodded uncomprehendingly. The mill was still largely a mystery to her—after all, it was not fitting for her to traipse about the factory itself. Her mother-in-law, seasoned mistress though she was, had only occasionally wandered through the mill, and never did she stoop to meddle directly in any of its affairs. Even John, eager as he seemed to be for her to appreciate all aspects of his position, did not encourage her to explore the factory floor unless he escorted her. There was only so much she could understand from a distance.

  “Nicholas, will you tell me what you mean by that? What is wrong with the cotton?”

  “’Tis th’ longer, cleaner fibres it wan’s, Missus. This lot’s a’ fussed. A ri’ waste o’ good loom space.”

  “I see.” She cast an encompassing glance about her and paused in some dismay as her gaze encountered a boy and a girl just leaving their duties for the day. They were at least fourteen—John would not employ them much younger—but the worn looks of care already etched into their youthful faces squeezed her heart.

  Nicholas slowed his steps beside her, and she left him to speak with the children. The boy snapped smartly to attention while the girl looked bashfully to the ground.

  “Are you both off to school now?”

  “Aye, Missus Thornton,” answered the lad. “Master Stevens won’ like it if we’re late, ma’am.”

  “Indeed, you must hurry. You are going to the building on Dorset Street, are you not? That is a long way to walk.”

  The lad blinked up to her and the girl scuffled her feet in silent acknowledgment.

  Margaret frowned. It was a pity that no school room had ever been built at Marlborough Mills as some other mills had. It would have required a substantial effort, and though John was not unwilling, he had not yet found the resources to do so. Other matters were always more pressing. “I hope your walk is pleasant. Do you enjoy your studies?”

  The boy shrugged doubtfully, but the girl—his sister, Margaret presumed—raised her eyes. “‘Tis be’er than th’ mill, Missus Thornton,” she whispered.

  Margaret swallowed, then dipped her head and wished them a good day. She was still grave and thoughtful when she turned back to Nicholas.

  “‘Tis the devil’s own folly,” he muttered in sympathy.

  “They are so young! Why must it be so, Nicholas? I am glad the law protects them better than it used to, but it is still unfair!”

  He shrugged. “If yo’re looking for some’at to blame, Missus, yo’ll be castin’ ‘bout a long while.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “It is not so simple as I once thought, but those poor children! It is not right that they should have to work so.”

  His face crinkled in a sad smile and he offered his arm again. “They’re be’er off workin’ for Thornton than anywhere else. He pays be’er than other bosses, an’ they go to their school wi’ bellies full o’ food, no’ fluff. Tha’s a deal more than most can say, an’ their families eat from their wages.”

  She paused to smile up at him. “Thank you for that, Nicholas. It means a great deal, coming from you.”

  He chuckled and patted her hand. They had come to the outer door of the building now, and conversation became impossible. Smiling and offering a chivalrous bow, Nicholas held the door for her to pass. He allowed her to precede him through the staggering array of machinery and the downy snowfall of fresh cotton fluff.

  John was standing up on the scaffolding with Mr Williams, his arm outstretched as he pointed and shouted directions to his overseer. He had not noted them yet—she was concealed still and could only see him through gaps in the towering equipment scattered over the floor. She paused, in some awe.

  It had been a long while since she contemplated him as the Master of Marlborough Mills. He had simply become John to her—a kind, thoughtful, gentle man; tender lover, engaging companion and a man worthy of confidence, who took seriously all the cares entrusted to him. Though their wills were not always united, their opinions not always in harmony, she now blessed the day their hearts had entwined, and found all her hope in a new life well lived at his side.

  Gazing up at him as he surveyed his domain, she remembered those first impressions he had made upon her and took a moment to re-examine them. There was a power and an authority about him, unmatched by any other she had known. They were not assumed unjustly but earned. The respect he commanded was no more than his due, and she, who now knew him so intimately, finally understood the depth of humanity veiled beneath the masterful exterior.

  Nicholas nudged her unobtrusively with his elbow, indicating that she was blocking the work underway. She started from her brief daze, somewhat abashed, and made her way towards the steps of the scaffolding. She was watching for the moment when his sweeping gaze would discover her, and she was not disappointed. The iron slid from his expression and his eyes came alive as they only did when they lit on her. If Higgins also noted the change and chuckled some
to himself, the sound was kept from her by the clamour of the looms.

  John scampered down the steps to offer her his hand. He glanced curiously over her shoulder, as if only just then noting the presence of Higgins, but with a jerk of his head he beckoned them both to retire to his office. They followed him up, through the door above, and down a narrow corridor into the quiet of his private lair.

  “What is it, Higgins?” John closed the door, then drew his desk chair out and held it for Margaret before he turned his attention back to his employee.

  Nicholas explained his mission, John listening intently until he had finished. They spoke respectfully and at length, man and master, until a course was set upon to make the best use of the nearly worthless raw cotton. Higgins departed with a wink, and it was likely that he chuckled again to himself when the door was promptly closed and bolted behind him as he left.

  John shed his stifling coat and turned eagerly back to her, drawing her to her feet and into his arms. “What brings you to the mill, love?” He then proceeded as if he did not really care what excuse had summoned her hence—he was delighted that she had come, and he expressed himself most eloquently on the subject.

  Once he allowed her to catch her breath, she eased back to the floor once more. “Your sister called this morning with an invitation to a private family dinner next week.”

  His eyes rolled, and a low groan escaped him. “I am planning to be ill. Likely at death’s door. Send for Donaldson, will you?”

  “It is too late for you to contract such an ailment, for I have already accepted. I cannot attend regular parties yet, and I should like to know Fanny a little better.”

  “You do insist on tormenting me! Watson will spend the evening plaguing me to join in that speculation of his. I have refused him three times already.”

  She tipped a smile which was only partially sympathetic up to him. “I imagine that it is not you who shall be called upon to admire the Indian wallpaper or the new French draperies. I have not seen them yet, you know, and the proper initiations must be observed.”

  “She has new draperies?”

  “She has had them for three months, I understand.”

  He shook his head in vague dismissal. “I had not noticed. When am I to be led to the gallows?”

  She prodded his chest, provoking that maddening smile from him again. “Tuesday next. Your mother has informed me that your best dinner jacket has a large tear in it, which you somehow managed to keep hidden until this very morning when we sent to have it cleaned.”

  He frowned and cast his eyes upward for a moment. “Oh…” he chuckled after some deliberation. “I remember that.”

  She lifted teasing brows. “And?”

  “I think the tale might reflect poorly on me. The last time I wore it was the dinner party we had here a year ago, and one particular guest was wearing this white evening gown….”

  “You are blaming me for the rip under your sleeve?” she laughed incredulously.

  “No—only for the way my hands trembled for the rest of the night, even long after you had gone home. The confounded thing was devilishly tight, and… well, let it suffice to say, I had factory business to attend afterward, and I was in a hurry to change. I never did regain full command of my faculties that night.”

  “I see.” She folded her arms over his, letting the “business” he referred to slip into the ether of former days—days they both would have given a great deal to alter or forget.

  John, too, was eager to put the past aside. He moved his hands to receive hers and kissed each by turn. “How did you find my sister today when she called?”

  “The same as I usually do, I suppose,” she frowned. “She seems well.”

  He lifted a brow. “She is not the companion and sister you might have hoped for, but all is not lost. Perhaps motherhood may improve her somewhat.”

  She jerked back and regarded him with scandalised but inquiring eyes. “Have you some reason to suspect…?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, no! How could I? I only assumed… oh, forget I said anything! We will have Mother all atwitter for nothing if she hears such talk.”

  “I think you needn’t concern yourself there,” Margaret retorted drily.

  “No, I suppose not. She will save that for when it is our turn.” He graced her with a provocative wink. She blushed furiously and scowled in censure, causing him to laugh all the more.

  “Oh, come, love, I shall stop teasing!” he cried when she feigned even greater displeasure. “Stay with me a bit, will you? Perhaps you can help me sort through this mass of invoices before the noon meal.”

  Her eyes widened, and she glanced guiltily towards the door as if afraid his words had been overheard. “I would be happy to be of service, John, but… what will people say if I start working here at the mill? And while still in mourning, no less!”

  “I doubt they will believe you are helping me with invoices,” he replied with a saucy tilt to his mouth. “But I suppose you are right. I only wished for an excuse to keep you here. Perhaps if I bring them home in the evenings, you and I may retire to the study together. It seems a much pleasanter way to accomplish the task.”

  Margaret considered only briefly, then brightened. She found the idea most agreeable, for she had ever relished the notion of making herself useful. In addition, the long evenings spent as a threesome in the drawing-room were only marginally more comfortable than they had been that first week. Hannah had thawed towards her rather notably, but genuine affection between Margaret and her mother-in-law had yet to develop. Present relations between the Thornton women could best be described as an uneasy truce, with John as the disputed turf.

  As quickly as it had risen, Margaret’s enthusiasm faded. “Your mother would miss you….”

  “It is not she whom I have married, now is it? Is it not written that a man should leave his mother and cleave to his wife? I cannot precisely cast my mother out in the street, but I do rather enjoy that cleaving bit.”

  She blushed again and rolled her eyes. “I see no point in deliberately creating more distance. She has only begun to believe I do not intend to monopolise you entirely. I fear such an alteration to the evening routine would unsettle her in the extreme.”

  “Not if your help means I may return home a little earlier and put my duties to rest a little sooner each evening. However, I fear it may cause me to linger over the accounts for an inordinate amount of time,” he added with a mischievous little leer.

  As it happened, Margaret proved a valuable asset in the daily battle waged against the accounts. Both learned to eagerly anticipate that hour set aside just after the evening meal when they would retreat together to the study—no longer exclusively John’s domain—and pore over the tedious record of his day.

  John developed a new appreciation for his wife’s clever mind and sweet company to lighten even such a dreary task, but it was Margaret who reaped the greater reward. She at last began to understand the challenges of his business and to feel herself included as never before. The vagaries of the cotton trade, with its fluctuations and demands, became clear to her, and her mind, thus informed, became a valuable ally to her husband.

  With two instead of one applying themselves to the chore, the numbers were transcribed and tallied with brisk efficiency, and even the suspicious Hannah Thornton could find little to complain of in the shifted order of the family’s scripted evenings. Indeed, if forced to confess it, she would have observed that her beloved son’s expression lost somewhat of its anxiety, its introspective tension and the tendency to drift into a preoccupied daze which had formerly characterised it.

  Such was John’s new sense of leisure that he resumed reading by evenings, with Margaret seated near enough to twine their hands together, and one of Mr Hale’s old books cradled against his knee. The worries plaguing the mill had not lessened, yet he was better able to shrug them off and leave his work behind for a few hours each evening. For such a gift, everyone could be grateful
.

  Weston

  17 October 1840

  “Thank you, Mr Allen, that will be three and six,” John touched his worn cap respectfully as he passed the wrapped parcel over the counter.

  “Three and six!” Mr Allen objected. “Why, only a year ago, this same order would have been….” The greying fellow paused, his brow furrowed in good-natured frustration.

  “Three exactly, sir,” John furnished. “Cotton prices have gone up again, Mr Allen.”

  The man lifted his hands and eyes to the ceiling in a brief supplication, then shook his head in defeat as he drew out his pocketbook. “Every year of late! Never have I seen such a thing before. I tell my wife,” he leaned confidentially close to the boy behind the counter, “that if cotton continues to rise, we shall be forced to buy linen by next year. She swears she will not pay so much, but you wait and see if she will prance out to church in naught but her stockings!”

  John nearly choked on an abnormally large breath of air at Mr Allen’s irreverent discussion of his wife’s wardrobe. His face quite red, he turned away and sputtered into his shoulder. “I am sure,” he coughed, “that Mrs Allen will find that cotton prices shall even out within the next year.”

  “Oh? Have you some particular source for your information? Tell me, young Thornton, shall my wife be able to afford the proper widow’s weeds by then? I do hope so, for the current economic climate will surely drive me to an early grave.”

  “I have no such source as you speculate, Mr Allen. Common sense dictates that the weaver’s unions will soon yield to the desires of their masters—it is always so in winter. Moreover, the industry is becoming more stable every year. Naturally, the demand is continuing to increase as cotton becomes a more fashionable product, but the supply will soon keep pace with the demand.”