Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  She blinked and ceased arching away from him. “I believe... Fred’s exile weakened him, but it was Mamma’s death that really killed him.”

  He shuddered and eased his grip on her arms but did not step back. Neither did she, and they stood so close that a passing draught blew a loosened strand of her hair before his eyes. “Margaret, do you think it would not kill me if something happened to you?”

  She turned her face away, her mouth puckered in angry contemplation.

  “Forgive me,” he muttered, low and unsteadily as his hands fell. “I did not intend to frighten you.”

  “If you frightened me, it was not when you grabbed my arms.” She faced him again, the rims of her eyes red and moist. “I fear losing myself. I feared—for years, I have feared—that marriage to any man would cause me to diminish in some way. I did not wish to be changed, so I avoided it, refused to consider it. You frightened me when you proposed that first time, and I found that the very sort of man who most had the power to bend a woman to his wishes was the one who would desire me... but the most terrifying moment of all was when I discovered I wanted none other.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Have you never faced a prospect that daunted you, filled you with dread, and yet drew you so irresistibly that you would gladly see yourself destroyed rather than denied this thing you desired?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Her name was Margaret Hale.”

  A crease appeared at the corner of her mouth. “And do you, John Thornton, have the least idea how intimidating you can be? Even without intending to be so, you are like living with a titan. Were I not determined to keep up something of my old self, I truly... honestly fear there would be nothing left of her.” She looked away again, shuddering in some remnant of her wrath, and released a slow breath.

  “Margaret—” he reached hesitantly for her hand, and she gave it. Her fingers were cold. “You know I do not wish to dominate you. How could I, when this very nature you fear losing is the one I worshipped from the moment we met? But you must also let me protect you.”

  “Perhaps it was foolish of me,” she whispered guiltily. “I did not care to think on it, but you are right that I should at least leave you word of my intentions.”

  “That is all I ask. When we made our vows, I gave myself into your keeping, and you promised to do likewise. We no longer belong only to ourselves, but do not believe for a moment that I would bend or break you, my Margaret.”

  She crossed her arms; her look had softened, but a doubtful shiver remained. “Even when my wishes are contrary to yours? I still wish to go alone when I choose... shall you object to that?”

  “Are you speaking from your good sense, or your old cursed defiance?”

  She laughed, a teary, relenting sound, and shook her head. “In London, a lady would never dream of venturing out on her own. It was simply not done. But here... I have always had that freedom, simply because I had not the means to keep a maid everywhere I went. I suppose... that has changed. Perhaps I will not go alone to certain neighbourhoods.”

  “Promise me you will be more judicious, and I shall make no more protests.”

  “John—” her lips pinched, and she raised those glorious eyes, now flooded with emotion. “Perhaps it is a poor time to ask again....”

  He sighed. “You are the most stubborn, maddening creature I have ever met.”

  “Do you not have a mirror?”

  He shook his head and tugged her hand towards a sofa. “Sit with me, rather than squaring off as if we each held a pistol. Yes—” he eased her into the seat—“there is talk of cutting hours. I have not yet decided about it.”

  “But in the winter! The workers will go hungry!”

  “Winter is always one of the leanest times for a cotton mill, and they all know it. Some other masters have talked of it—raw cotton remains the same because of some supply issues from America. Finished prices have dropped, though, and we’ll not see them raise until spring. It makes little sense to continue buying and producing cotton as if we cannot keep it on the shelves.”

  “But the warehouse is hardly full. Are you not still trying to catch up with your orders from months ago?”

  “So is everyone. One month out of work, and it takes us a year to recover! But we are nearly out of it, and if everyone slows production during a bad season, none could cast blame on us for doing likewise. It might be the very reprieve we need.”

  “Reprieve from what? How is everyone not harmed?”

  “Why, Margaret, we cannot continue paying to produce something we cannot sell for a fair price. If we did, the price would drop even lower, and then I should never be able to pay back the bank.”

  She twisted her fingers in her lap, her brow knit thoughtfully. “The others have the same trouble?”

  “Not precisely. Marlborough Mills is unique—three years ago I replaced all the looms with the newest designs. We are far more efficient than any others. At peak capacity, this mill dominates the market, but at low times, we are the most vulnerable. The debt is not yet repaid, and it weighs as an anchor about our necks.”

  “I have often wondered about that, since you are generally so averse to financial obligations.”

  “Where there is no prospect of recovery, yes. I will never involve myself in the sorts of schemes my father did, borrowing money with no means of repaying it other than vain hope. I considered this a necessary investment, and the debt is secured by the equipment itself. If we were ever to face ruin, only the business would suffer. I have no intention of spending another half of my life repaying such a debt.”

  “But the situation now, with the workers—”

  He cut her off with a sigh. “I have made no decisions. I do not wish to send any home with shortened pay, but neither do I wish to tell them in six months that they must seek employment elsewhere. Where did you hear this rumour?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “A few women I stopped and talked to, they said it was common knowledge.”

  “And you were as annoyed with me for not telling you as I was when I did not know your whereabouts?” She rewarded him with an abashed smile.

  “Do me the justice of believing I would tell you before you were obliged to listen to hearsay. I suppose I might have told you that the subject had been raised, but I am not considering it seriously. Knowing, as I do, your sentiments on the matter, you may be assured that I will give them due consideration... but my decision will be for the good of the mill, not sentiment—yours or mine.”

  She pressed her hands on her knees, nodding jerkily. “I understand. Thank you, John.”

  “You needn’t thank me. I owe you that much, just as I am also bound to see you content in your life here. Margaret, if you wish to retain some sense of your old ways, why do your family’s things still darken the back room? I thought you would have brought them out to see the light of day and lend these austere rooms of ours a bit of Hampshire charm.”

  “Oh....” She nibbled her lip uncomfortably. “I did not intend to disrupt....”

  “My mother expects you to make whatever changes to the house you see fit. It would be no surprise to her.”

  “Nor would such changes be precisely welcome. I shall not win her regard by sweeping away all she holds dear. If the price of harmony between myself and your mother is enduring a few furnishings that are not to my taste, then I will gladly pay it.”

  “What of the management of the house? Surely she could not object to your rights there.”

  “She does not. Some matters have become my concern, but there are others, such as the ordering of candles in the evening or the reading of devotions, which she guards as her own. I do not think she means offence. I suppose we all like to feel ourselves useful and necessary, and it would be unfair for me to demand all her privileges at once.”

  He brushed her cheek and leaned close to kiss her forehead. “Then I shall keep out of the matter. If any can earn her place in my mother’s heart, it is you. And what of myself? Am I
forgiven my brutish behaviour?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Not quite! What further penance would you have of me?”

  She smiled, a slightly wicked light in her eye. “A few hours of your unmitigated devotion should suffice to restore my spirits. Perhaps after dinner?”

  He hooked his finger in his cravat and yanked at the knot. “Who needs dinner?”

  Nine

  Marlborough Mills, Milton

  April 1842

  George Kramer dropped his pen when a knock sounded at his door. “Come!” he called in irritation to his unseen visitor.

  The door to his office swung open, the hinges complaining at such assertive treatment. A tall, well-built young man still held the latch. His hair was dark, nearly black, but his brilliant blue eyes flashed in contrast to the rest of his stern face.

  Kramer evaluated his caller for half a second. He looked to be about twenty; full-grown at something impressively over six feet. There was nothing lanky or lean about him, as one often saw in a youth so tall, for his chest and shoulders were already filled out. By the firm set of his jaw and the agile way he carried himself, he looked as though he knew hard work. There was something strikingly familiar about the young man, but… Kramer furrowed his brow. Whatever memory the lad’s appearance had jogged seemed lost to the rolling sands of time.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Kramer.” The young man’s voice was already deep and sure for his years, and Kramer wondered fleetingly if he were not older than he looked. “Thank you for seeing me. My name is John Thornton.”

  Kramer felt his expression turn from puzzled to horrified. His gaze swept the lad’s face over again, and he was assured of his conclusion. “Why, you… you’re George Thornton’s boy!”

  Young Thornton’s jaw tightened in acknowledgment. “I am, sir. I believe I have a debt to settle with you.” He searched within the pocket of his meticulously clean, but threadbare coat, and produced an envelope. Without ceremony, he extended it. “If my records are correct, this should be ten percent of the total debt, including an allowance for interest.”

  Mystified, Kramer hesitantly accepted the envelope. “Young man, I never expected you and your mother to assume such an obligation. It has been at least three or four years now!”

  “Five, sir,” the youth corrected him.

  “Five!” Kramer shook his head. “I am sorry, my good fellow. I applaud you for taking this duty on yourself, but you have a mother and sister to care for, if I am not mistaken. I cannot accept.” He pressed the folded paper away from himself, but the boy would not lift his hand to touch it.

  “Do you not wish to count it?”

  Kramer drew back the envelope, offended. “I meant no slight, young man! I would not wish to take from a widow and her orphans.”

  George Thornton’s son squared his already strong shoulders, and the youthful innocence of his face took on a hard, worldly look. “I am no orphan, sir, and I am well able to care for my family. I would live a free, honest man, and once I have repaid all my father’s creditors, I shall do so.”

  “Do you mean, son, that you have held the record of this all these years? Why, it was only thirty pounds, as I recall. I had written it off ages ago!”

  “Thirty-five, Mr Kramer, and I have calculated an additional five for interest. If you do not think that amount fair, name your figure and I shall recompense you adequately.”

  Mr Kramer lowered the envelope, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Tell me, young man—if I may be so bold—how many others have you begun to repay?”

  “All of them, sir, as I have said. My father had numerous creditors.”

  “Recently?”

  “It has taken me three days to call upon everyone. You are the last. I regret that it is not yet the full amount you are due, but I intend to return next year with another instalment.”

  Kramer squinted, deciding to test the boy. “I saw Mr Hamper only this morning. He said nothing about any of this.” He allowed the statement to hang, wondering how young Thornton might justify himself.

  “I saw him yesterday,” was the steady response. “As the matter concerned no other, I asked for his confidence.”

  Kramer’s eyes widened so startlingly that his glasses slipped down his nose. This was a brassy youth indeed, to approach Miles Hamper with a five-year-old debt, and then to ask the man to keep the repayment of it to himself! The very thought of recovery was so wonderful that Kramer could scarce believe it.

  How was the entire town not abuzz with word of this singular young man’s actions? Why, the sheer novelty of the idea alone would be enough to amuse all his acquaintance for weeks—and Hamper! The man was not known to still his tongue at any man’s pleasure, much less the request of a boy who was scarcely shaving!

  “How is it that Hamper agreed to your conditions?”

  “It was not a condition, sir. I had already paid him his due. Very likely he is content to remain silent because he does not wish to appear ungenerous, as you do not yourself. I have no fear of shame for myself, sir—my father’s actions were his own, and they are in the past. I do not seek praise, only justice. It is mine to set right a wrong, and I am satisfied at last to begin to do so. I will thank you for your time, sir, and for your patience. I have not taken it lightly, I assure you. Good-day, Mr Kramer.”

  Young John Thornton replaced his tattered hat and turned to the corridor once more. Kramer stared after him in mute astonishment. Seldom—almost never—had he encountered one of such mildness and force all at once. He sensed that few would dare to defy the lad when he was grown to full manhood—and such a man as he might be!

  Thornton must have laboured devotedly all these years, saving a substantial portion of what meagre earnings the family could survive without. To at last find satisfaction in the repayment of a debt which could not rightfully be called his own, and to do all without pomp or fanfare was too remarkable for him to take in. He stood frozen by his own desk, staring blankly at the envelope.

  What might such a lad make of himself? The boy’s character was fixed. He only wanted for opportunity, and with such an air of authority already, Kramer had no doubt it would seek him out. His fingers tightened on the bulging paper in his hand. He could use an honest man at his side just now.

  The wizening old man cast the envelope towards his desk, for it was not the prize he sought. Hurriedly, he stumped out to the corridor outside his office. “Thornton!”

  The tall figure had already rounded the corner and descended the steps, but at Kramer’s voice, he retraced his path. “Yes, sir?”

  Kramer panted as he jogged to meet him. “Do you need work, boy?”

  The grim jaw thrust forward in a flash of pride. “I have work, sir. I thought that much was obvious.”

  “Aye, and what do you make? Eighteen shillings a week?” The smooth face flinched involuntarily, and Kramer guessed that he would not get a straight answer, but the boy’s true pay was somewhat less than that.

  The blue eyes sparked in defiance. “I do not need charity, Mr Kramer.” He turned to go once more.

  Kramer felt a sly smile growing. He was starting to like this boy! Proud in all the ways a man ought to be, yet unafraid of the humility of truth, he possessed the essential qualities that would help him go far. The broad back was already disappearing, and with a last hopeful summons, he beckoned once more.

  “Is it charity, lad, to recognise one who might be useful to me?” The figure did not turn, but he had stopped.

  Encouraged, Kramer tried again. “How old are you, Thornton?”

  The square profile moved to face him. “Nineteen, sir. In three months.”

  Kramer’s brows jumped in surprise. “Not quite nineteen! Oh, that is young,” he mused, stroking his jaw in apparent thought.

  Thornton’s eyes narrowed, taking up the challenge. “I have been performing a man’s work for a long while now, Mr Kramer.”

  “Aye,” Kramer shook his head in mock worry. “But you can have no exper
ience, I think. Not in something like my business here. Where is it you have been working?”

  “A draper’s shop in Weston, about ten miles from here,” was the unabashed response. “I know textiles, sir.”

  “Hmm, but it is the machinery that concerns me. I need a man who understands it. I imagine also that you have never had the management of others?”

  “I have two lads who work under me, sir. As for the machinery, I can learn, and I would not burden anyone overmuch with the necessity of teaching me.”

  Kramer pursed his lips, pleased with the boy’s staunch defence of himself. “Come with me, Thornton.”

  Choosing his destination with care, he deliberately led the youth to what was, admittedly, one of the worst work stations in his entire factory. He watched the fascination lighting in the dark eyes as he beheld for the first time the massive carding room where the cotton fibres were combed and aligned in preparation for the weaving process. The noise was deafening, the humidity stifling in the summer heat, and the sheer force of the machinery violent and fearsome.

  Kramer observed in silence. It would have done him no good to speak, for even the sharp ears of youth would be overwhelmed in such an environ. John Thornton walked slowly among the various monstrosities dominating the room, needing no shepherd or guide to usher him about. It seemed to Kramer almost as though the lad grew yet taller as the power of the room energised his frame.

  He paused at one point and stared at the workers, his quick eyes following every movement, every flick of cotton, every shuddering pulse of the carding machine. With swift intuition, the boy’s gaze flitted to the long overhead belt running to the next room, where the next phase of the process was already underway.

  Kramer allowed a triumphant smile. The lad was well and truly hooked. With a very little more exposure, it would be a steam engine that beat within that young body, and precision gears would drive that active mind. This was a man he could work with! When Thornton looked back to him at last, he waved him to his side.