Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  “You are truly in no hurry?” she taunted. “That is well, for I find myself most contented with the present activity.”

  He growled, drawing back only enough to glare at her with those twinkling blue eyes. “Saucy wench!”

  In the next moment, Margaret found herself swiftly caught up and tenderly deposited upon his bed. John’s body followed, but instead of rolling up to kiss her, as she expected, he paused at her middle. Strong hands, unfathomably gentle, caressed her stomach in wonder—the fingers reverently brushing the lowest point of her bodice, as though sketching in his mind a portrait of the babe within. He looked up to her then, his eyes glittering brightly with unshed tears. “Do you have something to tell me, my love?”

  She reached for his face, his hair, and he came. “I am with child, John.”

  Confessing her great treasure aloud to him broke free the final clasps of her long-battled reserve. Her throat constricted, her eyes burned, a choking, laughing cry trembled within her bosom. “Oh, John! Tell me I am not dreaming, that this can be true! Bring me back to the earth, I pray, for I feel I shall dance into the heavens! I do not deserve such joy—can this all truly be for me?”

  He was laughing, in that same halting, broken manner. “I would never dream of bringing you down, my lady! Is there room in this paradise of yours for me?”

  She sniffled, realising that they were both weeping. Wishing only to drink him in, to reach for the assurance of his solid body when the world was spinning so incoherently, she snaked her arms about his neck and drew him close until his cheek rested against hers, their tears mingling. There were no words, only expressive sighs and awe-struck gazes. Margaret’s heart was too full, her emotions too overpowering and exhausting to further spend herself in speech.

  John hovered his weight carefully over her, wishing to press her ever closer, but fearful of harming her. Only this morning, she had simply been his Margaret, his beloved. He had been perfectly free with her, but now, the certain knowledge of all that was to come and of the blessing she carried within her caused him to quail. Confronted with this evidence of his strength, he felt at once powerless.

  How was it possible that the pure, simple love had conceived his greatest work? Did not an achievement of such magnitude require blood and sacrifice? Miraculous! There was no other description for the new life that had flourished out of the tiny seed of love he shared with his Margaret.

  He kissed her for several long, cherished moments, then helped her to sit up. His hand stroked comfortingly down the small of her back as she settled herself at his side, and his gaze fixed with paternal obsession on that spot at her centre, where he imagined their child to rest.

  “Are you well? Mother said you had experienced some discomfort.”

  She shook her head, resting her fingers upon his lips. “It was nothing to alarm. I suppose some… accommodation was in order.” She blushed, suddenly shy about the details of her changing physique.

  “You must not hesitate to send again for the doctor, though,” he demanded. “I will not have you brushing off concerns which might be of great import. You must be careful—oh, love, I could not bear if something were to happen to you!”

  “I will be well, John. Dr Donaldson has given his assurances.”

  “He has told me the same, but I shall not be easy until you are delivered, and I may see you holding our child with my own eyes.”

  Her cheeks dimpled in joy, she lifted her mouth to touch his. “John,” she whispered, a hint of mischief in her tones, “do you fancy a boy or a girl?”

  “From what I understand, that has already been decided, and it only remains for us to be patient.”

  “If it is to be my torment to wait in suspense all these months, why should you not share it?” she laughingly goaded, apparently unwilling to allow him any peace whatsoever on the subject. “Surely you must have some opinion.”

  “I do.”

  “Well? Son or daughter, which would you prefer?”

  “Yes.”

  “’Yes’? Oh, you are impossible, John. I only meant to have a little sport with you. Is it not assumed that I should now begin writing long lists of name choices?”

  “The matter is simple enough. Your parents are both passed on, so I think it right to honour their memories. There, we have a choice for either sex.”

  She lifted a brow. “You did not mention your own father. George is a fine name.” She spoke gently, lightly, but there was a seriousness to her tone he wished he could ignore.

  “No.”

  She levelled her sweet, prying gaze at him as her fingers traced his cravat. Margaret needed no words—she had ever wielded such power over him, that he felt the sure weight of her silence when she desired him to speak.

  His sigh came out as something of a groan. “Do not assume I still bear a grudge against my father because I would not name a son for him. We both knew and loved your father. Please let that be enough.”

  “For now, John. Should we have a second son….”

  “One at a time, I beg you!” he laughed. “And I am not at all certain how I shall like sharing you with so many males.”

  “If they have your captivating eyes and dastardly smile, your competition shall be stiff, indeed. Oh!” Her hand darted involuntarily to her side and her eyes glazed in shock at the novel sensations within her womb.

  “Margaret! What was that?”

  She gasped and shook herself, relaxing once more. “It is nothing. Dr Donaldson said some shifting was quite normal for a first child.”

  He was still eying her with deep suspicion. It rattled him more than he liked that his strong, almost stoic Margaret would already express discomfort. “How long have you been feeling thus? Have you been keeping this hidden from me?”

  “Several days, but it is infrequent. It is the surprise of the pain which caught me off my guard, not the severity. Please, John, you must not worry so! You will only make me fear upsetting you.”

  He thinned his lips, clamping down his concerns. “Aye, love, I shall worry. It is my own life you carry as well. Give me the honour that is my due; I have been the cause of such discomfort for you, therefore the right to care for you is entirely mine.”

  “Then help me to my feet, John.” She held up her hand for him to take, washing away the pointless argument with an arch smile. He complied, shaking his head and allowing his imagination to spin an image several months hence, when she would require such assistance out of her physical encumbrance rather than merely requesting it of his gentlemanly courtesy.

  When she stood once more before him, he could not stop himself from grazing his fingertips again over her abdomen. Impulsively, he dropped to his knees and pressed his mouth to her stomach, kissing the black satin as if his child could already sense his presence. Margaret’s fingers threaded through his hair, and he tipped his shining face up to her. In that moment, he made a silent vow to God in heaven, that he would strive with every fibre, every sinew, to stand strong and faithful, as his own father had failed to do.

  What that meant… the inspired man on his knees could not say. The future was not his to determine, and he had already been heavy with cares when he had left the mill that day. The weight of his new obligations, what he owed to his growing family, could no more grant him the ability to achieve the impossible than had the comparative freedom he had known only an hour ago. His determination might be renewed, but much was beyond his grasp.

  He clenched his eyes, sensing the fresh prickle of emotion brimming to the fore. His treasure was in his hands, and come what may, he would not relinquish it. All he need do was prove worthy of everything laid before him.

  Milton-Northern

  October 1847

  “You are proving the consummate manager, Thornton,” Mr Kramer pronounced. “Not only sharp with the accounts but a mechanic as well! Excellent work.”

  “Thank you, sir.” John straightened and rested an easy hand on the loom. “It was a design flaw, sir. The shuttles were wearing
out too quickly because of the blend of metal on the tip. A harder alloy, and they have been functioning without a mishap.”

  Kramer nodded vaguely, his eyes still on the machinery. “Thornton, there is something I wished to talk over with you. Come over to dinner this evening, will you?”

  “Sir? Of course.”

  “Good lad. I shall see you again in a few hours.”

  John watched as Kramer shuffled away—a little more slowly these days than five and a half years prior, when they had first met. He turned his attention to the worker at the loom and gave the nod to continue his duties, then moved on himself. Within half an hour, he had canvassed the main room on the first floor, the spinners at their web, and then the snowfall of the carding room. Each sight and sound were now so familiar to him that he need not pause long to identify some dissonance to the perfect order. Everything was operating smoothly.

  In the last hour before the steam whistle declared an end to the work day, he moved through the upper floors. More looms, whole cavernous rooms of them, dominated the next two levels. The top floor was reserved for the finished cloth. Wringers spat out entire bolts at a time from the bath, then tenterhooks stretched yards of freshly washed material for the trimmers to inspect. All was as it should be, and when he had scarcely warmed to his task, the whistle blew, and the day was over.

  “Mother,” announced he upon his return home, “Mr Kramer has invited us to dine this evening.”

  Hannah Thornton looked up from the crate of new silver her maids were unpacking—a recent gift from him. “This evening? That is rather unexpected.”

  “Come, Mother, have you not a fine new gown to wear? I should like to see you in it. We ought to leave in an hour, can you be ready?”

  She admitted that yes, she could, and he eagerly bounded up the stair to his own room. It was something, to have a house with stairs again! This was their third dwelling since returning to Milton. The first had been little better than the dark flat they had occupied in Weston. After a year, a raise in pay had permitted another hefty wave of instalments to his father’s creditors. He had felt justified in seeking a modest apartment, with room enough for his mother to keep two maids to lighten her burden. This Crampton house had been their home now for just over a year, and it had been his special surprise to his mother when the remainder of the debts had been paid. At last, they had left their past behind, and were poised to relish the future.

  They presented themselves at the great stone house on Marlborough Street at the appointed time and were shown to the drawing-room. John offered his hand when his host arrived, and then shook hands with Kramer’s daughter, a young sailor’s widow who now kept house for her father. “Mrs Brockett, thank you for inviting us.”

  Kramer approached and offered Mrs Thornton his arm. “Deborah and I have been wishing to have you for some weeks. Come, dinner is ready. Mrs Thornton, delighted to see you.”

  As his employer led his mother away, John fell behind, escorting Mrs Brockett. “You are looking well this evening.”

  She laughed. “John Thornton, you shameless tease.”

  “I was quite serious,” he protested. “You are looking stronger after your mishap last spring.”

  She inclined her head. “Thank you. My back no longer pains me, and Dr Donaldson says I should be able to tolerate a little more walking soon.”

  “That is well,” he commented neutrally.

  She glanced up at him as they entered the dining room, with a strange expression he could not read. He had not the chance to ask about it, however, for the small party were settling into their places. As Mrs Brockett’s escort, John helped the lady into her seat.

  The conversation flowed comfortably. There was no political debate between the parties at this table, and no reservations on discussing trade with the two women present, therefore the mill dominated the evening. Coal prices had gone up, but cotton demand had not, so there was talk among the mills of cutting hours to preserve fuel costs and drive up the cotton price.

  “It is a sound notion,” Kramer advised, but with that look of surrender already about his features.

  “I do not expect the coal prices will drop again for some while,” John argued—respectfully, of course. “What then will we have gained? The winter promises to be light, giving us cause to hope for a warm spring. Would we not do better to operate at our usual capacity and put by whatever we cannot sell for a fair price? The numbers bear it out—we would not be harmed by warehousing some product, and it is decidedly preferable to falling behind with orders and paying more to hire on inexperienced hands at such a time.”

  “Are you certain you do not merely wish to avoid more union conflict?” chuckled Kramer.

  “We ought not allow prevailing sentiments to dictate sound business decisions. Other mills may resent our intention to carry forward, but that would be their trouble, not ours. Also, I believe with the damper we spoke of, our coal costs might not be so heavily impacted.

  “Perhaps I have not told you yet, Mother—” John interrupted himself—“but there is a new damper design for the coal stacks, which captures the coal ash from the engines and returns it to be burned a second time. Some mills in Manchester are already operating with this design, and they report notable fuel savings. I understand the smoke is less thick now than it was as well.”

  “It will never work, Thornton. You choke the furnace and it cannot exhaust properly. How then will you keep your heat high enough to power the engine?”

  “The ventilation must be more strategic, but it is being done. I would like to go to Manchester soon to see the design in operation, unless you object, sir.”

  Kramer paused, looking steadily back at John, then glanced towards his daughter. He shook his head and drained his glass. “No. I do not object, Thornton.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And have you other schemes while you are in Manchester?”

  “I would also like to see the wheel in use, sir. I understand it wonderfully reduces the fluff in the air for the workers.”

  “I thought that would be your intent. It will be a lavish outlay for little to no return.”

  “It will be expensive, but if it keeps our workers healthier and they may remain longer rather than having the constant influx of untrained new hires, is that expense not recaptured in time? And with the new regulations on industry, it is likely that the crown will one day impose both the damper and the wheel by law. Would we not do better to make that decision for ourselves? There is also the consideration that if we wait until everyone is required to install them, the cost may rise.”

  Kramer shook his head, glanced towards his daughter again, and dropped his napkin on his plate. “Well, do as you will, Thornton. I’ll not hinder you. Come, I have a fresh box of cigars, and you must help me open them.”

  With that, the dinner was informally concluded. Mrs Brockett and his mother adjourned to the sitting room while John followed Mr Kramer to the study. The master of the house closed the door and poured them each a glass of very fine Scotch. He then turned, giving John one of the glasses, and raised his own.

  “Are we celebrating something, sir?”

  “To the master of Marlborough Mills.”

  John’s brow furrowed. “Sir?”

  “I am retiring, Thornton. The mill is to be yours. Congratulations.” Kramer raised his glass again but paused. “Will you not drink with me?”

  John felt his chest swell and his head spun slightly. “So soon! We have spoken of this, of course, but I do not yet have the funds—”

  “You will.” Kramer gave up on trying to toast his associate and simply drank. He turned to the desk then for a sheet of paper. “I have worked it out. A portion of your income has been going towards the eventual purchase of the business since you first started here, as you know. You are already a fifteen percent owner, and I suspect you have enough put by for another ten.”

  John examined the numbers. “I do,” he agreed. “But twenty-five percent is hard
ly a majority holding.”

  “No, but it is enough to set me up comfortably elsewhere. My health is not what it once was, Thornton. This cough of mine has been coming on since before I knew you, and I do not feel equal to another winter in Milton.”

  “Where will you go, sir?”

  “Oh! I know not. A little country hamlet in the South would suit my health well enough, but I doubt I could suffer the people.”

  John laughed. “I imagine not. They cannot comprehend our sort of livelihood. Do they not while away their days in the drawing-rooms and strolling about their rose gardens? What then would those southern gentry make of a Milton man come to settle among them!”

  “They do work some little, Thornton, or at least the labouring class do, but do not trouble yourself over me. You shall be paying me well enough to find comforts wherever I go.”

  John sobered and looked back to the paper.

  “You were bringing in thirty-five percent of the mill’s profits. As sole proprietor, all of it will be yours. You will easily be able to purchase at least ten, perhaps fifteen percent of the mill each year, with still enough to put by for whatever other purpose you might have.”

  “Once I have a bit saved for my mother’s comforts, I would sooner put it all, every penny, towards the purchase of the mill.”

  “Then you may own it outright in four years, and perhaps less if the market continues as you anticipate.”

  John’s fingers trembled, very faintly, as he gripped the paper. Full owner of the mill! And he just shy of four and twenty now… what other opportunities might come?

  “Sir,” his throat tightened, but he manfully controlled his voice. “I… I am honoured, sir.”

  “You deserve it, Thornton. I have never met a man worthier of a chance, and I have thought that since I first met you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” This time his voice was slightly hoarse, but if Kramer noticed, he chose to overlook it.

  “I ought to be thanking you. You have made my retirement a possibility. The mill has been more profitable every single year since you have been with me, and not once was I troubled by some emergency or oversight while you were managing things. Nor—” he refilled his glass and dandled it proudly in the firelight—“did I ever have cause to lose faith in you. That is a deal to say about any man, particularly one so young when he is entrusted with the payroll for so many, but I knew from the beginning that I need never concern myself about your character.”