Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  John made no response. What could he say? He merely lifted his eyes to the crabbed old fellow who had given him an opportunity, held his gaze with a firmness born of full manhood, and nodded his gratitude.

  Kramer cleared his throat. “There will be no trouble about transferring the lease on the property. I spoke to Bell when he was here this summer, and I wrote to him again last month to inform him of my plans. I told him I expected you would wish to lease the house as well as the mill property, but of course, you may need to speak with Mrs Thornton on the matter.”

  “The house!” John flicked his eyes about the study. “It is far larger than we need, sir.”

  “There are only Deborah and myself here now. I expect Mrs Thornton could manage it well enough. Master of the mill, you must look the part, and I presume you will be thinking of taking a wife soon and filling this house.”

  John looked down to his glass and drew another thoughtful swallow. “I doubt I will have the leisure to devote to a wife.”

  Kramer seemed to pause, and when John looked back to him, he was gazing with an expression John could not read. “Naturally. Well…” he finished his own glass and changed the subject, glancing nostalgically about the room. “I shall miss my study here. Deborah, too, I think, will fret in the beginning, but we will manage.”

  “She is not pleased to be leaving Milton?”

  “Deborah? Oh, she could be content nearly anywhere. I had thought she might marry again, but you know, she cannot settle for just any man. He must be one of wisdom and character for my Deborah.”

  “I am certain that once away from Milton and less concerned for you, she might be induced to look to her own happiness.”

  Kramer’s mouth puckered. “Perhaps you are right. Well, shall we not join the ladies? I imagine your mother will be pleased to hear our little announcement.”

  Mrs Thornton was, indeed, pleased. Her eyes sparkled, and her face reflected a glow of radiant satisfaction—as if she had known all along how it ought to be, and her work had now come to an end. She looked to have shed those ten years she had lost in poverty and sacrifice at the very moment of her son’s elevation to the elite of Milton’s industry.

  As the mother and son made their parting farewells for the night, Kramer stood with his daughter on his arm and watched the man he had taken as his heir. Straight and powerful, in the early prime of his strength, none could ever again hold his youth against him, yet he simmered with unspent energy and willpower.

  He sighed as the door closed behind the one he had trained up and set on his path to fortune, then looked down to his daughter. “Well. It is done. You are content, my dear?”

  “Should I not be, Papa?”

  Kramer patted her hand. “Do you know, I had hoped… well, the thought occurred to me once or twice….”

  She tilted her head. “Yes, Papa?”

  “It only seemed to me a capital notion that… perhaps… you might remain in Milton when I go.”

  She glanced at the door. “What, and marry John Thornton?”

  “He would have made you a splendid husband, would he not?”

  She stared incredulously at her father, then began to laugh. “I am two years older than he, Papa. Why should he be looking to a widow when he will now have his choice among all the women of Milton?”

  “He was always rather chivalrous with you, and I see how he enjoys speaking with you about the mill. He respects you, and I thought you would have done him much good.”

  “John Thornton has a wife already. It is his work, and his ambition is his mistress. No, Papa, he will not take a wife from the shelf as if she were some furnishing to his happiness. I never saw a man more oblivious to women than he. Oh, he is gentlemanly and considerate, but you wait and see. Half the ladies in Milton will set their cap for him, and he will fail to notice them all.”

  “His blood is as red as the next man’s. Surely, once he is settled—”

  “No,” she shook her head firmly. “If any lady manages to secure him, it will not be for her fine figure or even connections. She will have to startle him from his complacency somehow… and then she must be willing to live with Mrs Thornton for a mother-in-law.”

  Kramer laughed. “You would find this feat a little too trying for your tastes?”

  “Any woman wishing to become the first in John Thornton’s life must be more commanding than the mill, more jealous than Mrs Thornton, and more determined than I.”

  “I should have thought he might be taken in by a lady of intelligence and good character. A soft-spoken lady who did not dispute his authority might do very well for him.”

  “I think the sort of intelligence he would admire would be precisely the opposite. He would thrive on a woman who would challenge him. I am not that sort.”

  “Well—” her father put an arm around her and drew her back to the fire—“I suppose it is useless to debate it now. John Thornton is now the master at Marlborough Mills, and I daresay he will direct his own destiny well enough.”

  December 1855

  “Margaret?”

  Hannah Thornton waited outside Margaret’s bedroom, her hands clasped lightly before her and her dark eyes shifting discreetly about the interior. In the way of one who once held authority and has since lost certain rights, she was cataloguing all the minor changes brought to that room by its new mistress. She did not lower herself so far as to crane her head about as she awaited an invitation to enter, but her gaze dwelt for two or three seconds upon the worn little settee by the hearth; a relic from the Hale house which would never have suited Hannah’s more formal taste.

  Margaret had been within her dressing room when Hannah called, and had not at first heard her voice. The sense of company—that queer prescience Margaret seemed to command—brought her to the door.

  “Please do come in.” Margaret stepped back invitingly, but Hannah followed only a few steps.

  Hannah had, by now, reined in her curiosity about the chamber, and set to her business without preamble. “I came to speak with you about arranging a nursery for the child.”

  Margaret blinked, her jaw relaxing somewhat in astonishment. It was still quite early for such considerations, but Hannah suspected—correctly—that Margaret would never dream of discouraging such an olive branch.

  “That is most thoughtful of you!” Margaret warmed prettily, that old charm of hers surging into her tones and softening her countenance.

  Hannah stiffened. This lass and her handsome ways had taken from her what she held as precious, and it was only with a valiant effort she reminded herself that it had not been done with malice or pretence. It was simply the girl’s natural manner when she desired to please, but it grated when compared to her own rigidity.

  What other young woman of her acquaintance was so unaffectedly enchanting, casting her spell over all in her path? Charm, and the appearance of such, had always seemed to Hannah deceitful, but four months in the same house as Margaret had made her question her own judgement—and indeed, her own sense of worth.

  She forced herself to draw an inconspicuous breath, and continued. “I presume you have not yet had an opportunity to explore the garret, but there is a deal of furniture you may wish to consider for your purposes.”

  “I did not know.” Margaret’s expression lit with inspiration. “Oh, how lovely it would be—do you still have John’s or Fanny’s cradles? I would treasure such an heirloom!”

  “No.” Hannah shifted. “I am not one given to sentiment in such matters. It was more practical for those items to be sold.”

  Margaret closed her eyes in some self-chastisement. “Naturally. Of course, I had not considered.”

  “However,” Hannah continued as if Margaret had not spoken, “the prior resident of this house, Mr Kramer, left a number of items that may be useful. He found it convenient to sell whatever remained to John rather than remove it all. If you are presently at leisure, I may show you.”

  Margaret agreed, and the two figures in black asce
nded to the darkness of the upper floors. Hannah carried the lantern herself and dismissed Jane before they went up the steps. Margaret paused near the top, her complexion strangely flushed.

  Hannah looked back in curiosity. Margaret was a hardy young woman—one quality Hannah had grudgingly respected from the early days of their acquaintance—but she had seemed somewhat weakened of late. She tilted her lantern to examine the younger woman’s face. “Are you well?”

  Margaret blinked and released a shaken breath as she drew her hand away from her middle with visible effort. “Just a slight pain. It is normal, I understand, and I am becoming accustomed to it.”

  “Normal pains at this early juncture should not give you such pause. Perhaps we ought to return below.”

  “No, I am quite well,” Margaret insisted. As evidence of the truth of her statement, she climbed the remaining steps and stood expectantly at Hannah’s side. Hannah lifted a brow and turned to address the locked door.

  The room was startlingly clean, by most standards of a garret, for Hannah had kept a practice of having the maids go over it four times each year. The furniture itself was all shrouded, but the cobwebs were minimal and even the film covering the floor was thin. She strode directly to the corner where the desired items were stored and suffered but a small moment of pride when she tugged the coverings away and scarcely a breath of dust was rose. Her greater satisfaction was in the younger woman’s gasp of appreciation.

  “I did not expect it to be so fine!” Margaret touched her fingers hesitantly to the ornate old wood, exploring ridges caressed smooth by other loving hands.

  “A Milton manufacturer’s house is hardly a hermitage, and his furnishings should testify to his station,” Mrs Thornton answered stiffly.

  Margaret glanced up, her great eyes round with innocent regret. “Such was not my implication. I should perhaps have remarked that such a lovely piece seems far too grand for me. I am more the country parson’s daughter than the London girl. Oh, how my mother would have admired something like this!”

  There was a momentary silence, then the slightly flattered matron asked, “Will it suit your purposes?”

  “Indeed, thank you. It was most considerate of you to think so early of answering this need.”

  “The child is to be a Thornton.” Hannah sniffed, as if that were the only explanation required to account for her thoughtful provision. “I believe there are a few other articles which may serve a household with an infant.” She indicated two ghostly shapes resting nearby.

  The smaller was obviously a second cradle, perhaps intended to sit beside a mother’s sewing chair. Margaret glanced at it in interest, but her curiosity was more piqued by the larger shape. She drew the shroud aside and allowed it to slip noiselessly to the ground. “Oh!” was her muted cry. Before them, bathed in the softly dusted light from the garret window, stood a graceful antique rocking chair.

  “I presume you are aware that it has not been the fashion in Milton to hire a wet nurse.”

  Margaret turned to her with an amused smile. “Nor would I wish it. I have read much lately of the harms which may befall an infant without his mother… that is, harms to the nurse’s own infant, when it is put aside for her to live with her employer’s family,” Margaret amended, for Hannah’s eyes had flickered at the suggestion of her own flesh’s flesh being sent to live in a nurse’s untidy and disease-riddled house.

  “Even if a nurse were to move into our own home, I think I should not be best pleased to share my child. It is of little consequence, for I believe the practice is beginning to fall out of favour even in the more fashionable circles, is it not?”

  “As well it should. I always thought it vanity to bear a child, then continue on as if the only alteration to the mother’s life was her period of confinement. That a mother should live in careless ease while another takes on what is rightfully hers—or worse, be at the beck and call of her social calendar, but a wilting flower when it comes to her own flesh and blood!”

  “You may put your fears to rest on that point. Even if I could countenance handing my child to another, whom might I find to give up factory wages for such a position here?” Margaret’s eyes flashed with a moment of laughter, waiting for her mild jest to be acknowledged in the spirit it was intended, then she turned her admiration back to the beautiful rocking chair.

  Hannah found a warmth teasing her mouth. Aye, this enchantress had her way, she would grant her that. It had been far less difficult than she had imagined it might be, accepting the woman her son loved. She was not yet without her pangs of jealousy—and was it not perfectly natural? Had not that very young woman just confessed a similar feeling towards the child she had yet to bear? But there was a sympathy in possession, an insidiously growing companionship, which brought Margaret ever more frequently into her small circle of tender thoughts. It was never consciously done, but often of an early morning she would vex herself by worrying over the expectant mother’s health that day, when such thoughts had never been her design.

  Thus, it was with some surprise that she felt her own heart lurch when a sudden pallor washed over Margaret’s features. The young woman gasped sharply, then a violent tremor shook her. One hand went to her side while the other grasped the back of the chair.

  “Margaret!” Hannah heard herself cry out. Gentleness forgotten, she forcibly turned her daughter-in-law’s face to hers with both hands. Her skin was cool, her complexion chalky even in the pale light. There was a dazed emptiness to her eyes, and Hannah could see her panting for steady breath. “Sit down, girl!”

  Margaret shakily obeyed, seeking the shelter of the old rocking chair with uncertain strength. “‘Tis but a moment of light-headedness,” she was stammering. “Nothing to concern. I understand it is quite common.”

  “If you think to discourage me from reporting these incidents to my son, you may save your breath,” Hannah retorted.

  “Oh, surely that is unnecessary! You have experience in these matters, but John does not. You must remember that there are moments of discomfort, and there is little to do but wait for them to pass. I would not concern him needlessly; he has so many other concerns on his mind.”

  As she finished the last syllables of her plea, her eyes crossed in a sharp pain. She winced, gritting her teeth, then forced a smile. “There, do you see? It is all over.”

  Hannah fisted a hand at her waist. “You have been experiencing these sensations more frequently. Is it always on the same side?”

  Margaret blanched for a moment. “Well, yes, I… I suppose. The babe must be resting more to that side.”

  Hannah narrowed her eyes. “And have you noted any other symptoms of distress? Speak plainly, girl, for I care little for your sensibilities at present.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened. “I… once or twice….” She swallowed and cast her gaze to the floor. “I am certain it is nothing!”

  “Nothing, indeed! You may be careless with your own health all you like, and it would not be my place to speak, but you’ve no right to brush off concerns regarding John’s child. I’ll not have it, Margaret Thornton! We are calling for Dr Donaldson at once.”

  “I suppose it could do no harm… oh, please, if you insist on sending for him, promise he shall be gone again when John returns from the mill!”

  “That, my girl,” Hannah answered in tones thick with worry, “will depend on what he finds.”

  ~

  “Doctor, is it serious?”

  Hannah had not left Margaret’s side during the doctor’s examination, though her eyes had remained steadfastly on the window. The young woman was curled on her side and staring at the floor as the doctor made his mortifying survey, and Hannah would not increase her discomfort by looking on directly. Margaret would clutch no one’s hand, though her maid had posted herself to Margaret’s left during the entire procedure.

  At last, the doctor had excused himself from the bedside, and Hannah followed close at his heels with her demand. He did not answer the ques
tion immediately but directed Sarah to pour a pitcher of water over his hands. That task done, he turned to Hannah with a significant expression. She dismissed the maid with a single look and led him to another room where they could not be overheard.

  Donaldson removed his spectacles and kneaded his eyes. “I fear it could be a bad case, Mrs Thornton. There is no way to be certain, but she has nearly all the signs.”

  “Signs of what?”

  “I fear the pregnancy is situated outside the womb. If so, it is only a matter of time….”

  “Then you must act quickly! What is to be done?”

  Donaldson sagged into a chair, invited or not, and met her glittering dark gaze with a weary one of his own. “There is an operation, but fewer women survive the surgery than the ordeal itself. Her chances are better if we leave her be.”

  “Do you mean you will do nothing? You will let that girl suffer and perhaps die, without lifting a finger?”

  “Mrs Thornton, you may be assured that your daughter-in-law’s well-being is dear to my heart. I have long thought highly of her, and of Mr Thornton. I will be in constant attendance, but I have seen too many young mothers die on the operating table—or later, of toxaemia. It is a risk I do not recommend.”

  “She could just as easily die of the agony and blood loss!”

  Donaldson’s head was low as he shook it in sorrow. “Some do survive.”

  “Some! How many?”

  He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “Perhaps three out of nine or ten. If I were to operate, her chances would drop even further.”