Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  Mary started at once, alarmed by the sudden glassy look in Margaret’s eye. “Missus? Were it the biscuit?”

  Margaret shook herself, resting her left hand unconsciously upon her abdomen as her guard slipped. “No, Mary. I am only a little dizzy.” She paused to collect herself when another strange twinge through her core caused her to flinch.

  Mary, raw and young though she was, was no simpleton. Her gaze had fallen to Margaret’s hand—the one adorned with John’s ring—and she drew her own conclusion. She raised wide eyes. “Missus, coul’ I walk wi’ yo’ to th’ ‘ouse? Yo’ oughtn’t be out, yo’re no’ well!”

  “Nonsense, Mary!” Margaret laughed. “I have already been out for a long walk. I am just a little tired, but I thank you for your consideration.”

  Mary’s eyes narrowed stubbornly. “Master Thornton won’ like it. ‘Ow’s I t’answer when ‘e finds out I let yo’ go alone, unwell and a’?”

  “It is only across the yard, Mary! I hardly embark upon a dangerous voyage. Mr Thornton would only be more alarmed, not the less, should I suddenly require an escort for such a short distance.”

  “Nay!” The girl crossed her arms, blocking Margaret’s path. “Master’s for yo’ to bother wi’, but I gots to answer to me da’. ‘Look ou’ for Lady Thornton,’ ‘e’d say, an’ ‘e’ll be ri’ chafed if I dunna do it.”

  Margaret lifted a brow. “’Lady Thornton?’ You speak as if I were a duchess, Mary!”

  “‘Tis what a’ th’ workers ca’ yo’, Missus. Yo’re a gen’le lady, an’ it were be’er than to say th’ same ‘Missus Thornton’ as is th’ other’s name.”

  “Plain Mrs Thornton is a name which suits me quite well, Mary, although I do suppose it might be confusing. Perhaps there might be some other way of distinguishing which you mean.”

  Mary’s eyes shifted uncomfortably. “Some o’ the pacer girls…. Nay, Missus, I canna’ repeat it!” At a commanding frown, Mary forced herself to whisper a name into Margaret’s ear.

  “Oh!” Margaret objected in horror. “Oh, you mustn’t call Mrs Thornton that. By all means, I should prefer being known by ‘Lady Thornton’ if you must make some distinction.”

  “Aye, Missus, tha’s as me da’ says too!” Mary agreed. With a firmness Margaret had not expected of her, Mary retrieved Margaret’s shawl, then placed herself by her side to see her to her door.

  ~

  John pressed his fingers into his eyes, attempting to massage away the fatigue of the last three hours. For the better part of the day, he had been dredging through correspondence—first from his suppliers, then from four of his buyers. His banker had brought up the bottom of the stack, with a revised statement of his obligations and an updated estimate of the collateral placed against them.

  The mill was struggling still. Though he had tried to shield Margaret and his mother from the tension gnawing away at him, he would have been dishonest to conceal the whole of the matter. He needed capital, and badly, if he was to continue paying his hands.

  Cutting hours might do something to see the mill through the winter. He could not deny the numbers, but neither could he face her, when she saw the hardship his economies would inflict upon his workers... upon the only friends she had. No, he would press on, fulfil the orders he had, and hope that business as usual would improve before he came to the bottom of his resources. He had dared to take a few new orders, but the fresh income had done little against the mountain of orders he must still honour.

  He had nurtured some hope—but a small one, of course—that when word came at last from Mr Bell, it would carry some hint of aid. He hated himself for thinking of it, but Margaret was Bell’s god-daughter. It would not have surprised him overmuch if the old gentleman had pledged some sort of gift upon their marriage.

  No mention of any such gift had been made. When Bell’s letter had arrived three days earlier, he had been understandably heartbroken over the news of Mr Hale, and rather terse as to John and Margaret’s subsequent marriage. He had not expressed disapproval… exactly. He sounded doubtful of Margaret’s eventual happiness, admonishing John most severely to take care of her delicacy, and to consider her gentle proclivities with the understanding that she had not been brought up to his own crude—he had stopped just short of calling it barbaric—northern culture.

  Bell had then gone on to state that if his health was agreeable to the journey, he wished to come to his god-daughter by spring. Not once did he offer a congratulation, nor, under the circumstances, did it seem warranted. One does not rejoice, after all, that a suddenly orphaned young gentlewoman is forced to bind herself in marriage to a calloused tradesman.

  He refused to acknowledge his own disappointment, for he felt it unjust that he should have even contemplated any sort of monetary advantages for marrying the woman he loved. He would have married her a dozen times over again though the marriage came with the certain promise of financial ruin! Bitterly chastising himself that such graceless—nay, wicked—hopes could have ever entered his heart, John had tucked the note away and shown it to her in privacy.

  Margaret’s deep regret that her dear godfather did not heartily wish her joy only caused him to upbraid himself the more. What right had he, even for a moment, to consider the prosperity of the mill when his beloved Margaret had altered the very course of her life for him?

  Declaring himself finished for the evening, he rose from his chair and reclaimed his coat. Trials he had, for a certainty, but never had he felt more the victor in his life. His greatest desire had fallen into his hands, the work of his life was at its pinnacle, and nothing could dampen the pride and satisfaction growing in his bosom with each passing day.

  ~

  “John—” Mrs Thornton stopped her son as he entered the house that evening. “Stay a moment.”

  His brow furrowed curiously at her unaccustomed greeting, he followed her to the drawing-room. “Is something amiss?”

  She made no immediate response, other than to settle her sweeping skirts into a seat. He lowered himself to a chair opposite, his gaze still fixed upon her unyielding features. “Mother? Is there some trouble I ought to know of?”

  Her cheek flickered, and she smoothed the rich material of her gown over her lap. “There is no trouble, John. Only that you must not go up to Margaret yet.”

  As she no doubt expected, his whole bearing shot up at such cryptic mention of his wife’s name. His face pricked with awareness, his breath tight. “Is she unwell? Speak, I beg you, or I shall defy your instruction and go to her this instant!”

  Mrs Thornton cast her face upward in a gesture of exasperated surrender. “Come, John, you must have thought to expect it at some point. It is quite the usual order of events.”

  His eyes narrowed, his brow now twitching in agitation and his teeth flashing. “Mother speak plainly!” he warned.

  She sighed, apparently deciding that, male as he was, John was incapable of understanding her thinly veiled revelation, or of comporting himself with decorum until he knew all. “Margaret has been unwell in the mornings of late. I suppose she would not have told you so early, but Sarah and Dixon have been hovering about her as if she were made of glass. John! Stay in your seat!” she cried, for he had risen to bolt towards the door.

  “Is she unwell now, then? Why such mystery?” he demanded as he cautiously took his seat once more.

  “She experienced some marked discomfort this afternoon. Oh, do not be troubled overmuch, John, it is quite normal, and I daresay brought on more by her long walk than any physical distress. I do not know why one of the usual midwives would not have sufficed, but that woman of hers demanded to send for Dr Donaldson as soon as she had arrived home. He is with her even now.”

  “How long has he been here? It is nothing serious, surely!”

  Mrs Thornton opened her mouth to reply, but a distant creak of the stair from the outer hall brought John’s head sharply round. He never paused for an instant, bursting as he was in his need to know that his Margaret
was well.

  Robert Donaldson was no longer the strapping young doctor John had met all those years ago, on that one hideous day which had brought them so memorably into company. Years of grit and worry, waging a daily battle against death and disease in an industrial city, had told on his physique and in the set lines of his face. Had it not been for John’s own determined search to recover and thank the man who had once attempted to shield his newly widowed mother from all that he himself had seen, he would scarcely have known Donaldson again when they had returned to Milton.

  Older and less dapper he was now, but still the same kindness shone in his face, and it was one John could read as plainly as print. He was waiting for Donaldson at the bottom of the stair, even before the man had looked up from his careful steps to notice John’s presence. In those few seconds, the nervous husband sifted the doctor’s contented expression and found courage to breathe once more.

  “Thornton!” Donaldson started when he had finally raised his head. “I did not fancy I would have the pleasure today. Is it so much later in the evening than I had thought?”

  “I try to come in a little earlier these days,” he smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He remained, brooding and tense, waiting for the doctor’s verdict.

  “So I gathered.” Donaldson shifted his satchel from one hand to the other. He must have known by now John’s dogged disposition and understood what was expected of him. John Thornton held hundreds of livelihoods in his hand, but it was the doctor who held the one life—nay, two lives—that owned his heart.

  “Mrs Thornton is quite well, sir,” he promised, and John felt his fears sigh out of him at last. “You may go up to her now, if you wish.”

  John swallowed. “Would you join me in my study first, Doctor?”

  “By all means.”

  John poured two glasses, his hand trembling only faintly.

  Donaldson accepted the drink and lifted it in a cheerful salute. “Congratulations, Thornton. I expect your family will be a little larger, come late June.”

  “June?”

  “Or perhaps early July,” Donaldson confirmed.

  John gripped his glass more tightly. Naming a date to such an ethereal event brought the reality home to him. He was to be a father! Those dreams of setting right all the wrongs of his own youth were to be given breath and life at last. Now his worth was to be weighed by the scales of the future, for it was not the mill which would testify one day to his legacy. It would be his children, and grandchildren—those precious heirs he had thought never to call his own, until bestowed with the miracle of a woman’s love.

  “Doctor,” he spoke hoarsely—whether due to the burning in his throat or his tumultuous feelings, he did not know. “Is Margaret well? Is she strong? Is there anything I can do to ensure her comfort and health?”

  The doctor chuckled indulgently. “So it is with every expectant father, from the poorest foundryman to the most powerful manufacturer in the city! Now, Thornton, you have nothing to fear. That young lady is made of as fine a steel as any in Milton. I saw it when poor Mrs Hale was dying; how it broke her heart, but she bore up in an instant, for that is her way. How she wrung my hand! I said then she was as stout a lass as any I’d known, thoroughbred or not. You are a lucky man, though I suppose you already know as much.”

  “I do!” he rasped. “But you do not answer my question. You have examined her, I presume. Has she a good chance for a smooth confinement? Has the… the child….” his words crumbled beneath the weight of his breath.

  “Thornton, your wife is not one of your looms. Bearing a babe is not a mechanised process where the expected results always yield up in the ordered fashion. Every woman is different. However, you must not trouble yourself. As I have said, Mrs Thornton is perfectly strong, and she is a clever young lady. I’ve no doubt she will take diligent care for her babe—and even if she should not, she has a bevy of rather protective souls around her!”

  “What am I to do to care for her? Shall I take her to the coast for the air? Ought she to cease going for her long walks?”

  “Thornton, have you any idea how many of the women on your carding floor worked in factory smoke through nine months, only to rush home on foot when their travails were upon them? No, no, I am sure it is the fashion in London, but you needn’t treat your wife as if she were about to break. I daresay she would become cross with you by week’s end. She may do as she pleases, if she does not fatigue herself. See that she has fresh fruit, if you can get it, and try to procure whatever else she might crave.

  “Above all, Thornton, you must guard her against melancholy. She has had a trying year, losing her family as she has done. She should be granted every consideration. I have seen women in far less sorrowful circumstances brought low by the vagaries of childbearing. No man understands, I suppose, the mysteries of a woman’s sentiments at such a time. Why, the littlest thing can set them off! I’ve heard husbands declare they did not even know their wives until they were safely delivered and began to settle to themselves once more.”

  “I shall see that she is not over-troubled and is granted her privacy,” John murmured vaguely. His heart sank as his gaze drifted to some unseen point. Was he to detach from her company so soon after at last coming together? Thoughts of enduring his cold room once more, only listening to Margaret and knowing that his presence might overwhelm her newly sharpened sensibilities, squeezed his chest. If it were for her good, and that of their child, he would grant her every peace, but, oh! the sacrifice of all his earthly consolations, however temporary, seemed unbearable.

  “You misunderstand my meaning, Thornton,” the doctor chortled in his friendly way, readily disabusing John of his fears. “Your wife will require more… succour… not less. The only constraints I suggest should be moderated by her well-being and wishes. So long as Mrs Thornton remains healthy and comfortable, I see no reason for you to… er… withdraw from your wife’s company. I do not think she would desire it.”

  Life trembled once more into his limbs. Had he really come to depend upon her passionate affection and gentle companionship so much that he considered a closed door akin to starvation? “Thank you, Donaldson. I will go speak to her now.”

  “An excellent plan,” Donaldson winked. “I will thank you for the scotch.”

  “It is I who am grateful,” he replied, his mind already racing up the stairs.

  “Oh, Thornton, there is one question I wished to ask of you.” Donaldson stared hard into his empty glass as though hoping it might provide the answer he sought.

  Impatient now to be off, John checked himself. “Yes, Donaldson, what is it?”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “I wonder if I might bid Mrs Thornton a good evening before I go.”

  John cocked his head quizzically. “You were just with her.”

  “No, I… I meant the elder Mrs Thornton. I… well, you know, Thornton, I thought I might leave with her some directives concerning your wife’s care and preparation for her confinement… you know how attentive the lady is to such details.”

  Comprehension dawned slowly, but when it did so, the mother’s son stood aghast. In seventeen years, no man had ever spoken to his mother as anything but a figure to be held in awe and reverence. Certainly, none had dared! Perhaps Donaldson hoped that John’s marriage might have done some little to soften the widow’s notions for her own future.

  He found himself nodding, unblinking eyes fastened on the last man to show them kindness before his family’s public ruin had driven his mother from her home. “I am certain she would welcome your advice, Doctor. Perhaps you might stop by now and again… to look in on Margaret?”

  Donaldson drew a breath, his rounded cheeks shining with pleasure. “Naturally, Thornton.”

  Eleven

  Margaret smiled to herself when she heard the tightly rapid, yet politely soft knock. “Come in, John.”

  He peered round the door as it opened. “You know me by the sound of my knuckles now?”


  “Only you could manage to sound both commanding and hesitant, John.”

  “In other words, you were expecting me to rush up.”

  “I was not surprised.” She turned to Dixon, who was just then exiting the dressing room. The woman was in the middle of sorting a variety of Margaret’s undergarments, and she stammered and flushed at the entrance of a man to her mistress’ chambers while she was so occupied—even though he had, at one time or another, assisted with the removal of each of those articles.

  John, impatient to speak to his wife and not desiring to force Dixon to abandon her task, clasped Margaret by the hand. He led her through the door to his own room, then closed it behind her. Before she could draw breath to speak, he had lovingly pressed her up against the wall and claimed those sweet lips as if it had been weeks, rather than mere hours, since he had last tasted them.

  “Margaret, is it true?”

  A cheeky lilt touched her eyes, one she reserved only for him. “You will have to be more specific, John.”

  “You know what I speak of,” he insisted, capturing her once more. He twined his arms about her waist as she soothed and tempted, annihilating the last reserves of the daily defences he wore before the world and restoring him to the man he could only be when in her arms.

  “Forgive me, John,” she whispered, drifting her mouth up his cheek to hover beneath his ear. “You do not seem to be speaking much at all. How am I to understand what you ask?”

  He rumbled a soft laugh, so low and deep she felt the shivers through her throat, where his lips touched her. “I will give you a good long while to think it through. Meanwhile, I shall bide my time, for I am in no hurry.”

  She tilted her head back, her spirits dancing with the unbridled joy of her news, but her body and heart responding to John with the same ardent welcome his touch always inspired. She rippled a small laugh as he traced down her throat with apparent intent to seduce, but the fevered tightening of his hands upon her waist belied his outward calm.