Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  Yours,

  Edith

  Margaret winced as she read the first part of the letter. In truth, the entirety of the missive was condescending and petulant. Had she once sounded that way herself? She prayed not. Every line dripped disdain and superiority… but the first half, with its assumptions of her impending motherhood, burned and ached in her heart. Oh, how she wished she had said nothing at all to Edith!

  Yet for all the pain of such expectations, at least she could be assured of sympathy when Edith knew the whole truth. She had not written—could not bring herself to do so, particularly when Edith had never before replied to her announcement—but the mere fact that Edith had known about the babe meant that she might also share in Margaret’s mourning. Such agony as had been hers, yet she could not wish that fleeting life unlived and unacknowledged.

  Her eyes clouded, and that familiar cry shrilled helplessly in her throat; the herald of more shameful tears. The bitter anguish would follow next, the rage and denial, then the pointless questioning, until she was fully engulfed in trembling, irrational hysterics… no, she had not the strength for such again today.

  She deliberately folded the top of the page down, so those paragraphs were covered, and she could force her mind elsewhere. She read the remaining lines… and decided that she had no interest in hearing about Henry or his doings. The top fold drew down a little farther until all that could be read was Edith’s last line and the adieu.

  Those words committed to memory, she dropped the letter to the pillow at her side and stared up at her ceiling. She hated this bedroom.

  There was nothing so terribly offensive about the room itself. She was simply tired of looking at it, and breathing its stifling, grief-laden air. She closed her eyes and instead imagined what Corfu must have been like—white sands, blue sky, as Edith had described. Sea birds chattering in the breeze, bustling marketplaces where people of all sorts gathered to buy and sell.

  Margaret opened her eyes. People.

  She sat up in the bed, her decision made before she realised she had done so. Five minutes later, Dixon entered the room carrying her tea tray.

  “Miss Margaret! You aren’t supposed to be out of bed!”

  “I shall not remain in it a day longer, Dixon. I am better, and I wish to be downstairs.”

  “Better! You look as if you’d faint where you stand. Nay, Miss, you cannot stand there half-dressed. What are you about, without your dressing robe?”

  “Help me with my garments, Dixon. The corset may have to be loosened for comfort, but I think—”

  Dixon stuffed her fists into her ample hips. “Nay, Miss. There’s not a pick of flesh on your bones.”

  “I have flesh enough Dixon, and I daresay more than I ought, from lying about so long and trying to eat everything you and John have demanded.”

  “’Tis none of it strength. You’re pale as one of them little white mushrooms, and you’re like to catch your death from the chill.”

  “A mushroom! Yes, I feel like that. Help me with my chemise, Dixon.”

  Dixon crossed her arms, her cheeks mottled with consternation. “I’ll get Mr Thornton, I will, if you don’t go back to bed.”

  “I intend to go below, and whether I do so properly attired is up to you. Now, will you help me with my stays, or shall I do it myself?”

  “I’ll get Mrs Thornton!” Dixon threatened.

  Margaret ignored her and searched out a pair of stockings. Her throat was still tight, her eyes still damp, but she had committed herself to leaving this room. It was the first time she had felt a breath of air in her lungs in weeks. Dixon’s threats might fall on other ears, for so deaf was she to them that Dixon herself at last relented—provided that she bundle herself beyond the limits of reason.

  Half an hour later, dressed and coiffed and looking, if not feeling, respectable and well, Margaret laid a shaking hand on the bannister. Her head swirled as she looked down, a wave of dizzy nausea reminding her of how little she had eaten. Perhaps the stairs were more than she should have engaged for… but if she returned to her room, she would re-read Edith’s letter. She tightened her grip on the railing and forced one trembling step at a time.

  “Margaret!” Hannah Thornton rose from her seat, a scolding tone on her lips, as Margaret entered the sitting room. “You cannot be well enough, girl.”

  Margaret did not, in fact, feel well enough. The stairs had left her with a cold sheen on her brow and a twisted feeling in her stomach, and she wanted nothing more than to lie down again. Her chair would suffice, and she stubbornly declared the same to her mother-in-law.

  Hannah was staring dubiously as Margaret’s uncertain hand trailed the back of her chair. Her vision was growing dim around the periphery, and if she did not seat herself quickly, she was at a very real risk of fainting. Moving as swiftly as she dared, and not caring that she suffered some measure of clumsiness, she settled herself.

  It was a full minute before the sick feeling passed. A maid, perhaps responding to some gesture from the elder Mrs Thornton that Margaret had not seen, arrived at once with a tray of fruit. “I’ll bring your tea, ma’am.”

  Margaret drew an unsteady breath. “Yes, thank you, Jane.”

  “Well—” Hannah picked up her needlework again—“shall I send for Dr Donaldson?”

  “No, thank you. I am well enough, as you see.”

  “You will need to convince John of that. The word of a wilful lass, particularly one who looks as green as you do, will be insufficient to persuade him.”

  “I am not used to moving about so much, and I cannot regain my strength without doing so. Dr Donaldson has said, has he not, that I am out of danger?”

  A small crease appeared beside Hannah Thornton’s mouth, and her eyes twinkled for a moment. “Do as you like, then. I refuse to encourage your folly.”

  Margaret rested her head back, closing her eyes for the briefest moment before Jane returned with her tea. “Has John already taken his luncheon?”

  “I doubt he will today. The hour has come and gone, and he has hardly slowed a moment of late.”

  Margaret frowned. A fortnight ago, John was still taking all his meals with her in her room. He had even come home for his luncheon every day, whether or not he desired the meal. When had he ceased? Perhaps it was the day that she had informed him the odour of the food he liked troubled her. Or perhaps it was just after Fanny’s visit. He had seemed so desirous of shielding her from anything that might distress her. Had he, perhaps, withdrawn so his business affairs might not trouble her? Perhaps it would have been a noble sentiment, but she could hardly appreciate the gesture. She would far rather know, than not.

  “Your Miss Higgins has apparently taken ill.”

  Margaret’s eyes flashed up. “I beg your pardon? Mary? How do you know?”

  “She had intended to call this afternoon, after the men’s dinner hour, but her father brought a note expressing their regrets. She went home with a fever.”

  “A fever! Has she been seen by a doctor?”

  The elder Mrs Thornton raised a brow. “I believe that might be beyond the family’s means.”

  “But surely, she must be seen. Can we not do something for her ourselves? Perhaps Dr Donaldson could—”

  “Mr Higgins would not hear of it. Like all his kind, he refuses anything that might be called charity, even if it’s to save one of his own,” she snorted.

  “Is she really so bad?”

  “Well—” Hannah frowned down to her needlework—“he will say she is not, but I heard another had to finish the dinner shift for her.”

  Margaret felt the blood drain from her face. “Are others ill, or is it only she?”

  “I have heard of no other, but it is not usual that any should report their illnesses to me.”

  “But perhaps it is diphtheria, or cholera! She must be seen if she is so ill she could not work. It may be something very serious!”

  “Do calm yourself, Margaret. Like as not it is a simple fever
, and she will be back to work in a day or two.”

  Margaret could not help drumming her fingers on the chair. Hannah Thornton was correct, she must confess, but her heart pounded in fearful anxiety.

  Hannah had lowered her gaze again and was picking out a thread to make a fancy knot. “I did happen to send a note of my own to the doctor. I am certain John will wish to ensure that the girl handling the workers’ food could not have infected any others.”

  Margaret narrowed her eyes, observing her mother-in-law carefully. “That… was most prudent.”

  Hannah met her look with one of silent assurance. “Doctor Donaldson will do all he can for the lass, unless I must call him back here instead to tend a foolish girl who insists on over-exerting herself.”

  Margaret bowed her head, a warmth spreading through her heart for the first time in a long while. She almost caught herself smiling, but not quite. “I shall take care that no such measures are necessary.”

  Hannah raised a brow, then returned her attention to her needlework. “If you insist on sitting with me—” she flicked a finger to her basket without looking up—“you might take up the darning.”

  Margaret moved eagerly towards it, relieved that the spell of dizziness seemed to have passed… and grateful to have something to do.

  Fifteen

  26 February 1856

  John’s prospects had not improved. He was now facing the very real danger of being unable to purchase more cotton by the end of April, and the payroll would soon follow. Too few orders were coming in, and too few of those were paid. He struggled to keep up the appearance of solvency, for that had been his only remaining hope against ruin. A mill in good standing attracted orders. One tottering on the brink… did not.

  To make matters yet worse, influenza was running rampant through the sheds. Mary Higgins had been the first, but now, two weeks later, production at the mill had nearly ground to a halt. Perhaps because everyone had encountered Mary during their mealtimes, or perhaps because it was bound to happen some way or another, nearly half his work force was struggling with the fever.

  They came back to work every day all the same, because none could afford to stay home, but the sickness rendered them slow, miserable, and prone to dangerous mistakes. Only that afternoon, one young woman who desired to warm her chilled hands had been cast out of the carding rooms by her fellow workers when she carried a hot little lantern to set on the floor by her feet. John still shuddered at the horrific thought. Aye, she would have been warm enough, had she tipped that lantern over with her foot! All their problems would then be at an end.

  So far, none had died of the fever, but the children, and the older workers… it was only a matter of time before the weakest would fall. He had done all he could, even supplementing the wholesale meat and vegetables purchased for the kitchen with resources from his own pocket to make sure that even the poorest might be sustained, but his pockets were not deep enough, his hands not strong enough to save them all. He would do better to ensure that they might still have work after the fever had ravaged their numbers… but he could not even guarantee that.

  He must make the decision—now, while he could yet repay his creditors, and his workers might still find employment elsewhere. He must speak with his wife and his mother. Those words sounded again and again in his mind, like the knells of doom, as he strode slowly back to his house late that night.

  What he would have given if Margaret had seen fit to comfort him with a bit of supper and a few moments of her company as he finished his work! But he would not have wished her to walk so far, even had she been inclined to do so. Cold, tired, and hungry, he looked to the task before him with dread and a sense of hopelessness.

  Margaret rose when he entered the drawing-room, and for half a moment, he drew courage from the smile she offered, the hand she extended to him. She, at least, had begun to regain her strength, just as his own was failing.

  “Good evening, John,” she murmured. He kissed her on the cheek and wondered at the way she stiffened at the intimacy. It was not as though he had not done so in his mother’s presence before… but when he turned to greet his mother, he found that she had a guest.

  “Dr Donaldson! I did not know we had the pleasure.”

  “Ah, good evening, Thornton. I was sorry to hear you were detained this evening. I was hoping for the chance to speak with you.”

  John shifted to his mother. She stood, serene and poised as ever, not yielding any indication of the doctor’s intended request or her feelings on the matter.

  “Something of import, Donaldson?” he asked cautiously.

  “Very much so, but you must be weary. I’ll not trouble you the moment you walk in your door. In fact, I was just about to take my leave.”

  John nodded and realised only much later that his farewell to Donaldson was rather brusque. Once the privacy of his home was restored, he fell into the chair, and Margaret directed a tray to be brought for him. He looked it over, picked off a bite or two of bread and cheese, and then ignored it.

  “You are not ill?” Margaret touched his arm in concern.

  “No. Only tired.”

  A look passed from Margaret to his mother—that knowing, feminine look of dismay—but neither replied.

  Margaret sent the tray back and sat beside him on the sofa. She raised frequent glances his way, as though hoping to ask something or to peer into his thoughts, but she did not speak for long moments.

  At last, she brightened somewhat. “I had another letter today from my cousin Edith. She is home again in London. My aunt also arrived last week.”

  “That is well,” he answered neutrally.

  A faint shadow passed over Margaret’s features, but smoothed at will as she spoke again. “Edith has been home a fortnight already. She has been very busy with callers and setting up house again, I suppose that is why she was so long in writing.”

  “Of course.” He kneaded his forehead, wishing the pounding behind his eyes would cease. How could he find the words he must speak if he could not think clearly?

  “John, you do look rather pale,” his mother informed him. “Ought we to have someone call Dr Donaldson back?”

  “Mother, I am never ill.”

  She did not appear convinced. He straightened somewhat and attempted to rally his thoughts, but then he saw his mother’s hand falling to her Bible. He glanced at the clock—ten, already.

  “John, are you certain you are well?” whispered Margaret from his side.

  “Just a headache. Mother, I beg you, not tonight. I do not have it in me. Please, excuse me.”

  He ran. Perhaps his feet carried him at a sedate pace, but he was running, and he knew it. The truth would be there, waiting for him again in the morning, but just for a few hours, he consoled himself, he could rest. He need not lay it all before them now.

  ~

  Margaret watched him go, stunned and disheartened. She longed to race after him, for it was not like John to answer news in monosyllables, then abruptly quit the room like that. She was already out of her seat and nearly to the door when she met some of the household staff gathered for Hannah’s evening ritual. She sent a swift glance of apology to her mother-in-law, which was received with understanding, and followed him.

  “John?” she tapped on the door between their rooms. “Are you well?”

  He opened it; cravat hanging, waistcoat gone. “Just a little weary, Margaret. You should rest, too.”

  “I am perfectly strong. Dr Donaldson has pronounced me fit. I only want more exercise to return to my old self.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” A tender smile lit his face, and for a moment, his loving eyes swept over her.

  “John, I was thinking…” she lowered her gaze, nibbling her lip. “Would you consider sharing my room tonight? You look cold, and it is warmer in here.”

  “I am not certain….”

  “John,” she whispered, and boldly threw her arms about his neck. “Will you let me ease your cares?”
/>
  He stiffened. “Margaret, we should not. You cannot possibly be recovered.”

  “But I am, as I have said. It is two months now since… John, I have missed you.”

  She felt his shoulders relax as his hands slid around her waist. In another breath, he had drawn her close and was nuzzling her hair. “I have missed you as well, love.”

  She began inching slowly backward, easing him over the threshold. “Then stay with me, John.”

  He was too weary, too frayed to resist her, and she knew it. Her lips grazed the lower line of his jaw, and she felt a shiver pass through him. “Margaret,” he protested softly.

  She had his buttons now, and then her hands were sliding over his well-remembered form. “Let me help you,” she pleaded. Oh, how she longed for him to turn to her, to share his heart again! Civil words and light touches on her hand were too little to satisfy her yearning. She wanted him once more—all of him, as he had given himself to her once before in her sorrows.

  She slipped the braces from his shoulders and felt his arms tighten about her in the first stirrings of longing—far preferable to the porcelain doll treatment she had known of late. Encouraged, she brushed tender kisses over that little hollow at the base of his throat, where his flesh was warm and soft.

  He was shaking his head and lifting his hands to press down her arms. “It is good of you to wish to comfort me, but it is too soon for you. You must regain your strength.”

  “Strength is as much a matter of feeling as it is physical well-being. Please, John, I will not break. I have wished to feel close to you again.”

  “We could sit by your fire together. I could brush out your hair, and we could talk.”

  She cupped his shadowed face in her hands and tipped it down to her. “I have nothing of interest to say,” she whispered, then began to express herself by other means. She caught his lips, rewarding his hesitant responses with increasing warmth. Slowly, reluctantly, his mouth opened to her, and she was kissing him with an urgency which he would only match by half.