Northern Rain

by Nicole Clarkston

  “Master Thornton! Sir!”

  Thornton turned at the voice of one of the local union leaders. “What is it, Miles?”

  The shorter man huffed up to him. “There’s been a complaint to th’ Union, sir. Jonas Sacks says yo’ d’smissed ‘im ‘bou’ cause!”

  “I had cause enough. He cannot perform his duties.” Thornton began to walk away.

  “But sir!” Miles caught up and followed at Thornton’s heels as he walked. “T’was only on account of ‘is injury, ‘tis nobbu’ temp’rary. Union Rules, sir! Another place mu’n be found for now, one what ‘e can do. ‘E’s a wife and four childer!”

  “Then he would have done better to spend his wages on food and not drink. A man who brawls publically, then breaks his arm in a misguided prank such as drayage theft is a menace to his family and a danger to other workers. He ought instead to be grateful he is not locked up.”

  “Master Thornton, Jonas’s willin’ to work, and ‘e‘s ne’er drunk on the job!” Miles protested.

  “That last bit is not true. I ought to have dismissed him long ago. Tell him that for a few weeks, he can practice some personal restraint, then reapply for the position once both his character and his arm have mended. You and I both know, Miles, that he has been at the Dragon nearly every day of late. Where, I ask you, has he found the funds?”

  Miles sputtered. “Master, yo’ve said yo’r own self that a man’s private ‘ffairs’s none of yo’r bus’ness!”

  “Certainly not, but the safety of every worker at Marlborough Mills is. The man is a liability. My decision stands.”

  Miles stopped trying to keep up with the master, crossing his arms in affected fury. Thornton strode off, then abruptly turned back. “Is not Sacks’ eldest nearly fourteen, and a well-grown lad?”

  Miles thought for a moment. “B’lieve ‘e is. ‘E’s been workin’ in the cardin’ rooms.”

  “A position has opened up in the loading docks. Five and ten a week. Tell the lad to be there tomorrow morning. The next younger child can take his old place. Remind them not to be late!”

  Miles gave in, knowing that the master’s mind was made up about the man he defended. “Aye, sir.”

  By now the mill was almost entirely emptied. Thornton turned and continued about his errand, unmolested by any more requests. At last he reached the older wing, where two or three dinosaurs of machinery daily cast fear into the hearts of the mechanics. He glared at them for a moment, thrusting his hands to his hips and chewing thoughtfully at his lip.

  Without warning, an old cap appeared from under the furthest machine. It was followed by the rest of the man’s head, and a face which turned into view as the man wormed his way through the downy drape of combed cotton. “Oh, g’d’evnin’ sir!” Higgins greeted him cheerfully.

  Thornton arched a brow. “Trying to get paid past your time, Mr Higgins?”

  Higgins gave a wry laugh. “Much good it’d do me, eh Master? Naw, this ould girl ‘ere,” he banged a tool in his hand against the machine, “she jes’ needed a lovin’ touch.”

  “What was wrong with it this time?”

  “Eh,” Higgins finished clambering out and stood to his feet, pushing his cap back on his head. “Drive gear’s plumb worn, sir. She just sets there, bidin’ ‘er time when the belt’s a-spinnin’.” He drew a rag from his pocket and wiped his brow, then his greasy hands as he spoke.

  Thornton gave him a sharp look. “Thompson spoke to me last week about that. I ordered it repaired. Why has it not been?”

  “‘E fixed it, sir, but tha’ was that’un o’er there,” Higgins jerked his head to another rack of combed cotton. “Ran out o’ parts, ‘e did. Went to the smithy to build more.”

  “So what brings you over here? If I recall correctly, you are assigned to the looms.” Thornton cocked a challenging expression at his employee.

  Higgins’ face blossomed into a slow grin, a twinkle in his eye. “Aye, sir, bu’ when the whistle blows, I do as I please. T’morrow’ll be better for the lads. I got th’ould girl wired back t’gether for ‘nother day.”

  Thornton stared thoughtfully back for another moment, then abruptly changed the subject. “What of the Union, Mr Higgins?”

  The other’s eyebrows arched innocently. “Sir?”

  Thornton crossed his arms. “Are you not still one of the leaders? What will your friends say, Mr Higgins, when they learn you were working after hours without pay, while another member of your order was doing his duty by challenging me over Sacks’ dismissal?”

  Higgins pointed his tool, smiling. “What ‘ud they say if the combs was still down?” He bent to gather a few other odds and ends into a little satchel. “And Sacks ‘ad no business workin’ in ‘is state.”

  “It would be said that the machine was my fault, and that Sacks ought to have been given lighter work for now.”

  “I don’ mean ‘is arm.” Higgins straightened. “‘E’s a troublemaker, that’un. Most ev’r’one’s glad to ‘ave ‘im out from our ‘air. ‘Tis a shame, though, that poor wife o’his. My Mary’s been ‘elpin’ ‘er where she can.”

  Thornton’s eyes drifted over the room as he lapsed into silence. Higgins watched him carefully, shrugged his shoulders, and began to saunter away. The master seemed to have done with him.

  “What has been done?” Thornton’s voice stopped him.

  “Sir?” Higgins turned.

  Thornton narrowed his eyes. “Contrary to what you may believe, Mr Higgins, I do have some concept of what it is for a family to suffer for their father’s mistakes.”

  “Aye.” Higgins studied his employer. “May’ap yo’ do. Well, sir, ‘tis a pinch. Sacks drinks most what ‘e brings ‘ome. ‘Is Missus takes in sewin’, but the childers- they’re most a’ clemmin’.”

  Thornton nodded vaguely, his thoughts churning. “And what of your family, Mr Higgins? Are the older children in school?”

  Higgins grinned sheepishly. “I’ve saved ‘most ‘nough for Daniel to start. ‘E’ll make a scholar, I’ll lay to it. Lad’s read most ev’rthing I ‘ad.”

  “I see,” murmured his employer, still gazing at the thick swaths of pearly cotton covering most of the combing machine. He squinted briefly, then turned fully toward the other man. “And what of the boy’s spirits?”

  Higgins cocked his head. “Sir?”

  “I have seen many a good young lad ruined by shame and anger. His circumstances put him at risk, if he is not properly guided.”

  A twinkle of understanding flashed in Higgins’ smile. “Aye, sir. ‘E’s a good lad, ‘e is. Got’s much ‘eart as any boy, and p’raps more’n most.”

  Thornton shook his head, muttering under his breath. “What a pity he had such a worthless father to look up to.”

  Higgins shrugged. “When a man’s lost a’ ‘ope, an’ sees only despair, ‘e’s past condemnin’… if you’ll ‘scuse me, sir.”

  Thornton snorted a little, eyeing the man curiously. “You had little enough liking for Boucher! His cowardice brought both of us nothing but trouble for weeks, and left you with a lifetime obligation. How is it you can speak so civilly?”

  Higgins drew a deep breath, pursing his lips and daring to stare down his employer. “I’ve gots to look tha’ lad in th’ eye when ‘e grows to a man, sir- ‘im and ‘is brothers. It’ll be for me to show ‘em they don’ ‘ave to worry their ‘earts over their da’. Boucher… ‘e ‘ad ‘nough cares for one lifetime, and that’s the end o’ it. There be no sense in ca’in’ ‘im a coward, not anymore.”

  Higgins looked down to the rag he still clutched, stroking it gently between his fingers as if it were a lock of a child’s hair. When he spoke again, his voice was softer than Thornton had ever heard it. “I can’ fathom wha’d lead a man to do it, but ‘e musta thought ‘is childer’d be better off ‘bout ‘im.” He sighed and shook his head, then looked back up with a friendly smirk. “‘Sides, they won’ be the first childer to be made a’ the
stronger for it. Others’s done it.”

  Thornton raised a brow. His past was certainly no secret in Milton, but no one ever dared bring it up- particularly not one of his hands, and a probational hire at that! Margaret’s friend was proving a fascinating specimen, and one he would not mind coming to know further.

  Higgins smiled once more at his baffled employer, tipped his cap, and began to move off.

  “I have books,” Thornton interrupted him.

  Higgins stopped, turning back curiously. “Sir?”

  “How many of the children are old enough for school?”

  “Oh. Jes’ Danny and Jenny, but the lass’ll ‘ave to wait till next year, I’m ‘fraid.” Higgins suppressed a little sigh of frustration.

  “Has she any aptitude?”

  Higgins stared at him in silence.

  “What I mean is, does she have an interest? Has she had any schooling at all?”

  A sly twinkle came to the old weaver’s eye. “Jest a bit, at ‘ome. She likes it well ‘nough, and a good worker she is.”

  “What would you say, Mr Higgins, if I were to stop over some evening to see how they get on? I have no children of my own, nor am I ever likely to. It would do me good to take an interest in the orphans.”

  Higgins broke into a wide, toothy grin. “I say come as yo’ like, sir. Yo’ know where to find us.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dixon looked up from the kettle she was scrubbing as Margaret entered the kitchen. “Is the master sleeping already, Miss?”

  Margaret heaved a long-suffering breath and tied on an apron. “I believe so. He had a very trying afternoon.”

  Dixon’s only reply was a pursing of her lips as she clattered around with her kettle. She polished and ground mercilessly at a stain in the bright metal, setting her teeth and wrinkling her nose. Her hands flew ever faster, but the stain refused to be done away with.

  Margaret tipped her head, watching carefully. “Dixon, is something wrong?”

  Dixon’s face scrunched, her entire body now fighting the spot on the copper, until her temper broke. She flung the stubborn bit of cookware across the kitchen with an angry sob. Quickly she wrapped her hands in her apron and covered her face.

  Margaret was there immediately, draping an arm about her shoulder and drawing her to a stool. “Dixon! Dearest Dixon, do tell me what the trouble is!”

  Dixon shook her head and gave a pained little sob. She wiped an eye with the corner of her apron. “There ye go again, Miss! Just like Miss Beresford, you are. You don’t have to be so gentle-like. Go on, scold me for denting the kettle!”

  “Dixon, you know I would do no such thing! I demand, however, that you tell me what the matter is.”

  At this, Dixon actually managed a little smile. “And there’s Master Frederick. How I do see him when you pluck up that backbone of yours!”

  Margaret’s tense shoulders relaxed. “I miss him too, Dixon.”

  Dixon’s lips started quivering again and she made another pass at her face with her apron. Margaret reached for her hand and gave it a solid squeeze. Dixon was shaking her head and blinking. “If only the master hadn’t ‘llowed little Freddy to join up with the Navy! Your mother were dead set against it. If he’d stayed, he’d have never let the master leave Helstone! And the mistress….” Dixon searched in her pocket for a well-used handkerchief and blew loudly.

  Margaret closed her eyes, fighting for calm. Dixon was right, in her way, but it could never have been so simple. “Dixon, you know that Frederick would never have stayed in Helstone. Father agreed to let him join the Navy because he was so restless, and Father feared he would leave to seek his fortune in America. At least in the Navy, there was hope he would someday return. Mother’s health… did not Dr Donaldson say that she had been ill for some time before we came to Milton? You tended her yourself, Dixon, you must know the truth.”

  Dixon heaved, still locked in stubborn denial. “She’d ne’er have had to leave her home,” she pouted. “That were what done her over, Miss. Broke her heart, it did.”

  Margaret smiled sadly. “I know, Dixon. It was hard on all of us, but certainly the worst for Mother.” She was silent a moment. “Even after everything though, I do think that coming here has not been all bad. I have learned so much, about the world… about myself. We have met so many interesting people, have we not?”

  Dixon tried to hide a reluctant smile at the touch of irony in Margaret’s voice. “Do you mean like that weaver fellow with the muddy boots? Oh, he’s an interesting one, and that’s a fact. He asked me last week for four tarts- one for each meal of the day, and another for a midnight treat!”

  Margaret chuckled. “He was teasing you, Dixon. It was a compliment!”

  “Hmmf. He’ll get no more of my cooking, I’ll promise you!”

  “Yes, he will. I will sneak my own desserts to Mary when you turn your back.”

  Dixon gave a warning glare. “Not in my kitchen, Miss. I’ll not let you waste away to nothing, you’re skin and bones as it is!”

  “I am quite strong, and you know it,” Margaret asserted.

  “Strong as a scullery maid,” Dixon frowned. “I just don’t think it’s fittin’, Miss. You oughtn’t be carryin’ coal buckets and water kettles about. You’re a lady! If you were in London….”

  “But I am not in London, nor do I wish to be,” Margaret cut in.

  “... you could catch as fine a husband as any, and be treated proper like a lady,” Dixon finished stoutly.

  “I spent time enough in London, and never saw anything there that I could not live without,” Margaret answered with a saucy lilt, then her face softened. “I do miss Edith, though. They are set to return from Corfu within the month, did you hear? And they have a little boy now. Oh, I do wish I could see him!”

  “You ought to go, Miss.”

  Margaret shook her head. “I cannot leave Father.” She sighed nostalgically, her eyes on the fading light outside the window. “I wish… but Edith would not come here, and Father will not go.”

  “No reason she can’t come here, she travels everywhere else,” Dixon muttered, the bitterness returning to her tones. “She’s got a fine husband to see her here, and she could come lay flowers on her aunt’s stone. She ought to bring that mother of hers- high time she paid a visit.”

  “Dixon,” Margaret warned, “I must not have you speak so of my Aunt Shaw.”

  Dixon simply stared, her plump lips drawn into a sulky pout.

  Margaret sighed. “You are right in a way, I suppose. But we must not judge her too harshly, you know. It is all so foreign to her. Milton would terrify her, with the factory noise and the workers flooding the streets at odd hours. And where would we put her? She would not know what to do with herself when Father receives his pupils. No, I am not certain I wish my aunt to come.”

  A slow smile spread over Dixon’s face as she silently imagined Mrs Shaw having her toes tread upon by a clumsy pair of muddy boots in the Hales’ drawing room. With a shrug, she gave up the fantasy. Higgins would not come near the house if he knew such a woman were in residence.

  More likely was the possibility of the London matron clashing cultures with the likes of Mr Thornton. How she might like to be a fly on the wall for such a meeting! He would not back down from Mrs Shaw, that was certain. That fellow had a mysterious way of swaying others to his manner of thinking- after a fashion. He took some getting used to, and as Dixon still had not quite achieved that feat, surely Mrs Shaw would take even longer. Oh, how she wished she could see that man set down the proud sister of her beloved Miss Beresford!

  Margaret could not quite interpret Dixon’s strange little smile, but she was glad to see it nonetheless. She patted her mother’s maid on her beefy forearm. “Come, let us see what we can do about that stained and dented old kettle, shall we?

  ~

  Thornton was deep in thought when he made his way to the dining room that evening. A myriad of ideas swir
led through his mind- some mortifying, some inspiring. He had made so many mistakes, but there seemed yet reason to continue on. So engrossed was he that he was taken utterly by surprise when he discovered the guest in his dining room.

  “Oh, John, there you are!” Fanny cried, bounding from her seat. “Genevieve came to see my new gown. Just look, is it not simply exquisite?” Fanny tugged at the voluminous blue skirt of a gown draped over the dining room table. Genevieve Hamilton rose to stand beside her.

  Thornton gazed blankly at the satin frills. His mother, still seated just to his left, was rolling her eyes and drumming her fingers.

  “Oh, see, Gen, I told you he would not even notice!” Fanny complained. She struck a petulant expression and began stuffing the lavish gown rather carelessly back into its box.

  Thornton shook his head and cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Miss Hamilton,” he bent slightly forward in greeting. “It is good of you to call.”

  Genevieve smiled boldly. “I was only too happy to receive Fanny’s note. I know she was very much hoping this gown could be completed in time.”

  He narrowed his eyes in some puzzlement.

  “Mr Thornton, you are coming to dinner next Monday, are you not?”

  “Oh! Of course, Miss Hamilton. I am afraid you had me at a disadvantage just now- my mind was elsewhere. I beg you would overlook my poor manners.”

  “Think nothing of it, sir,” she assured him smoothly. “You are a man of many cares, I am certain. Surely, one such as yourself could not be expected to have such matters at the fore of his thoughts. What interest can feminine adornments and frivolous parties hold for a man of business?”

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “A great deal of interest, if he be a man of any wits, Miss Hamilton. I assure you, I am looking forward to the evening with the greatest anticipation.”

  Genevieve looked well pleased with his sideways compliment. “As am I, Mr Thornton. Good evening, sir.” She dipped him a full, deliberate curtsey as she took her leave.