Nowhere But North Read online

  A North and South Variation

  Nicole Clarkston

  Copyright © 2018 Nicole Clarkston

  Cover Design by Janet Taylor

  All rights reserved.

  ASIN: B07G2ZT9JW

  Dedication

  To all the ones who went before

  And who wait ahead. One day

  I will hold you again.

  Acknowledgments

  Nowhere but North is the hardest book I have ever written. From a technical standpoint, I did what you are not supposed to do: I wove a story in the present tense, while constantly looking into the past. I hope I have succeeded, but only the reader can judge.

  However, it was not this challenge that drew out the completion of this book for just over two years. Part of it was personal. Although the griefs of my own life were not precisely the same, John and Margaret Thornton broke my heart, again and again. Perhaps that is why I love this couple so much—they are more than just a literary couple. They are a reflection of us, and their tragedies and triumphs are our own.

  So many dear friends held my hand and lifted me up through the grueling two years of this book. They watched me follow the rabbit trails otherwise known as These Dreams and London Holiday and kept encouraging me to come back to this one until the story had been told. It began innocently enough, with a few blog posts celebrating the release of Northern Rain in 2016. Rita Deodato of From Pemberley to Milton and Janet Taylor of More Agreeably Engaged both helped set my feet on this path. Thank you, my dears!

  Janet astounded me with this cover. She and her son Jeff crafted it from scratch. As she was so intimately acquainted with the story from the beginning, she was able to create an image that beautifully portrays our couple—the tenderness, the desire to comfort, but also the frustration of disparate needs. I should just stop writing books and tell her what a cover should look like, because she captured it all.

  In 2017, Austen Variations held a fundraiser in the aftermath of Hurricane Harvey. Compassionate readers gave generously to the relief efforts and were honoured for their kindness in different ways. Debbie Fortin, a dear friend and already a trustworthy sounding board to me, appears in this book as a cameo. I hope you come to adore her as much as I do.

  Joy Dawn King has been indispensable, particularly during the last half of the process. When I was staring at a scrambled manuscript, unsure of an ending and tearing my hair out over the flow and sequence, she pointed me forward and then pushed. Hard. Thank you, my sweet friend!

  Finally, I have the best group of beta readers a writer could ever ask for. Jennifer Joy, Joana Starnes, Jeanne Garrett, Carole Steinhart, Angela Dale, Don Jacobson and Trudy Brasure… just typing that list gives me the chills! They caught typos and inaccuracies that I stared at for two years and never noticed! I could not be proud of the book you hold in your hands, if not for them. I have no words to describe the selfless support of my fellow authors or the enthusiasm of great readers like these. Any writer who can call even one of these amazing people a friend is blessed, indeed.

  -NC

  One

  30 August 1855

  “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  John Thornton’s throat constricted and his chest hammered. Those words had sealed his future—words he had once desperately longed to speak over himself and this woman standing at his side, but words which seemed unwelcome to her ears. She had not desired his hand.

  The rector gave the direction and the register was signed in due course. She laid aside the pen and came to stand beside him. One last tradition remained—a silly, inconsequential deed at that, and one they could have dispensed with, had not he insisted that none should suspect their marriage was anything other than agreeable to both parties.

  His limbs quivered with apprehension as he turned to face the woman who was now his wife. Her face was cast down as she, likewise, performed the scripted manoeuvre. The white veil frosting over her features heightened the pallor of her bloodless cheeks and clashed against the black of her mourning dress. She lifted her chin dutifully, waiting for him to complete the required motions.

  Swallowing hard, his eyes full of regret, he reached to lift her veil. His fingers brushed only the filmy gauze concealing her countenance, careful not to touch her more than necessary. He would ask nothing more of her after this single public intimacy, but the proper forms and customs must be observed so that no one might murmur.

  John dropped the lace behind her back as her eyes, wide with alarm, found his. He drew a reckless breath, steeling his courage, and then bent to inaugurate their union with a quick brush of his lips against hers. No feeling was exchanged, no sweet promise of hope and love shared. It was simply done.

  One more had been added to his household. One more to provide for, to extend his name to. For better or worse, Margaret Thornton was his problem now.

  ~

  Eight Days Earlier:

  “May I please speak with Miss Hale?”

  John Thornton shifted his hat between his hands as he dared to confront the Hales’ disapproving maid. Dixon glared up at him, her eyes swollen and red, but her manner no less vigilant over her mistress than it had ever been. In fact, it was a good deal more so.

  Dixon’s mouth worked. She also seemed to know there was no other recourse, but she did not like letting him to her young lady just now. “This way,” she grumbled, apparently not caring that her manners were less than exemplary.

  John followed her up the stairs. To his surprise, Dixon led past the small sitting room on the second floor and up to Mr Hale’s old study. She stopped before the door, crossing her arms. “You’ll take care of her, Mr Thornton.” It was not a question.

  His eyes, which had drifted to the closed door, snapped back to the woman. “I shall try.”

  This seemed to satisfy her. With a grunt and a lurch, she worked her way past him to lumber down the stairs, leaving him alone. He turned to the door, clenching his fist. His task was before him, and he would not shrink from it.

  For three days now, since his old friend had failed to awaken Sunday morning, Margaret had been without a protector. No concerned family descended upon the little Crampton house, no benevolent godfather came to offer aid, and no valiant suitor had arrived to carry her away from her grief. Her only comfort had been the bitter maid and the grizzled old weaver who first brought him the news of Mr Hale’s passing. She had nowhere else to turn.

  John eased the door open. He did not see her at first, scanning, as he was, the chair and the desk which had belonged to his friend. The room was dim, lit only by the low afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. At last, his searching gaze settled on her forlorn figure.

  She looked to have fallen into her father’s worn settee before a dying fire, her tousled head draped over a small end table where a stack of Mr Hale’s books formed a pillow of sorts. Her eyes were closed, but her lashes shimmered with sorrow in the glow of the fire’s embers. Pity tugged at his heart.

  How he yearned to cast himself at her feet and pull her into his loving arms! If only she longed for his comfort and waited only for his voice to release her anguish into his strong embrace. Moisture pricked his own eyes. It would not be so, but at least he could offer her some measure of protection. He owed his friend that much.

  John stepped into the room, afraid to disturb her repose, but knowing that he must. He stopped before her, his fingers twitching when she did not seem to hear his approach. “Miss Hale?”

  Her head jerked up, blinking as she tried to see him clearly through unshed tears. She straightened without a word. Apparently, she was expecting him, for he
r face held no questions—only what appeared to be resignation.

  Pressing his lips together, he drew one step closer to her, then lowered himself to his knees before her chair. She dropped her gaze modestly.

  Now that it was time, and he was nearly assured of her acceptance, he could not form the words. He had spoken them once before, and that memory choked his throat and caused his pulse to drum with uncertainty. He knew she did not care for him and probably loved another. It was no virtue of his own which would require her to accept him, and there would be no affection he could expect once she did. They had little to offer each other, apart from respectability and security. It seemed a paltry consolation.

  During his hesitation, Margaret’s eyes had travelled up once more. Her voice was trembling and scarcely audible when she spoke. “You have been to the funeral.”

  He glanced at the black arm band he wore, sorry that its presence might cause her additional pain. “Yes.” His mouth went dry. Get it over with, man! There was no sense in drawing things out.

  “Miss Hale, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?” he blurted, his voice quavering with hope.

  Margaret’s stricken eyes met his. She held him for a long, suspense-filled pause, before answering in a broken whisper. “Yes.”

  John hissed out the tense breath he had been restraining. At least she had determined to be sensible about all this, even if she were not happy. It would spare him the distress of arguing with a woman in mourning for her lost father.

  He ought to be overjoyed in this moment, having secured the promise of the one who delighted his heart, but he could not. He had just asked her to commit to a life with a man she did not love, and she had no choice but to accept. Rather than pleasure at her answer, he felt only remorse for her sacrifice.

  He gave a firm nod, indicating that he had heard her hushed reply, and that their deal was struck. “I shall make the necessary arrangements. Do you….” He hesitated in distaste for the indelicacy of the questions he must ask. “You will wish to marry without delay? A common licence?”

  She looked down, her gaze hovering somewhere near the centre of his waistcoat. Every possible solution would require some breach of propriety. They could not hold a traditional ceremony with the bride in deep mourning, nor decently wait the prescribed period without a chaperoned living situation for her. The best answer was a quiet ceremony, granting her his name and honour—for there was none other to offer it.

  She was silent for a moment, causing him to stir in discomfort. At last, another whispered “Yes,” reached his ears.

  “I will speak to the vicar directly. Perhaps I will ask my mother to assist you?”

  Her bodice was trembling with short, shallow breaths. “I think… I think that is unnecessary, sir. There will be little for me to do until….” She faltered, her eyes refusing to lift again to his.

  She was correct, of course. The silk mourning gown she wore would suffice for their simple marriage ceremony, and her belongings need not be moved until she came to his home. There would be no cause to disrupt the household until then.

  “I dislike leaving you alone here. Are you certain you will be well until we can make other arrangements?”

  “I have Dixon. And Mr Higgins promised to look in each day.”

  He sighed. “Of course.” He rose to his feet. She did not follow his movements, and he turned reluctantly away. Within seconds, however, he stepped again to her side. She looked up in swift surprise.

  “I will take care of you!” he vowed hoarsely. “You need have no fear, Miss Hale.”

  Her mouth twitched into a bare approximation of a smile, but it did not travel to her eyes. “I know you will, Mr Thornton.”

  Margaret Thornton—for that was her name, now—stood in the centre of the spacious chamber. She clutched a satchel of personal items as she took in the opulently decorated room that was to be hers. Her new mother-in-law had offered a brisk tour, then taken her leave—it was likely a relief to them both to part company without delay.

  Her marriage that morning had passed with little recognition. In fact, the austere Milton ceremony had borne no resemblance at all to the pastoral simplicity of her father’s old church, where she had always assumed she would one day wed. The setting was wrong; the voice leading her in her vows unfamiliar, the sacred traditions empty, and the audience of well-wishers absent. And the groom… she still could not decide about him. Why, why had she not objected to that vexing charade of a kiss, as if that little display were sufficient to convince their witnesses that he was not acting out of duty, nor she out of desperation?

  It was all so very, very wrong. There was no reception breakfast, out of consideration for her state of mourning, and there would be no wedding tour. It was just as well, for she scarcely knew what she would say to her new husband if they were required to spend days alone together.

  Husband. She swallowed.

  It had been noble of him to offer marriage. She certainly did not deserve such consideration from him, but she ought to have expected that he would render this one final homage to her father. Oh, Papa! The tears flooded her eyes before she could restrain them.

  Her breast heaved with the effort of controlling herself. She must not crumble now! Not when her new life and duties spread before her. She could not disappoint her father’s memory! She choked on the lump in her throat.

  It was for her father’s sake that Mr Thornton had overcome his disenchantment with her to offer a home. No other had done so much, so she could do no less than to respond with dignity. She would honour the man who was her husband, regardless of his lost respect. Perhaps, one day, she might find a way to earn it back.

  “Do you find the room to your liking?” The low, even tones startled her—it seemed she must now become accustomed to a man’s voice in her chambers.

  Mr Thornton stood in the doorway, apparently uncertain of his welcome. She made an effort to smile. “Yes. It is a lovely room.”

  He entered hesitantly, his eyes scanning the sparse but opulent furnishings, and the walls which were garishly papered in gold and brown paisley, making it seem like a grand hall. The room which had seemed much too large a moment ago shrank before his towering presence, and she felt stifled for breath.

  “I am afraid the décor may not be to your taste. We will re-paper it whenever you wish. I expect you would prefer your own furnishings as well? I shall have a few articles brought directly. Your own writing desk and dressing table, and perhaps your father’s settee to start?”

  She was watching his feet as he walked towards her. “There is no need to put you to such trouble.”

  “Margaret,” he voiced her name softly, haltingly.

  She glanced up. It was the first time he had spoken thus.

  “This is to be your home, and I wish for you to be comfortable. Will you not tell me how I can help you to settle?”

  “You have already been more than generous, sir,” she breathed. It had not escaped her that she was a married woman, and the man who held claim over her stood not three feet away in her bedroom. She could not know what he might ask of her, nor when he would do so. She only understood that she belonged to him now, just as surely as did everything else in this room.

  His lips thinned. “Margaret….” He paused, waiting for her to meet his eyes. “I would have you know that I am sorry. I understand this is not what you desired, nor what I would have wished for you. I hope that one day you might be content here with me.”

  She blinked rapidly again. “Thank you… John.”

  He took a tremulous step nearer. “I have sent Williams with a few men for your most immediate belongings. They should arrive within the hour. Miss Dixon has agreed to remain at the house to supervise the disposition of the larger items, but I imagine that once you feel able, you will wish to take part in that process. There is no hurry—I will keep the rent on the house for as long as you need.”

  She thanked him again, recognising the full kindness of his gesture. Sh
e was required to stay here with him, but he would not rip her maidenly home from her just yet. How much was it all going to cost him?

  “Well….” He stood a moment more, as if unsure of his bounds. “I have some work to do. Mother is here, should you require anything for your comfort, and her maid Jane or one of the other girls will assist you until your Dixon is installed here permanently.”

  She remained still and silent as he left her, closing the door carefully behind himself. Somehow, she had never pictured herself abandoned in a strange house while her husband went back to work on their wedding day. She had certainly never imagined greeting this day wearing mourning black, with only Dixon and a tired old weaver and his daughter to pay their respects in her honour.

  Margaret forced herself to move methodically towards the bed to begin unpacking the few things she had carried with her. She would not cry. John Thornton had plucked her from poverty and solitude and brought her to his home, unwelcome though she felt. Her own family—what was left of them—could not have done more. She was grateful… truly, she was. And those were not tears cupping in the corners of her eyes.

  Helstone

  24 April 1837

  “Margaret why are you crying?”

  Frederick Hale, a lanky youth at twelve, scooped his sister from her nest in the woodshed. One scruffy kitten clung wildly to her dress, its eyes staring in fright as Margaret fumbled to clutch it to her middle.

  “Fred! Helen is falling!” She pushed away from her brother with her free hand once she had gained the relative safety of the shed floor, then bent to croon to the terrified cat.

  Fred muttered a colourful phrase he had heard from a local farmer—one which his father had sternly forbidden. “What a ridiculous name for a cat!” he rolled his eyes but softened when a few more tears slid down her cheek. “Tell me, sweetheart, what is the matter?”