Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  Think not that I admonish you because I believe you a boor—rather, as a man only married within the last year myself, I have come to understand the weaker sex in a manner I had never done before. I would see my sister happy and content in all things, and you are the only man now with the power to ensure that. I expect that Milton is all you have ever known as home, but I assure you, the lady you know as your wife keeps within her heart the memory of a far gentler place.

  I share a similar misfortune to my sister, but when I think fondly of the home of my youth, it is with the practical sobriety of a man, untroubled by the sentiments which so often beset a woman. You would be a wise man to do all within your power to comfort and encourage your wife, so that in time, she comes to love the home you have given her quite as much as any other she has known.

  I write in the hope that future years will see us as amicable acquaintances, perhaps even friends, if circumstances permit. I should like to meet you in person one day, but if I never do, know that my exile has been borne with bitterness. It has robbed me of both my beloved parents and left me with a sister I hardly know and have done nothing for. For her sake, I would not grieve her by returning to England now, but I shall hope that one day, a way might be found for you to come here, so I may see with my own eyes the contentment she professes.

  I remain yours most respectfully,

  Frederick Hale

  John read the letter twice, then creased it thoughtfully again in its original folds. Margaret’s brow was furrowed, for he had held it in such a way that she could read as well as he. She drew a slow breath, her thoughts seeming to turn inward as he put the letter aside.

  “Do you know,” he mused, “I had intended to take up my old naval regulations book and the clippings your father saved from the papers. Perhaps there is some defence left to his case that has been overlooked. It is worth investigating, after all.”

  “It is good of you to think of it, John, but I know there is nothing. Fred is safe where he is.” Her hands were knotted in her lap, and her eyes fell to them as she seemed to exert some effort to steady her breathing.

  “Margaret?” He reached for her hand, gratified at the easy way her fingers twined with his. “You seem troubled. Are you well?”

  She released her breath as slowly as she had drawn it, then offered him a cheerful smile. “Perfectly, John. It was not so frightful as I expected.”

  He glanced to the bit of paper again. “Margaret, it would be no shame for you to confess some misgivings about…” he stopped, searching for the right words. “I know you never dreamed of marriage to a cotton manufacturer. A year ago, you were still horrified by this city and shocked by me, and now you have embraced both for the rest of your life. Have you never felt those moments of disquiet with how matters have settled?”

  “No, John. That is not to say that I do not still remember Helstone, and even London with fondness, but I have no regrets. Regret and self-pity weakened my mother and father so, and I will make no place for them in my own heart.”

  “But as your brother has written, there may come a time… something unexpected, perhaps… a sorrow that overtakes your strength in the moment and renders your determination weaker than you had known it to be. You will not turn from me, will you, my Margaret? You will share your feelings and allow me to comfort you?”

  She cupped both hands at his jaw, not speaking, but she tipped his face low until her forehead touched to his. Their noses brushed together as she nodded gently, then she pledged her agreement with a soft kiss. “Whatever comes, John, let us face this life as one.”

  His arms slipped around her, and she lowered her head to his chest to sigh in contentment. “Aye, love,” he answered huskily. “I promise.”

  Helstone

  June 1849

  “Ah, Margaret! I was wondering where you had gone.”

  Margaret was just hanging her bonnet when her father greeted her, with genuine pleasure warming his dear voice. She turned round to him. “Good afternoon, Papa. I was out walking, and I encountered young Sammy Roberts. Did you know his mother has injured her leg? And Mr Roberts has a dreadful cough.”

  “Yes, I saw them a few days ago.” Mr Hale smiled at her—that wistful, half-broken expression that had been his for two years now, each time he looked upon her—then, his eyes fell meaningfully to a letter in his hand.

  Margaret drew near in interest. “Papa, is something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No, my dear. It is from my old friend Mr Bell. You must remember him, I suppose.”

  “The one from Oxford?”

  “He is in South America—or was, when he sent this a few weeks ago. He may be back in England by now. He often goes there for the winter, you remember. He prefers the warmer weather.”

  “It seems a long way to go! Is he well?”

  “Other than the same complaint he has had for years.” Mr Hale tapped the letter against his fingers and drew a hesitant breath. “Margaret, he has seen Frederick.”

  Margaret’s limbs ran cold, and in the next moment she was touching his arm, pleading to know more. “Is Frederick well, Papa? Is he safe?”

  Her father blinked several times, then passed her the letter. “Mr Bell writes that he has grown taller than I by now and has a great thick beard. He has been searching for better work. It sounds as if Bell was able to introduce him to someone who might have a position for him.”

  Margaret’s eyes were flying over the letter as her father spoke. “In Spain! Why there?”

  Mr Hale shrugged. “I suppose word must travel through ship hands and businessmen, around port cities, that sort of thing. It must be a very large trading house. Perhaps Frederick will find work as a clerk at their shipping yards or something. I understand he is already on his way there.”

  “I believe I shall be happier to think of him in Spain rather than in South America. It is not half so far away, but shall he be safe?”

  Mr Hale’s weariness had begun to show through his expression, and he merely shook his head. “I hope so.” He turned away, then, as if he could not remember his purpose, sagged into his old chair and rubbed his brow.

  Margaret hesitated, then softly claimed the seat beside him. “Papa?”

  He lifted his face, once again blinking rapidly. “What is it, my dear?”

  “Will you tell me how it happened? Did Fred ever write why he—”

  Her father was shaking his head again. “Pray, do not ask me, Margaret. I cannot bear to think on it. Your mother has some letters from him. Perhaps she will show them to you, but I cannot speak of it.” His face disappeared behind his hand once more, and he was silent.

  Margaret sighed. No, her mother would not show her the letters. Someday, perhaps, but until then, she seemed doomed to ignorance. She frowned, and her gaze scanned the brooding walls, the musty books on the shelves, the old tapestries and rugs that were so familiar. It seemed to her that each summer when she came home, she should see Frederick there, ready to race her to the barn or count the stars with her. When she found that he was not there, she sought an escape from the house. Thus, she went walking every day.

  “Papa,” she ventured, nibbling her lip. “Would you like to go down to the stream with me this afternoon? It would be cheerful, would it not?”

  He straightened—that fragile smile again—“Are you trying to save me from my own melancholy, Margaret? You may be easy, for I shall not remain so long. Let me be morose for a time, and then I shall be myself again. But stay—” he interjected as she began to rise—“will you take this letter to show your mother? I think… she would rather have it from you.”

  She glanced down at the paper in her hands but did not leave at once. “Papa, what do you do when you are grieved? Mama stays in her room on bad days, but I prefer to go out. Is it not that way for you? I cannot bear to leave you alone in your study if there is some way I might comfort you.”

  He raised his head in genuine surprise. “Why, Margaret! What a thing to hear you say. Forgive me, my dear,
I occasionally forget that you are now sixteen, and no longer a child.”

  “But I am still your daughter, and it pains me to see you suffer. I know Frederick would not like to think of you despairing over him.”

  “Despairing? No, my dear, I do not despair… well, not entirely. That would be wrong, a grievous sin. Frederick is safe, he has been spared, and may even find himself happy someday. I pray for that! I pity myself, that is all, for the loss of his company, and I pity your mother that she has been robbed of her child, but there is nothing more I can do. And so, I keep myself busy. It does help stave off the gloom.”

  Margaret settled beside him again, eagerly leaning forward in attendance. “How so?”

  “Well… of course it is my duty to counsel and offer solace to those in the parish. I often find that when my energies are directed to the cares of others, my own sorrows diminish—at least for a time. I cannot think that man was meant to languish in his own heartache, but to look about and serve his fellows, for he has some empathy in experience. Are not all thereby cheered and encouraged? For at least then….” He sighed, his brow pinched.

  “Then, what?”

  “Why, then… we see that there are others. We are curious creatures, Margaret. We can bear almost anything, so long as we understand that we are not alone.” He pressed his mouth into a thin line, then smiled round at her again. “You had better take your mother that letter. She will wish to read it before her tea.”

  Reluctantly, she rose, her eyes on the letter. “Perhaps,” she mused cautiously, “that is, if Mamma feels equal to it after her tea, I shall ask if she would like to come with me to take a basket to the Robertses.”

  Her father looked up, a curious light in his eye, then stood. He drew near, a hint of wonder in his manner, and nodded slowly. “If you can persuade her to it, Margaret. Indeed, you are no longer a child! Perhaps you will succeed where I have not.”

  John was not in his finest spirits when he entered his door. His work day had gone ill, but he could do nothing further to improve matters today. Thus, it was that he arrived home a full hour early, frustrated and useless and eager to salve his bruised dignity by a private interlude with his wife. The only trouble was that he did not see her.

  He cast a bemused glance round the drawing-room, then looked to his mother in consternation. “Where is Margaret?”

  Her brows raised, but she kept her eyes on her sewing. “Gone walking, as she does many an afternoon.”

  “Gone walking—alone? She does? But how did I not know of this?”

  “It is not as if she did not do so before you wed. It ought not surprise you.”

  “Yes, but I thought she would have mentioned it to me. Where did she go?”

  Silver scissors flashed in the fading light through the window, and she held her needlework up to evaluate the finished product. “She does not say. She goes, and then she returns in time to dress before you come home. That is all I know.”

  Annoyed, he turned round for his topcoat. “I will be back, Mother.”

  “Where do you go, John? You do not think to find her, do you? A pretty thing it would be, the master searching all over Milton for his wayward wife. You would do better to remain here and not make the buffoon of yourself. If you must upbraid her for her foolhardiness, do so in privacy so you do not lose face before others.”

  He grimaced. “I hardly think to lecture Margaret over walking out. She may have what freedoms she chooses, but I am concerned for her safety. Do you have no idea where she goes?”

  “Like enough, she calls on the wives of workers. I heard her speak of a woman who takes in washing, and another who used to be in your employ but fell too ill for work. I told you, did I not, that lass would bring trouble?”

  “Trouble! How do you mean?”

  “If she is seen to act against your knowledge or wishes—”

  “There are no strikes or uprisings at present. I do not think taking a basket, as was always her way, is any challenge to my position. Where is this washer woman she speaks of?”

  His mother folded her needlework and tucked it away. “I only know that she usually returns in about half an hour from now. You may as well stay here, for you would not find her before that.”

  He hissed in vexation. If his only option was to wait, he would do so in his study, where he could be free to pace and chafe all he liked without scrutiny. When he entered it, however, weariness overcame him instead. He had looked for her to help ward off the draining fatigue of his day, and without her, he could only sink into his chair and scowl... or, perhaps he could read. At least it took his mind off her absence....

  He frowned and rolled his eyes when the first book that came to hand was one of Mr Hale’s old sermon notebooks, but he had not the energy to search for another. He flipped it open, scanning impatiently for a moment until his eyes slowed, captivated by the familiar script and recalling the mellifluous tones of his friend. Smiling in spite of himself, he forced his mind to do his bidding.

  John did not hear her return to the house and started when his study door swung as if thrust by an agitated hand. He set the book aside and began to stand, prepared to make his demands about her whereabouts, but she preceded him.

  “John! I have just heard that you intend to cut hours at the mill. Is it true?”

  “I do not know where you might have heard that—nor do I know where you have been. What do you mean by leaving in the afternoons without giving word of your destination or taking someone with you?”

  Her brow wrinkled, and she turned self-consciously round to close the door. “I have always walked out whenever I may, and never have I taken an attendant. I am not such a fine lady as that!”

  “It is nothing to do with being a fine lady. You could have been insulted on the streets, or worse. No longer can you vanish in the crowds as an unknown; you are my wife, and there are those who would do me or mine harm.”

  “Really, John! I cannot walk down the street but half the people I pass offer me a kindly greeting, and not for your name but my own. Do you think anyone would suffer harm to come to me?”

  He suppressed a frustrated grumble and paced round behind her, trying to form a rational argument without raising her ire. “You speak the truth, and I confess to some pride in what you say—you were honoured in this city before our marriage for your own merits, and you are more so now, for any would know you to be under my protection. But you have seen desperation and even wickedness. You know it can drive men beyond reason, and right or wrong, my name is anathema to some.”

  She raised a brow. “So, there is truth to the report that you might cut hours?”

  “One subject at a time, I beg you. I cannot be satisfied with you walking out alone, and likely to the worst parts of town. Why would you not at least tell Mother where you had gone?”

  “I told Dixon, who would have told you, if you had troubled yourself to ask her.”

  “I do not intend to run after your serving woman to learn of your whereabouts! Do I not do you the courtesy of sending a note when my duties take me from the mill? I think you owe me at least that much.”

  She turned, setting her hat aside on his desk. “You need to know all my affairs, is that it?” Her expression hardened, and he felt the hair raise on the back of his neck.

  “All? Hardly, but we are married. Does that not indicate that I should know more than your maid? By heaven, Margaret, would you disrespect me so blatantly that all should know of my ignorance regarding your activities?”

  “Is this how it is to be, then?” Her back was to him, but he could see her drawing breath, squaring her shoulders. Her voice trembled faintly. “To save face for you, I must defer to you in even the minutest of interests? Shall you provide me a list of the places and people whom I may visit?”

  “Good Lord, Margaret, do not make me out to be a tyrant. You know I do not object to some liberties for you. I do not even protest that you call on the workers who would despise me—though common sense dictates I sho
uld.”

  “Indeed, you should!” she retorted in a mocking tone. “We cannot have Mrs Thornton defying the Master in public! Think how his pride would suffer for it.”

  He stopped before his bookcase, flexing his fists and pressing them into the wood until the shelves began to shake. His temper was sparking... he must control it! But it was too late, her provocation too painful. He whirled.

  “I have no thought for my pride! I have told you before—I never expected that our interests would always be aligned, but I assumed we would speak to each other before acting, rather than doing battle behind closed doors afterwards. You take risks you do not, or worse, will not understand. Do you not know what offences have been done against women in the name of jealousy? Or do not consider that, if you please. You are a beautiful woman, Margaret. Think you that none would act on foolish impulse to satisfy their own base desires?”

  She turned to face him, her lips curled back from flashing white teeth and her breast trembling in short, heated breaths. “None has ever dared to be impertinent to me, save for you! I believe it is you who are possessed of jealousy, John Thornton. I was under my father’s protection before I was under yours, and never did he admonish me for my looks, or suggest that by simply walking on the street I presented a temptation. Shall I take to wearing sackcloth? Would that comfort you, knowing that I lure none to eternal perdition by looking upon me?”

  “Dammit, Margaret, I meant nothing of the kind, and I am not your father!”

  “No. You are a good deal more possessive.” She lifted her chin. “And vulgar.”

  John yanked his fingers through his hair, quaking in rage. “Forgive my language.” He paced again, trying to breathe, to see clearly, but it was no use.

  He stepped quickly to her and grasped her upper arms in a fevered embrace, heedless of the way she tried to draw back. “What robbed your father of his will to live? Was it when he lost his son, or his wife?”