Northern Rain

by Nicole Clarkston

  Shocked at her own unbidden thoughts, she lingered with Mary far longer than was necessary. You are supposed to be a lady! she scolded herself. What immodest ideas would occur to her next? She bit her lip in vicious self-chastisement and drew near to Nicholas at last with a serving tray.

  He looked up from his seat, a suspicious twinkle in his eye. “Nay, Lass, yo’ dursn’ serve me. Set, Miss Marg’et, yo’re a guest!”

  “It pleases me, Nicholas,” she smiled and pressed a little saucer of tart and cream upon him.

  She came to Thornton next, who had just shuffled both children off his lap in anticipation of her offering. She lifted the tray slightly, and softly- very softly- spoke. “John?”

  His clear blue eyes, shining in delight, met hers. He held her gaze for a second before he accepted, assuring himself that she sensed his pleasure and gratitude. “Thank you, Margaret,” he murmured quietly.

  A giddy tickle raced through Margaret’s core and she turned quickly to the children before she could embarrass herself further. What had come over her? She could only hope that Nicholas Higgins was either less astute or more prudent than she had previously given him credit for. Had they been in any other company, her moonstruck behaviour would have fueled the local gossip for weeks.

  The visitors did not stay long after. The family offered to share their entire meal, of course, but neither party would dream of imposing further. Margaret found herself tangled among the four smaller children as she made her farewells to Mary, while Nicholas and John lingered near the door with the two older children in anxious attendance.

  “Master,” Higgins stroked Daniel’s fair head fondly, “‘t’were righ’ decent o’ yo’ to come see the childer. They were ‘opin’ yo’d be back for a visit.”

  “I shall come as often as I can,” Thornton promised. “It is a pleasure, I assure you. Higgins,” he hesitated, then looked the other firmly in the eye, extending his hand, “you have done right. My respects.”

  A slow smile tugged the old weaver’s bristling cheeks as he took his employer’s hand. “Thank yo’, Master.” With a sly peek across the room to where Margaret was still trying to disengage herself, he leaned close in a whisper. “Tha’s a fair lady, Master, and no mistake. Yo’re a lucky man, sir.”

  Thornton’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips. He held up a single finger in a mute plea for silence as Margaret at last made her way to them.

  “Miss Hale?” he extended his elbow as she came near. “May I see you home?”

  Margaret smiled bashfully and took his arm. She then looked beyond him, through the door, and her smile faded. “Oh, dear. It is raining terribly!”

  “Which is why, Miss Hale, I offered to see you home. I see that once again you thought to bring an umbrella, while I did not.” He winked toward Higgins.

  Margaret surveyed him with mock indignation. “I was under the impression, Mr Thornton, that it was for the gentleman to make such provisions!”

  “How fortunate for me, then, that I am not a proper gentleman. My lack of foresight seems to have served me well thus far. Shall we?” He drew out Mr Hale’s old umbrella and popped it open outside the door for emphasis.

  Higgins was laughing heartily as he bid Margaret his farewell. “‘Least ‘tis a short walk, Lass!” he chuckled as the pair set out. He closed the door and looked to his daughter. “Well, my girl, tha’s a man wha’s a fair sight ‘appier than I’ve e’er known.”

  Mary frowned at her father. “I don’ understand, Da’.”

  Higgins groaned in relief as he sank into his chair and began to pull off his boots. “A man’s ‘eart wants the touch of a woman, that’s a’, Lass.”

  Mary tilted her head quizzically. “Yo’ think Master’s soft for Miss Marg’et?”

  He sighed contentedly. “Girl, a’ I know is th’ould bulldog’s been gen’led.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  John and Margaret had huddled under their shared umbrella, he offering his broad shoulder as additional shelter against the weather. The lingering noise of the street and the falling rain made conversation difficult, but neither felt discontented. Their recent encounters had bred a familiarity between them which dispelled nearly all of their former discomfort.

  Margaret’s confidence in him had tottered, wavered and then begun to flourish after he had learned the truth behind her actions concerning Frederick. He could have shamed her, as she had herself, but instead he had extended grace and gentle understanding. Within his unpolished exterior dwelt a man in whom she could trust. She smiled down at the ground as she walked, and unconsciously tightened her arm through his.

  John’s mouth pulled into a satisfied expression. Heaven help him, but his vaunted patience was unraveling. She cared for him, he was certain of it! If only he felt right about falling on his knees the very moment they had gained the shelter of her door! Alas, he owed her a future, and he could not ask her to share in his fears and trials just yet. He wished to give her joy, not trouble.

  And speaking of trouble… he glanced about, wondering if their closeness had attracted anyone’s attention. Eyes turned their direction through a few street side windows, but perhaps fortunately for them, it was dark and all of the shops along their way had already closed. Any onlookers, he assured himself, would only notice a gentleman assisting a lady in hurrying to escape the rain. It is likely that he underestimated the novelty of himself, the famed bachelor of Marlborough Mills, giving his arm to a pretty young woman in that part of town.

  Only a few moments later they blew with a strong gust of wind through the Hales’ door. Mr Hale, who happened to have just been descending the stairs, peered at them in surprise. “John? Margaret?” He made his slow, careful way to the front door where the two stood breathless and dripping.

  Margaret was laughing as she tried- with John’s help- to shed her wet cloak without soaking her dress beneath. “Good evening, Father!” she greeted him with unusual cheer.

  Thornton extended his hand. “Good evening, Mr Hale. I had the very great pleasure this evening of encountering Miss Hale at the Higgins’ home.”

  “Oh! Are they well, Margaret?” Mr Hale looked curiously to his daughter.

  “Yes, Father, very well. I was about to ask Mr Thornton to stay for tea- or at least to dry off a little.” She came to him, smiling, and clearly asking with her eyes that he might second the invitation.

  Mr Hale turned in mild bewilderment to his favourite pupil. “Why, of course, John, you must stay a while.”

  “Sir, I would quite understand if you are feeling poorly. I do not wish to impose,” Thornton offered, but the hope in his eyes was evident.

  “No! No, you must stay. I am feeling much better. I think I must thank you, John, for encouraging me to see Dr Donaldson. Come, I was about to enjoy the drawing room fire.”

  The two men adjourned to the fire, but Margaret separated herself to summon Dixon. Thornton looked back questioningly as she left them, but she glanced over her shoulder with sweet assurance in her eyes.

  “John,” Mr Hale eased himself into a cushioned chair before his fire. “I must thank you for seeing Margaret safely home once more. I worry for her when it has grown dark, or when the weather is so trying.”

  Thornton chose a seat opposite him. “It was my pleasure, Mr Hale, but Miss Hale is a very capable young lady. You need not worry for her.”

  Hale smiled softly. “She is. She is very much like…” he sighed, his voice trailing off, then suddenly fixed his eyes more firmly upon his guest. “Margaret tells me that she spoke to you of my son. I wish you could have known him, John.”

  “As do I. I believe I would hold him in the very highest regard.”

  An inarticulate noise escaped the old man. He nodded, his eyes faraway and misty. “You are of a kind, John. Frederick is a man of duty and responsibility, much like you.”

  Thornton leaned forward, lacing his hands together and resting t
hem upon his knees. “So I gather. I must respect a man who can make such a hard choice, weighing the welfare of others against his own good.”

  The weathered flesh around Hale’s eyes softened sadly and he began to blink. For a moment, Thornton feared that his friend would crumble into grief once more, but Hale only gave a trembling sigh. After a moment, he changed the subject. “How are things at the mill, John?”

  The happiness which had been his for the past couple of hours withered away. It had been a pleasant dream to push aside his worries for a time, but now the black cloud descended once more. His face fell visibly. “They could be better,” he confessed.

  “Oh?” Hale’s brow puckered. “I had a letter from Mr Bell today. He spoke of you.”

  “Of me? I have not heard from him in some weeks. Is he concerned for the stability of the mill?”

  “Not specifically. It seems that Mr Hamilton had written him as part of his investigation into the mill’s financial prospects, wishing to discover if it were a sound investment. They are old associates, you understand. Bell did not give him very much information to that regard, I do not believe,” he hurried to say. “He would not have spoken a word against you, John.”

  “I doubt he could have said anything which Hamilton did not already know.” Thornton’s jaw set in frustration. There was nothing he could do about Hamilton now.

  Mr Hale covered his mouth uncomfortably with his hand. “No doubt,” he mumbled beneath his fingers. “I hope you have been able to work something out with Mr Hamilton. He could offer you much assistance, could he not?”

  Thornton sighed. “If he desired it, but I do not think we will be able to reach an understanding.”

  Hale was silent a moment, his gaze for once penetrating rather than vague. Truly, he was one of only a handful of individuals who could question Thornton so boldly, and he did not take that regard lightly. At last, he suggested, “Will not the mill suffer- and by extension, the workers- if you do not attract new investors?”

  “Yes,” was the simple admission.

  Hale lapsed into commiserating quiet. “I trust,” he murmured after a few moments, “that you will do what is right, John.”

  Thornton’s eyes rose from the floor back to his mentor. “I would not see others suffer for my decisions, if I can at all help it. It is,” he smiled, recalling a conversation at a long-ago Master’s dinner, “the Christian thing to do, my friend.”

  Hale’s face split into a broad smile at the memory. Such a long road they two had walked in just over a year! “As well as a sound business practice, John,” Hale returned.

  They were still chuckling lightly from this exchange when Margaret reappeared with Dixon in tow and a tray of hot coffee. She came to John first, pouring him a cup and offering it. “I thought this might warm you better for your walk.”

  “Thank you, Margaret. This is very much appreciated.” He smiled up at her with his eyes as he blew the steam from his cup.

  Margaret darted a quick glance to her father, whose face reflected speechless surprise. She looked back to Thornton in some concern, but his reassuring little wink, shielded from her father’s view by the coffee pot she still held, lent her courage. She took a deep breath. “You are welcome, John. Father?”

  She turned and poured a hot cup for him as well, then gave the pot to Dixon to serve the sugar and cream. So stunned was Mr Hale that he only gaped in awe when his daughter drew near. Margaret waited for him to reach for her own fingers to serve himself the sugar, as he often did, but she was obliged at last to simply drop two lumps into his cup herself.

  She returned the coffee things to the tray, then took a cup for herself before Dixon returned it all to the kitchen. She chose a seat strategically placed at equal distances between the two men and stirred her coffee in nervous silence. Her father was glancing back and forth between them, his coffee largely ignored.

  John certainly noticed Mr Hale’s sudden reticence, but chose to let it pass without comment. Mr Hale was not a man to be set at his ease by bluntly approaching matters. He opted for small-talk instead, which was wholly out of character for him, but might settle his friend. “This is a very fine blend,” he noted to Margaret, lifting his cup fractionally. “I should find out where you acquired it.”

  “Oh, yes,” she roused in relief. “Dixon was dissatisfied with the shop she used to purchase from. I believe she obtained this from a place called Willards, though I cannot think where it might be.”

  “I know the place. It is just next to the tobacconist’s,” he replied carelessly. “I was there only last week.”

  Margaret replaced her cup with the barest clink upon the saucer. Narrowing her eyes, she pinned the oblivious Thornton with a searching gaze. “I thought it was a gift to you, and you did not smoke, sir.”

  She had arrested him in the midst of enjoying another sip of his coffee. His dark brows lifted above his cup and he caught himself just before he spilled the hot liquid in surprise. Lowering it again, he cleared his throat. “So I do not. I am afraid you have found me out, Margaret.”

  Margaret quickly hid her guilty smile behind her own cup. So, he had fabricated an excuse to see her! Her eyes sparkled in pleasure and amusement as she peered at him over the rim. If he were embarrassed at her discovery of his ruse, he gave no indication. Rather, he seemed delighted with their private joke.

  Mr Hale’s brow clouded with the deepening mystery played out before him. “Tobacco?” he wondered aloud. “Oh, you must be speaking of last week! John, do forgive me, I believe I forgot to thank you for the gift you brought by. It was very thoughtful of you, and I do apologize for not sending a note.”

  “Think nothing of it, sir. I am only glad to see you recovering your strength once more, and so quickly, too! It is nothing short of remarkable.”

  “Margaret takes excellent care of me,” the father smiled fondly at his daughter.

  “Indeed, she does,” Thornton agreed. “You are most blessed, Mr Hale.”

  Margaret glanced self-consciously between the affectionate gazes leveled in her direction. It would have been warming, even exhilarating if he were to look at her so tenderly with no one else about. Her imagination flourished suddenly with visions of the intimate encounter which might soon follow such a look… but with her father present! She cast her eyes to the floor, lashes lowered over her rosy cheeks.

  John was the first to sense her discomfort. He set his cup aside, catching her eye with the movement and tipping his head in quiet contrition. “You must forgive me; I am afraid I have stayed too long. My mother will be wondering what has become of me.”

  “But John, you must wait yet a little while,” Mr Hale objected. “It is still raining rather hard, but it cannot last much longer, I think.”

  “It is only a good stout Milton storm,” John laughed lightly, rising from his seat. “I have been out in many such, Mr Hale. Fear not, I shall be home before the downpour has even thought about lightening.” His host and hostess rose with him, and both followed him toward the door.

  He donned his coat, which was still far from dried, and shook hands with Mr Hale. “Good evening, sir. I expect I will see you at service on Sunday.”

  “Good night, John, and do take care. I should hate to see you fall ill!” Mr Hale admonished.

  “I shall, sir.” He turned to Margaret, who came softly near with their family umbrella in one hand and his gloves in the other. “You must not forget these,” she smiled playfully.

  He laughed outright. “Would that I could! They seem to follow me.” He clapped the borrowed umbrella beneath his arm. With one hand he accepted the gloves, and with the other he took hers. “Good evening, Margaret.”

  After he had gone, Mr Hale stared in mute amazement at his daughter. She tensed. The light-hearted, flirtatious friendship she had so recently struck up with John Thornton gave her every cause for pleasure, but she knew not how to explain it to her father. She, who had once so roundly abused the virtues
of this industrial titan of a man, now could think of nothing more pleasant than many more hours in his company.

  She winced inwardly, knowing the conversation which had to follow. It would do her little good to hide in the kitchen with Dixon this evening- it would only cost them both a restful night’s sleep. “Come, Father,” she offered. “We should enjoy that lovely fire while it lasts.”

  ~

  “I am pleased that you and John seem to be on better terms these days.” Mr Hale drew his chair nearer to the fire, turning a little away from Margaret as he did so. Margaret knew this gesture well- it was a sure sign of an impending serious discussion.

  She took a seat nearby, nibbling her lip. “I think him a fine man, Father. I am sorry that it took me so long to appreciate his qualities.”

  “I am glad you have done so now; he is a good man. I think very highly of him. I was surprised, though, that you are so suddenly on first-name terms with him!”

  She arched her neck, perhaps a little too proudly. “But I speak familiarly with Nicholas, and some of Edith’s friends- Henry, for example.”

  Her father tilted his head to look directly at her. “We speak so with Nicholas because he is uncomfortable with formality. As for that Henry Lennox fellow… I have wondered once or twice if his intentions were only friendly.”

  Margaret lapsed into convicted silence, confirming her father’s suspicions. Mr Hale’s forehead knit thoughtfully as he returned his gaze to the fire.

  “Margaret, did I tell you that I received a letter from Mr Bell today?”

  She looked up, relieved at the change in subject. “No! Oh, how is he? I think of him so often!”

  “He has suffered from some sort of complaint. I had hoped he would come to us this winter, but he does not desire to travel in the cold weather. I was just telling John,” he touched his fingers nervously to his lips as though he wished he could toy with a pipe, “Bell said that Mr Hamilton had inquired of him regarding Marlborough Mills.”