Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  “Is that a fact! How so?”

  “Well, sir, the new loom designs are far more efficient. Have you read of them?”

  Allen dipped a quizzical brow as he studied the lad. “I confess, the manufacture of cloth is not the most riveting of topics.”

  “Sir, may I respectfully disagree!” John would never have taken such liberties with a customer’s time if the shop were busy, or if he did not know the man well. Allen was, however, a favourite customer, and there was none other about. His cheeks flamed with youthful passion as he warmed to his subject.

  “I speak not only of the manufacture of cloth, or paper or wool, but the progress of our nation! The machinery we have now is nothing short of a marvel, and a testament to man’s ingenuity and determination. We chose to build an economy stable enough to power the empire, and by the strength of steel and steam, we have done so. These products our factories create clothe and feed the Empire at a much lesser cost than has ever before been possible.”

  “And what of the anti-slavery convention? You think my wife’s clothing will not put me in the work-house when all the plantations lose their labourers?”

  “I do not deny that prices will necessarily increase, but that, too, should settle out in a few short years. As a rule, I object to the crown mandating conditions for an industry, but when men are not even treated as men, we must exert ourselves to right the wrong. And can it be so bad for industry? Men shall earn a wage for the first time, holding their heads high, and such persons will begin to make purchases for themselves. The more affordable products of our new factories are the only logical choice, sir. It will need a few years, perhaps a generation or more, but I think we will be the stronger for it.”

  Allen shook his head, clucking in amusement. “You speak with the naivety of youth, Thornton, but I shall hope, for my sake, at least, that you are not wrong. I’d no idea you were such a capitalist!”

  John reddened again. He had let his tongue run away with him before a customer, a thing he had cautioned himself against. His time in the draper’s shop was not his own, and he must take care to remember that. “Pardon me, Mr Allen. It is a particular interest of mine. Would you like me have one of the boys bring your purchases to your door?”

  “Eh? Oh, yes, that will do.” Allen nodded. He moved to depart, but abruptly turned back. “Thornton, would you fancy a few engineering books?”

  John’s eyes widened before he could catch himself, but he gulped silently instead of blurting out his heart’s desire. His trembling interest, however, spoke more than words.

  “Aha. Have I ever told you of my son, Thornton?”

  “The one who went to sea, sir?”

  “The only son I had,” Allen agreed, his face pinched somewhat. “He left a great stack of the things—technical manuals, engineering and political treatises—always reading, he was. His widow had no interest in such books, so I kept them—to honour his memory, I suppose, though I’ve done naught but let them collect dust. Would you like to read one or two?”

  “Mr Allen,” John breathed in awe, “I would be honoured beyond expression, but… your son’s books! I cannot possibly accept.”

  “Nonsense,” Allen waved, and his tones were gruff as he turned away again. “Charles knew I never cared for the musty things. I’ll send a few of them back with your stock boy when he comes by.” The door jingled, and the old man ambled up the street.

  John’s every nerve tingled to life. He remained fixed to his spot, but his thoughts began to soar, as they had not dared to do in three years. Engineering books, freely offered! His pulse thrummed jubilantly. The only scraps of information he had laid his hands upon in all that time had been from discarded newspapers, scavenged from here and there, for he would not permit the luxury of purchasing the newspaper, let alone books for himself. At last, his searching mind might once more satisfy its longing!

  He glanced anxiously about the shop. No customers were present, and both the boys under him worked about their tasks with the brisk efficiency he had taught them. Perhaps… with quick decision, he strode to the rear of the shop to seek his employer. Obtaining permission to make Mr Allen’s delivery himself was no challenge, for it was a large order and Allen a good customer. Mr Davis was only too happy that his most reliable employee should take on the task. It was the next request, to not return until the morrow, which was dearest to John’s heart.

  Davis looked up from his desk in some amazement, for only twice before in almost three years had John begged leave to depart early for the day… on the same day each year. Davis glanced at his calendar, narrowed his eyes, and silently assented. He knew something of John Thornton’s history and permitting one afternoon per year was not a great hardship when such a valuable employee desired it.

  John’s heart skipped as he hefted the parcel on his shoulders. His feet, it must be confessed, nearly danced the entire way to his destination. Allen came to the door himself at his knock, and within a few minutes, John held the treasure of knowledge in his shaking hands. “Thank you, sir! I shall return them by Monday!”

  Allen grunted. “Keep them, Thornton, and may they do you some good.” Then, he closed the door without another word, nor even a nod of farewell.

  John hesitated on the step a moment, torn between guilt over accepting such a sentimental and precious gift, and hope that the grieving father might now find peace in passing on his son’s legacy. He lifted his hand to knock once more but stilled it. This had been Allen’s wish, and he would honour it.

  He clasped the books to his chest and began walking, not even examining their titles. What mattered their names? He would treasure them as a father’s memory. His eyes stung, and he lengthened his strides. There was only one place in all the world where he needed to be just now, and the long walk would be necessary to regulate his mind and heart.

  An hour later that familiar stone gazed back at him. John studied it, through eyes now a year older and wiser than on his last visit. George Thornton.

  A bit of moss was starting at the bottom of the “G”. John stepped close and gently carved it out with his finger, but small grooves were starting where the spores had worked into the stone. By next year, each letter would be similarly embellished. The earth was taking back its own.

  His brow furrowed as he traced through each painful letter, cleaning and restoring, but his efforts would avail little. Man, in his natural state, lay defenceless against the ravages of time. He would be no different when his own turn came to pass into eternity. What remnant was Man’s to leave? A moss-covered stone? A sunken place in the ground, testifying to what mouldered beneath? His jaw tightened. A mountain of debt and shame?

  Instantly, he regretted that last thought. He clenched his teeth, hissing out a purposeful breath. I promised myself not to hate him any longer! Nothing good could come of such malicious sentiments.

  John’s shoulders dropped, and he remembered the slim volumes in his left hand. In them, he hoped to seek the key to his own future. Industry, that would be his legacy and his epitaph—and may it be a more lasting one than a neglected stone! At last, he turned the books over to inspect them.

  There were four of them. The top volume, curiously, was an officer’s copy of maritime law. What value he would ever find there he could not guess, but he resolved to devour it, all the same. The law had always fascinated him, and this was his first taste of the real thing.

  Two technical manuals of nondescript subjects followed, their titles worn bare by countless hands. The last, simply entitled “Steam,” by William Ripper, was covered in faded red binding and looked to have been the subject of many a long evening of study. To this volume he turned his passionate attention as he reverently fondled the cover.

  “Father,” he murmured, speaking to that stone for the first time since his humiliating encounter two years ago, when he had screamed in impotent rage. “I was given some books today. I thought you would like to know. I am studying again, Father! It is not Latin or Greek, I am sorry to s
ay.” He permitted himself a light chuckle, for surely his father would have laughed just then.

  “Do you remember how I was always trying to take things apart and rebuild them? Oh, what trouble I must have given you! I never did properly repair your Barlow’s Wheel, but never again did you rebuke me about it. Why did you not? I know you lost the investor on my account, but by then I had gone to London….” John’s voice failed, his throat tightening around his words.

  He blinked several times before he could find it within his power to continue. “Oh, Father, how I missed you those years! What I would give to have them back, to return home for holidays to you and to Mother, and to sit by the fire in the evening to tell you everything I had done!”

  He had given up on blinking to control the flood from his eyes. “Do you remember that first time I came home? I thought Mother would never let me go. I knew then how her heart was breaking at my absence, and I could feel the sacrifice she made in each breath… oh, but Father, then you came, and you took my hand like a man. I think it was the first time anyone had ever done so, and I felt at last I was someone… a son you could be proud of….”

  He halted as an uncontrollable shudder racked through his tall frame. His face was streaming—even his nose was running miserably by now, but he did not care. He fought valiantly against the lump in his throat and forged on. “Father, how I miss you!”

  This last confession, words he had sworn would never leave his lips, tore through the final veil of his bitterness. He crumpled to his knees, heedless of the autumn damp through his thin and patched trousers and heaved a piteous sob. Three years now, his father had been gone; three years in which he had grown to full manhood while yet a boy. So much had changed! His mother was no longer the cheerful, tart, indomitable woman she had been; his sister no longer the innocently affectionate child of his father’s years.

  A scarce few moments passed in which he permitted himself the exorcism of all his grief. How much life his father had missed! In due course, however, the working fatigue which naturally accompanied a man’s lot in life dulled and cut short the expressions of pain. His body’s all-consuming will to thrive, more than his sense of reason, asserted itself once more. The tightness in his throat eased, and his eyes felt suddenly drier than they had done before.

  He drew a slow breath, restoring himself, and glanced back to the book. Absently, he thumbed the cover open, and read the first line aloud. “’The object of the study of steam and its applications is to obtain from the steam engine the greatest possible amount of work for the least possible expenditure of fuel.’” He paused, smiled, then laughed. “I think you will enjoy this one, Father. Look here….”

  And so, he read. Squatting there by that lonely stone, John read aloud until the light grew too dim for his eyes and his knees were stiff with cold. When at last he rose, he was shivering with the bone-chill of one who had fallen through the depths of his darkest feelings, but it was a warm welcome that awaited him at his door.

  A few days later, John was greeted almost at the door by his wife as he entered for the evening. Her eyes were dilated unnaturally, and a slight flush stained her ivory cheeks. She held a slip of parchment to her heart and seemed full of something.

  “Margaret? What has happened?”

  “I have finally heard from Frederick,” was her simple and pregnant response. She hesitated, then with slightly shaken fingers, pulled the letter from herself and extended it to him. “I wrote immediately when Papa died, and again just after we wed. The letters reached him almost at the same time, and it has taken until now to receive his answer.”

  He took her free hand, squeezing it in reassurance before he accepted the letter. “Are you well?”

  She nodded, staring in foreboding at the pages. “His letter to me was… comforting. I have not read all, for he included one that was addressed strictly to you. I…” she drew breath, then her fingers twisted together. “I have no way of knowing what he will have to say.”

  “You fear he will speak harshly to me? Never mind that.” He kissed her forehead. “I think I can manage a brother in another country, even if he disapproves of me so strongly that he would take the trouble to abuse me from a distance.”

  She drew a tight breath. “I do not think he will. His words to me sounded… surprised, I suppose, but I believe he took the time to master any feelings of astonishment before he wrote. It must be why he delayed in answering, for I expected to hear from him at least a fortnight ago.”

  “Come, love, you look far too nervous. Sit by me in the drawing-room while we read these. I confess to an insatiable curiosity about the man.”

  She complied, and a moment later they were seated on the sofa and he unfolded the first letter.

  My dearest little sister,

  I have grieved until I can scarcely draw breath. Father gone! And I never able to see him again, or to mourn with you. It is so monstrously unfair, it raises the bile in my gorge. My poor dear sister, to discover him yourself, with no one to help but old Dixon!

  I ought to have been there, Margaret. I could have spared you! But perhaps it was better that I was not, for we both remember how it was when Mother died. It was you who sustained me though I wished to be of some good to you. I would have proved a burden, I know, but how I longed to board the first ship to see you!

  Such was my wish when I received your letter, but then just after came the second. I cannot imagine my little sister wed! You must give me leave to think of you now and again as the girl you were when I left home. Yet, when I attempt it, the woman I saw last year returns to mind, and I can but think your husband the most fortunate man alive, whether he knows it or not.

  Are you happy, Margaret? I know you well enough—for you are like myself—to believe you married Mr Thornton out of some measure of affection rather than the simple need for a protector. I must confess myself astonished, for I had not thought before that you were fond of the man, but the way you write of him now, and the way you defended him even then, set my mind at ease for you.

  How I wish I could have seen you at your wedding, my dear! I have been denied the chance to kiss your cheek and walk with you on my arm. I shall never see your happiness, so you must take care to write often and well, so I may savour your words and form a picture in my mind of your life as it is to become.

  My own dearest hopes for felicity have been answered. I have never known contentment as I have found with my Dolores. Margaret, I am to be a father! Can you believe it? I ought to have written when we first knew of it, but we were cautious, and did not want to raise false hope in you and our father until we could be certain.

  Our joy shall be complete in the spring, and I am the veriest mooncalf of a husband as I wait with my Dolores. I hope this news brings you some happiness as well, for such news has been of short supply in our family of late. Be certain to tell Dixon, will you? How I miss the old dear!

  The letter turned to more domestic matters, having set aside, after the beginning, the heaviness of grief. It was as if the author could no longer bear to think on his sorrows and was determined to seek some pleasure in the correspondence. He wrote minutely of his new family and home, then in more general terms of his flourishing business. He even reflected with some humour at one point that he, like Margaret, had married into the world of trade and commerce, and could yet hold his head high. John read with growing ease through two full sheets of paper, but Margaret’s figure remained slightly tense beside him. It was at the last line that he understood some of her apprehension.

  I am afraid I must close, Margaret. Do write to me soon to assure me again of your happiness, for I must confess, I still struggle somewhat to imagine it. I have included a note for your Mr Thornton. I hope he recognises the treasure he has been given, for I think no man could deserve you. Farewell for now, dear one.

  Fred

  John rested his hand over Margaret’s, and her fingers squeezed his in answer. “He does not sound so very terrifying. He feels protective of you,
and who can blame him? It was his place, now that your father is gone, and he was denied the right to catechise me properly. He knows nothing of me save that I saw my opportunity to marry the most dazzling woman of my acquaintance and snapped her up before any others could come about.”

  Margaret blushed. “John, you ought not speak so. People will overhear and think you serious.”

  “I am. Do you think I wanted to allow some other to ‘help’ you? Little would anyone else know just what they had bargained for, but I had a fair idea.” He smiled as she nudged him with her elbow and turned his attention to the second letter to break the seal.

  Dear Mr Thornton,

  I congratulate you, sir, on your marriage to my sister. I will own that I wished when I visited Milton before to know you, but I never anticipated it to be in this manner that we would make an acquaintance. My impressions of you were not at all what I would have expected to feel for my future brother, and I had not the least prescience that it might be thus.

  You must forgive me, the absent brother who scarcely knows his sister as she is now, but I wish to write to you very seriously about certain matters. My father spoke highly of you, and Margaret has done the same, so I am convinced that you are a respectable man who will treat her well. However, I wonder if her life to this point has adequately prepared her to become the wife of an industrialist.

  I have no place to reproach or to doubt; no power of persuasion over my sister, nor present authority to dictate to you. I only beseech you as a gentleman—dare I presume a gentleman in love? For I know little of your motives for marriage, but I cannot fathom any man not holding my sister dear in his heart. I pray, sir, that you treat her with tenderness befitting her upbringing.