Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  John furrowed his brow. “What, do you mean the military courts did not give the case a proper hearing?”

  Fortin scoffed. “Worse than that. We were all threatened if we talked, we’d hang beside the Russell’s crew.”

  “Captain, perhaps we should not speak of this, if there is any danger to yourself or others.” John cast a doubtful eye to Mrs Fortin, assuming this was yet another fabrication, but her face had gone grey.

  “That were Admiral Trenton. Broke regulation, he did, but he died two years ago. I had wondered, now that he’s gone, if there be any hope of justice for the crew, but most of the poor devils were hanged.”

  “How can there be justice? Whatever the cause, mutiny is mutiny. No exoneration is possible.”

  The captain smiled. “Aye, but there is. Reid were the mutineer.”

  Mrs Fortin gasped aloud. Fortin glanced at each of them and then continued. “This is how it were. Ye heard about the mate what fell from the yard arm? That were only the beginning. Ship’s doctor said Reid were mad for it and ordered him locked away, but he shot the man in cold blood. His officers sided with him, save for Hale. Five of us were there when the bos’n told the tale, but the admiral had it hushed up. It were easier—less embarrassing for the Navy—to punish the crew.”

  John stared hard at the captain. Fortin’s face reflected none of the mischievous twinkle from his earlier fish tales. He was all earnest gravity, and beside him, Mrs Fortin’s eyes were rounded in her pale face.

  He thinned his lips. “If it is direction to Lieutenant Hale you desire, I am afraid I cannot help you, sir.”

  “Nay, Thornton! I thought the whole crew dead. If there be a poor soul or two still alive, after all this time, then perhaps it be worth seeking a fair judgement. I am not the only man who would testify to this, but there seemed that no good could come of it. Tell me, sir, is Hale still alive?”

  John drummed his fingers, looking away.

  The captain leaned back in satisfaction. “Ye’ve said enough. Fear not that I will harm the man, but if ye know him, perhaps ye know how to write to him.”

  “I will not.”

  “I do not mean for ye to lure him back to England for a trial, but it’s considerable fuss to open the case, if the man is not ‘alive’.”

  John shook his head. “If the Navy believed a convicted man still alive, they would redouble their efforts at seeking him.”

  “Not if that revelation exonerated him.”

  John pulled the napkin from his lap. “I am afraid I cannot help you, sir.”

  “Mr Thornton, please—” Mrs Fortin rose from her seat, extending a hand. “I am sorry if the captain has troubled you! He means no harm, I can assure you.”

  John stopped, his jaw working. She saw his hesitation and sent an imploring look to her husband.

  “‘Tis true, sir,” Fortin agreed. “Mr Kramer and my dear Deborah have spoken well of ye these years I have known them. I’d not bring harm upon any man, but even less would I grieve my wife.”

  John slowly sank into his chair. “Nor would I wish to grieve mine.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Fortin put out his thick palm. “I'll write to an old friend at once.”

  ~

  “Margaret, are you coming down? The morning is half gone, silly!” Edith leaned impatiently against the door frame of Margaret’s room, stopping there only because Dixon’s generous form blocked her path to the dressing table where Margaret was seated. “Mamma is entertaining callers, and Mrs White and Mrs Phillips were just asking after you.”

  Margaret’s movements were all languor and reluctance as she dabbed a little cosmetic powder beneath her eyes to conceal the dark circles. Dixon had finished her hair and hovered now only because Margaret did not appear satisfied with something. With a sigh, she blinked, made a gesture of resignation towards the mirror, and rose.

  Edith tsked, shaking her head. “I wish you would go to Mrs Pritchard’s and get measured for some new gowns, Margaret. Or at least you could wear one of those you left here before—you remember, you left a few gowns you thought would not be suitable for Helstone. What about that lovely green one? This one is hardly fit to be seen! It is at least two years out of fashion, and though you claim not to see it, I declare those hems are stained. It may be dark brown, but it does not hide everything.”

  “It will serve until I have finished mourning for Papa.”

  “Come, you cannot expect me to think that even Milton ladies do not notice. And surely, Mr Thornton can afford to attire you in a few new gowns. Why, I have heard the tradesmen’s wives dress more lavishly than the queen’s ladies! How they contrive to do so in that dirty place, I shall never know, but that there must be a deal of money to be had in trade. Is it true, Margaret?”

  Margaret had drawn near now, her hands draped low over her thick skirts. “It is true that many of the ladies dress very finely indeed.”

  “And must constantly be wanting new petticoats! Are the hems generally higher there?”

  Margaret did not answer, staring as she was at the floor.

  “Come, dearest. You must want something to break your fast. Oh, no, that bit of coffee and toast will not do—why, it is barely civilised! I shall have another tray brought to the drawing-room for you, and you and I may sit with Mamma until Sholto wakes from his morning nap. If the weather is fine this afternoon, I thought we could walk to the park. What do you think, Margaret?”

  Margaret looked up at last. “I would like to walk,” she confessed.

  “Wonderful! I think I shall ask the captain to join us, for it was he who said the afternoon ought to be fair. Oh, but Mamma will not wish to come, so that leaves you to walk with Mrs Collins, the nurse. You would not mind that very much, would you, Margaret? Perhaps Maxwell will bring Henry home for tea, for I think they had gone on some errand together. I expect them back just after luncheon.”

  Margaret made no objection as Edith laced their arms and drew her away. From the corner of her eye, she could see Dixon frowning and clucking over her scattered cosmetics, casting the occasional glance over her shoulder as she left the room.

  Mrs Shaw’s callers had gone by the time Margaret came below, a fact which did not grieve her overmuch. She had heard enough of sympathy for the loss of her parents, had seen her share of arched eyebrows at the news of her marriage to a Milton cotton manufacturer. The questions they always wanted to ask were silenced behind raised teacups and nervous reticule fans, hesitant smiles and doubtful congratulations, but Margaret could read each, with painful clarity.

  A tradesman! Margaret Hale, of all girls? She, who was too poor for this gentleman, too proud for that, and so serious and grave that none could have met with her approval? A hypocrite, that is what she is, she who always spoke so high-mindedly, taking up with a tradesman from the North!

  Oh, yes, she could hear each scathing thought, read each sideways glance. They would presume that she had, after all her brave talk of lofty ideals, sheltered with the nearest wealthy protector who would have her. They might wonder what compromises she had made, how far her dignity had slipped… or they might stumble upon the truth and despise her even more for it. Love, vulgar and inconvenient, had smitten her from her high horse and lured her into a match they could only think unwise, sentimental—if not outright shameless—and wholly unsuitable. No, she was not sorry that she had missed the last of her aunt’s callers.

  The remainder of the morning passed, and the afternoon sky happily obliged Edith’s grand scheme for a walk. Margaret returned upstairs to dress for their early spring outing, and when she came below, found that Captain Lennox had, indeed, decided to attend the ladies, as well as his brother. There was no graceful escape; when Henry Lennox extended his arm as the party set out, there was naught else to do but to rest her gloved hand over his coat sleeve. Margaret walked with a sick feeling in her stomach, her eyes ever glancing at the street in irrational fear that John might even, at that moment, drive by in a hired cab and be made unhapp
y by the sight.

  “Are you unwell today?” Henry asked, after several minutes had passed in tense silence. “Or are you simply uncomfortable walking with me, Mrs Thornton?”

  A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I have always appreciated your candour, sir.”

  “You have no reason to fear me, Mrs…” he sighed, frowned, and addressed her again. “I used to call you ‘Margaret.’ Do you think I might still do so, at least between ourselves? I should be sorry to feel I have lost your friendship.”

  “You have not done so, sir, as I assured you when you came after my father’s death. I shall always remember you kindly for that.”

  “I am glad to hear it. A little sorry, naturally, for it does make me wonder what might have come under different circumstances—”

  “Henry,” Margaret stopped him. “Please, don’t.”

  He seemed to stifle himself, his lips pressing into an unhappy smile. “Of course, that was unfair. Oh, have no fear, Margaret, for I do not intend to cast blame or false guilt to you. You are content in your choice, and I shall be happy for you.” He paused, then looked at her gravely. “You are content, are you not?”

  She smiled, a little too widely. “Quite so.”

  “And you have learned to like Milton, for all its hedonism and smoke?”

  “I should think London boasts more of the former. Milton is not without its flaws, but the people there are… simpler.”

  “I imagine they are. When a man works a twelve-hour day for his bread, and his wife and children must work almost as many, why, I suppose little time is left for the sort of debauchery one often sees in London. But if there is little thought or money for vice, there is equally small portion for refinement. Have you missed the culture of London, Margaret?”

  “I have missed the finer sights,” she agreed, nodding significantly in the direction they walked as the park came into view. “And perhaps the art museum… I do enjoy admiring the paintings, and Milton has precious little in that way.”

  “Well,” Henry comforted, “I am sure it is only a matter of time before that city makes room for more genteel pleasures. Where there is affluence, there are fine ladies, and where there are such creatures, social arbitration ensues, then religious fervour often follows, then education and the arts. Tell me, is it really true that all the children in Milton work from the age of eight?”

  “Mr Thornton does not take children younger than thirteen.”

  “Still! Very young, indeed. And what of education? Why, they could have just learned their letters before they are turned out to work at the mills!”

  “Henry, I think you are trying to provoke me. You know the law states they may only work set hours, and that they must attend school the rest of the day.”

  “Forgive me, Margaret, I had not intended to annoy you. I only wonder how you can justify it. Does it not trouble you to see it all? The suffering I saw, and that only on the streets, I found appalling. But you have seen the mills, and how the people work and live. How do you reconcile it in your own mind?”

  Margaret was silent for several seconds, looking thoughtfully at the ground as she sought an answer to Henry’s challenge. “I cannot.”

  Henry glanced quickly to her—she felt his gaze on her cheek—and then looked away. “Well, let us speak no more of such unpleasant thoughts for now. Look, it is a beautiful day for this time of year—I declare, we shall have a warm spring. You and I have always loved Regent’s Park. We need not be gloomy here, am I right?”

  Margaret drew her mind back from the polluted streets, the dirty children, the noise, the hunger, the smog. She forced herself to look instead at pristine oaks, dazzling in their new spring finery. Brightly dressed Londoners; gentlemen, ladies, and children alike, wandered about with no object but to enjoy the day. Edith and her captain were many paces ahead, taking their son from his nurse to show him the marvel of an early thatch of crocus.

  “Margaret?”

  She caught her breath, looking with a conscious blush to her walking companion. She smiled tightly and nodded. “Yes, let us enjoy the park.”

  ~

  Two more days, and he could see her again.

  Thoughts of his wife had not left his consciousness for more than a fleeting second since he had seen her in London, but last evening’s dinner had perplexed him in the extreme. Could there be a chance of pardon for Frederick Hale? How welcome such tidings would be, most particularly now!

  His mind told him the notion was foolish—dangerous, even—but his heart pounded with fevered hope. Dare he speak to her of it, or would it terrify her too greatly to even consider? Perhaps… perhaps he would write to Hale himself, without alarming Margaret. Perhaps the man would have something of his own to say about these tidings of Fortin’s.

  John’s eyes roved blankly about as his thoughts pressed upon him. It was two o’clock, which set him into his prescribed rounds through the mill. His presence on this day was merely a reminder that he was on site, rather than an investigative tour, but he would keep up the appearance regardless of his conflicted state of mind. He canvassed every corner of the mill, as he always did—the carding room, the spinners, the looms, the washing and drying racks.

  He was not blind to the happenings around him, but the sights were all so familiar, his decisions so automatic, that he scarcely recalled the details in his path as he neared his office. Familiar faces had become a blur as he moved from one room to the next. Williams, in his old brown tweed jacket, the women pushing the loom and carefully watching the children—often their own—who set the spindles below the cloth. The same men who stood every day at the shuttles watched him pass, all making a visible effort to step up their pace when the master walked by.

  Only one face had the power to give him pause. Higgins, meeting his eye a little longer than the others, smiling just a little where no other had, drew him up. “G’day Master,” the fellow touched his cap.

  “Good afternoon, Higgins,” he answered over the din. He glanced about, feeling not averse to a moment or two of conversation with the man, but it was impossible in the busy mill. At last, he settled upon a quick inquiry. “Are the children all well?”

  Higgins shook his head, his eyes darkened by a sudden gloom. “Johnny—‘e were too little. ‘Tis no good, Master.”

  John’s eyes widened in alarm. “He is not…”

  “No’ yet, bu’ my Mary weeps o’er ‘im something fierce. I din’na, Master,” he shrugged, his eyes falling away. “There’s naught any can do for ‘im, like a’ th’ others. Even th’ doctor says so. Either ‘e’s strong, or ‘e’s not.”

  John sighed, his heart sinking. “Margaret will be distressed to hear of it,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  Higgins could not have heard his words over the clatter of the looms, but he nodded as if he understood. With a weary shrug, he turned back to his loom. “The worst is gone, Master.” He gave a forced grin as he resumed his work.

  Indeed, the worst was over, but what remained was bad enough. Several of his hands were still out, and those only because they could not stand at their post. Many more came to work each day, coughing and feverish, and all insisting they could not afford to go home… and thus, he must pay them. At least the tide had slowly begun to turn, since fewer seemed to be contracting the illness this week than the several previous.

  He returned to his office and immediately flipped to a calendar. The weather was warming, and if new cases had begun to dwindle, and the typical course of the sickness remained two to three weeks, it would be… he groaned inwardly. Still nearly two months—well into May before the mill and all connected with it would have put this trial behind them—if there was still a mill for them all to work at by that time. Barring a miracle, there would not be.

  He sank into his chair, rubbing his jaw. How many of the children had fallen ill? And he powerless to ease their suffering or protect them from further sickness. All he could provide—and that not for much longer—was employment
to keep food in their bellies and a roof over their heads… but work was not enough for some of them. Indeed, for some, it could be called the very means of their undoing.

  His dull vision cast about for some project into which he could fling himself, the better to remove from his thoughts all his helplessness and guilt. His fingers crossed over a note he had missed before, and he recognised his mother’s tight hand. She must have sent Jane to his office with the missive, and finding him not present, the girl had left it on his desk. He broke the seal and blinked his eyes a few times until they focused.

  John,

  The doctor and I were hoping you would take dinner with us this evening. He has been out frequently, as you can imagine, but he expects that tonight he will have some measure of rest. You have been working too late, and do not persuade yourself to believe I have not heard of it. We shall look for you by eight.

  HD

  His mother’s terse, commanding note, complete with a hint of motherly admonition and—most disturbingly—her new initials, found him shaking his head in resigned laughter. Yes, perhaps he could do with a quiet evening in her company. He had not seen his mother since her wedding the previous week, and Donaldson was an agreeable chap.

  Perhaps he would ask the doctor about the illness still ravaging the city, and whether he agreed with John’s hopes. And, perhaps, he might find a moment to draw his mother aside to solicit her advice concerning the great scandal of the Hale family. What little she could share of intelligence on the matter was unimportant. She was, and always had been, a sympathetic ear, and he was sorely in need of that just now.

  He thumbed over a leaf of notepaper to pen a reply, but before he could begin it, someone knocked at his door. Thinking little of it, he scarcely glanced up when he summoned his caller, until some sense alerted him that it was not Williams or Higgins who stood before his desk.