Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  “All the same, Mrs Thornton I am rather impressed by your courage. Would you stay here with us within the gates? I will order them locked and send straightaway for the regiment. I can only pray they will arrive before the mob does!”

  “There is no need for me to stay,” she calmly decided. “I have done what I came to do, and I will now go to my own house. Good day, Mr Hamper.”

  Margaret left her dressing room that night in a rumpled state. Had it not been for Hannah Thornton’s timely intercessions, she might have thoroughly lost her temper. Certainly, Watson would have attempted to run roughshod over the entire gathering, but the elder woman—cunning and experienced among men of business—proved a salvation of sorts. Still, there had been Fanny and her insufferable banalities. Margaret had spent the evening in a constant state of vexation and was in no clearer frame of mind after her nightly ablutions.

  She emerged to a room that was silent and brooding as she, and for a moment, she looked about herself in some disorientation. John’s near constant presence in the evenings had grown to be the accustomed order, and she could not at first account for his absence. Even if he were not yet ready to join her, she could always hear him moving about in the next room… oh. She sighed, recognising her blunder just as a hesitant tap sounded on the door.

  She hastened to open it and found her husband cringing on the other side. “Did the evening pass so badly as that?”

  She released the bridled groan she had kept in check for the past several hours, but it came out as a rueful laugh. “I was distracted. I did not mean to bolt the door.”

  “I had hoped that it was not I you were put out with.” He pulled her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her hairline. “My mother and sister proved too much for you?”

  “How can you possibly be related? Your mother I am coming to understand and even appreciate, but Fanny… Can she have been a foundling? I ought not to go on so, I fear I will say something I shall later regret!”

  A low laugh rumbled in his chest. “We spoiled her, I am afraid. We so wished for at least one person not to feel the pain and disrepute of our circumstances that we sheltered her, perhaps more than we ever would have if we had not been through such times.”

  Margaret gritted her teeth in exasperation. She would not permit herself to speak ill of her sister-in-law, but an entire evening listening to Fanny’s empty chatter, her insulting presumptions, and her unwanted marital advice had shattered her reserves of emotional fortitude. To make matters worse, it was obvious within their first half hour in the house that the invitation had really only been a strategy for Watson to once again assail John with requests for support in his speculation.

  She continued to simmer quietly, doing her best to bring her thoughts under regulation as she had her tongue. She had known it was fruitless to expect the sort of bond she had shared with Edith, but she had cherished the hope of building some manner of kinship with her new sister. She might have been less discouraged in her quest to make a companion of Fanny Watson if she had not cultivated such an admiration for her brother! John’s long shadow had not fallen upon his sister—that powerful way he had of persuading and inspiring, had not found its irresistible way to her character, and Fanny seemed all the dryer and more flavourless by comparison.

  John’s hand slid up the back of her neck to cradle her head and cheek, and she found the task of turning her thoughts suddenly much lighter. She began to unwind, allowing him to kiss her while she wrapped her own arms up over his shoulders. Slowly, she sensed herself melting into his embrace as he worked to soothe away her frustration.

  After a few productive moments, he pulled back in marked satisfaction to speak low words of reassurance. “It matters little to me whether you ever come to adore my sister. I love that you try, and I love that you and Mother seem to be getting on better.”

  Margaret drew a quick sniff. “She is not half so fearsome now. She almost smiled at me as we were leaving this evening.”

  “Why, you are favoured indeed! She gives those out sparingly. Margaret,” he became serious, cupping her face in both hands. “I want you to know how blessed—how grateful I am.”

  “Grateful for what?”

  “Grateful—” he nuzzled another kiss into her hair—“that you are such a woman as a man might be proud to call his own.”

  “Though I do test you at each turn?”

  “I would be disappointed if you did not, for your iron continually sharpens my own. It is as the proverb says: such a woman’s worth is above rubies. I know not what I have done to win your favour, but I am humbled whenever I see you in company, and think to myself that the most magnificent woman in the room is to come home with me—” here, he leaned close to whisper scandalously into her ear, “and that she has never yet barred her door.”

  She turned her blushing cheeks into his shoulder, laughing modestly. “You are far more generous than I deserve!”

  “I think you underestimate the value of an open door,” he grinned, ruffling the new silk night gown affectionately against her lower back. “I do not take it lightly, I assure you.”

  Margaret, cool and dignified as she had always been, found herself giggling like a school girl into his chest. The greater her chagrin, the more devotedly he teased her, and the more difficult she found it to remain gloomy. None, not even Frederick or Edith, had ever found such unfaltering success in lifting her spirits. Even if the disagreement had been between themselves, something about him could always provoke her to cheer after all was settled.

  John swept his fingers through the masses of her dark hair, cradling her head and kissing her with a fierce abandon she would have dreamt impossible only a few weeks ago. He held her close, seeming to drink her in as one takes up a fragrant rose, crushing it to the senses to devour its delicacy and languish in its intoxicating embrace.

  An eternity later, it seemed, he had carried her to her bed, and Margaret lost herself to him. For these precious few moments of intimacy, she could take for herself his eager strength, could revel in his hammering pulse beating within her own breast. This power she held in his arms was heady, sweet communion; their hearts joining and overlapping until his pleasure was hers, and each piercing ecstasy spun them to dizzying heights together.

  John shuddered and groaned his contentment, rolling them to their sides. He pulled her under his arm with a final kiss of surrender, pillowing her head on his shoulder. They lay tangled, delirious, and utterly vulnerable in the darkness, until enveloping bliss shrouded round them and they were as one being, slipping luxuriantly towards slumber.

  At length, her growing fatigue startled away when she felt John draw a short breath of awareness. “I should go,” he whispered into her hair.

  She caught sleepily at the hand wrapping over her stomach. “Stay, John.”

  “I do not wish to disturb you in the morning.” But he made no move to depart.

  “You do not disturb me.” She turned her head, allowing him to glimpse the ghost of a smile in the moonlight. “I have come to look for you. I do not sleep so well when you do not stay.”

  “Truly, or do you only say this to comfort me?”

  She rolled over in his embrace to wrap an arm about him. “Stay, John. I have been alone often enough.”

  “Then I shall, and gladly.” He drew a sigh of deepest gratification and tucked her body close to his. “Perhaps we ought to begin using my bed, for I think it is larger.”

  “Your room is too cold,” she mumbled drowsily into his chest.

  He laughed silently, tightening his arms as she shifted to sleep. “Do you not know, Love? No room of this house has ever seemed cold since you have come to it.”

  Ten

  3 weeks later

  “Margaret, there is a letter for you.” Hannah Thornton strode into the drawing-room as Margaret was returning from another midday visit to John’s office. She extended the envelope with a sly little twist to her mouth.

  Margaret blushed at her inspection and fought
the impulse to smooth her hair or brush down her skirts. There was no reason that the short walk to the mill should have taken her well over an hour. However, John’s sweetly expressed gratitude to her for his luncheon had easily compensated her for any embarrassment incurred by her delay.

  She took the letter Hannah offered with interest. “It is from Edith! At last, I wondered why she had not written sooner.” She tore into it, glancing uncomfortably at Hannah. The matriarch of the Thornton household lingered for an imposing second too long before granting Margaret her privacy.

  Margaret waited for her to retreat before turning to the missive in her trembling hands. She expected some tearful lamentation from her cousin; or at the very least, a treatise on Edith’s disappointment that she had not chosen Henry over John. What she read, however, drew such a flood of tears to her eyes that the reading of the short note took far longer than it should have.

  Dear Margaret,

  I do not know how to write this to you. Maxwell and I were away on holiday to Igoumenitsa, so I did not receive either of your letters until we returned. Uncle gone! You must comprehend my shock when I read your first letter, but that is nothing to the second. I can scarcely credit it, and indeed could not do so, had Henry not also written to confirm the truth. To think you married under such circumstances! I would not have thought it of you.

  How could you do this to us, Margaret? Did you truly not believe we would welcome you? Why, I know that you and Maxwell never came to know one another well, but I know you would come to like him for my sake. Could you not have placed your confidence in us, instead of some unknown tradesman?

  You must know that I had scarcely read your first letter about Uncle when I thought instantly to write for you to come to us. I would have asked Henry to escort you—or better yet, Margaret, could you not have waited but a few days for Henry to make you an offer? I know how he adores you. You could have married him instead of Mr Thornton, and I would have even sent word for you both to live at Harley Street until we should come back from Greece! Old Hodges would have opened the house to you, and then we could have all remained together when Maxwell and I return. We wished very much to have you with us, yet you have turned your back on your family.

  What could have caused you to marry such a man? Henry wrote that he is a perfect oaf, a rough-handed master; the worst sort of tradesman imaginable! You always called such people ‘shoppy,’ and I can hardly credit that you have married into such a situation. You would never have done so if you had truly believed you still had a home with us. I cannot think whether the failure is my own, or that your time in the North has quite corrupted you.

  I know not how I shall visit you when I return. I do not wish to bring Sholto to such a city as I hear Milton is, and yet how shall I welcome you to London? Does your tradesman mingle well in polite society, Margaret? I do hope for your sake that he is an educated man, for if a wife cannot respect her husband, it is a sorry affair.

  Do please write again and assure me you are well, for I shall fret incessantly, thinking how miserable you must be. I hope you can keep well in that odious city, for Henry tells me the air is positively dreadful, and that you looked very pale, Margaret. I do hope you do not contract the same illness which took my aunt.

  If you are unhappy, you must know that many couples do live apart. Naturally, you could not marry another, but there can be no harm in asking your husband to permit you an extended holiday to visit your family. I shall await your reply.

  Edith

  Margaret’s limbs had failed her. Numb and shaken, she dropped to a chair, unconsciously crumpling the missive against the arm of the furniture. How could Edith have misconstrued her letter so badly? Had she truly written so hopelessly of her imminent marriage that day after John had spoken? She ought to have written again, perhaps, assuring her cousin that all was well, but she had awaited some answer first.

  Now it had come, and Margaret tasted bitter sorrow at her cousin’s assumption of betrayal. Could not Edith have understood her letter?—how she had declared herself betrothed to an honourable man, her father’s friend, and one she respected as she did no other? Surely, Edith would not cast such blame to her, if she comprehended her reasons for accepting John!

  Perhaps her own grief at the time had blighted the hopeful phrases she might have penned as she looked forward to her abrupt marriage. Her lingering doubts regarding John’s changing sentiments towards her might have caused her to write more guardedly than she intended. Fear and uncertainly had been her constant companions in those heart-breaking few days—fear of John’s true opinions, terror of the expectations which would be placed upon her, and the nagging worry that she would be found wanting in the eyes of her new husband.

  It was not likely that Edith would ever appreciate a man such as John. How could she, when she had not seen, as Margaret had, his integral dignity, his veiled compassion, or his thoughtful intellect? Still, Margaret ached for her cousin to admire her husband, to recognise at least some measure of his true worth. She would have Edith know that she had not wed John out of need, but in the hope of becoming worthy of that great love he had first professed to her so many months before.

  She resolved to write to Edith again, and attempt to correct whatever misapprehensions she had created. Her cousin’s anguish and stinging asperity over her actions lashed her heart most painfully, and she would wash it all away if possible. It would be no easy task to make amends with one she loved but could not make understand. She clenched her eyes, the dewy sorrow slipping down her cheeks.

  Perhaps… Margaret blinked and gasped, seized with a new thought. No kinship was quite so binding as the knowledge of unity in circumstance, and no report on her well-being could be so convincing as the glad tidings she suspected were to be hers. Edith knew such happiness for her own already, and surely would not fail to rejoice with her, if Margaret were to share all her secret hopes. She whirled from the room, passing a very surprised Hannah in the hall, and sought John’s writing desk.

  ~

  Unable to bear even half a day’s delay in setting right Edith’s misapprehensions, Margaret had posted the letter herself. Her heart sang deliriously as she returned to the mill. For the first time since the earliest twinges of suspicion had come upon her, she had dared to confess her private little dream. Committed to paper and sent irretrievably afar, her secret was no longer a matter for herself alone. Had she written rashly?

  Margaret’s cheeks plumped softly, her eyes sparkling in hidden triumph. No, she had not; she was certain of it! Fierce had been her prior vigilance, but now, after once permitting herself to taste the thrill of acknowledgment, she was bursting to return to such delight. Even if she dared not confess the whole in words, surely there was another—at least one!—who might sense her buoyant spirits, and willingly indulge a young wife’s unseemly gaiety.

  She paused upon entering the mill yard, her heart skipping. No! She should not speak yet to John. It was too precious to bait him with hopes of which she could not be fully sure, not during his market day. Alone with him, in the hallowed stillness of the evening, a soft whisper might speak the words she could not yet proclaim from the rooftops.

  She looked about, noting the quiet of the kitchen in the corner of the yard at this time of the day. Drawing in a deep breath and aching to squeal in joy, she bent her steps towards the little building and Mary Higgins.

  The girl smiled in delighted surprise at Margaret’s entry. “Missus Marg’et!” she bobbed happily, setting her water kettle on the stove. She was quick to seek out a chair for the young mistress of the mill, followed quickly by a bit of biscuit and tea she had undoubtedly set aside for her own meal.

  “Please, Mary, you needn’t trouble yourself. I only stopped by for a short visit.”

  “Nay, Missus, if yo’ had a fine lady come to ca’, yo’d ha’ some’at for ‘em,” Mary insisted. She bustled about for another minute, clearly understanding that her guest would not partake of her hospitality unless she herself
were likewise suited with some refreshment.

  Margaret relented with a little inner shrug. There was some comforting quality about food and drink, even if the portions were small, which had a way of settling a guest and easing conversation. Mary had her pride, after all, and deserved the honour due a hostess though the venue happened to be only the mill kitchen.

  Margaret cast her eyes about the dark, shoddy little room, and tried to imagine the reactions of one such as her aunt to taking tea in that building. Why, it was hardly fit to warehouse the potatoes, let alone serve as both kitchen and dining room! She resolved to speak to John about improving the building someday. She dared not place such a burden upon him just now, but perhaps when times were better, something might be done.

  Mary joined her at last, dropping tiredly into a chair opposite Margaret. “How are you today, Mary?”

  “Well ‘nough, Missus,” she sighed. “Me da’s ‘ad a cough, an’ some o’ the childer’s got’s it too.”

  “Has he?” Margaret sat up in concern. “This cough, Mary, it is not….”

  “Nay, Missus,” Mary was quick to assure her. “’Tisn’t what Bess ‘ad.”

  “That is well. How do the other children get on? It has been nearly a fortnight since I have seen them. Is Daniel still doing well in school?”

  They carried on so, exchanging pleasant small talk and attempting to make each of their meagre portions extend through their visit. When Margaret at last rose to go, she found that she had stood too quickly, and experienced a brief wave of disorientation. She gasped, reaching for the back of her chair for support.