Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  “We cannot always do anything about our circumstances, John.”

  “But I must! Do you not understand? I cannot lose her, for it would be all my own doing!”

  “Your doing? You hold the keys to death and life, do you?”

  “She trusted me with her life, Mother—she, who was so far above me that even her favour was a blessing I never deserved. I promised I would take care of her, and what has my love brought her? It was I who… oh, dear God!” He fell to the desk, his shoulders heaving as great sobs shook him.

  She watched him in mournful silence. What was she to say? He was insensible to reason and cared nothing for condolences. She rested her hand on his shoulder and bowed her head for a moment as he wept.

  John had never been one to yield to tears, and he struggled valiantly against them even now. The agonising cries became choked gasps as he fought to continue on doing. He raised up his head again with a jerk, wiping his eyes. “We are going to save her. The doctor, he has a remedy—”

  “That doctor is a quack and a butcher!”

  “Mother! He is one of the best, and he knows all the latest medical procedures. He came from London almost exclusively to treat Margaret!”

  “I don’t care if he came from Hippocrates’ temple. Why in the world would he propose operating on her now?”

  “He intends to drain away the haemorrhaging. Mother, we are not doctors. Who are we to question one who has studied extensively—”

  “We are her family!” She blinked at that pronouncement, stunned at how naturally it had flowed from her lips. “Or as good as family, since the rest seem to care little enough. Who else is to advocate for her, but we?”

  “And I, her husband, have decided that she is to have the best possible care!”

  “By draining her when she is already weak, or cutting her when she is already bleeding?”

  “By seeking means of lowering her fever and reducing the pressure. You must not advise on matters you do not understand.”

  “Aye, my lad,” she almost snarled, the hair standing on the back of her neck, “I may not understand medicine, but I know one who does, and I know whom to trust. I know more than that—that you have lost all reason. You cannot save her with your bare hands, John.”

  “My hands are hardly bare! I would give her all I have and bankrupt myself on the doctor who can save her!”

  “You have chosen the wrong one. How often have you said Margaret is strong? Why allow that doctor to weaken her? The swelling may diminish with time, but if she loses more blood or infection sets in from the surgery, she will have not a prayer.”

  He shook his head, still unwilling to listen, as his forehead fell into his hand. “You do not understand, Mother, you—”

  “I! I who bore and then nursed three children through their ailments? Who watched one of them weaken and die, and grieved that no means could be found to save her?”

  He drew an unsteady breath, still not willing to look at her or even lower his hand.

  “John, let me go up to her.”

  “I have never forbidden you from seeing her.”

  “Yet you accused me of not wishing to help her. Was I to go after that?”

  Tears were sliding under his hand now, unheeded but by Hannah.

  “I should never have… forgive me, Mother. I would never speak such to you—”

  “Unless you had lost your head, which you have done. Let us go up to her now, John. Come, we will bow our heads over her and seek wisdom and healing.”

  He did not stir for a long moment, but his irregular breaths, the trembling of his jaw, gave evidence to the battle waging within him. At last, his determined mother drew his hand away from his face and clasped it in her own.

  “Have I ever advised you ill, John? Have I ever sought any but your good? Come.”

  He was blinking rapidly and rose, if somewhat reluctantly. He followed, his steps dragging, as she ushered him out of the room and into the hall. They approached the stair but halted when a figure emerged from the drawing-room.

  “Donaldson.” John’s voice would have been a growl, had he not been so exhausted.

  “Mr Thornton.” Donaldson dipped his head, then his gaze shifted to the lady in the fore.

  “I thought I asked you to stay away.”

  “John—” Hannah turned to her son—“he has been calling every day… to ask after Margaret.”

  John glanced back to the doctor to verify these words. “It is true, sir,” he sheepishly admitted. “I feared for the young lady… and I wished to comfort Mrs Thornton, if need be.”

  John stared at the floor, then set his jaw. “You may as well come up, Donaldson.”

  Milton-Northern

  March 1834

  “There is nothing you can do?” Hannah Thornton, heavy with her third child, clasped the fevered hand of her daughter as imploring eyes sought the apothecary. “No medicine can help?”

  The man shook his head as he buttoned his leather case. “No, ma’am, and if I had something that would help, it would be very dear.”

  “What is to be done? Surely, there must be something!”

  “In cases such as these, I usually recommend some time at the coast. There is no cure for the disease, but the fresh air may make her more comfortable.”

  She blinked, her breath short and helpless. “We could not afford such a trip, not now. Mr Thornton says in a year or two, perhaps….”

  “With all due respect, ma’am, the lass does not have that long, but I doubt it shall matter. Even if you had a place to go tomorrow, it is not likely she could withstand the journey.”

  Hannah brushed the damp locks from Elizabeth’s forehead. Even at four years old, her hair was rich and dark, just as her father’s. The child fluttered her eyes—blue, like her brother’s—and tried to gaze up at her mother, but the cough racked her again. Hannah was quick to cover the girl’s little cherub lips with a cloth, lest the bloodied sputum spread to the blankets.

  “Ma’am—” the apothecary stopped on his way to the door—“if I might say so, it is not wise for you to tend her. Could not the kitchen maid watch over her?”

  Hannah shook her head, gritting her teeth in determination. “My child will have her mother.”

  “I understand your feelings, ma’am, but it would not do to endanger the younger babe. It could be born sickly and weak. Perhaps your son could assist the maid, to reassure her?”

  “I will not put John at risk! He must be kept safe. What more can be done?”

  “Well, ma’am, as you know, it is this neighbourhood. The houses are all built on drained marshland. It is a wonder I do not see more cases such as these, but there, it would not be Milton without its mills, and mills must have water. If you could remove to somewhere with gravel soil, like Crampton—the houses may not be so fine and new, but the ground is healthier. Perhaps the coming babe would fare better in such a place.”

  “My husband would never hear of it.”

  “I am afraid that is the best advice I have to offer, ma’am. Good day.” He collected his hat and left, tipping it respectfully as he closed the door behind himself.

  All that afternoon, the weary mother cradled her child alone; soothing her whimpers, cooling her forehead, and cleansing away the blood. She had seated herself in Elizabeth’s bed, her back against the wall with her girl curled in her lap. Late in the night, the door creaked.

  Hannah opened her eyes, realising belatedly that her vigilance had faltered, and somewhere between dusk and darkness, she had fallen asleep. She blinked, and her first instinct was to be certain that Elizabeth still breathed. Her hands swept in terror over her child, and she sighed in relief when she found that she had not yet failed her. Only then did she look to the door.

  “John! You should not be here. Go below, this instant.”

  He stood reluctantly in the doorway, his boyish figure silhouetted by the candle in the hall. “I wanted to see if you were well, Mother. Is Elizabeth…?”

  “She
lives. You must go to bed, John.”

  He looked down at his toes. “Father has just come home. I wanted to tell him.”

  She closed her eyes and could barely keep the growl of her breath from her son’s hearing. George….

  “You may ask him to come up. He ought to see.”

  Yes, let him see! See what this house had cost them, diseased and ill-designed as it had been. Would that at last satisfy his craving for prestige and appearances? Let him see his daughter one last time, let that memory of his failings torment him as her own helplessness would afflict her the rest of her days!

  She watched as John turned from the door, listened to his steps retreating down the hall, and waited. It was an eternity before heavier steps returned and a darker shadow filled that doorway. He paused, staring wordlessly for a moment.

  “You may as well come in,” she muttered.

  He did, shuffling, until the light of her own small lantern bathed his face in a haggard glow. “How is she?”

  Hannah turned her face away, her throat too tight for words.

  She heard the slow release of his breath as he slumped into a chair at the bedside. “Nothing? Nothing can be done?”

  She turned back to him, her eyes hard. “It is too late for that.”

  The defeat seemed to line his mouth as he opened it, searching for words. “I am sorry, Hannah.”

  “Sorry! Will that buy back her life? Will that erase the sickness from her room, or the debt that keeps us from taking her to better air?”

  His head was hanging, and his shoulders trembled. “Have I failed you entirely, then?”

  She closed her eyes and rested her head back against the wall. “I spoke too harshly.”

  “You spoke your true feelings.”

  “It does not matter,” she snapped impatiently. “Nothing can change now, and we should not speak so loudly.”

  He turned his face to the side, biting his upper lip, and Hannah felt her heart split. That profile, that manner, it was the very image of her John—older, harder, but still her own flesh. And the thick curl that fell at his brow, the tender heartbreak in his eyes, that was her sweet Elizabeth. The love and care she had lavished on him these ten years were not so easily forgotten, sharp as was her disappointment in him.

  The child writhed in her lap. “Mamma?” Elizabeth murmured, but her eyes did not open. Hannah bent to croon soft reassurances, to pray once more over her fevered little cheeks, but the rasping breath had changed to a futile rattle. She did not cough—there was no longer breath enough to do so. A mother’s sorrow blinded her as she cried out in mournful denial.

  Her husband’s hand searched out her own. “Hannah, you should not weary yourself so.”

  She bowed her face, her lips quivering as the tears ran down the bridge of her nose, then she sniffed abruptly and shook her head. “I cannot leave. What if she calls for me, and I am not here? What if she…?” She dashed the saltwater from her eyes, gasping as she tried to pronounce the hideous word. She covered her mouth with a stifled shriek of grief, but the tears would not cease.

  “My darling,” soothed the broken voice of her husband. She felt his arms come about her, permitted him to slide her over so he might share in cradling their child, and allowed him to pull her head against his shoulder. He smelled of cigar smoke and brandy, of business meetings and too many oil lanterns burnt in the dark hours.

  She would never forgive him these many nights of late, when he had stayed out at dinner meetings—were they only business matters that kept him away from her?—while she battled alone against death. Would that he had been there, even if he could do little more than hold her hand as she prayed! She was losing the battle, but she would have given her very heart’s blood if he would but stand by her side.

  He had buried his face in her hair now, and she could feel the moisture from his own tears. His large hands were stroking Elizabeth’s chin, massaging her tiny arms, and cupping possessively over her heart, as if he could will the air back into her lungs.

  “Hannah,” he whispered into her ear, “it is too late, I know that well. But I pray you, my darling, do not give up on me yet! I will see you all well and secure. We will take that tour to the coast and watch our children play in the sand. John will go to school, and our girl will break hearts. I need just a little more time… soon, my darling! Have faith, I beg you.”

  She closed her eyes, feeling the damp lashes pooling together. How lovely his words! But it would all be too late for Elizabeth. No miracle on earth could save her now, and all that could have been done for her was yet to come, a gift to be bestowed on the child still unborn.

  “Hannah, I have done all in my power,” he groaned, the ache of his heart trembling in his voice. “Would you have the impossible of me?”

  She sniffed again, shaking her head. Shattered she might be, but never foolish. “I know, George,” she replied, her voice devoid of feeling.

  “Would that I had the power of life!” he returned bitterly. “I fear the only power given to mankind is that of death.”

  Hannah did not answer. Her eyes were on his hand, still covering Elizabeth’s little chest. It had grown still. “No,” she breathed, snatching his hand away. “No!”

  He raised the child at once, pressing his head to her heart and holding the back of his hand to her lips, in case any breath should tickle his skin.

  “Elizabeth!” Hannah groaned, the name ripping from her throat as she clutched the emptiness before her.

  George carefully lay the child back on her pillow, his features stricken as he turned to his wife. “Hannah… Hannah!” he shook her shoulders, trying to force her to look into his eyes.

  She could not. Her face covered in her hands, she could only cry out, “My baby! Oh, George, my baby girl!”

  He wrapped her in a tight embrace, both to buffer her violent cries and to keep her from clasping the child who was beyond all hope. She allowed him to hold her, for she was too weak to lean upon her own strength. She was deaf to his words, lost to all comfort, and cared not whether death should claim her next.

  One reason alone stood before her; one staying hand raised before she allowed herself to plunge to the depths of hopelessness. Hearing a small creak in the floorboards, she lifted her head from her husband’s embrace. He brushed the tears from her cheeks, with a tenderness he had not shown since the earliest days of their marriage, then both turned their faces to the door.

  John stood there, his great blue eyes already rounded in sorrow. There was no need for him to speak to his mother, for he could read her feelings. His gaze shifted instead to his father, as if waiting for the man to answer this tragedy from the depths of his true nature.

  George Thornton did not disappoint his son. “Come, John,” he spoke in a low rasp, extending one arm. “It is only we three now.”

  The family debate was heated, loud, and unevenly matched. Two voices raised staunchly against the third, and there was nothing more to be done. John’s wavering resolve and fears eventually yielded to his wife’s own misgivings and the united wills of Dixon and his mother, and they sent the young doctor back to London in a huff.

  Margaret roused somewhat at Donaldson’s re-examination, making a show of bravery for John’s sake, and pleading with him not to fear for her. She trusted Dr Donaldson, she vowed, and in truth, he wished to do likewise, though his faith had been shaken. Never had he doubted his own wisdom more than when he was forced to throw his support behind one or the other’s medical opinions, and stake Margaret’s very life on the outcome.

  He continued to sit by her bed morning and night, only troubling himself to look in at the mill on those days when she drank enough broth to satisfy him. Dr Donaldson visited twice daily, his face grey as he surveyed her progress until the one, blessed day when he announced that Margaret’s fever had fully abated on its own. The bleeding had slowed, and the pain in her stomach had lessened. She would live.

  This news was as air to a drowning man, and for the first time
in well over a fortnight, John was seen to eat more than two bites together. He was still unsuccessful at sleep—he would not lie beside her and thus disturb her, but he would not leave her alone in her chamber, defenceless against the ravages of her grief.

  God and Dr Donaldson may have healed her body, but there was precious little balm he could offer to ease the pain in her heart. A careless word, a fragrance which struck her differently, or even the whisper of a breeze against the drapes—all served to remind her of the life which was never to be lived. So often during these days, either John or Hannah would discover her quietly weeping and unwilling to confess it.

  John set up a pallet for himself near her bed, but even his proximity in the nights did not stop her from crying out in her dreams, desolate from fear and loneliness. Nevermore could she be innocent of heartbreak. Margaret was no stranger to loss, but this emptiness seemed to pierce her with a devastation unmatched by prior griefs.

  After her father’s death she seemed to gradually lay aside her sorrow in favour of the new hope set before her, but now, with that desired future blighted, her shattered dreams seemed to loom over all, defining both future and past. No memory was sacred from the withering touch of dread; no pleasant remembrance of better days was to be borne at such a time. She would think only on memories befitting her grieving heart, and those dark times lurking firmly in the past only stretched their cold fingers, whispering their mournful souvenirs of all that was never meant for mortal souls to bear.

  Try as he might, John could scarcely engage her in so small a thing as what she wished to eat. She was simply… empty. Her body grew again in strength, but her heart failed to do the same—it seemed that she had lost a piece of herself. She did speak to him, but only because he insisted upon it. She did not look anxiously for his return after each parting, but when he was with her, she did not appear to wish for him to leave, and so he persisted—agonising over each sigh, each dropped eye contact, each blank stare. She was there, and yet not.