Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

“Well—” Fanny smiled proudly and fussed with her skirts, “Perhaps mother has not told you, but my Watson has made an old acquaintance again. I suppose John has never mentioned a Mr Harold Wright?”

  Margaret’s eyes misted in thought. “The name is familiar… I know he has, but I do not recall at present.”

  “His father was my father’s business partner, years ago. John even lived at their house for two years, though he probably made little of it. You know John! London is nothing to Milton for him.”

  Margaret blinked. “Oh! That Harold Wright.”

  “None other! My Watson was looking for one last supporter for his speculation, and as John proved so disobliging, he was forced to look to London and beyond. Fancy our pleasure when we came across Mr Wright! Mr Daniel Wright, the father, has retired, but his son Harold has taken his place. Such a clever gentleman he is!”

  “You have met him?”

  “Naturally! The Wrights had us to London while they were sorting the details. Oh, my dear sister, you simply must meet Mildred Wright—she is Harold’s wife, of course. I declare, she is the most fashionable lady I have ever met and has the most exquisite taste! I am certain you will adore her, for she speaks so very fondly of John from long ago, and she asked ever so many questions about you! If I did not know better, I should have thought she was sorry she missed a chance with John herself, but of course, that is silly, for she and Mr Wright were sweethearts as children.

  “Oh, but I have quite lost what I was thinking to say. Ah! The partnership! You will never believe how it all came out. My dear Watson thought to offer an opportunity to Mr Wright but found instead that the man had his own schemes, and it was in our better interest to join his venture.”

  “I would have thought you would not do business with him at all, after everything that happened.”

  “Oh, stuff and nonsense. Certainly, Father was ruined long years ago, but it was no more Mr Wright’s fault than his own. No one made my father invest more than he could afford, and you know none put that gun to his head but himself. It would be foolish to blame the Wrights over that sorry business. At any rate, it is the most promising partnership, and Watson is terribly pleased how well it has come out.”

  “What is their purpose?”

  “I believe they had something to do with building rail lines in Australia, or some such thing. No… perhaps they were sending them to Canada’s western territories. Oh, I cannot recall. But you know, such an enterprise cannot hope to fail. Only think of the advantages to a properly functioning rail network in such a backwards place, and the profits to be gained!”

  Margaret could well imagine the advantages, but she doubted very seriously that Fanny had paused long enough to ponder such an undertaking. Money would always be wanted and building railroads over open country was no easy task, but Watson was likely correct—if they could afford to buy in and had the additional capital to cover any unforeseen setbacks, the rewards would be monumental and nearly secure.

  “That is wonderful news, Fanny,” she murmured.

  “Oh—” the other shook her head—“I know what you are thinking. You are worried about what John will say. He is not always right, you know. He is inclined to cling to old grudges over that affair, but it will be his loss.”

  “From what I understand, such a feeling would not be without some foundation, but I would not expect such of John. He would speak reasonably to anyone, regardless of past injuries, I am sure.”

  Fanny gave a short laugh and then poured herself another cup. “That was not how he responded when my Watson and Mr Wright spoke to him. Why, my husband could not even repeat John’s words in my hearing, so foul was his language! I pity you, Margaret, truly I do, for he can have such a fearful temper when provoked.”

  Margaret’s head was pounding, and her weary gaze had drifted to the floor, but at this accusation, her eyes sharpened again. “John knows of this? He has spoken to Mr Wright in person?”

  “Well, of course! It is all over town, how he fairly threw two respectable men from his office, but perhaps you have not heard. Naturally not, for you have been sequestered away here. You poor thing! Mamma can be ever so dull, I know. Of course, you aren’t to be walking about town, I did not mean to imply that, but you could at least have been given the news. I suppose Mamma and John did not trust you to remain calm, but I declare, you are the very picture of composure. They are often overbearing, are they not? I feared you would not have been told a thing, so I am glad I came today.”

  Margaret smiled weakly.

  “I suppose Mamma has told you little else?” Fanny was lifting her cup with a suggestive lilt to her voice.

  Margaret examined her suspiciously, wondering what further gossip Fanny wished to inform her of. “Only that Dr Donaldson stays to tea every afternoon, after he has looked in on me.”

  “Dr Donaldson! Yes, I think he must come to you after he has seen me. For, you know, he comes rather often to our house as well of late.”

  “Has Mr Watson been unwell?” Margaret asked, with only feigned interest.

  “Unwell! Do not be silly, he has never been better. Nor have I.” Fanny stirred her tea with a smug pleasure.

  Margaret’s brow furrowed in confusion. “If he is not coming for professional purposes….”

  “Oh, but he is! I have asked Watson to delay the tour we had planned to India next spring, for I shall not be fit to travel. There—” she smiled at the spark of understanding in Margaret’s eyes—“I knew you would be pleased for me. Mamma did not think so, but I know you are a generous sort, after all. I thought it would cheer you to hear you will be an aunt.”

  Margaret’s face washed to a chalky hue, and her breath grew raspy. She could find no words, so she set aside her cup and looked towards the window, blinking rapidly and trying to swallow.

  “I am certain that Mamma has already told John, but I wonder why they would have kept it from you? Is it not a wonderful thing that we are sisters now and you can share in my happiness?” Fanny buttered her bread as she spoke in comforting tones. “You have pulled through miraculously well, Margaret. Why, poor Harriet Andrews died two years ago of the very same, but now that you are better, certainly there is nothing more to fear. I declare, within the year you should have a child of your own, I am sure of it, and the cousins shall grow close as two peas. Oh! I know you must be frightened to try again, but this can be no more than an accidental happenstance. Dr Donaldson says that so long as—”

  “Please leave me,” Margaret whispered.

  Fanny glanced up from her bread in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am not feeling well. Please… I must lie down.”

  Fanny looked somewhat affronted, but she set aside her bread, uneaten, and rose. “Well, I hope you have been stronger than you are today. I would have thought you could bear a little longer visit, but perhaps your condition must be more delicate than I had expected. It must be rather trying, cooped up in this dark room with nothing to do.”

  Margaret pressed her throbbing eyes into her hand, trembling with a chill that went deeper than her bones. She made no answer, and Fanny turned to go, muttering to herself. Margaret heard her sister-in-law proclaiming her wounded dignity as she opened the door for herself.

  “Never in my life! She always did give herself airs….”

  The door had scarcely closed before Margaret crumpled in her chair and gave way to shrieking, gasping tremors of anguish.

  ~

  A month had fallen from his calendar since Margaret’s ordeal, and it had been a full week since the insult of Wright’s visit. Marlborough Mills had plunged into the coldest depths of winter, and everything seemed as frozen as the water lines in the mornings.

  John was staring at the paper on his desk as though he had forgotten how to read. He knew quite well what it said, for it was written in his hand, but his head was failing to comprehend. How had matters come to this? He dropped the pen from numb fingers and scrubbed his face until his eyes were blurry.
There was nothing else for it tonight but to crawl into his bed and hope that in the morning, his mind would have cleared, and he might think and plan.

  He found his mother sewing in her usual place. She rose to meet him, likely only waiting for his return before she went to her own bed. “John, have you eaten?”

  He shook his head. “No, and I’ve not the appetite. How is Margaret this evening?”

  His mother looked troubled. “She has been quiet. She spoke almost nothing when I was with her before.”

  “That is often her way of late.”

  “Fanny was here this afternoon. I had forbidden her from visiting, but she took it upon herself to do so while I was out.”

  John felt his fingers curl and his neck prickle. “What did she tell her?”

  His mother’s only answer was silence.

  John released a tight breath, forcing himself to civility. “It is done. Go to bed, Mother.” He laid a hand on her shoulder and left her, steeling himself to face… he knew not what.

  Margaret’s door was closed. A hesitant tap yielded no answer, but surely, she was merely asleep, and Dixon had wished to shield her from the draught from his own room. He turned the knob and gently pushed the door open.

  She was not asleep, nor was she even lying down. She was out of bed and on her feet, against all the doctor’s injunctions. It appeared she had been so some while, for her steps had that aching, hesitant quality of one who wearies and yet will not cease.

  “Margaret! What is this?”

  She did not check her pacing until she had reached the end of the room, and then she stopped, rather than turning back. Her arms were crossed defensively over her breast, and her head bowed low.

  “Love! You must not be out of bed.” He was by her side in an instant, his arms circling around her, but she did not submit to his embrace as she always had. She stood stiff, trembling, and refusing to look at him.

  “Margaret? Speak to me, what is troubling you?” She still did not answer—in fact, tried to hide her face from him—so he turned her against her will. She covered her face with her hands.

  “Love,” he insisted again, but she vehemently shook her head.

  “It is no good, John! I am the most wretched being alive,” she mumbled between her fingers.

  “How can you speak so? Tell me what happened. Fanny was here?”

  She hesitated, then nodded into her hands.

  “I am sorry for it. We had asked her not to see you until you were stronger. I shall speak with her—”

  “For what, John? For telling me about Watson’s new investment partner, and how they are lording it over you?”

  He felt his ears growing hot. “It is nothing of any concern to us. Watson may do as he pleases.”

  “Then it was her other news. You knew—” here, her words became unintelligible. She still refused to look at him, hiding her face more deeply in her hands, until at last he pulled them away and beheld her tears.

  “I knew… yes, I did,” he rumbled hoarsely. “Pay her no mind, Margaret! It was unfeeling of her to come to you as she did.”

  “How can I ignore it?” A sob shook her, and robbed of the use of her hands, she hid her face against his shoulder. “I am miserably wicked, John! I could not even wish her well. I only looked on with envy—oh! yes, I will tell you all, and you will know the truth. I could think only of how I loved our child, and how she seems incapable of such a feeling. If the same were to happen to her, she could find some other diversion to please her equally well, but J-j—” her body racked and heaved into another helpless sob, followed by such mournful cries as would break her husband’s heart.

  “Margaret, you must listen to me.” He pulled her close. “What you are feeling is natural. You must not be so harsh on yourself!”

  “And what of the commandment to rejoice with those who rejoice? I am incapable of bearing any such feeling!”

  “You forget the other half, which is to weep with those who weep. Fanny had no business speaking as she did.”

  “I can do nothing for her, but my own feelings are wicked, John. I only wished her far away, and wished… oh, but you will truly know me for the vile creature I am!”

  “You wished Fanny to know grief? For her to taste some measure of suffering? Aye, I have felt the same before.”

  “But such a feeling is unjust! How could I ever have conceived of it?”

  “Margaret, come,” he soothed into her ear. He gave her no opportunity to protest, for he gathered her into his arms and removed her forcibly to her bed, then curled himself at her side, still fully clothed. She shivered, and he drew the blankets over her and pulled her near.

  “I think none could demand that you deny such feelings. I would far rather see you angry than numb, as you have been. Grief such as yours is a long path and strewn with many a rocky blunder.”

  “But I have no right…” she sniffed.

  “You have every right, Margaret. I will not have you labouring under some false sense of righteousness or conviction. Perhaps your feelings might become twisted into genuine envy were you to permit them to linger beyond what is natural, but I think such a thing impossible for you.”

  She lay silent, and he had no means of knowing if she considered his words or had grown deaf to him. There was little he could do but to cease speaking, so he tightened his arms around her. Though she did not precisely object, she made no attempt to yield to his embrace.

  They remained so for nearly twenty minutes, until he believed she had fallen asleep. He shifted his feet, thinking to kick off his shoes and undress, and debating about returning to his own bed, when she stirred at last.

  “John, how does the mill?” she asked sleepily.

  He stilled. “I do not know what I ought to tell you just now. You should rest—”

  “What did Watson want from you? Surely you had already given your answer, and it is too late to join his venture. He would have known you to be determined on that point. Why would he come to provoke you?”

  “Provoke me? You sound as though you believe Watson delighted in frustrating me. It was nothing of the kind.”

  “Will you not tell me, as you used to do?”

  He sighed, helpless against her ploy of repeating his own words back to him. “Watson is no fool—neither is Wright, for that matter. They know the general trend of the market, and it is no secret that Marlborough Mills is leveraged. They assumed the reason I would not purchase into their rail speculation was that I had not the capital—which is not precisely true, although it is money I cannot rightfully call my own. They came to enquire about purchasing an interest in the mill.”

  She stiffened in his arms. “You are not considering it?”

  “Of course not. If I were to take on a partner, it would not be they. Do not trouble yourself now, Margaret. I will tell you all once you have rested.”

  She quieted again, and this time he waited longer to stir himself. He could not bear disturbing her as she slept, and he would not permit himself to stay, achingly as he longed to do so. When a light rasping in her throat announced fitful slumber, he at last dared to slip from her warm body and return to his own cold bedroom.

  ~

  12 February 1856

  My Dearest Margaret,

  By the time you receive this letter, I imagine we shall be in London. I am afraid I had quite forgotten to write sooner. Motherhood and the bother of packing up our house here has made me a neglectful correspondent, and I confess, it was hard to think of you in that dark and dreary city when I had my darling Sholto occupying most of my time. At any rate, dear Margaret, we are coming home. Maxwell’s tour is complete, and I do so wish to bring Sholto back to London.

  Mamma is to follow, of course, for she has not yet seen my boy. She has been so long in Venice and Paris, I shouldn’t wonder if she has forgotten how to speak English! She has promised that my sweet boy will begin speaking French to his grandmother even as he speaks English to the rest of us.

  Oh, Margaret,
you must persuade your husband to permit you to come to us! I have ever so many things to tell you, and I know that you will love our dear Sholto as I do, the moment you set eyes upon him. I fancy you will learn much in the ways of managing an infant that will profit you in the months to come.

  Never fear about travelling back as the time advances, for there are better accoucheurs to be found in London, I am certain. There would be no cause for you to rush to Milton for your confinement, for we can help you in so many ways! A good nursemaid is indispensable, of course, and we can begin interviewing candidates directly. The nurse may direct his daily routines while you must take a hand in properly spoiling the child. I wonder if your husband will permit you to spoil a child as he ought to be? If he is difficult to persuade to your ways of thinking, Margaret, there are always means for a wife to manage a husband. I trust you have discovered that by now.

  I cannot think of the winter you must have had to endure there! Is it really grey all year round, with hardly any sun? I understand that the curtains do not even stay clean a week for all the coal ash in the air. Why, I should be nervous to have a fire in the grate, lest the air in my drawing-room itself ignite! Margaret, dear, when your child is born, you simply must remain with us in London for a time, for the better air. Perhaps you may be able to introduce the child to some culture that way, for I understand that a tradesman’s son will be expected to work straightaway, as soon as the law allows. How perfectly shocking!

  Maxwell had another letter from Henry two days ago. He is well, of course. He had begun to court a Miss Parkins of Chelsea, a lady whose father is a manager at the Exchange. I think perhaps nothing came of it, for he has not mentioned her again in the last three letters. He asked after you, and Maxwell told him we supposed you would be eager for a holiday from Milton as soon as we are home in London.

  I must close now, for the last of my trunks are nearly packed and my wax and pens are next to go. I shall depend upon hearing from you as soon as you can possibly write.