Northern Rain

by Nicole Clarkston

  “Oh! Well, that is indeed good of you, John! I thank you.”

  He offered his friend a tight smile. “Miss Hale is being modest. She happened upon me at a time when I had forgotten my own umbrella, and she spared me the discomfort of a return trip without it. I am most grateful for her thoughtfulness.” He searched her face until she raised hesitant eyes to his. Her features flickered, but he could not discern the meaning. Well, if that was to be all he could expect in response… “Excuse me, Mr Hale, Miss Hale. I have appointments to keep.”

  He removed himself from the top step but Miss Hale’s exclamation froze him. “Wait!” she cried. She extended that much-debated object once more, pressing it firmly upon him. “You must not go without. I fear the rain shall become quite fierce, and you have three miles yet to walk.”

  He shook his head politely. “Thank you, Miss Hale, but doubtlessly you will have need of it.”

  “Well, as to that, John, Margaret rarely carries it at all, except at my behest,” Mr Hale smiled kindly. “You are most welcome to it. I should hate to see you take cold, John. We have not seen you much lately, I do hope you have not been ill! I was hoping you will still be able to read tomorrow- if you are not too busy, that is.”

  Mr Thornton relented, aware that the pair of them had determined that he should take the blasted thing and there would be no escaping without it. “I did intend to keep our appointment. I am sorry I have not been able to come for the last few weeks.” He flicked a meaningful glance at Margaret. “If it is agreeable, then, I shall return this to you on the morrow.”

  “Of course, John! Do come a little early if you can,” Mr Hale peeked hesitantly to his daughter, requesting her endorsement of the invitation. “Well, you know, we are always here, and we would be happy for you to take tea with us later as well, if it suits. I only mean, do not worry on that account. You are always most welcome, John.”

  He shook his head, both grieved and grateful that he could not accept. “I am afraid I have guests of my own tomorrow evening.”

  “Oh,” Mr Hale’s face fell a little. “Well… well, we shall still be most glad for you to come in the afternoon, will we not Margaret? Do get dry as soon as you can, John. Will you give Mrs Thornton our good wishes? She has been very kind to us. We were so honoured when she called on Margaret… well, good day, John.” Mr Hale’s hopeful smile beamed; his pleasure in anticipating his good friend’s call the next day, and his disappointment that it would be cut short, causing him to bumble quite a deal more than was his wont.

  Margaret had observed it too. Thornton glanced at her and noted her faintly worried expression. It smoothed almost immediately as her eyes met his once more. She parted from him in complete civility- not offering her hand, as she had done once or twice before, but not shunning him either.

  “Good day Mr Hale, and Miss Hale.” He tipped his hat, and took his tormented self out of her presence.

  Chapter Three

  Mr Thornton did not return to his own residence until quite late that evening. He had a score of other matters to attend, not to mention a mind in uproar at the afternoon’s encounter. He was not equal to his mother’s keen eye, and so he worked well past the evening meal and into the late hours.

  When he finally did enter his own door, he found his mother awaiting him in the drawing room. Her sharp senses, finely attuned to every nuance of her son’s manner, searched him immediately. There was little he could hide from her, but that did not mean he did not try.

  Her gaze frisked over him. She knew where he went on this day each year, but the fact was never spoken between them. She disliked- no, was infuriated- that the weak man who had been her husband yet had the power to grieve the noble man who was her son. Her frigid calm gave lie to the anxious turmoil within as she hungrily sought any clues to his thoughts this night.

  His greeting was perfunctory- the bare minimum civility from a tired man at the end of a sixteen-hour work day. His exhaustion was understandable, but what remained a mystery to her was the compelling reason behind his excessively long days of late. He was in his office before dawn and home barely in time to crawl into his bed- if, indeed, he went to bed at all. Had she not been so unwilling to believe it, she might have suspected him to be avoiding her.

  That, of course, was preposterous. She was her son’s only confidante, and he had always come to her with those matters which weighed heavily on his heart. This burden he carried now surely had its roots in that ill-guided strike, and nothing more. The mill was beset on all sides, and John had savagely taken hold with the bite of a determined bulldog, dragging it back to prosperity by sheer force of will.

  She took in his appearance as he drew near the evening fire, in anticipation of her mandatory nightly devotionals. The rest of the household would be joining them shortly, though Fanny was always late. “John, what happened to your collar? It is perfectly limp, and... are those water stains?”

  He glanced up at her quickly, and a flash of something crossed his face but he made no answer other than a small tightening of his lips.

  “You ought to have changed those wet clothes hours ago,” she clucked in admonishment. “You will be down with a fever.”

  “I never take ill, Mother. My office stays quite warm, next to the stacks as it is.” He dropped himself into a chair, listlessly reaching for the paper she had placed there for him. He picked it up and hid behind it. He did not want to encourage the topic further. She would naturally turn to the reason for his long, wet walk and her bitterness would only grow. It would then cause her to wonder at his lack of foresight in taking his own rain gear when the weather threatened so.

  He did not want her to know the truth. John Thornton was never caught by surprise from a storm. He watched the weather as keenly as he scrutinized cotton futures and market fluxes, for, as he knew better than anyone, all were in the end tied together. Today’s downpour had been fully expected.

  His pilgrimage today had been one of self-loathing and penance, and he had intentionally denied himself any comforts. Then she had to show up and provide shelter for him! Hours later, he still could not explain her sudden compassion, and he churned in frustration.

  He bit his lip behind his newspaper. It would never do to allow his mind to wander back to Margaret with his mother in the room. Mrs Thornton possessed an uncanny knack for sensing his thoughts, particularly when they lingered on the contemptible woman who had rejected him. He would have to wait until he had gained the solitude of his own room before reopening that trove of feelings.

  “John, you do remember that the Hamiltons and the Smiths are coming to dinner tomorrow?”

  He nodded, only the top of his head visible to her as it bobbed. “Yes, Mother. I shall not be late from the mill.”

  “I should hope not,” she scoffed. It would do John good to sit down to a decent meal with respectable company. He had been obsessively detached of late, shunning all company but hers when he was not working. “Mrs Hamilton tells me,” she ventured cautiously, “that her daughter Genevieve has returned from her tour on the Continent.”

  The black head moved noncommittally over the rim of the paper.

  She watched what she could see of him carefully. His fingers gripped the paper until the knuckles were whitened. His heel bounced in agitation, a mannerism he had only recently collected. He was not at all easy. A long breath left her. What John needed was something- no, someone- to distract him from the mill, and that pernicious Miss Hale.

  ~

  Margaret saw her father off to his bed, promising him that she was bound for hers. As soon as the door had closed, however, she fled down the stairs and to the rear quarters of their residence. She found Dixon mumbling over a basket of linens to be pressed.

  The family servant looked up quickly at her entry. She screwed her mouth into a scowl. “That Martha’s taken off again. How many times that mother of hers can be ill, I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Hush, Dixon,” Margaret
chided softly, “I was pleased to be with my own mother when her health failed.” Margaret reached for the top set of draperies and flicked a droplet of water on the iron to test its temperature. “I cannot think,” she continued wistfully, “what it must be like to be stretched so thinly as many are- to have no way of both keeping food on the table and caring for one who is ill.”

  Dixon made a disapproving face. “That’s this uncivilized city talking, that’s what! What’s become of the kingdom when the scullery maids can up and leave whenever they please?” Margaret reached to pick up the iron after she had spread the drapery out, but Dixon snatched it from her with a demanding glare.

  Margaret pursed her lips and deliberately took the iron back. “What makes me any different from Martha? We are both about the same age, are we not, Dixon? Why should I not take a hand in caring for my family and lightening your burden?”

  Dixon crossed her arms. “It’s not fitting, that’s what. Miss Beresford’s daughter....” She continued to grumble, but that was no great trouble to Margaret’s mind. They had this conversation almost every night of late, when Margaret snuck back to help with the household chores after her father was abed. As always, far more was accomplished than Dixon ever could have wrought on her own.

  Margaret found she liked the manual labour. It kept her hands busy but allowed her thoughts to wander, and she was not troubled with much talk. She set her iron aside for a moment to array the fresh linens, then began again. Her deft fingers flattened the cloth and swept the scalding metal plate over it. She watched with satisfaction as the rumpled linen became once more smooth and elegant before her eyes. Indeed, it was gratifying to work something with her hands, to feel and see the fruit of her labour plainly. How very different it was from the nuanced, plodding, invisible work of a scholar!

  She set her iron back on the stove to warm and walked her freshly pressed drapery to the drawing room. Dixon followed reluctantly and found her tottering precariously on an antiquated stool as she attempted to hang the article.

  “Don’t see what all the fuss about them drapes is,” she pouted, lifting a corner in half-hearted assistance. “They’ll be sooty again by next week, and don’t nobody see them. Master hardly never comes down, and you spend all your time in the kitchen these days!”

  “It is the dignity of the thing, Dixon,” Margaret reasoned, stretching as far as she could manage to reach the last hook. “Mother never wished our house to get into slovenly ways, and no more do I. Besides, we shall have a guest tomorrow. Mr Thornton told Father he would be coming for his lesson.”

  “Reading in the Master’s study, like all the others do,” Dixon pointed out. “Not here taking tea, pretending to be a gentleman.”

  “Dixon!” Margaret pounced down from her stool. “I shall hear no more such talk! Mr Thornton has been very good to us- to poor dear Mother, you remember!”

  Dixon frowned. “He don’t often come no more for to see the Master. Mark my words, Miss, he’ll drop the acquaintance since Master fell out of favour with some of the younger set. All work, that’s these Milton folk, just like the Missus always said. How’s that for a gentleman, I ask?”

  Margaret stretched to her full height, her cheeks flushing. “Dixon! You know very well it was Mr Thornton who helped Father become established in Milton! He is not a changeful man, Dixon, not in the slightest. He has been greatly occupied these past months, and it shall not be for us to judge how he chooses to spend his time. I am most grateful he has found an afternoon to come sit with Father. You know how Father values his visits.”

  Dixon wrinkled her lips in disdain and gave a reluctant little “Humf.” Much as she might have longed to make a saucy retort, she could think of little to say in contradiction to her young Miss. Margaret had taken to checking her tongue of late, for which Dixon could only respect her, but she groused inwardly to hear her young lady defending that tradesman.

  The pair retreated to the kitchen once more, where by silent accord they set about separate chores. Margaret returned to the linens, while Dixon washed up. Even had they each desired it, which neither did, it would have been difficult to return to conversation.

  Margaret kept her eyes steadily on her work. She felt compelled to do all she could to keep her home to its best standards, so that she might- even in this dreary city and their family’s reduced circumstances- always remember what she owed herself as a gentlewoman. All within her influence ought to be nurtured and sustained, from her own personal dignity and the training of her mind, to her relations with her neighbours and the very upkeep of her home. That Mr Thornton intended to visit on the morrow had nothing to do with her desires to present her home at its most gracious. Nothing at all.

  ~

  The clock ticked evenly and ominously in Mr Thornton’s office. His eyes drifted to it occasionally as he sorted through his account books. If he sent a note now, it would not be too late to cancel his appointment with Mr Hale… but no! Hooked over his doorknob, so that he might not forget his duty, was that infernal contraption of wood and silk which had occasioned so much distress the day before. Glaring fleetingly at the unfortunate item, Mr Thornton made another mark in his ledger.

  Surely it could not be so painful to sit an hour reading with Mr Hale. Where had they left off? Oh, yes, Plutarch. In truth, he would have quite looked forward to the opportunity to hone his mind and speak of deep, philosophical matters for a change, but he dreaded the gauntlet he must face at his arrival. He did not know how he would bear to see her again so soon.

  He dropped his pen and rubbed his eyes. Even then, her image danced before him. She was looking up to him with that gentle, vulnerable expression- the one that, for just a moment yesterday, had nearly made him forget that she despised him. With a short gasp, he blinked his eyes open again, fixing them on the papers before him. Perhaps if he stared at his desk long enough, he would see his ledgers before his eyes when he closed them, rather than her cherubic face.

  Mr Thornton managed five entire minutes before she again invaded his thoughts. Exasperated, he slammed his pen down and rose to gaze out the windows of his office. Spread before him was a marvel of machinery, a testament to the ingenuity and willpower of man. Willpower. Yes, that was all he needed! Always before it had been sufficient. Surely he could find that inner strength again!

  He would not allow himself to wonder at her cryptic statements from the previous day. What could she have meant? No! He did not care. Why ought he? Whatever it was she was trying to tell him, it did not matter… except, perhaps it did.

  What if she truly were innocent of unmaidenly conduct? What if there were some perfectly irreproachable reason for her to have been found alone with… with whomever he was?

  Angrily he shut his mind down again. All it could possibly mean was that she may not have involved herself in the sort of disgrace he had imagined. She still disdained him as much as ever, but perhaps he had not truly been deceived in her character… perhaps his devoted admiration had not been as ill-placed as he had feared. But that falsehood! She had admitted to it! Was that wrong not as great- nay, greater- than the other?

  He gritted his teeth. Much as he might have wished to be able to respect the woman his heart adored, he no longer could… and he hated himself for it.

  ~

  Margaret intentionally retreated to her room at the time Mr Thornton was expected to make his call on her father. She heard his voice on the stair and tensed. The house was arranged oddly, so that he had to pass by the floor on which her room was located in order to reach her father’s study. Her eyes unconsciously followed his unseen movements as he ascended to the third floor, his tread rhythmic and firm.

  Once she heard the click of her father’s door, she exhaled deeply and went below. She had thought to call on Mary Higgins to see how the Boucher children were getting on. If she stayed long enough, he might be gone when she returned. It would surely be as much of a relief to Mr Thornton as it would be to herself if their pat
hs were not to cross today.

  She dressed quickly and set out. Upon reaching the modest dwelling on Francis street, she was promptly met with the sound of sobbing and childish woes. The door flung open and a tear-streaked girl of six dashed out, nearly colliding into Margaret’s skirts.

  “Jenny!” she cried. “Whatever is the matter?”

  The girl turned abashed eyes up to her. “‘E’s taken me dolly!” she wailed.

  “I ‘aven’t!” Daniel, age seven, followed close on the heels of his sister. “Whadda’ I wan’ wi’ yo’r ould dolly?”

  The children paused only a moment at Margaret’s feet, then raced down the street. Jenny was crying and trying to escape her disagreeable brother, and Daniel was trying to retrieve his wayward sister. Margaret looked after them in some bewilderment until Mary’s voice brought her attention back.

  “Don’ worry none ‘bout them,” she sighed tiredly. “The’ll be back. ‘Appens ‘bout ever’ day.”

  Margaret offered her friend an understanding smile. Her firsthand experience with children had been only minimal, but she did enjoy them. The Boucher children were, by and large, sweet youngsters. This display of domestic combat startled her somewhat, but she did remember disagreements with her own… oh, dear. Margaret blinked a little as an image of twelve-year-old Frederick, laughing and teasing her from his perch in the apple tree, flashed through her memory.

  She shook her head. “How are you today, Mary?”

  “Well y‘nough, Miss Marg’et,” came the shy answer. “Da’s been so much ‘appier, now ‘e’s workin’!”

  Margaret smiled, an expression of pure joy. “I am so glad! Oh, here, I brought some treats… for the children, of course.” She accompanied that comment with a small wink. Nicholas had always vehemently rejected her attempts at charity where his own family was concerned, but she had discovered that gifts specifically intended for the Boucher children were accepted with at least grudging consent, if not genuine grace.