Northern Rain

by Nicole Clarkston

  Margaret watched him with apprehension, uncertain of his thoughts. Thornton was a magistrate, after all! Fearfully she sought to defend her dear brother. “Fred is innocent! You must believe me, he tried to save the crew when the captain went mad! It is not Frederick’s fault. He only did what he thought was right!”

  Thornton found his voice at last. “I… I believe you.” She raised a dubious brow. “I do believe you,” he repeated more firmly. “I think that any son raised by your father could not be otherwise than purely noble.”

  Margaret stared at her tea cup, biting her lip. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “I think,” he touched her shoulder, causing her to look him in the eye, “that your father ought to be seen by Dr Donaldson.”

  “I have been saying that as well, but he refuses,” she shrugged helplessly.

  “He will not refuse me,” he assured her. “Come, I would see you rest yourself while I go for the doctor. Your woman Dixon can….”

  “Dixon is ill!” she interrupted. “She has not roused for hours, which for Dixon is grave indeed.”

  He leveled a careful expression at her for a moment. “I see. I suggest, then, that you take…”

  She was shaking her head determinedly. He sighed, knowing he had no power to insist that she lie down. “At least do not attempt the last of the broken china. I would not have you cut yourself. That is my fault and I will attend to it when I return.”

  Margaret’s thoughts were far from the shards on the floor. “Can we trust Dr Donaldson? If Father is really as bad off as you say- why, he has been delusional so often of late! What if he speaks of Frederick again? It would kill him if he were to learn what he has said!”

  “I have known Donaldson since I was a boy. I have only to explain that your father lost a son long years ago and occasionally thinks him still present. Donaldson is a discreet fellow. He was very wise and gentle when….” He stopped, thinning his lips.

  “When you lost your own father?” she guessed.

  He drew a long breath. “Donaldson shielded my mother. There is much that she will never know, and I prefer it that way. Yes, Miss Hale, we can have confidence in Donaldson.”

  She nodded. “Please bring him if you can.”

  ~

  “Well, Miss Hale,” Donaldson tugged the spectacles from his face and began to put them away. “It is a good thing you sent for me.”

  Margaret’s eyes darted to Thornton, just behind the doctor, hoping his more familiar face might yield some clues about the doctor’s findings. “My father will recover, will he not?”

  “In a manner of speaking, Miss Hale. He has been growing steadily more frail of late, has he not? Short of breath and confused, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Yes, that is true,” she admitted.

  “I thought as much. I believe his heart is weak. The blood is not traveling well to his head or his lungs, Miss Hale. I suspect that, combined with his recent emotional distress, could account for the delusions you say he experiences from time to time. I do not have a cure, I am sorry to say, but I have left a compound which should help. I have seen it prolong lives some years. Without it,” he admonished, “he would not be with us by the summer, so take care that he receives the correct dosage every day.”

  She nodded vigourously. “I will see to it myself, Doctor!”

  “There’s a good lass, I knew you would.” The doctor smiled kindly.

  “Is there anything else I can do for him?” she asked anxiously.

  “Oh, yes, keep him well rested. Light walks once or twice a week should not trouble him, but no more, Miss Hale. He should wait a couple of weeks, at least, before resuming his public lectures. Also, some of that excellent bone broth your woman Dixon makes might do wonders for his blood.”

  Margaret smiled. “Dixon will be pleased to hear it. Thank you, Doctor.” She bent her head to peer into a purse she had already collected. “How much….”

  “Oh, no, please! It is nothing, Miss Hale,” Donaldson waved his hands as he slid into his coat.

  Margaret shot a suspicious gaze to Thornton, but he shook his head innocently.

  “Think of it,” Donaldson insisted, “as my way of honouring your late mother. I could do so little for her, and it pleases me that I can do something for your father. Take care of him, Miss Hale. I will return next week to check in on him.” Donaldson collected his hat and saw himself out.

  “Well!” she huffed in surprise at his departure.

  Thornton grinned. “That was always the way with Donaldson. Don’t worry, Miss Hale, we will see to it that he is adequately recompensed for his trouble.”

  She shook her head in wonder. “I do not like being indebted to anyone.” She then turned her eyes up to him. “I find myself once again in your debt as well.”

  “Not at all, Miss Hale. My motives were purely selfish. Your father is very dear to me.”

  “Of course.” A sceptical smile played at her mouth. “Thank you, Mr Thornton, I could not have persuaded him to- what are you doing?”

  “Taking off my coat,” he answered reasonably, draping that article over a chair back. He began to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt sleeves to roll them up.

  She narrowed her eyes, mystified. “I can see that, but for what purpose?”

  “Well, you do not expect me to wash up dressed like that, do you? Come, I see that you have already cleaned up the mess that I was responsible for, so it is only right that I should return the favour.”

  “Wash up? What are you- you cannot go into the kitchen!” she cried in dismay, following his determined strides.

  “You think I do not know my way around a kitchen?” he teased over his shoulder. “I am a very good cook, Miss Hale, as long as you only care for porridge.”

  “Yes, but this is not your-”

  Thornton pushed the swinging door aside, cutting off her objection. “Now, let me see- ah, yes, the kettle, I remember,” he muttered to himself, rather ignoring Margaret’s affronted pleas. He lifted the heavy kettle and poured the hot water into a basin. “You must dry, Miss Hale, for I do not know where everything goes once it is clean.”

  “Mr Thornton, this is quite out of line!” Margaret cried.

  He made a face into his basin as he reached for the cake of soap. “‘Mr Thornton’ sounds so formal for a kitchen. I have taken off my coat! You must call me John.”

  “Mr Thornton,” she repeated in baffled annoyance, “let us be done with this foolishness! I cannot allow you to work in my house like-”

  “Like you do?” he shot over his shoulder with a probing gaze.

  The words died in her throat. Her face went ashen. “How did you know?” she whispered in abject mortification.

  He turned and crossed the room in one long stride. He took her hand in both of his own and spread her palm before her face. “Here,” he murmured gently, touching his fingers over the hardened ridges of her hand. “And here,” he turned her hand over, brushing across the firm muscle above her thumb.

  Margaret snatched her hand back and stared at the offending appendage in betrayal and angst. She swallowed her hurt and snapped, “I might say it is most ungentlemanly of you to mention it!”

  He sighed, smiling, and took her hand back. “I do not think the less of you, you must understand. On the contrary, it shows your true character. It proves you are not afraid to do what must be done. This,” he squeezed her hand gently, testing her strength, “is a badge of honour. It is evidence of your courage and your fortitude. You have learned resourcefulness and your own ability, and the value of honest labour. Not one in a hundred ladies will ever discover what you already know, Miss Hale.”

  “I…” the word came out garbled. His fingers, tracing so intimately over the lines of her palm, wrought havoc with her ability to speak. Gamely she tried again. “I only help. It is nothing so very remarkable,” she mumbled. For a second she thought of reclaiming her hand, but his touch was… distracting
ly pleasant.

  “That is your natural modesty speaking. I think I know exactly how much you do. You are the glue which holds this household together.” He gazed long into her eyes, searching to discover if she believed his words.

  Margaret gazed back in stunned silence. She tugged softly and he allowed her hand to slip from his grasp. She brushed it self-consciously over her skirts, recollecting that she had earlier donned one of her nicer dresses. She ought not to ruin this one. Her brow furrowed in thought, she turned from him to pluck an apron down from its hook.

  Looping it over her head, she reached behind herself to tie it, but her nervous fingers fumbled. Without a word, Thornton stepped behind her and, taking the ties from her hands, knotted them himself. Her breath came quick and ragged as a pit of awareness tingled through her core. She turned again to look curiously up at him for a moment.

  “The china is not going to wash itself,” he winked with a sly smile.

  She let out a small laugh, relenting. “Very well, Mr Thornton. I would welcome your help.”

  “John, or I will not help you,” he grinned recklessly.

  Margaret blushed deeply, fighting a smile. “John, then.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Do you not need to return to the mill?” Margaret wondered aloud. The soiled cooking implements and the last of the china which had remained unbroken were already dried and put away. The labour had been undertaken with such efficiency that she scarcely remembered the task. Thornton- or rather John, as she had agreed to call him- was now turning over Dixon’s stained old water kettle in his hands.

  “It is a little late now.” He drew a pocket watch from his slightly damp waistcoat and flicked it open before her eyes.

  Her brows rose. “I had no idea! I am sorry to have taken so much of your time today.”

  “It was time well spent, I assure you,” he smiled. Gingerly he closed the face of the watch.

  “It is very fine,” Margaret nodded toward the timepiece. “Is it quite old?”

  “Over sixty years, I believe. The latch here is very fragile.” He held it up for her to indicate the place. “It was my father’s. Mother would not hear of selling it, even when times were at their worst. She wanted me to have just this one thing of his.”

  Margaret’s eyes lingered on the watch as he returned it to his pocket. “Your mother is very noble,” she replied softly.

  He nodded, resuming his inspection of the kettle. “She is, Miss… please, may I call you Margaret? We are friends now, are we not?”

  A shy smile broke forth on Margaret’s face. Blushing again, she dipped her head in acceptance.

  Beaming his pleasure, he looked back to the bit of cookery in his hands. “Yes, Margaret,” he savoured the name as it rolled off his tongue, “my mother is a remarkable woman. She had much to bear, and she weathered all with dignity. I only regret that she has yet to truly find joy once more. I have tried all I know. Perhaps it is too late for that,” he sighed. “I think, Margaret, I can pound the dent out of this edge here without compromising the copper. How ever did that get there?”

  “You are changing the subject,” she observed with a lifted brow.

  “What more is there to say? My mother is a proud woman. One does not always know what is on her heart.”

  “Surely she must have been merrier when you were young, from the way you speak of her. What did she find delight in then?”

  He smiled, reminiscing, and looked up to her with a boyish expression. “Me, mostly. I am sure there were other things; I am not quite vain enough to think I was the centre of her universe, but all I remember is a devoted mother. Whatever was to my benefit or enjoyment, that is what she pursued.”

  He set the kettle down and looked thoughtfully up to the ceiling. “I know she cared for my father in the same way. Everything was done to secure his happiness- but we cannot depend on another to create our happiness, can we, Margaret? We have to seek it ourselves.”

  “Do you think,” Margaret probed gently, “that she felt… betrayed? That he had flung away her love- that all of her care and worry were for naught?”

  He pursed his lips and looked quizzically to her. “I had never thought of it quite so. Why, you may be right! I suppose that is my weakness as a man, that I do not see matters in the same way a woman might.”

  Margaret laughed lightly. “I might say I suffer from the same weakness! Frederick, for instance- I never understood that wanderlust which drove him from home. It did not make sense to me that he was so restless and could not wait to join the navy to seek adventure. Mother could never fathom it either.”

  John shrugged. “Every man feels driven to make his mark upon the world. It makes perfect sense. I do not see what you do not understand.” His words were spoken distractedly as he poked about the kitchen in search of the right implements to repair the kettle.

  Margaret shook her head and spread her hands. “There, do you see? Perhaps the sexes are fated to never come to a right understanding.”

  “I do not think that must of necessity be true. Half a moment-” He disappeared behind an old shelf dividing the kitchen from a utility nook which they had virtually ignored during their residence in the house. Margaret heard him clattering and rummaging among the various items he found there.

  A moment later he returned to where she stood with a rusted hand iron and a small, nearly worthless hammer from the previous tenant’s cache of forsaken tools. “Pardon me. I was just thinking that where there are intelligent individuals committed to open communication, there cannot help but be an improvement in understanding. Do you not think so, Margaret?”

  Something in his tone caused her to flush. He locked eyes with her, a curve tipping just the corner of his mouth. Heavens, but he looked so temptingly alluring standing there, smiling at her in his shirtsleeves! Margaret’s pulse was skittering. If he continued in this friendly, easy way, she felt certain that her heart was in very great danger- if it were not already wholly compromised.

  “I…” she shook her head slightly to clear it. Where had all of her reason gone? “I think it possible, sir- John. I think, however, it is rather difficult to manage such free and open discourse between unrelated people without some breach of propriety.” She gulped. Whatever had made her say that?

  “Why?” he tipped his head in genuine confusion.

  “Well, it is hardly the thing for a gentleman to go about behind closed doors with a lady in the kitchen! People would talk, you know.”

  He dismissed it with a shake of his head, seating himself on Dixon’s stool with the kettle. “In my experience, people will talk even if there is nothing to talk about. Not that one ought to behave with deliberate impropriety, but I do not intend to live my life in fear of the gossips.”

  “Nor do I!” she rejoined eagerly, “but a reputation can be a delicate thing, particularly for a lady.”

  He squinted and looked up at her seriously. “Margaret, would you prefer that I had not stayed? I do not wish to cause you any difficulties. I only thought to be a friend.”

  She pressed her lips together, her forehead creased in thought. “No… no, I am grateful that you remained, whatever anyone says. You have been a very kind friend, and… and I am glad of your company.”

  His teeth flashed brilliantly in the dingy little kitchen as he shone back the most stunning smile she had ever seen on his face. “Good,” he answered simply. He bent his head over the kettle again to hide the triumphant gleam in his eye.

  They were quiet some minutes as he manipulated the hammer and iron, banging and tapping expertly on the kettle. Margaret watched his able hands in fascination. She never would have expected him to know of such things, but the dent gradually vanished beneath his practiced fingers. At one point he stopped to rub his fingertips over the finished edge. Margaret would have thought the task complete, but he was not yet satisfied. With a few more taps, the edge of the kettle looked almost new to her eyes.

 
“There,” he grinned, passing it to her for her inspection. “It is not perfect, but somewhat improved. It would be far better had I a forge here, but it should at least rest evenly on the stove once more.”

  “It is- why this is remarkable!” she enthused. “How did you learn to do this?”

  “When I first started at the mill it was under old Simmons, a former associate of my father’s. He took me under his wing, taught me all he knew. He insisted that I learn every single moving part in the entire building, and how to repair it. I am no master mechanic or smith by any means, but his teaching has proven useful once or twice,” he smiled modestly.

  She set the kettle back in its place, still admiring its newly clean and stable edge. “I do not know how to thank you for all that you have done today,” she spoke earnestly as she turned back to him.

  “Do you not?” He cocked a sly eyebrow as he set the tools aside.

  Margaret’s being quivered. She had not meant… he could not be suggesting…! Her eyes grew wide. “What did you have in mind?” she asked nervously as he drew close, his face only inches from hers. Did he mean to kiss her? Did she even want to refuse, as she knew she must? Her stomach fluttered wildly.

  He lowered his mouth near her ear, his tone dropped to a whisper. “I want to hear you play the piano one day. I would lay good money that you are better than you claim.”

  She broke into a relieved laugh as he drew back. “Is that all! You had me terrified! How fortunate for me that I no longer own an instrument.”

  “I do,” he crossed his arms smugly and leaned against the countertop. “Someday, Margaret. You must sing as well, for a strong, clear voice such as yours would be a treat to listen to. And do not forget either, for I may be patient, but I always collect on a debt.”

  “You will have to be very patient, I expect.”

  “Naturally. At the moment, however, what I am is very hungry. That stew you have had simmering has been driving me mad this past hour.”

  “Oh! I am sorry!” Her face reddening, she flew to get him a bowl, then ladled it full of the hot food. She filled one for herself as well, and as one, they found seats at the rude kitchen table. As an afterthought, she leapt up and returned again with a basket full of rolls.