Northern Rain

by Nicole Clarkston

  “I see.” She absently fingered the cravat at his throat, unknowingly triggering a contented, blissful expression to spread over his face. Ah, if she only knew how her gentle ministrations affected him! If she thought to frame up some argument to sway him from his course, the work of her fingers would sabotage her efforts. Had he the means, he would have consigned the mill away in that instant, all the sooner to start over elsewhere and make her his wife!

  Before he could thoroughly melt to a puddle at her feet, she spoke again. “So what do you plan to do?”

  He cleared his throat, hoping his voice did not crack. “Go on as before, for now. I believe it may be time, however, to start putting out word about the mill in the right circles. I do not expect to find a buyer right away, but the possibility of owning the business outright may be a more attractive option to someone than merely investing in my enterprise.”

  She took his face in her hands and steadily held his gaze. “John, you must do as you know is right, but are you certain? You will not feel regret, or… or shame? I would be sorry to see you burdened by such pain.”

  Taking advantage of the intimate posture in which she had placed them, he tipped forward to kiss her shapely lips. “Who has sent me my lot in life, for good or for evil? No, Love, I was not prideful in success; I shall not be ashamed in failure. I ask only that you speak to me the good, simple words of truth such as my mother did when I was young. Let me not despair of the wasted opportunities of my youth, but gladden my heart with your faith and loyalty. Stand at my side, and I shall be the most blessed of men.”

  “That I will do, John,” she promised, and bent forward to seal her troth with a more tangible sign of her sincerity.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Miss Marg’et, Miss Marg’et!”

  The panic-stricken voice of Mary carried to the back corner of the Hale’s residence, where Margaret was looking over the household ledgers with Dixon. Martha had let the girl in, and the poor lass staggered to the kitchen with a flood of incoherent cries tumbling from her.

  Margaret rose, alarmed at the wild pitch in soft-spoken Mary’s tones. “Mary! Whatever is the matter?”

  “’Tis the mill, Miss! An explosion!” the girl sobbed.

  Margaret grasped the back of her chair for support. “An explosion! Where, Mary?”

  “I dinna’, Miss. The boiler, methinks. There’s a part o’ the wall gone!” Mary sagged against the door jamb, her light body heaving in her exertion and distress.

  “The wall gone! Mary, is anyone hurt?”

  Mary nodded, her breath coming in painful gasps. “The master, Miss.”

  “Lass!” Dixon cried in horror, for Margaret had crumpled to the floor at her feet. The stouthearted old maid bent her ponderous form to her girl, trying to drag her upright once more. Margaret, weak and helpless in her shock, was both numb and blind to the woman’s assistance.

  “John!” she rasped, her eyes unseeing before her. “Oh, dear God, not John!” Her throat stung and great torrents of moisture rushed to her eyes. She trembled uncontrollably, her heart convulsing. She had to know the worst, even if….

  “Mary,” she whispered hoarsely, “is he… oh, please tell me he is not dead!”

  “I dinna’, Miss, but ‘e were bad ‘urt. Me da’ were there, but ‘e’s mindin’ the workers.”

  “Then I must go!” Margaret darted to her feet, desperate hope making her insensible to Dixon’s protests for her dignity or Mary’s objections for her safety. John might even now be languishing near death, and if she could not see him once more- it was too dreadful to be thought of! Dixon’s brusque calls for reason went unheeded as Margaret flew to her cloak and hat.

  This far from the mill, the traffic on the street proceeded at its normal, stately pace. Nothing in the Crampton neighborhood seemed yet disturbed by the knowledge that the man she loved might be in mortal peril. She fumed in impotent agitation as various coaches and walkers crossed her path, detaining her in her great haste.

  After several minutes of walking had cooled her first rush of impetuosity, she began to wonder if perhaps Mary had been mistaken. Surely all of the city would be in upheaval if such a dreadful thing had truly occurred. It could not be that the rest of the world could proceed in its mundane, well-ordered ways if her own world were on the verge of collapse!

  Only a short distance further on, the cold fear crept round her throat once more. A team of fire horses were making the leisurely return to their stable, towing their unwieldy burden behind. All about them, however, was steadily growing chaos.

  Margaret’s path toward Marlborough Street took her along lanes and alleys frequented by the workers who lived nearby. As she looked about in breathless fear, she recognized many of the workers from Marlborough Mills. Many of them were covered in dust, and a few appeared to have sustained bumps and scrapes. It was not the hour for dinner, but the swelling press of humanity drove away from the mill in an overwhelming flood. Shouts and cries could be heard roundabout, and Margaret was constantly weaving to and fro to make her way forward.

  Her anxious eyes sought a friendly face, craving news. At last, she spotted Jenny, a young spinner to whom Bess had once introduced her. “Jenny!” she cried, desperate to make her voice heard over the din. “Jenny, over here!”

  The girl, her eyes staring and wild, at last turned in Margaret’s direction. “Oh, Miss, i’n’t it fearful?” she exclaimed once she had drawn near.

  “What is, Jenny? What has happened?” she demanded- not very gently.

  “Th’ boiler, Miss! Why, th’ ‘ole wall is down!”

  “Yes, yes, I heard as much,” she shook her head impatiently. “How could such a thing have occurred? I thought the boiler at Marlborough Mills was a new one that was not inclined to fail!”

  Yes, in fact, now that she remembered, she was sure of it! Had not John boasted once to her father, in those hazy old days, of the safety improvements he had made at the mill? His boiler could not have exploded!

  “I dinna’, Miss. I were in the other buildin’, but we a’ ‘eard the crash, we did!”

  Margaret waved her hands in agitation. “Yes, yes, of course. Jenny, do you know if anyone was hurt?”

  Jenny shrugged. “Me da’ said there was a fella’ killed, and some ‘urt.”

  Margaret, driven almost to madness with fear, grasped the girl’s shoulders and fairly shook her. “Who, Jenny? Who was killed? Is Mr Thornton safe?”

  Jenny tried to back away, terrorized by this new side of the gentle Miss Hale. “I dinna’ Miss! I ‘eard ‘e were carried to the ‘ouse, but….” She broke off when Margaret released her and spun about, bursting with her need for real information.

  Seldom did woman, encumbered with heeled walking boots and swathed in hoops and petticoats, walk as briskly as Margaret did to the mill. If one were to dare speak truth, she did not walk so much as fly, her feet scarcely touching the ground. How her aunt would have been appalled at her lack of decorum!

  One thing only loomed before her. Her entire being simmered in turmoil as she made her way to the unknown, the question which dominated her path. Was she to find immeasurable joy and relief in the strong arms of the man who held her heart, or were the rest of her days to be blighted with the darkness of his absence? In minutes, she would have the answer. What she would give to hear his reassuring voice in her ear!

  The implacable stone house soon grew before her hungry eyes. Silent and brooding it stood, yielding up no clues to the welfare of its master. She rushed up the steps- those familiar steps, where once before a fateful encounter had taken place. Without waiting to knock, and knowing that none within would be listening for her anyway, she grasped the heavy iron handle and yanked the door open herself.

  She hurried to the dining room, breathless and flushed, but skittered to an uncertain halt when she reached the doorway. Hannah Thornton, looking pale and shaken, held court there with three or four men whose faces Margaret did not eve
n bother to recognize. Her searching gaze was all for the mother, whose trembling demeanor shot new spears of dread through Margaret’s heart.

  “Miss Hale! It was very good of you to look in on us.” Hannah broke off her conversation and strode gracefully to her with her hand extended. Margaret peered anxiously into the older woman’s haggard face, looking for even a hint of what she yearned to know.

  “I was hoping you might come,” Hannah continued, her tones measured and even to the ears of a casual listener. Margaret, however, detected the wavering heartbreak in her voice. “My daughter is in the drawing room, and I know she will find your presence most comforting.”

  Margaret’s head shook only very slightly in denial. Fanny Thornton! Fanny could go bury herself in a cotton bale for all Margaret cared in this moment! She opened her lips in protest, but before she could declare her purpose, Mrs Thornton was speaking again.

  “I would go to her myself, but Dr Donaldson and Dr Lowe are examining my son, and I must remain at hand. I thank you for coming to visit her.” Hannah’s dark eyes locked with her own, and Margaret began to understand. This was no mere request from the matron of Marlborough Mills. It was a command, and refusal would not be tolerated.

  Margaret nodded hesitantly, and found herself ushered off to the next room. Just before leaving her, though, Hannah took her hand and wrung it painfully. Margaret winced, but listened acutely to the woman’s hissed assurances. “I will send you word of John as soon as I know more,” Hannah promised, and then she disappeared.

  ~

  The door closed, and Margaret found herself abandoned in the dreary room where once before she had awoken in an incoherent haze. Blinking, she glanced about. It was not difficult to find Fanny Thornton, for her voluminous morning dress dominated the massive piece of furniture upon which she rested. Small whimpers emanated from her, and a young maid stood by with a fan and a cool cloth for her eyes.

  Margaret cleared her throat. “Miss Thornton?” she ventured.

  Startled, Fanny sat up. Had it been her mother’s voice, she likely would have maintained her restful repose, for surely her constitution could bear no more shocks today. It chanced that she would have to weather another disturbance, for she was rather certain that she recognized the speaker, and it was most unexpected.

  “Miss Hale?” she blurted incredulously. “Why, whatever are you doing here?”

  “I… I heard about the explosion,” she mumbled, her distracted gaze out the window. She slowly strode near, her fingers catching each other in restless tugs, as was her wont when nervous. Fanny Thornton’s company she did not relish, but it was not that which troubled her. Mrs Thornton’s pinched face and close-lipped greeting had terrified her. John could not have perished immediately, as Jenny had said one man did, but she sensed that he was in grave danger. How was she to pass the time with inane and selfish Fanny, when all she longed to do was to rush to his side?

  Fanny shooed her maid away, and the grateful girl took the nearest side door out of the room. Margaret swallowed. Without even the maid to distract Fanny, it would be up to her to provide the other’s sole diversion. She was not equal to it!

  “I cannot fathom that you would have come here!” Fanny was proclaiming. “Why, if Mother had permitted, I would have instantly taken myself far out of danger! Goodness knows what that awful Union will do next, but I can bear it no longer!”

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “The Union? What can you mean?”

  “Why,” Fanny sniffed, “did you not hear? Someone tampered with the safety valve on the boiler! You did not think it was an accident, did you?”

  Margaret’s head was shaking vaguely. “I do not know what to think! What else do you know? Oh, please, tell me everything!”

  Fanny eyed her cynically. “John is alive, if that’s what you are wondering,” she pronounced sharply. “I do not think he was conscious when they carried him upstairs, but the doctors have been working over him for half an hour already.”

  Margaret’s eyes closed and her body shook in relief and trepidation. Her breath, ragged and shallow, released finally in one slow exhale. “Thank you for telling me, Fanny,” she murmured sincerely.

  Fanny tilted her head. “I do not suppose he will be able to marry anyone now, Miss Hale. Why, the mill is quite crippled, and goodness knows where he will find the funds to repair it!” She snorted, an expression reminiscent of her mother. “I can think of no one who would have him now. He will have to close the mill and go to work under someone else!”

  Margaret’s brow furrowed and she looked at the other in some dismay. “I confess, Miss Thornton, that was the farthest thing from my thoughts.”

  “Oh! You may say so, Miss Hale, but what of me!” She raised a handkerchief to her face and sobbed prettily. “How am I to marry respectably if my brother is a failure? Why, how shall I even be able to buy my gowns to attract a fine gentleman?”

  Margaret squinted quizzically, stunned to indignant anger. “Can you even think such things now, with your brother lying wounded and perhaps dying upstairs? Miss Thornton, I am ashamed of you!”

  Fanny’s mouth fell open in horror. Her own mother scarcely addressed her so harshly, and now this penniless preacher’s daughter presumed to lecture her- her!- and in her own house! “Margaret Hale!” she screeched. “How dare you speak to me so! I have a right to such concerns! We women must look to our own needs, after all, and we have no better means to do so than by marrying well! Do you think I do not know what you have been after all of this time, chasing after John as you have done? What makes you so righteous and perfect, Miss Hale, that you now scold me like a child?”

  “You are behaving as a child, Fanny,” Margaret returned coldly. The other gaped in speechless consternation as she continued. “Is that all you think of- the relentless pursuit of a rich husband? Tell me, Miss Thornton, do you truly esteem any man, or is he simply a bank account and a fine home?”

  “What would it matter if I esteemed him?” Fanny struck out petulantly. “As long as he is not repugnant, I may be content. I do better than yourself, Margaret! You put on your airs to distract all of the men, and then cast them off! Oh, yes, indeed, my mother told me how you turned down John after you nearly threw yourself at him! Then there was that strange man you were walking out with not long later. Who was he, your lover? Where is he now, I ask you! And what of Rupert Hamilton, how have you tried to corrupt him?”

  “Ah,” Margaret breathed, a flicker insight sparking upon her. She did not even intend to defend herself- it was useless, and she would not sully her own dignity so. She might, however, be of some material good to this wayward and self-deceived girl. “So that is what you are about! Miss Thornton,” her tone had altered rather remarkably to one of gentle imploring, “you must not look to Mr Hamilton. Truly, I beg of you, set your eyes elsewhere, for I have good reason to believe him a disreputable young man.”

  “How would you know, Miss Hale?” Fanny shrilled. “Have you already been in a compromising position with him?”

  Margaret’s eyes blinked wide and her brows rose sharply. “Miss Thornton!” she cried in abhorrence. “I will not even address such a charge!”

  “Of course not,” Fanny taunted. “He would never marry you, you know. You are wasting your time trying to ensnare him… but you already know that, do you not, Miss Hale? Is that why you have turned again to John?”

  Margaret could bear no more. She lurched to her feet, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I shall say this only once more, Fanny Thornton! I have absolutely no interest in Rupert Hamilton, and you would do well to heed my warning! As for John, I do not think a better man exists in the whole of the kingdom, and it is clear that we have both been blind to that fact. I am grateful that I finally saw the truth, and I beseech you to do the same!”

  Fanny gasped in outrage, but before she could utter her sulky retort, Margaret stepped away with a hasty swirl of her skirts. Comforting Miss Thornton had been a de
al to ask of her, but to tolerate such profane, ignorant discourse while she longed only for John was simply too much! She quickly glanced to the right and left, knowing only that she could not go back out the way she had come. Furiously, she stormed to the door through which the maid had fled, Fanny’s cries fading quickly behind her.

  Chapter Thirty

  She found herself in an empty corridor and froze. This was a large house, and she had no idea where she was. Muffled voices drifted through one door ahead of her, and she guessed it led to the other end of the dining room. Peering up and down, she tried to remember the dinner party from half a year ago, but her wanderings over the house even then had been sparse.

  Across the hall from the one she suspected to be the dining room, another door offered her the quiet refuge she sought. It hung closed, but not fully latched, as though the last occupant had been preoccupied or hurried upon departure. Curiously, she pushed it open, and discovered that she had found John’s private study.

  Blinking sentimentally, she hesitated only a moment, then slowly tiptoed forward. She felt a check in her spirit- she was, after all, invading his private spaces, but had he not ardently invited her to share in his home and in everything he held dear? Might he object to her presence? A comforting conviction soothed over her heart. No, he certainly would not object.

  Reverently she explored the perimeter of the room, her fingers touching lightly over the rows of books on his shelves. Most were of engineering and textiles, but she slowed when she found a whole section devoted to his beloved classics. She bit her lip to still its quivering as her gaze swept affectionately over the titles. All were in perfect order, of course. A trembling smile warmed her face. John’s library exuded his precise sense of efficiency and structure, but his personal tastes were still evident in the arrangements.