Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  If only they had a moment of privacy! She had tried to secure that moment upstairs as he made his preparations, but she had been detained by Edith’s demand to give audience to Sholto’s antics before his mother sent him up for his nap. She had gone then, only to encounter John on the stairs with his bag in hand.

  She bowed her head over their hands, the tears beginning to threaten in earnest. Oh, how she longed to pull herself into his arms, to bury her griefs into his strong shoulders as she had done before! How was she to manage without him? Even in the depth of her illness or on his busiest nights, he had been near. She had never yet parted from him since those first delirious days of their marriage. How was she to do so now, when it seemed an ever-growing wall was building between them?

  For an instant, she considered clasping the front of his coat, pulling his shoulders down to her, and sobbing into his ear—pleading for him to stay, or to take her with him, but a sigh from Mrs Shaw stilled her. She could not embarrass him, not in front of her aunt who already looked dubiously upon her choice of husband. She besought his face one last time, praying he would understand the longing and heartache she tried to pour into that single glance.

  His jaw tightened in resolve, even as those dark blue eyes she loved softened with tender adieu. “I will come Friday night,” he whispered, too low for the others to hear.

  She nodded, and a tear slipped down her nose. She felt his finger twitch to capture it, but he stopped himself, ever mindful of their witnesses. His hand pulled away then, and a footman gave him his hat. He made a final parting gesture of gratitude to her relations, one last faint smile for her, and then he was gone.

  Margaret stood empty, staring at the closed door as if she expected him to change his mind. He would not, she knew. For good or ill, John was never indecisive. She drew a quaking breath to steady herself and felt her cousin’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Come, dear Margaret, you are looking faint again. I am sure that long walk to church today was very bad for you. You must sit by the fire and have a little wine to strengthen you.”

  Margaret turned away from Edith, and her eyes encountered her aunt. Mrs Shaw pursed her lips. “A pity about his work. Ah, well, that is what comes of marrying such a man. Come, dear, I suppose you must accustom yourself to it. There is no need for you to languish, is there?”

  Margaret moved her feet obediently towards the drawing-room. Soon, and quite without any participation of her own, she was seated by the fire and presented with the wine her cousin had determined she must have. She tasted it only for a moment, then left the remainder of the glass untouched. Edith seemed not to notice, content as she was to be settled at a game of checkers with her husband. Margaret watched them with a distant sort of awareness, the greater part of her thoughts centred not in that room, but several miles to the north.

  It was nearly the time for the evening tea, and Margaret now nursed a headache—no doubt brought on by brooding and fatigue. She had just determined to excuse herself for the night when a caller was heard at the door. The family turned expectant eyes in that direction, and a moment later, Henry Lennox appeared.

  His gaze went immediately to Margaret, with the hint of a question in his expression when he saw her seated alone. Nevertheless, he greeted the rest of the family and came to her last. “Mrs Thornton, delighted to see you again. I had heard you were visiting. I hope your stay has been pleasant?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr Lennox.”

  “Henry, I am so glad you came! How wonderful!” Edith enthused. “Now the whole family are here. Oh, Henry, you must help us make a fourth for Hearts, for Mamma hates playing cards.”

  “I am at your service, as always.” He smiled, then glanced to Margaret. “Is Mr Thornton not joining us this evening?”

  Margaret’s gaze faltered. “His presence was required in Milton. He expects to return in a few days.”

  “Ah,” he replied, his tones gravid with meaning. “Then, as we are both without a partner, I suggest we ally ourselves against my brother and his bride. They are a formidable pair at the game, as I am sure you recall.”

  “I must beg to be excused.” She held up a hand as he gestured towards the table. “I am a little weary this evening and I was about to retire.”

  “Oh, Margaret,” Edith pouted, “you must not leave us. I was so looking forward to one of our old evenings in, and we would all be terribly sad if you did not join us. Come, sit beside me, and we will be merry as we used to do!”

  Margaret felt her cheeks burning, for Henry’s gaze had not left her. She glanced back at him now, offering a pitiful excuse for a smile, and submitted herself to be led to the card table.

  * * *

  1 Titus 2:2-4 KJV

  2 Titus 3:1-2 KJV

  3 Seneca #77, 14-15

  Eighteen

  Milton-Northern

  1 April 1856

  The house on Marlborough Street had never, since its first construction, been so empty.

  John had turned his back to the window in his office, refusing to look at or even think about the vacant house… but his resolve was weak. All the women in his life were gone, as were their women—Jane and Dixon, and even Ruth, who had left at Fanny’s marriage—only Sarah, Mrs Adams the cook and her scullery girl, and one grizzled man of all work remained. They would be communing with one another this evening in the kitchen, leaving the master to himself.

  Not that he could have gone home in any case. John’s head drooped to his hand as he surveyed the wreckage of his desk. The dreaded day had finally arrived when he could not honour all his obligations. The hands were paid, his private investors compensated, but his loan with the bank would receive only a partial payment this month. Had only another of his buyers come through with their own portion….

  He could yet hope that next month would be better. For that matter, even next week could be better, but only marginally so. The devil of it was that he knew… he knew how he could have avoided it! It would have meant hard tactics, conflict with the union, and displeasing his wife, but he could have bought at least two more months. It might have been enough… but not now.

  He could still sell. He would see almost nothing of the profits after his debts were covered, but he could walk away a free man, before the ruin was devastating. He was still young enough, could turn his hand to a new task. It would not be his preference, but there could be worse things to befall a man than retrenching.

  But Margaret… how was he to face her and tell her the tenuous sense of belonging she had found in her latest home must be forgotten? That they would have to take a lesser house, perhaps even something humbler than her old Crampton residence? What shame would she then feel in telling her haughty relations of their circumstances!

  His head fell to his desk, for he wanted to see nothing before him. How he missed her, already! Even in the depths of her grief and the darkest days of fear, her light had warmed his life. He tried telling himself that he was being foolish. How was she any less his inspiration from London than she had been on those late nights when he had not even seen her after his work?

  Yet, some scales had fallen from his eyes during those two days in London. He was a fool, a damned, miserable blockhead, if he had ever expected one such as she to be content with him. Her relations were not bad people, but their position was clear: he had reached above his head to pluck the forbidden fruit, and both were now disgraced for it. There was no recourse, no annulment possible for her—that very word speared anguish through his heart!

  How could she not regret it… all of it? But they were bound to one another, by law, if no longer by the heartfelt love so briefly glimpsed. She had hazarded a chance on him, likely blinded by grief and dulled by her time in Milton, and the price of such risk had been higher than he could have imagined. She could not be other than disappointed, and yet she was bound still.

  His doom was not yet complete, he tried to convince himself. She need not hang her head on his account—no more than she might already ha
ve had cause to do. He owed her every effort to cling to his purchased gentility. Perhaps on the morrow, he would pay a visit to his bank. Surely, his could not be the only business seeking creative means of repayment.

  ~

  That was a bloody waste of time.

  John snatched his coat from the porter as he neared the door of the bank, a scowl he could feel deepening over his face. Two hours! All that wasted hope, spent energy, for a flat refusal. Nay, it was not even so much as that. New policies, they said. New board, new directives. They could not possibly consider any alterations at present. That left John Thornton, with his hat in his hand, turning back out on the street in search of another who might hear him.

  His foot had scarcely touched the cobblestones when he heard his name spoken in a familiar voice. “John Thornton! What a surprise!”

  He looked up from the pavement to identify the woman. Why, it was old Kramer’s daughter! Despite his frustrations, John could not help a smile of greeting. “Mrs Brockett. A surprise, yes, but a pleasant one. What brings you back to Milton?”

  The lady had aged rather comfortably—one might say she had settled into her middle years with ease. She was walking with a man John had never seen, one with thick shoulders, a ramrod straight spine, and a wary frown upon his bearded face. The couple drew near, and the lady gestured. “Mr Thornton, you have not met my husband, Captain Fortin. My dear, this is the Mr Thornton who is presently the master of Marlborough Mills.”

  The man’s broad face softened at once, and he extended his hand. “A pleasure, sir.”

  “Likewise,” John agreed. “Forgive me, Mrs Fortin, I did not know you had married again. Congratulations. I am afraid it has been two or three years since I last wrote to your father.”

  Her face pinched. “Papa was never one to keep up a correspondence.”

  “Nonetheless, I ought to have continued to write, even when a reply did not come. I must beg forgiveness for being so negligent.”

  “It matters no more, for Papa died two months ago. That is why Captain Fortin and I have come to Milton, to move the last of his accounts from the Milton bank.”

  “Mr Kramer gone!” John felt as if the air had been punched from his chest. He swayed—a momentary instinct to seek out some stable object to rest his hand upon, to stop the reeling in his head. “My condolences, Mrs Fortin.”

  She smiled a little sadly. “He did not expect to have so many years after he left Milton, so I shall not lament the time he did have.”

  “I knew his health troubled him, but….” His eyebrows jerked in feeling. “I assumed he would enjoy a long retirement.”

  “He had seven years, thanks to you—so he always said. He spoke of you often, for he was terribly fond of you, sir. Mr Thornton, I hope you will not consider us too bold, but Captain Fortin and I had hoped to encounter you in Milton. Would you find it a very great imposition on your time to take tea with us before we leave?”

  “Not at all, the pleasure would be mine. Would you like to tour the mill, Captain? Or perhaps see the house again, madam?”

  The couple exchanged a look, then Captain Fortin seemed to understand his wife’s desires. “I thank you, sir, but that will not be necessary. We have taken a room in the hotel on New Street. Would you dine with us there this evening?”

  “Your offer is more enticing than you can know, for my alternative is an empty house. My mother has also recently married, and my… my wife is visiting her relations in London.”

  Mrs Fortin’s eyes widened, and a knowing smile grew upon her face. “I see we have some catching up to do, John Thornton. Will seven be too early for you?”

  “Not a bit. I look forward to it, madam.”

  ~

  “Were you a captain in the Navy, sir, or the merchant fleet?” John asked his host as they were seated.

  “Both. I joined the Navy as a wee lad and got out when I could afford a stake of me own. I spent my last ten years on the Indian routes. Ye may imagine that I have seen my fair share of cotton,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.

  “I do not doubt it. I must confess that were I at sea, I would prefer cotton bales to guns in the lower decks.”

  The captain laughed. “Just so!”

  Mrs Fortin shook her head in exasperation. “Now, we are not to speak of ships and such nonsense all night. Come now, Mr Thornton, you have put me off long enough. You have been here ten full minutes, and I have not heard another word about your marriage. How long ago did this take place?”

  “Last autumn, madam.”

  “And what is the lady’s name? How did you come to know her?”

  Fortin poured John a drink, shaking his head. “It is no good trying short answers with Mrs Fortin. She will have the whole of the story, so you may as well share it all and have done with it.”

  John steepled his fingers, releasing a slow, unsteady breath. “Margaret Hale was her name before we wed. Her father was a retired rector from Hampshire, and he was in search of some other situation. Mr Bell—you remember him, I suppose? He was an old friend of Mr Hale, and it was upon his recommendation that the family came to Milton. Mr Hale found work as a tutor. He became as much a friend and counsellor to me as your own father was.”

  “You speak fondly of the man,” observed the lady.

  John shifted in his chair. “I did think very highly of him.”

  The couple opposite him seemed to lift their brows in unison. “Oh,” Mrs Fortin replied in a whisper. “So, condolences are again in order?”

  “Father and mother are both gone now.”

  “And Mrs Thornton? It must have been a dreadful blow for her, losing both parents.”

  “I see what you are about, madam, and I will correct your assumption before it is spoken. I did wed Miss Hale after the loss of her father, but it was not done out of pity on my part. It was I who was honoured by her hand.”

  A smile quirked upon her lips. “Then I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting her one day. She must be a remarkable lady.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek as his gaze fell. Why were his eyes misting over in company? “She is, Mrs Fortin,” he answered huskily.

  The couple fell silent for a moment, sharing another glance, and at last Mrs Fortin spoke again. “Well, Mr Thornton, you have obliged me on one point. You gentlemen may now continue on with talk of ships and cotton mills, and I shall content myself with listening.”

  Captain Fortin wanted no further encouragement. He was a jovial man, and like most men who had spent a lifetime at sea, seemed inclined to spin tales which might have been at least half true. Deborah Fortin’s responses, which ranged from serious attendance to merry dismissal, gave subtle cues as to which stories might be credited and which were more fanciful.

  “I saw it, Mr Thornton, the Leviathan. I tell ye, it be no mere fable! It came below the gun ship, must have been eighty feet if it were twenty. It rolled over and I saw its eye—red like the devil! I swear, it stared right through me. I thought it were going to capsize the ship, but it swam to the starboard and then slipped below the inky waters.” Fortin huffed in amazement at his own tale—as did his wife—and drew another draught from his glass.

  John was rolling his eyes towards Mrs Fortin but acknowledged the tale in the seriousness with which it had been told. “You must have seen a great deal, Captain.”

  “Aye, I have. Men throwing themselves overboard for madness, the craze that comes upon them when ale runs low, the absolute hedonism of shore leave on the wilder coasts… have ye ever seen—”

  “My dear, I am certain Mr Thornton does not wish to hear some of your more sordid tales,” Deborah Fortin interrupted.

  The captain settled back into submission. “Of course.”

  “I do not doubt your experiences have been something most would consider fantastical,” John returned with a hint of amusement. “What of your time in the Navy? Were you ever on any of the older sailing ships, or only the steamers?”

  “Aye, lad, the sheet blew much o
f the fleet about in my day. So many ships we had then, for it were so blasted slow! Why, I remember many a worthless captain promoted to rank, simply because it was a month back to port and he was the only man at hand without a bullet in his chest or his own ship already to command.”

  John tilted his head. “I would have thought after the immediate crisis was over, such emergency appointments would be passed over in favour of more qualified replacement officers.”

  “Ye’d think, lad, but more often, there were none better. Some of the worst never stepped down again, and the crew are what suffered for it. I once knew a ship, the Russell, where the men were so bloody fired up by their captain—mad he was—that they set him to sea. Good riddance, I should say, but it were called a mutiny, worthless captain or no.”

  John narrowed his eyes, his neck prickling. “I know of that ship.”

  Fortin lowered his glass and pierced John with a long, pensive stare. “What did ye say yer lady wife’s name was? Hale?”

  John looked down at his empty glass. “Captain and Mrs Fortin, it has been a pleasure, but I am afraid I must go.”

  “Nay, my good fellow,” the captain put out a large hand to capture John’s sleeve. “Lieutenant Hale. Ye know the lad, do ye not?”

  John’s breath froze in his chest. He slid his gaze towards Mrs Fortin, a woman he had long considered respectable, and saw only concern written upon her features. He tugged his arm free of Fortin’s grip and attempted to steady himself. “I am familiar with his name.”

  “There is a reward out for that young man’s head. Quite a fine one, too, if a man knew where he might be found.”

  John gestured nonchalantly with his right hand. “A pity I do not.”

  “Hold, sir, ye mistake my meaning. I were on the Amica, the ship that picked up the survivors when the Reid and his men were set adrift. There were testimony what never saw the light of day.”