Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  “Good heavens!” Margaret cried. “It is everything dreadful! But—” her brow clouded, and she tilted her head up to him—“I still do not understand what would lead him to… what would cause Watson to despair so.”

  “He was already in debt beyond what he could ever hope to recover, unless the speculation came through… and quickly. I found correspondence with his creditors and, most importantly, a contract with Wright, which I believe will answer for that. Watson had nowhere else to obtain funds, for he had depleted all his credit with the bank and tapped every other man he could persuade. Some of these were already growing impatient for repayment, and none would have been willing to invest more.

  “The terms of Wright’s contract were likely what drove Watson beyond reason. If at any point Watson could not uphold his share in the partnership, all would revert to Wright. It is precisely as his father used to do—lure men with promises of grand pay-outs, but if the costs went up and they could not meet the increased demands, they forfeited everything. Watson must have been searching for some way out of his contract, for it was marked up and shredded when I found it. He was ruined, utterly and completely, and too distraught to bear the disgrace.”

  “What now?” his mother demanded tightly. “What of Fanny?”

  “I’ve no notion what Watson could call his own before all this. I expect that whatever is not confiscated will be leveraged to some degree—I cannot say how far. For a certainty, all that he invested with Wright is lost.”

  “And Wright himself?” Margaret asked, her jaw rigid. “Serve him right if he is ruined as well!”

  He looked down into her flashing eyes and nearly kissed those stubborn, indignant lips which even now drew up into an outraged scowl. “I do not know. Nor, I find, do I care.”

  She arched a brow and tilted her head sceptically.

  “Very well,” he conceded. “I doubt Wright is ruined. He must recover his losses and will naturally be in search of another partner since he cannot claim more support from Watson. At worst, I expect he will see a delay to his fortunes. Perhaps his own investors might grow impatient, but if anyone can mollify such men, it is Wright. A year from now, it will be to Wright as if this had never happened, and poor Watson will be as forgotten as my own father.”

  She was shaking her head angrily, her body quivering in boiling fury. “But it is so wrong! How can you accept this so calmly, John?”

  He touched her cheek, smiled affectionately, and then looked to his mother’s raised chin and glittering eyes. He held her gaze for a moment, then turned back to Margaret. “Because I have come at last to recognise what is worth caring about, and it is not Wright. Come, Mrs Thornton, we still have a family to look after.”

  Twenty-Four

  2 June 1856

  Hannah Donaldson had been correct in all her assumptions regarding her daughter’s immediate disposition, save for one. The distress of her present circumstances, the shock of removing from her home to live with her brother, and the physical exorcising of her emotional state in constant pacing, all conspired to bring Fanny to childbed only five days after her husband’s death.

  It was a hard case from the start, and Margaret and Dixon took their turns through the night—soothing the labouring mother’s brow, quenching her thirst, and clasping her fevered hands, until the doctor and would-be grandmother arrived the next morning. Doctor Donaldson made his examination, shook his head, and confided to those standing by the bed that it was too soon, that it could go ill for both mother and child.

  “However,” he reassured them, just as their faces grew ashen, “the babe is presenting well, so perhaps it may yet come right.”

  John had not the luxury of remaining at home to watch over his sister, nor would he have been permitted to be of any use to her if he had stayed. He went, therefore, to his new post, and when he returned late that evening, he was rewarded by a sight that caused a joyful, excruciating pang through his heart. Margaret, bathed in radiant exhaustion, rocked near the hearth with a swaddled bundle in her arms.

  She looked up at his entry, smiled the weary triumph of one who has agonised in sympathy with the sufferer, and lifted the bundle. “You have a niece, John.”

  He drew near and hesitantly touched the blankets to draw them away from a wrinkled face. “How is Fanny?”

  “Well, but quite done in, as you might imagine. It was a bad time for her—harder than most, I understand. Your mother is sitting with her, and she asked me to bring Patience down here so that Fanny might not be disturbed for a while.”

  “Patience?” he asked, one brow lifted.

  Margaret smiled. “I can only presume her name has some special meaning to her mother.”

  His fingers grazed the blankets one more time before tucking them close to the pointed little chin, the ruddy cheeks, and the pale streaks of hair. “It is too early to make any suppositions, but I believe Fanny will come through it all stronger than she has ever been. I have never seen her so thoughtful as she has been these days, and I am glad to see her confiding in you.”

  Margaret snuggled the child again to her body, rocking her protectively and bending her cheek to catch the infant’s soft breaths. “Fanny is a Thornton, and if I have learned anything about them, they are a stubborn lot; hard to defeat and even harder to ignore once they have determined their course. I have complete faith in her.”

  He laughed and brushed a curl back from her face. “Shall I tell you what I have learned of the Hale family characteristics?”

  “Oh, I do not dare ask. I am certain you will tell me how frightfully self-righteous and impulsive I can be, and I shudder to think how my own stubborn nature compares to yours. I fear you may have found one more stiff-necked than yourself!”

  “And a lovely neck it is,” he murmured as he bent low to kiss her ear. “May I hold my niece?”

  Margaret surrendered her willingly, shifting from the old rocking chair she had kept from the Marlborough house garret to allow him to take it. He accepted the babe with a hesitant grin lighting his face. “It has been twenty years since I held one so young.”

  “Mind her head,” Margaret cautioned him, but her concern was unnecessary. He settled himself, then smiled confidently. “You must need a rest, love. We shall be well enough—shall we not, my princess?”

  Margaret laughed gently and accepted his offer of a respite. She returned only a short while later with an easel and an old box of watercolours and proceeded to situate herself only a few feet away.

  “So,” he teased, “you really can use those? Oh, I must see this.”

  “I shall only show you if it turns out,” she informed him archly. “And I will begin straightaway, so I might master her face while she is still an infant. Hold her up just a little.”

  ~

  After the immediate crises of Watson’s death and Fanny’s labours had passed, the Thornton family were naturally concerned for Mr Bell’s interests. Margaret had written him, hoping to learn that he, at least, had not suffered unduly in the recent setback. Three days later, a short reply came.

  The letter was cryptic, as Bell’s correspondences often were, but by no means despairing. Bell spoke of a small property he owned that he was able to pledge towards his own share, thus meeting the unexpected demand for payment before the prosperous enterprise could be concluded. There were others, however, who were not so fortunate, and Wright was “knocking on doors” to secure the additional funding needed to save them all from ruin.

  Bell made some veiled hints about another contact of his, a secure businessman who might be well disposed towards him. It was a chance, he said, but a chance for what, Margaret could not guess.

  She showed the letter to John, who shook his head. “Would that Wright could be taught a lesson in this,” he sighed. “Perhaps he would think a second time before luring others to their ruin, but I suppose that is too much to hope for.”

  Margaret turned the note over again. “Perhaps… but did Mr Bell not sound rather smug to you? I am
certain he knows some secret. Do you think he has some scheme of his own at work?”

  “If he does, perhaps I ought to pity Wright! I would rather not think on it now, as it would be pure conjecture on my part.”

  Margaret put the letter away, then bent to tickle Patience in the cradle beside her chair. “Whatever it is,” she crooned to the child, “it shall be none of your concern. What do you say, little dear, shall we persuade your uncle to hold you once more while I try to paint your pretty face?”

  John laughed and obliged her before Patience could make any answer of her own. And thus, Harold Wright was never meant to be spoken of in their house again.

  ~

  The sale of all the possessions remaining to Watson at the time of his death took less time than anyone could have expected. John naturally managed the affair, and a fortnight after the birth of her child, when Fanny had just begun to stir from her small bedroom, he presented her with the final details.

  She sat beside Margaret, one hand clasping her daughter, and the other reaching for Margaret’s reassurance. “What is left?” she asked tremulously.

  John glanced between them. “Nothing. In fact, there remain over five hundred pounds to repay, but I have pledged myself to that. You have nothing to fear, Fanny.”

  She nodded, a silver tear slipping down her cheek, but she lifted her chin in that way of her mother’s. Her throat trembled, and her lashes fluttered, and when she spoke, there was a choked sound to her voice. “I do not deserve your kindness, Brother.” She turned to Margaret then, before John could utter his denial, and said, “nor yours, Margaret. I have been careless, and I daresay even wicked.”

  “It is forgotten.” Margaret squeezed her hand. “Do not trouble yourself over the past, Fanny.”

  “But I must! Do you not see, Margaret? When you grieved, I triumphed over you. When you were near death, I coveted the concern that was shown you. And now, when it is my turn to walk through misery, I look and find only you at my side.” She shook her head, then turned tear-filled eyes to her brother.

  “And you, John—how often when I was a child, and you were little more than one yourself, did you soothe my hurts and suffer my indulgences? How many hours did you bend your back, so I could be kept in little comforts? And when I was grown, still I could not see beyond my own desires. How often did I sneer at you for not taking me to London, or for chastising my behaviour when it was unbecoming? How much did I require you to spend on my wedding to a pompous, short-sighted fool who was too arrogant to heed your advice when he ought to have?”

  “Fanny,” he cautioned, raising his hand, “do not do this.”

  “Do what, John?” she asked innocently. The tears fell more freely now, but her voice was curiously steady. “Recognise my own faults? Has it not been your wish these five years at least that one day I would do so?”

  “Not in this way. Not in a manner which will only grieve you further and insult the memory of your husband.”

  “His legacy was destroyed by his own hands,” she retorted. “And now you, who were not at fault, must accept responsibility for his folly. I’ll say nothing kind in his defence. Had he not been such a weak-minded buffoon, he would have—”

  “Fanny,” John’s voice rose, “you only harm yourself by abusing Watson!”

  Her eyes clouded in annoyance. “There, you see! Even when I try to apologise to you, I fail!” She sniffled, her lips puckered to stop herself from sobbing aloud as she raised a hand to cover her mouth. “Am I never to be good enough, John?”

  “Fanny,” Margaret soothed, reaching again for her hand, “what John is trying to say is that he would not see you injured by bitterness.”

  Sullen eyes fell to the floor, and she pouted stubbornly. “I do not know what you mean.”

  “I mean, Fanny—” he rose and paced the room—“that for over seventeen years, our mother carried that same burden. It robbed her of her joy, stole the light from her, and cast a shadow over both of us. I was forced to become the man our father never was, and you grew up in constant want of approval which was never given—not by the one you desired it from. I came to be respected, and you pampered, but neither of us were permitted to forget the betrayal of our father. I would see you do better for your daughter.”

  Fanny glanced to the bundle in her arms, then back to her brother. “That is the closest I have ever heard you come to criticising Mamma. You always worshiped her, and she you, until I was scarcely an afterthought.”

  “That is where you misunderstood. I have never been blind to our mother’s faults, but I forgave her them. It took me three years to discover that I must also forgive our father, and only lately have I at last succeeded.”

  He swallowed, then cast a significant look to Margaret before resuming. “You must do the same for Watson, Fanny, or his error will colour your child’s life as well as destroy your own.”

  Her shoulders rounded, and she clasped Margaret’s hand more tightly, then raised it to her forehead to weep softly against it. “How am I to do it?”

  John came to kneel before her, drawing her head to his shoulder. “One day at a time.”

  ~

  16 June 1856

  The letter arrived just as any other did. Bound in a stack—a thinner stack than the Thornton household had used to receive every day—and dropped innocuously on the desk, it could have been mistaken for a casual correspondence, and thus, Margaret assumed it to be when she first discovered it. Not recognising the hand, she set it aside in preference to one from Mr Bell, which had arrived at the same time.

  Mr Bell’s letter itself held the power to unsettle her to such a degree that she could not remain quietly at the house to await her husband’s return. After a quick word to Dixon and Fanny, she wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and hurried the twenty-minute walk to the small mill where John now spent his days. There was no gallant Nicholas Higgins here to escort her into the bowels of the cotton mill, so she wandered in alone, anxious and set upon her quest.

  “Margaret!” The voice behind her betrayed his surprise and chagrin, but when she whirled—almost upsetting a young spinner at her work—the intensity of her own expression impressed upon him the importance of her errand. He caught her elbow at once to lead her from the workrooms to the warehouse where they could speak.

  “Is it Fanny?” he demanded at once.

  Margaret shook her head, still breathless, and extended Mr Bell’s letter. “You will never credit it! Oh, but I shall not try to tell you all. You must read what he says!”

  Regarding her curiously still, he took the letter and Margaret watched his features slacken, then kindle in shock as he read.

  My dear Margaret—and Thornton, for I expect you will read this as well,

  All your gentle concern for my financial well-being you may now lay to rest. I have in my hand a telegram that will answer for the fortunes of many. How many, it remains to others to determine, but I’ve no doubt of its universal benevolence. The report will be spread more generally by the end of the week, but you will both be curious how it came about.

  As you recall, each of the investors in the rail speculation were required to put up some additional interest or lose all. My portion was but small and was little difficulty to procure. However, as Watson was, until his death, one of the largest shareholders, many others began to lose faith. After one disaster, and facing what seemed insurmountable odds, Wright seemed to feel rather insecure of himself.

  I was not the first to entertain a visit from him that week, but I fancy I was among the most receptive. I did mention to you that I had a smallish property I was able to pledge? My dear Margaret, that was only half true. Marlborough Mills was the property, and with it, I obtained a large enough mortgage to cover all the support lost with Watson’s death. I would never have done, had the mill still been in operation. I am not so fearsome a rascal as that, to endanger men’s’ livelihoods, but since your husband so stubbornly refused any attempts to keep it open, what I did with the mil
l and the house was no one’s concern but my own. It is a blessed thing that your husband saw fit to maintain and improve the property so well as he did, for it was valued at far more than I even dared hope. Remind me when next I have the pleasure of taking tea with you both that I owe Thornton my heartiest gratitude.

  You may well imagine with what pleasure Mr Wright received my offer of support. It was not enough, however, to restore all that was lost. Many other supporters had fallen away—smaller investors all, but they found it preferable to limit their losses and seek other opportunities. After a few days of more refusals, and with a dwindling amount of time to procure what was needed, Wright came back to me, as I had proved obliging and had now a rather large stake.

  ‘Well,’ I told him, ‘it seems that you are bled dry, old chap. Now look here, I am an old man, and I’ve no children to concern myself over, so this is all something of an amusement to me. Should the investment fail tomorrow, I might be obliged to cease my consumption of my favourite Havanas, but it would be no crushing blow. However, I imagine to you, it might not be so easily forgotten. Tell me my good man, what incentive might I look forward to if I, or perhaps a partner, should find it possible to put up the remaining thousand pounds you require?’

  Well, my dear, he paced and fretted, and at last offered to me a hefty share in his own profits. I suppose it was better to part with some rather than all of what he expected to receive in the end, and so he offered, and I agreed. I sent a telegram at once to a young chap I know, and as he knew of my connection with your Mr Thornton as well as yourself, he was more than eager to oblige. The money was wired and transferred in tidy fashion, and the rail enterprise saved. The work nears completion now, and the contract to build the line shall be satisfied in a matter of days.