Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  Mrs Thornton looked back down to her lap, wetting her lips. “Now is hardly the time to be airing your news, Fanny.”

  “Why ever not? Must I be denied congratulations because of Margaret’s circumstances? That is hardly fair, Mother,” Fanny sniffed. “Am I to be sent away without even seeing her, then? Surely, she would appreciate a visitor, and that is what I came for, after all.”

  “At the moment, the last thing she wishes for is a visitor. She remains in mortal danger, Fanny.”

  The younger woman looked about. “Why, where is John? He has usually returned from the mill by this time of the day, has he not?”

  Hannah set her teeth and bent to commence a silent examination of her sewing basket.

  “Oh! Of course, he is with Margaret. Well, he must come down some time or other, so I shall wait to speak with him. Perhaps he will carry my condolences to her.”

  “He has scarcely left her side for two days, even to eat or sleep. I expect you will have a rather long wait.”

  “What? Is he not even working? Mother, you do know what they are saying about the mill. I should think it the stupidest sort of nonsense for him to turn his attention from his duties just now.”

  “It is not my place to trouble him with such matters. John has never been the man to neglect his duty, and I shall not accuse him of it now.”

  “It should concern you, nevertheless. If he spends a fortnight with a sick wife and returns to work later—whether she survives or not—to find the mill bankrupted during his time away, where shall you all go? But perhaps I may speak with Watson again. I think it is not yet too late for John to invest with him.”

  Mrs Thornton dropped the little articles she had been fingering back into her sewing basket and rose. “Go home, Fanny.”

  Fanny’s mouth dropped open. “Mother! I only meant to help. I know no one here is thinking of such things, so—”

  “Your help and your advice and your condolences are not required at present.”

  Fanny stood to face off against her mother, then snatched a small item from the sewing basket that rested between them. “You were making these little bonnets for Margaret’s child, were you not? Will you do the same for me, Mother? I will spare you an answer, for John was always your favourite. I shall not look for congratulations from you, I suppose.”

  She dropped the white bonnet with contempt, then deliberately stomped it with the heel of her shoe as she walked away from her mother. “Do send someone to tell me if Margaret dies,” she cast over her shoulder. “I expect I shall have to have my black gown let out.”

  ~

  Margaret was not asleep… not precisely. She lingered in that dreamlike netherworld where conscious thought mingled with nightmares; where one was lured by the promise of escape from reality but devoured by tormenting fear of being overtaken by it regardless, until it could no longer be determined which was real and which an illusion.

  She would stir herself occasionally, desiring to rally her strength—usually at the sound of John’s voice—but more often than not, her courage and her flesh failed her. It was easier to sleep. In sleep, her arms were not always empty, and her body not always racked with pain.

  She felt herself blink and offer a groan of recognition when John’s hand brushed her forehead. “Love? Can you sit up to drink?”

  From some distant place in the recesses of her mind, she longed to answer him. One breath… she could manage that… a long, slow one, much different from the shallow breaths of a moment ago.

  “Margaret, my heart,” he pleaded. “You must take something.”

  She felt her face pinch. Did he mean for her to respond? He could not possibly… but how sweet it would be to look upon him, to please him… and then be left in peace again. She forced her eyes to twitch, and then to blink open. His face was blurred, his expression unintelligible to her, and she squeezed her lashes once more.

  “No! Margaret, you must wake. Come, darling. Dixon has brought you your favourite.”

  Margaret’s head rolled to the side, her cheek flinching in both refusal and mocking. Who was this deep voice who called her his darling, and how could Dixon know what her favourite was? She had no favourites and would reject any efforts to make her like whatever it was. Where was her mother? Mamma would know how best to comfort her.

  “Margaret! Please, look at me again. Let me lift you, love. Come, do not fight me.”

  The wave of delirium passed more quickly this time. How could she have forgotten that voice? She moaned and tried to lift a hand to rub her crusted eyes, but it would not move. She swallowed and tried speech instead, but somehow in the attempt, her eyes fluttered open of their own accord.

  She squinted, the better to obtain some measure of focus, and stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. His eyes were red and swollen, his complexion uneven and pale. He was thinner, too, as though age had stolen his vigour… and were those silver shards marking the days-old stubble at his chin?

  “Margaret—” he leaned towards her eagerly, and she discovered why her hand would not move before. He lifted it to his lips, his eyes brimming with tears. “You are looking stronger today!”

  She opened her mouth to speak, to deny his claim. She felt a part of herself slipping farther beyond her grasp, a spectre of the Margaret she had always been who could nevermore exist. Stronger? The comforts of her eternal reward seemed to call her incessantly, and she would reach for them… if she could move her hand.

  “Do not try to speak, love. Here, let me raise you.”

  Passively, she allowed him to brace her up, to support her with more pillows than she had ever supposed could exist. She lay limp for a moment, her head spinning at the change in posture, but she did not care enough to complain. He brought her warmest shawl then, tucking it round her shoulders so she might not feel the draught, and before he drew back, he kissed her brow as he used to do… in the days before.

  Margaret’s gaze shifted from his face to a figure that moved now behind him. Dixon, her apron stained and her eyes likewise swollen, braved a quivering smile of encouragement. “It’s my good bone broth, miss, like I used to make your mother. It’s got a bit of sage and cranesbill—the master’s idea. I brought you a pot full of chamomile too, for after your broth.”

  Margaret watched in dull fascination as John took the steaming bowl from Dixon’s hands. When had Dixon ever yielded willingly to him? But the proof was before her own eyes if she could believe them. He turned back, and she understood that she was to watch the trembling spoon as it approached her mouth, then to submit to it.

  John ladled the half-spoonfuls with aching slowness, giving her more time, even than she required, to swallow. “I had a note from Higgins a bit ago,” he informed her with a valiant effort at cheer. “He and Mary and the children send their regards. Higgins says—” here, he almost smiled—“you have at last turned him into a praying man, Margaret. I’ve put the note there by your lamp, if you wish to read it.”

  She feigned what she supposed to be a proper response.

  “They sent you a gift as well.” John gestured to the bed, and Margaret at last noticed the blanket covering her lower body. “Mary said it used to belong to Bess, and the children mended it for you.”

  “But it’s not very warm, miss,” Dixon complained from beyond him. “I’ve put your mother’s good quilt beneath it. And I had it laundered! I won’t have you taking another fever.”

  “Fever? Have I had a fever?”

  John’s colour seemed to drain even more than it had already done. “You have been feverish for four days now. It has still not broken, not in the usual way. Feel.” He pressed his cool fingers to her forehead, and the stark contrast in temperature caused her to blink. He seemed to hesitate, then returned his attention to the spoon.

  “What day is it?” Her lips felt thick, and she was not even certain they had formed the words properly.

  His head was bowed, but she could see his lashes blinking furiously. “The first. It is
the year eighteen hundred fifty-six today, love.”

  She allowed her eyes to roll up to the ceiling. She had lived to see the new year… at least the first day of it. Whether there would be more, she could not even bring herself to care.

  “Dr Bailey says you are making improvement each day, and indeed, you do look a great deal better.”

  She strained to lower her chin, to focus on him again. “Dr Bailey? Where is Dr Donaldson?”

  Dixon seemed to turn abruptly away, and John’s eyes fell to the bowl. “Dr Bailey is from London. He has been seeing to you during your recovery.” He filled the spoon again and offered it, but she shook her head and resolutely closed her mouth.

  “Margaret, please, you must take some nourishment.”

  “My stomach hurts. The broth… I think it is making it worse.”

  Alarm widened his eyes. “Dixon! What did you put in the broth?”

  “John, it is not that,” she protested. “I only mean I feel too much… pressure. Please, no more just now.”

  His eyes flashed defiantly as he lowered the bowl. “I do not wish for you to be uncomfortable, Margaret, but you have scarcely taken even a sip of water since—”

  “Do not speak of it!” Her lip quivered, and she felt her eyes beginning to burn. “I cannot think of it now, John.”

  His gaze fell, and his broad shoulders sagged. “I know, love.”

  “Let me sleep,” she begged.

  John sighed reluctantly and passed the bowl back to Dixon. He rose to bend over her and had just lowered her back to the bed when a knock sounded at the door. At a look from him, Dixon answered it.

  Margaret could not see the face, but the voice belonged to no one she knew. “Dr Bailey.” John sounded relieved. “I am glad you have come just now. She is awake.”

  Margaret’s view of the ceiling was presently blocked by a sandy-haired man, perhaps slightly younger than John. He leaned low and nodded briskly. “Mrs Thornton, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I see you are looking well today. If you please, madam, I must examine your progress.”

  Margaret shivered and decided that she did not at all like being touched. John’s hands had been familiar, almost as her own flesh, but her skin crawled even at the brush of the blankets over her shoulders as the doctor made ready.

  “It is all right, Margaret,” John spoke lowly from her side and took her hand.

  With Dixon’s help he rolled her into the proper position and offered her a cloth to shield her face… as if that bit of modesty would ease her discomfort with the whole situation. Apparently, he had decided that he would no longer leave the room when a doctor examined her, and she wished she could draw the pillow and all the blankets over her head. This was the man with whom she had shared every intimacy, but even in the best of times, a medical examination was hideously mortifying. She was not at all herself, and she knew, by the sticky feeling of her clothing, that what John would behold when the doctor lifted the last blankets would be nothing short of horrifying to him. How much of her disgrace had he already witnessed?

  She closed her eyes against the ignominy but could not help wincing and crying out when the doctor began prodding her tender stomach. The remainder of his inspection was even worse. She felt John’s hand lock, saw the tightening of his cheek, and sensed that he was close to pushing the doctor from her. She clenched her eyes even tighter and turned away.

  The doctor rose a moment later, and she felt John covering her, tucking the warm blankets lovingly round her chin and ears. A quiet conference ensued in the corner of her room, and the unnaturally sharpened senses of fever caught every syllable. Whether her mind had understood them properly was less certain.

  “I must bleed her again, Mr Thornton. She still carries an ascendancy of blood to the head, and it is the best way to lower her fever.”

  “She weakens every time you do so!” sputtered John. “She nearly died last time.”

  “It is only the appearance of faintness as the blood is redistributed through the body,” the doctor reasoned. “There is still the matter of the confluence around her womb. I begin to think a more direct approach will lessen the pressure and promote recovery.”

  “Explain yourself,” John snapped.

  “I propose to open her stomach and draw out the haemorrhaging.”

  There was no answer from John for a long moment. Margaret groaned in protest, but her response was seemingly perceived only as a shiver, for in the next moment, Dixon brought her another quilt.

  “When?”

  “The sooner the better, Mr Thornton. Every day increases her risk of septicaemia. I can send for my surgical supplies and begin this afternoon.”

  Margaret could feel the weight of her husband’s deliberating gaze settling over her. He was silent, and she heard no more save for the clicking of the door latch before delirium claimed her once more.

  Thirteen

  Hannah’s limbs turned to ice. “What did you say, Dixon?”

  “The master! He’s going to let that young fellow cut Miss Margaret. He says he can drain away the bleeding!”

  “By causing more bleeding? That is the most ridiculous notion I have ever heard.”

  “Missus Thornton,” Dixon shifted her ponderous weight, fumbling with the lukewarm pot of tea she had carried down, “will you not speak to the master? I’d not have said so before, but he’s a good man, he is. I’ve never seen anyone at such ends over a sickbed, but he’s not thinking clearly, ma’am. I’m no doctor, ma’am, but I’ve nursed my fair share, and what Miss Margaret needs is rest and a bit of healing. That doctor is going to kill my girl!” Dixon’s face crumpled at this last pronouncement, her body shaking with tears.

  Hannah drew a long breath. “Go to the kitchen, Dixon. Cook has set aside a plate for you. You need rest as well.”

  Dixon sniffled, nodded morosely, and turned away. “You’ll stop him, won’t you, Missus?”

  “I…” Hannah blinked, swallowed, then simply nodded towards Margaret’s maid. “You must eat, Dixon.”

  Hannah stared after her. Never in her life had she quailed from speaking the truth as she saw it. Occasionally, it had pained her to do so, and once or twice it had even brought her the sweet vindication of justice. Always before, however, it had been in the collective defence of herself and her children—more specifically, her son—for they had been one and the same entity. Was she to confront him now, after already arguing with him over how best to care for the woman he loved? He was blinded by his passions, ready to grasp any remedy that made him feel as if something was being done. Had it now fallen to her to save Margaret from John’s desperate love?

  She stood, clasping the back of her chair for support, as if it were a ship captain’s wheel and she the one who determined the direction it should spin. A dozen scenes flitted through her mind—days gone by. A youthful John collapsing in his chair when they lived in Weston after sixteen hours of work, and rousing only long enough to assure her that he was not tired. The light in his face the day he had told her he meant to journey to Milton with the first of the debts to repay; and the pride in his eyes when he returned and announced that he had been offered a future. The steady calm of the young man of twenty, facing down his first mill riot and seeking her face to be certain she was not afraid as she sheltered behind him.

  These and more taunted her as she tried to summon her courage. How could she defy him, who had become as her protector, and accuse him of failing in that duty to his own wife? She set her jaw when one more image nearly brought her to her knees—John, in blackest mourning, standing by yet another gravestone. This time, she feared, he would not have the strength to walk away. She bore herself up, dashing the tears from her cheeks, and set out to find him.

  She had turned to the stairs, but a faint sound called her back. From where she stood in the passage, she could see that John’s study door had been closed. That was as it should be, but it had stood ajar for three days. He had tried to go there and work for a distraction when fir
st evicted from Margaret’s bedroom, but had failed miserably and left it in a rush. Since none in the house would touch even the door handle without the master’s leave, it had remained half-opened with papers scattered about.

  Curiously, she approached, and from beyond the door, she could hear his breath. It was ragged and hoarse, racked with just the sort of pain she would have expected. She longed to cradle the boy she had once known, to sweep him into her embrace and make his cares disappear with her motherly affection. If only she could! She rested her fingers on the handle, whispering a plea for understanding, and pushed it open.

  His head was buried in his arms and cast over his desk. His meticulous stack of invoices and order sheets had been shoved off, and with great force, for some had sailed as far as the bookshelf. She closed the door behind herself and crossed the room, but he seemed deaf to her footsteps. Her hand, lifted now to rest upon his shoulder, trembled. Perhaps he was deliberately ignoring her and wishing her away! But she would not… could not go. Her resolve thus fixed, she touched him.

  He started, lifting his head. “Mother!”

  “John… oh, John!” She shook her head when she beheld his worn face. When had her son’s strength failed him so? She would scarcely have known him, this haggard wretch with the sunken features and haunted expression.

  He pressed his face into his hand now, rubbing his eyes. “She still lives, Mother.”

  “I have just spoken to Dixon.”

  He dropped his hand and gazed up at her, as if only then rousing himself from a nightmare, and drew a second chair up for her. Hannah glanced at it with some trepidation. It was Margaret’s chair, the one she always occupied when she helped John with the invoices. Counting it the honour it was, she gingerly seated herself.

  His elbows had returned to the desk, his head clasped in his hands. “I am losing her, Mother! What shall I do? What has been left undone, what I have not seen? There must be something!”