Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  A fortnight of relative peace slipped away in this manner. Mr Bell remained in town only a few days longer, then returned to Oxford. He wrote more often, though, and frequently referred to his expectations, which would surely be answered any day. Margaret only replied in the vaguest of terms and refused to vex John by continuously showing Mr Bell’s letters to him.

  John, with his characteristic decisiveness, agreed to work with Mr Hamper for a month. Hamper desired to glean some of John’s expertise to tighten his own operations, and within only a few days, John’s advice and oversight were already doing much to improve circumstances at Hamper’s mill. What he was to do after this arrangement had been completed, he did not yet know, but he departed early each morning with a spring in his step and returned at the same time every evening with a smile on his lips for his bride.

  “Do you know,” he confided to Margaret over dinner that second week, “there is some charm in knowing what hours are to be my own. I shall not say I prefer working for another to being my own master, but for the present, I am quite delighting in my ability to walk away from my work when the day is over, and not having it haunt my evenings with you.”

  “Even when Mr Hamper ignores your suggestions for improvement?”

  “Particularly then, for every time he has done so, I have been proved correct. He is learning to heed my advice the first time I give it rather than the second or the third. I even persuaded him to take Higgins back today, and that was an accomplishment of which I am rather proud.”

  “You did! I thought Mr Hamper swore he would never have Nicholas enter his mill again.”

  John raised his glass with a spark of mischief in his eye. “I will admit to a little sleight of hand. I told Hamper I knew of a fellow who could keep the line running more efficiently than his present foreman, and who could turn out the finest cloth on any type of loom of any man I had ever employed. I led him on the whole of the day with mysterious compliments to the same effect until he insisted that I track this man down and bring him on at eighteen shillings per week. He only coughed for a moment when I gave him the name of the man I had hired for him.”

  Margaret laughed and rose from her seat to put her arms around him and kiss his cheek in both gratitude and amusement. “My dearest John, you have achieved the impossible!”

  He raised his brows in interest and pushed back his chair from the table, the better to receive her attentions. “The impossible, you say? My love, I did that long ago, when I persuaded you to have me.”

  Margaret lowered herself to his lap, her arms still round his shoulders and her lips hidden somewhere just below his ear when she answered. “That was far from impossible. Rather, I would call it inevitable. You captivated me from the first, and even before I loved you—even when I heartily disliked you—I measured every other man by you. So, do you see, there was little hope of any other outcome.”

  “Then,” he frowned pointedly, “I am not quite so gifted a miracle worker as I had thought. It is a hard thing, to discover that my opinion of myself was entirely unjustified.”

  “Shall you require some comfort after such a revelation?” She tightened her arms around his neck, preparing for what she knew he would do next.

  “Indeed,” was his ragged answer. A moment later, he had lifted her from the table, and his steps scarcely faltered when he carried her up the steep little flight of stairs.

  ~

  28 May 1856

  John’s month at Hamper’s mill flew by for Margaret. By the time he left off his advisement, Hamper was seeing a better return on his labours, had hired thirty-five new hands—all former workers at Marlborough Mills—and John had secured more permanent work.

  He had turned down an offer from a wealthy Londoner who wished to “dabble” in cotton, purely as a side investment, as well as Slickson’s offer to work under his nephew. In the end, he accepted a lower position as an overseer at a small mill just acquired by the Browns on the outskirts of Milton. When his mother asked why he would have accepted such low pay as the Brown brothers offered when he could have made twice as much in Manchester, he merely smiled, kissed her hand, and stated his loyalty to the city of his birth.

  Margaret learned the leisure of a husband at home for the first time in her marriage. It was four days before he was to start working again, for there had been some delay in the first shipment of cotton to the new mill. Everything else was in order, and John had nothing whatsoever to do.

  She watched him in some amusement as he tried to appear at ease with the wait. He had muttered gloomily about the short holiday his father had once taken them on to the coast when he had been a boy, but she cheered him with something far more delicious than salt air. He confessed later that he would much rather cradle his wife in the comfort of their own home than distress her with travel and expenses they both well knew they could not afford.

  Thus, it was that on this first day of his brief liberty, he did not rouse so early as had always been his wont, and Margaret was glad of it. She had been feeling slightly unwell, perhaps owing to her labours of the last weeks or the dust of the new house, and he made it his stated object to keep her off her feet for at least another hour of sweet repose. When they did come below, the morning was half done, and Dixon had gone out.

  “I should not make a habit of mornings such as these,” John confessed over tea, “but I begin to see what pleasures I have missed. I was always up before the sun, even on days when I needn’t have been.”

  She caught his hand and held it tenderly, but no response could she utter before there was a frantic pounding on the door. Margaret watched John’s face alter—the protective instincts of a husband warring with concern for whomever demanded entry to their house in such a desperate fashion. He motioned for her to remain seated as he rose to investigate. Before he had even opened the door, however, they could both recognise Dr Donaldson’s voice from without.

  “Thornton, are you at home? In the name of heaven, man, let me speak with you!”

  Margaret heard a low curse from John as he struggled with the stiff latch, and then the door was wide, and Donaldson stood there, covered with blood.

  “Mother!” he cried. “Donaldson, where is my mother? What has happened?”

  “No!” the other hastened to assure him. “Your mother is quite well, or as well as she might be. Close the door, Thornton.”

  “My mother is well?” John repeated, a little insensibly. Margaret had arisen, and it was she who closed the door while John collected himself.

  “I left her with Mrs Watson. Thornton, Watson has killed himself.”

  Margaret’s knees weakened, and she sought a chair before she grew faint.

  “Watson!” John, too, fell into a seat.

  Donaldson was less unsettled by now and declined a chair due to the state of his clothing. He stood instead by the fire grate and drew out a handkerchief which looked as though it had already wiped his hands once.

  “About an hour ago, I understand. Mrs Watson was not in a state for explanations when we arrived. Her housemaid came to beg my help, but there was nothing I could do for the poor bastard. He shot himself, Thornton. Just the same way….”

  John was nodding weakly. “I remember.”

  “Doctor, what of Fanny?” Margaret rose again, unsteadily, to place a hand on John’s shoulder. He, too, looked urgently to the doctor.

  Donaldson shook his head. “She heard it all from another room and is in a fit of hysterics. Your mother fears for her, in her condition. Thornton, you must go to her.”

  John nodded, numbly, and laced his fingers with Margaret’s hand. Both men looked to her, and she bore herself up with a courage she did not feel. “I will come, too.”

  ~

  They found Fanny Watson half dragged to a fainting couch and slumped in her mother’s arms. Hannah was rocking her as she used to do when her child was very small, cradling her and stroking her hair with an overt affection she had not shown in many long years. Fanny’s swollen body sho
ok with deep, shrieking cries, and she did not notice their entry until John knelt at her side and rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “Fanny?” he called gently.

  She raised her head from her mother’s bosom and turned bleary eyes on him, but it was not his face she ultimately sought. She tried to rise, stumbled and scarcely noticed when he caught her fall, then flung herself headlong into Margaret’s arms. John could only stand back and watch as Margaret embraced his sister.

  Margaret looked as baffled as he for a moment, but she accepted her charge with steady grace, crooning comfort and tender words to the sister who had so often disdained her. John turned his attention next to his mother. Donaldson had arrived behind her chair to take her far hand, but she turned haggard, stricken eyes to her son.

  “Mother!” he sat beside her and took her other hand. “What has happened? Has Fanny told you anything?”

  “She did not, but there was a telegram from London on his desk. The maid says a runner brought it just before Watson shut himself in his office.”

  “What did it say?”

  His mother glanced up at Donaldson. They shared a significant look, then directed their gazes back to him. “I did not read it. It was not my chief concern.”

  “Of course.” He sighed, raked his fingers through his hair, and rose. “Has the body been carried away?”

  The doctor only nodded and assumed the seat John had just vacated, draping his arm over Hannah’s shoulders in a shocking display of tenderness. John hesitated only a moment, struck for the first time by the look of peace in his mother’s face as her new husband shielded her from the horrors which could not help but remind her of darker days.

  He glanced to Margaret and Fanny, now seated together on another couch. Fanny was clinging to his wife with the strength born of despair and terror, and Margaret bore it all with gentleness. For a moment, at least, he was not wanted.

  Watson’s study reeked of that same metallic tang, the same earthy pungency he had tried for almost eighteen years to forget. His hand caught on the door latch, and he felt it tremble. His eyes, he forced open again, and a sick, helpless feeling overcame him. He was fourteen once more, standing in the midst of carnage and longing to push back the reality before him, to undo what was done.

  His steps faltering, he shuffled towards the desk. The blood—oh, good God, it was everywhere! John’s stomach twisted, and he nearly gagged. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to cover his nose and wished to heaven he could blot the images from his mind as well.

  Watson’s desk, typically so meticulous, was scattered all over with blood-stained papers. John drew near, blinking back the sting from his eyes to make them out. The telegram was thrust to the left of the desk, and half covered in red. John squinted, tilted his head, and read what he could.

  “… accident. Stop. Three thousand more needed. Stop. Remit… recover the debt… Stop.”

  The rest was darkened with Watson’s blood, and John could not bring himself to pick it up, tilt it in the light, and decipher the impressions in the paper to read more. He turned his attention instead to the documents scattered over the desk, the open drawers, and, most particularly, the document which lay on top of all the rest. Pen marks slashed over it, and it had been ripped in two.

  John turned the remains of it over, his fingers extended delicately to avoid the drying blood splattered over it. It was a contract, or what was left of one, signed several months earlier by Watson… and Harold Wright.

  ~

  Margaret followed her mother-in-law softly out of Fanny’s room and closed the door. “Should we not remain close, in case she wakes?”

  “The doctor assures me that the draught he prepared will see her resting for hours.” Hannah passed a hand over her eyes, then sought Margaret’s grasp as they turned away from Fanny’s door. “My poor girl! I am afraid it has only begun for her, and in her condition, she will need her strength. We will look in on her later.”

  Margaret steadied the older woman on the stair, for Hannah swayed a little as they neared the descent. “Are you well?” she asked in alarm.

  Hannah winced, then released a low groan. “I am no longer young, Margaret. I have seen this before, and I know what lies ahead for her. I will do all I can, but I am afraid—” she turned to Margaret as they reached the landing on the stairs, “—I am afraid most of it will fall to John, and to you.”

  Margaret forced a brave smile, clasping her mother-in-law’s hand a little more tightly. “We will do all we can for her, I promise.”

  “Margaret….” Hannah hesitated, glanced down the stairs, then looked steadily back. “I wonder if you realise yet what you have promised. Fanny must go elsewhere. The house will be confiscated, as it was a suicide. All her other possessions, whatever remain, must be sold to cover the debts. The doctor has already assured me that, if necessary, we could make a place for her, but I do not think it will be her preference. It was not my arms she ran to when she sought comfort, but yours.”

  Margaret looked to the carpet. “I am certain that was only the impulse of the moment. I cannot think what could have made her do so, other than the confusion of all her feelings. She will long for her mother when her time draws near, and she must raise a child without a father. She will look to your expertise, for I have none.”

  “What she will long for is one of her own age, who is experienced in sorrow and can whisper encouragement. I have never been such a one for her. For John, yes; his character is made of sterner stuff than Fanny’s. I could admonish and exhort him, but Fanny—” her eyes misted for a moment. “Fanny was always more like her father. I have tried to be tender with her, all her life, but I have misunderstood her. You will succeed where I cannot.”

  “Surely, it is still early for such fears. Of course, John and I will welcome her if it is her choice to come to us. I am afraid our house is rather humbler than what she is accustomed to, but we can find a way.”

  “And when the babe comes, Margaret?” Hannah arched a brow and held her for what seemed an interminable stare. “Her confinement is near—less than a month, most likely.”

  Margaret looked down again. “Dixon and I can help.”

  “That is not my concern. What of your own disappointments? Will you not nurse some bitterness for a sister you hardly know, thrust into your house and interrupting your peaceful home? What of when she dandles a child upon her knee while you have been denied the same?”

  Margaret swallowed thoughtfully, then raised her eyes again. “No,” she whispered, but with a firmness which sent a shiver through her core. She meant it, and would choose that resolve daily, for so long as this duty was asked of her. “I will not. Has not Fanny suffered more greatly than I? I still have the husband I love, and I shall ever content myself with that. I will love her child and care for her as they deserve—as my husband deserves. Unless Fanny marries again someday, John will be like a father to his sister’s child, and I will rejoice with her who takes comfort in her babe.”

  Hannah’s eyes had filled with tears—the first time Margaret had ever seen her so. She cupped Margaret’s cheek with one knotted hand and sniffed back what seemed to be more feeling than she could contain without breaking.

  “God love you, my girl! ‘Tis a deal for me to say, but you may as well know; you have become as my own flesh and blood now. I bless the day my son lost his heart to you.”

  Margaret trembled herself, blinking back a tide of unexpected emotion, and captured her mother-in-law’s hand as it caressed her face. “And I, who lost all my own family, have found a home with yours. You have given me far more than you can ever know… Mother.”

  Hannah blinked, sniffed again, and composed her features. She lifted that square chin of hers and then laced her arm round Margaret’s waist as Margaret reciprocated. “Come, then, my girl. Let us see what John has discovered, so we may learn all that lies ahead.”

  ~

  John had scarcely dropped into a chair in the sitting room, opposite Dona
ldson, when his mother and Margaret appeared at the door. They walked with their arms wound about each other, closely as he had seen sisters do—heads tipped towards one another in quiet confidence, strides matching, and skirts blending into one green-grey swirl.

  He rose, and Margaret broke away from his mother to come to him. Even in the presence of the others, she nestled under his arm, looked up into his eyes and, quite easily, read all the horrors he would not speak. He saw her complexion pale, felt her small hand tighten where it had gripped the back of his coat, and he stroked her shoulder in comfort. “You had best be seated,” he advised them both.

  Margaret settled herself beside him, and all eyes fixed on his face. He squeezed his wife’s hand. “It is as I feared. Watson had invested everything of his own with Wright, and then more. I found promissory notes for six different creditors, and I suspect there may be more I have not yet discovered. I daresay he imagined it would all come right, and he would handily pay back whatever was owed, but the telegram this morning spoke of some misfortune he had not foreseen. I could only make out that he was expected to render another large sum, for most of the telegram was… damaged. And then, the paper came.”

  Donaldson was casting haggard eyes to the ceiling by now, but Margaret and his mother leaned forward intently. “Has the speculation failed?” his mother guessed.

  “Catastrophically, it would seem. There was an earthquake, and several miles of new rail line were destroyed. Two new engines fell into a chasm that opened below them, and the fireboxes exploded when they were smashed. Nearly fifteen hundred pounds are now smoking ruins, and I’ve no idea the cost to replace the broken lines or purchase and ship new materials, but that is not the worst of it. Six men were also killed trying to back the engines away from the danger, and the blame for their deaths has been cast—unjustly or no—to the shareholders.”