Nowhere But North

by Nicole Clarkston

  “I have tried to forget. I am certain I was insufferable!”

  “Irresistible is a better description. You certainly held me in your thrall.” He rose up and pressed his lips to hers, cupping her cheek. One hand slid round her, and she leaned willingly into him.

  “John—” she caught her breath and brushed light kisses over his cheekbone—“whatever I thought or said, whatever you believed I felt, know this. I am blessed beyond measure in you, and I thank heaven for all the sorrows, all the troubles that opened my eyes to see you. I love you, my obstinate, bewildering, magnificent John.”

  “Do you?” He tightened his arm around her, nibbling at her neck and pulling her to the edge of the chair.

  “More than life,” she promised, her voice now a whisper in his ear.

  He shuddered, clasping her to his heart. Those words—so sweet, the fulfilment of every hope since he had first set eyes upon her! The rest of his life, gladly would he surrender to hold her close.

  Twenty-Five

  30 June 1853

  “I am sorry, Mr Thornton, but the gentleman has gone out again. I believe he expected to have returned within an hour.” The smart, wiry little waiter held himself at tense attention, knowing it would please his employer to show honour to one of the most powerful men in Milton.

  “An hour, you say?” John Thornton was no stranger to decisiveness, and it required not an instant’s musing for him to draw his conclusion. “I shall call back. Will you please let Mr Hale know to expect me when he returns?”

  “Yes, sir!” The waiter touched his forehead briskly, but John scarcely noticed the obeisance. He had many other matters which required his attention and set out at once to see them accomplished. It was fortunate that the hotel he had arranged for Mr Hale was in a central part of the city, and he could easily pay another call he had purposed for himself, either this day or on the morrow.

  It chafed him to so employ himself on his market day, running after a “renegade clergyman,” as his mother had so succinctly described Milton’s newest resident. In truth, he was not entirely certain that this friendship would prove profitable for himself, but at Mr Bell’s behest he had pledged his assistance, as well as his patronage. And certainly, reasoned he, it would do no harm to dust off his Plato. What else was a man to do when he had dominated all his other challenges?

  If this Mr Hale were half the noble gentleman that Mr Bell claimed, he felt he would stoutly admire such a man. A family man, such as he had heard Mr Hale was, to give up a comfortable living over a principle! He had known few men in his life capable of such determination. Mr Hale might do well in a city such as Milton.

  With his typical long, measured strides, he drove down the street to the rail station and found the freight master. It was only information he needed, really, and it was well to gather it now before the storm struck and suspicions might be aroused.

  “And you are certain that cargo from Dublin and Belfast are received through Liverpool three days per week?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr Thornton. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, usually late. It’s little enough what comes, unless it’s the people themselves! Had a lot of that the last few years, with the famine and all.” The cargo master shook his head in pity. “Sometimes fifty to a car they would come—men, women, and children alike. Aye, ‘tis a mercy that nonsense seems ended!”

  The firm features softened, only briefly, with a sympathetic twinge around the eyes. “That it is. I understand matters are still far from well there, but we have not seen so many immigrants of late.”

  “Aye, and that’s a fact, sir, but see if any of the mills here ever have a turn-out. Why, a man could send a wire and have his factory full of workers again by the end of the week, and the rail company only too happy to oblige with extra freight cars!”

  John feigned an easy chuckle. “I know of no masters who would provoke the anger of the Unions so.” With a tip of his beaver hat, he thanked the freight master for the schedule information. After a brief look at his pocket watch, he decided he might as well return to the hotel to enquire after Mr Hale.

  The man had not yet returned at his arrival, but the waiter assured him that he expected Mr Hale momentarily, and offered to show him his room. He accepted, only wishing that he had with him some means of biding his time more profitably.

  He sat, crossing and uncrossing his knees with impatience. After three full minutes, by his watch, he rose and slowly paced the room, surveying the few personal belongings the current tenant had left arrayed over the table. A handful of books, a pair of men’s gloves, and a rose-embroidered handkerchief which he assumed must belong to Mrs Hale and had been brought out of sentiment by her husband. She had remained at the coast for the fresh air, from what Mr Hale’s letter had said, and he expected that the maid and little daughter he had heard of were there as well.

  A moment later, the door opened, and he turned to greet… his breath died in his chest. It was not Mr Hale who had entered the room, but a young woman he had never seen before. She was no Milton woman, that was certain! Her dark silk gown was of considerably simpler style than what he was accustomed to seeing. The fine ladies of Milton would hardly have considered it fashionable, though the weave and craftsmanship were exquisite. Her close straw hat was understated at best, though of excellent make, and her regal features embellished by no strings of jewellery. The modest, tasteful ensemble contrasted sharply with a heavy, luxuriant Indian shawl draped about her shoulders, and she carried the rich, formidable garment like a queen wore her train.

  He glanced uncomfortably to the side, thinking that perhaps he was in the wrong room. Who was this graceful creature, who gazed frankly back at him with complete unconcern? Every look and move seemed calculated to impress upon the unfamiliar observer her superior ways. She could not be connected to the humble former parson he had come to see! He tried to open his mouth to apologise for his mistaken intrusion, but no words would come.

  It was she who spoke first. She came forward, her fresh, earnest gaze meeting his. She gave no symptom of distress or unease at his presence in her quarters, but rather seemed to have expected him. In this, she held entirely the advantage of him.

  “Mr Thornton, I believe!” Her voice, an even, cultured alto, betrayed neither eager welcome nor displeasure. She was simply stating the fact; that she was aware of his identity, and he need not untangle his own tongue to introduce himself. Her name, however, was still a mystery to him.

  “Will you sit down?” she continued. “My father brought me to the door, not a minute ago, but unfortunately he was not told you were here, and has gone away on some business. But he will come back almost directly. I am sorry you have had the trouble of calling twice.”

  He stared for several breathless seconds. This was the daughter Bell had told him of? Why, she was no child, as Bell had spoken of her, but the most magnificent woman he had ever set eyes upon! All thoughts of his pressing schedule vanished. Obediently, the master of men took the seat she offered and looked readily back to her. He was as an enraptured scholar once more, hungrily admiring the masterpiece and hoping to learn a little more of how it was achieved.

  She had removed her hat and fully entered the room now, her strides so level and untroubled that her elegant carriage scarcely bobbed with each step. She chose a chair near the window for herself, and he could not help but wonder if she had done so specifically for the intimidating advantage offered by the position of the furniture. She stood beside it before assuming her seat, her shining dark head tilted ever so slightly as she waited still for some response from him.

  His mouth was verily gaping! Resolutely, he closed his teeth and swallowed. He must think of something to say in reply. “Do you know where it is that Mr Hale has gone to?” he managed—though his voice, he feared, was far from its typical authoritative tone.

  He took another quick breath and offered the next plausible thought to come to him. “Perhaps I might be able to find him.” The suggestion was quite reasonable
, though a false one, as he had no intention of stirring from that spot.

  “He has gone to a Mr Donkin’s in Canute Street. He is the landlord of the house my father wishes to take in Crampton.”

  These were words which jarred his thinking back to its accustomed stream. “I am familiar with the house.”

  He came very close to seconding Mr Hale’s opinion that the house would do very well for them, but at that moment the apparition before him unveiled her full radiance. She slid the lavish drapery from her shoulders to place it over the back of her chair, and for the space of one hammering pulse-beat, she stood before him—the light from the window seeming almost as a christening on the simple, undisguised lines of her form-fitting gown.

  For the first time in his memory, he could not look away. When was the last time he had permitted himself to notice a woman’s figure? Hers was a sculpted fascination; long, elegant shoulders flowing roundly to taper fingers; the hands held in quiet repose rather than fluttering nervously as most women’s did in his company. They laced gently before her, highlighting all the more markedly the extravagant dip of her waist where her elbows curved away from her body. His eyes widened as they helplessly traced a sweeping arch up, over a figure that was at once generous in its feminine appeal and dignified in its aloof poise.

  She cast a faintly haughty glance upon his speechless admiration, as a regent would a subject, then lowered herself slowly into the chair. She settled herself delicately, but without the affected fragility of manner which was expected of fine ladies. Her movements were majestic and fluid—confident in a manner which no lady ought ever to be—and he was at a complete loss for words.

  He shook himself. And this divine being was to reside in Crampton? It was as unsuitable a place as any he could fathom! Why, the house was sound enough, to be sure, but rather rough, even for a simple clergyman. Certainly, it was nothing to the ambrosial surroundings which seemed more of a piece with her. For the life of him, he could not think of a residence in all of Milton—even his own—which seemed worthy of her.

  He glanced down at his person in some heightened consciousness. He had canvassed nearly all the Milton streets today it seemed, and they had left their mark. The dust still clung to his shoes, the creases had all but vanished from his trousers, and his tidy black cravat almost certainly hung lifeless and dull. Even his hat, where he had set it to rest beside that fine ivory handkerchief, gave testament to his unpolished state.

  She, too, bore evidence of her own encounter with the city—but where the grime of his toil seemed common to his coarse figure, he sensed that the unwelcome tarnish would fall from her as naturally as any interloper was evicted from a palace. He shifted uneasily in his chair, and his face, it must be confessed, took on the more commanding and austere expression which he found comfortable, rather than the genial one which befitted conversation with a refined young lady.

  She had plucked up a bit of needle work to occupy herself, but she appeared to give it little effort. Perhaps she was weary, as he imagined she must be after all her travel and searching for accommodations. He struggled for some comforting thing to say, something to reassure this Southern beauty that Milton might hold more interest for her once she had settled there. No words came readily to his tongue, for at every moment, when he thought he had perceived a subject upon which he might express himself, that proud curve of her brow declared to him once more what she saw him for—a coarse-hewn fellow, calloused and hard, and scarcely fit to offer her a courtly bow.

  At last, she deigned to speak. “I understand, Mr Thornton, that you are the proprietor of one of the cotton mills in the city?”

  Here, naturally, would have been his opportunity to impress her. His was not merely one of the mills, but the most modern, the most consequential, and he the self-made master of it all! Somehow, though, he felt she would be less than intrigued by such confident boasting—that his connection with the mill made him not a figure of admiration in her eyes, but an object of scorn. His face hardened. “Yes, Miss Hale, that is true.” He ventured no further details on the subject.

  The ebony contour of her brow lifted faintly, perhaps in surprise at his terseness, but curiosity did not seem to plague her. She returned her serene attention to her needlework. Her expression never altered a few moments later when she asked, “You have been acquainted with Mr Bell for some while?”

  “Yes, for about ten years,” he answered readily enough. He ought to have offered more—that Bell was his distant landlord; that the old gentleman and he regularly clashed in their social opinions but shared a well-founded working respect; that Bell had spoken with repeated and unabashed admiration of her father. Each statement would have only emphasised further his distance from her genteel position, so he kept his mouth resolutely closed. He could not quite decide that he liked her, for all his gawking at her exotic beauty.

  She allowed him to simmer in wordless suspense several moments longer. If it were any disturbance to her, to sit in silence in this rented room with a strange man in attendance, she gave no indication. A most singular being, this Miss Hale! To his own mortification, he continued simply to stare at her, for he was helpless to do otherwise.

  “Is it true that Milton has a fine park for walking?” For the first time he thought he detected a spark of interest from her.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you,” he answered reluctantly. “Our best approximation is the cemetery, just outside town. There are some fine trees, and one or two small lawns to be found there. If you wish a more idyllic scene, you must venture towards the sheep farms, another mile to the west where the workers often picnic, but there are no cultivated walking paths.”

  A flicker of some disappointment showed in her eyes, but it was quickly tamped and replaced by what he took for disdain. “I expect the city has grown too rapidly to make room for such considerations.”

  “Indeed.” What she said was quite true, but at no point did he detect indulgence or understanding in her tone. No, she had pronounced her judgment over his city: it was beneath her, and the energetic growth that proclaimed Milton’s success only presented itself to her as further evidence of its rawness.

  Her angelic countenance began to fade in his eyes. Of what good was unspeakable beauty when possessed of such supreme arrogance? Mr Hale could not come quickly enough for his taste, but he now wondered if the father were half so supercilious as the daughter. If so, he ought to rid himself of the burdensome acquaintance straightaway!

  She kept up a few random topics out of duty, but never again did those clear eyes brighten with genuine enthusiasm. He was an obligation, no more—oh, yes, he knew the gentry and their ways! His two years in London and his many years among the elite investors had taught him with what disingenuous politeness they dismissed those they deemed lesser than themselves.

  He answered her disjointed questions with stilted civility, but as she seemed barely interested in his responses, he gave them little enough thought or effort. Had she enquired about him more personally—which she showed no inclination to do—he might have answered her that he had a mother and sister who might make welcome acquaintances in this new city for herself and the still-unknown Mrs Hale. He might further have had an opportunity to ask after her own connections, and to understand whatever prejudices in her experience he might be able to chip away. If ever a thing seemed worth doing, this was certainly it, but he feared the task an impossible one.

  At last the door opened behind him, and a lanky, soft-spoken gentleman entered. Mr Hale was as affable as his daughter was reserved, showing him every courtesy and apologising most earnestly for his delay.

  The young lady appeared to have done with him, he observed in some dismay, for as soon as she felt herself no longer needed, she rose and wandered to the window. He spared her one disconcerted glance before turning back to Mr Hale, who was all praise for Milton and his friend Mr Bell.

  They spoke for several moments, each man taking his measure of the other by well-chosen complimen
ts and questions. Mr Hale, it seemed, was every inch the classically trained scholar Bell had claimed, though he struck John as rather less firm of mind and deed than he had originally expected.

  Still, he felt the man’s society might do him much good—particularly if his renewed studies in Latin and Greek afforded him any proximity to her. Surely, she might admire him for the effort, as such pursuits belonged to the realm of men of leisure and refinement. The back of his neck prickled as his father’s words echoed back to him through the years, but he brushed off the feeling.

  Mr Hale turned from him suddenly. “Margaret!” cried he, and he was obliged to repeat himself, for she did not appear to hear him at first.

  John Thornton felt his palms ache with a nervous impulse such as he had not known in many years. Margaret. So, that was her name. He mouthed it silently—the name which was to become a mantra to him, representing all to which he could never aspire. He sought her composed, granite-like features for some flicker of emotion when she looked back to where he stood, but none appeared until her father spoke again.

  “The landlord will persist in admiring that hideous paper,” Mr Hale was explaining, “and I am afraid we must let it remain.”

  “Oh, dear! I am sorry!” she objected, but he could rapidly follow the tide of her thoughts as she turned inward to contrive some amelioration for the blight upon her hopes. In truth, he quite agreed with her opinion—he also had thought the papers in the Crampton house horridly outmoded and garish, but it had not occurred to him that they ought to be replaced in preparation for the house’s new residents. His resolve was sharp and decisive—he would remonstrate the landlord himself, and if the dainty pattern he had seen on the handkerchief gave any indication of her tastes, he would recommend a moderate ivory and rose pattern for the new motif.

  “Well, it is all settled—” Hale was turning back to him. “I have taken the house under contract, and I hope we shall be installed by the end of next week. Mr Thornton, we have not yet taken our luncheon. Might I persuade you to join us?”