Isabel Darrow awoke early - as was her habit - and quickly washed and dressed before walking the two mile journey to the train station, her burlap holdall flung over her shoulder; tied tight with a pull string. With each step she took, the bag clunked into her spine; the heavy munitions tin adding unwanted bulk and weight to the bag. Still, she could not leave it behind; not when it contained all evidence of who she was and where she had been. Isabel arrived at the station early enough to meld into the bustle of workers who hurriedly made their way into the capital, and so it was upon a crowded train that she found herself; forced to stand amongst a sea of crushing bodies.

At London, the crowds thinned - the busy workers all flocking into the city, rather than seeking to leave it as Isabel was. She sat on an aged bench and awaited the Oxford-bound train's departure, all the while thinking of that elusive place called "home." Will I find it in Oxford? she asked herself, as an elderly woman shuffled past with a heavy jute bag dangling from her frail wrist. Would I know it if I saw it? She shook her head and pulled open her bag, reaching hastily for her munitions tin. Placing it on her lap, she drew in a deep breath and rested her hands upon the lid. Her eyes closed as though willing herself the strength to finally open it, and this time - perhaps because she was now actively seeking to move forward - she let her fingers curl around the battered lid and prise it from the box. Breath still held, she set the lid beside her on the bench and cast her eyes over the contents of the box; her worldly treasures - the memories she clung to, as well as the ones she wished to forget. There were photographs too painful to look at; newspaper clippings and papers she would not deign to read, but there was a beautiful rose gold necklace and matching bracelet, which had once belonged to her mother. That, she wished to hold; to trace it with her fingers. She lifted the box from her lap, placed the lid upon it and pulled up the leg of her trouser until she had exposed her ankle. There, she quickly wrapped the necklace thrice around her lower leg, before fitting the clasp. She reached for the bracelet, and just as she had fastened that upon her ankle in a similar fashion, and was tugging her trouser leg back into place above her boot, she heard a plaintive call, and her head shot up, eyes scanning in search of the anguished cry she had heard. There, before her on the platform, was the elderly lady, who had slipped on the wet ground. Isabel rose quickly to her feet and dashed to the woman's assistance.

'Are you hurt? Did you hit your head, or do you feel any sharp pains in your legs or hip?' enquired Isabel, squatting to her knees and casting an assessing eye over the small lady who lay twisted upon the floor.

'Yes,' gasped the injured lady, her teeth gritted against the pain. 'My hip. I think I've hurt my hip.' Isabel nodded and quickly felt about the pained area, eliciting an agonised sob. She knit her brows in sympathy, having always had a weakness for the elderly and their fearful cries of pain.

'I fear you may have fractured your hip,' announced Isabel. 'You must go to a hospital; I think it quite serious. Is there anyone I may call for you; a relative or friend?'

'I was on my way to visit my daughter in Reading,' sobbed the older lady. Isabel nodded in understanding; the lady had no family who could readily meet her at the hospital. She contemplated offering to accompany her impromptu patient to the hospital, but she had not the stomach for it; not at present. The very smell of such a place, the sight of bloodied cloths pressed to heads, as crowds of people waited to be seen, was more than she could countenance in her present state of mind.

'Perhaps I may call her for you, and if there is a fracture to your hip - and I truly think there might be - then she may come down to London to visit you here?' asked Isabel, with a pessimistic hopefulness to her voice.

'Yes. I will call her once I have been seen and we know what I have to face. I shan't worry her unnecessarily. If I call her now, she will only worry.' Isabel nodded and rose swiftly to her feet.

'I will be only a moment. I shall call for one of the staff to send for an ambulance and see if we can get a screen put up about you, to afford you some privacy.' And so saying, she ushered an attendant over, who quickly took charge of the scene and urged her away as the station staff trained in first aid, flocked about their patient. The scene unfolded in its entirety within a matter of no more than five or six minutes, but as Isabel returned to her bench and took up her bag, she found that her precious metal box was missing. Frantic at the thought of losing the treasured contents of her box, she ran immediately to the information desk and described the tin and where if had been moved from.

'Munitions, you say?' replied a middle-aged man with suspicious eyes. He looked at her intently, his jaw seemingly chewing on something unidentifiable. 'Try lost property. If it was a munitions box, someone may have thought it a suspicious package and taken it there. I'd give that a try.' Frustrated at being sent across the far side of the large train terminal, Isabel could only nod, fling her bag over her shoulder and hurry through the crowded platform, in the hope that she was reunited with her box and did not miss the Oxford train.

Finding the station ill sign-posted, Isabel was forced to spend some fifteen minutes wandering about the platforms, before she found what she was looking for, and pushed through a small door into what she thought to be left-luggage. The room - which was little more than a cupboard of sorts - appeared to be deserted, and she called out for assistance upon finding no staff member within.

'Excuse me?' called she, her voice raised. No reply came. Isabel glanced about her; aged traveling trunks and carpet bags; as though the luggage had been left for decades; perhaps even centuries. 'Excuse me? Is anyone there?' Upon receiving no answer to her second call, she stepped closer to the counter and peered over at the unattended desk, and there, sat overhanging the edge of the desk, was her battered brown munitions tin. She breathed a sigh of relief and hastily reached for it, clasping it to her. She clutched it to her chest and said a prayer of thanks as she felt her body relax. It was in a state of momentary calm that she pulled open the door and stepped back onto the platform, only to be greeted by a cloud of smoke which immediately made her gag and cough profusely. The smell! thought Isabel, wondering if there had been a fire, but when she looked up, it was to see before her, a steam train churning out thick plumes of black smoke. She blinked in confusion. She knew steam trains could run on tracks with overhead power lines, but she had not expected to be confronted with one during the London rush hour.

'Miss Darrow? Miss Darrow?' called a kindly voice, causing her to look up in surprise. A pair of warm brown eyes smiled back at her; thick, whiskery sideburns filling the gentleman's cheeks. Isabel felt sure she did not know him - had no knowledge of how he could possibly know her name - and yet she felt that he was vaguely familiar to her. 'It is Miss Darrow!' beamed the gentleman, stepping closer and pulling his hat from his head. 'I would recognise that face anywhere. Jane's daughter, if ever I saw her!' Isabel could not help but gasp and take a weary step backwards in alarm. The gentleman before her suddenly seemed to understand her confusion and he dropped his outstretched hand and inclined his head. 'Forgive me; you could not possibly recognise me. Richard Hale; your godfather.'

'Hale?' asked Isabel, frowning at the gentleman before her. Why! he is in costume, realised she. And she looked anxiously about her; the platform was outside - no longer under cover. The train was steam-powered, and the clothing - 'Oh!' Her eyes widened and she pressed a hand to her mouth, only to find her hand covered with a black lace glove. Gloves? And she looked down at her person so see that she was in a pale grey dress which skimmed the dusty ground. Her waist was cinched in, and despite having always been slender and compact, she knew, instinctively, that she was wearing a corset underneath that stiffly-starched dress. A trace of a shadow loomed over her and she cast her eyes upwards, only to see the wide brim of a hat jutting out from her forehead. A hat? she asked of herself. Her eyes travelled back to the kindly man before her, and his hand tentatively reached out for her again.

'Miss Darrow? Isabel Darrow?' he asked, patiently.

'Yes, sir.' He smiled, well-pleased.

'I am Richard Hale - your godfather - and this is my daughter, Margaret,' he finished, as he gestured to a proud, haughty-looking creature with a mane of glossy black hair piled neatly upon her head.

'Margaret Hale,' said Isabel under her breath, her heart racing. She looked quickly about her; the train station; their dress. She repeated their names; her lips curling over them as she spoke them wordlessly; the Hales looking back at her expectantly. 'Then this is - Milton?' asked Isabel, her voice steady, despite the turmoil she felt within.

'Indeed!' smiled Mr Hale, nodding his head. 'You made it here safely, and arrived not long before us, as it would appear.' I am in Milton. I am in the book! she told herself in disbelief.

'Are you - have you secured lodgings?' asked Isabel, attempting to appear coherent, for surely, this could not but be a dream?

'We have a list of properties from Mr Thornton. Margaret and I had determined to share the task of securing a property, but now that you are here, I feel that you might be able to accompany Margaret and look at the properties on the bottom half of this list. I have no fear of leaving Margaret if you are with her, and we will accomplish our task far more quickly if we form two groups.' Isabel could only nod her agreement, because Mr Hale had just spoken of Mr Thornton! Mr Thornton! cried the voice in her head. And so she did not see the impatient look Margaret gave to her father upon learning that she was to spend the afternoon with the tanned stranger. She did not question that Mr Hale appeared to have been expecting her or that he claimed to be her godfather, for what was that, compared to finding herself inside her favourite book?

If Margaret was surprised or appalled by what she saw as they walked the streets of Milton and drank in its legendary air, her inner turmoil was nothing to Isabel's. True, she was no delicate thing whose stomach was easily turned - she knew of suffering and she had suffered - but it was in walking through New Street - where the two ladies had arranged to meet with Mr Hale and discuss their findings - that Isabel realised just how very alien this place called Milton was. The archaic faces looked to her, so very pinched and different. The skin was sallow, the dress so cumbersome. The speech - unsurprisingly - was stilted, but the manners; so stiff and formal! But what truly drew Isabel's notice was the realisation that there - in Milton - she was a lesser being; not by virtue of wealth or rank, but by virtue of her sex. Indeed, Mr Hale had been aghast when she had refused to hand over her burlap sack - which proved to be the only thing she recognised from that London terminal she had stood in only earlier that morning. Inside were treasures she could not risk to part with. It was not beyond the realms of possibility - thought she - that all Milton was a dream; a cruel hallucination; planted in her brain by the postulations of Dr Lyndhurst. If that were so, she could not tell where she truly was. Perhaps on that fast train bound for Oxford? If so, she was surely not alone, and could not therefore, part with her belongings. And if by some strange twist of fate, this world of Milton did truly exist about her - if she had gone inside the book - then how ever could she part with the evidence of her past; their future! She had belongings that did not exist in the age of the machine, and she would do well to guard them, both for her own safety, and for the mental stability of whoever should be unfortunate enough to stumble upon something so wholly inconceivable.

Not to carry her own bag had been her first battle - one which she had won, but to the displeasure of Margaret, who felt her new companion to be grossly independent and unconcerned with convention. Margaret thought it negligent to taint the Hales by association, when they, themselves, where yet to find their place in this strange new city. She felt Isabel's defiance a liberty she had no place to take, upon such a brief and inconsequential acquaintance with father and daughter, but she did not see, nor understand, that to Isabel, a man of no regard had no right to assert his authority over a woman, simply because he was a man. Still, Isabel soon learnt her error, for each pinched face they passed sent her an enquiring looked. Her dress was plain but fine - clearly no poor mill hand - and the lady beside her with her haughty looks and proud bearing, though without fashionable ornament - wore a close straw bonnet of the finest quality, so why ever did her companion carry upon her shoulder a navvy's burlap sack, which clunked with every step?

'Ah! Margaret, Isabel!' waved Mr Hale (for he had determined that Isabel was family, and so he used her given name to make her feel welcome). 'Yes, here!' The two ladies walked towards him with quickened steps.

'Papa! Did you find anything that should suit us? The two we viewed were very ill-suited; our situation is surely not so dire?' Mr Hale frowned; they had only thirty pounds a year.

'Crampton, I believe,' came his tentative reply.

'Yes, Crampton!' agreed Isabel, knowing this to be the very house they ought to take. Margaret rounded on her with a frown.

'You did not see the house!' her tone accusing.

'No, but I heard the agent in the first house we looked at. He said he thought it just the thing; I think he is owns both properties.'

'What was his name?' asked an enthusiastic Mr Hale.

'Mr Donkin, I believe?' replied Isabel, but she was not sure she had recalled his name correctly, for she had heard him speak nothing; only needed an excuse for preferring Crampton.

'How many rooms does it have?' asked Margaret, irritated by Isabel's involvement in what ought to have been a decision for only herself and her father.

'Two bedrooms, and a back drawing-room we should have no use for; I think that should do for Dixon?' Mr Hale supposed, hopefully. Margaret nodded in agreement; the maid always grumbled about taking the stairs.

'But what of Miss Darrow?' asked Margaret; reluctant to assume such intimacy with anyone who seemed to her so entirely foreign.

'Was there an attic room, perchance?' Isabel interjected, for she knew there was, and felt certain Margaret would need to settle in Crampton if the story was to play out. Mr Hale's eyes brightened.

'You know, I think there was,' he replied ponderously. He nodded at length and his eyes curled at the corners as he smiled with satisfaction. 'Yes, there was,' his smile falling, 'but it is suited to servant's quarters, Isabel. I should not think it would do for you.'

'Nonsense! I have lived in very uncivilised climes. An attic room would suit me very well, indeed.' Gratified that Isabel was willing to accept servant's quarters and had not insisted upon being furnished with a fine family room, Margaret nodded her agreement.

'The Crampton house sounds as though it is the one, Papa. Shall you go to Mr Donkin's and take it on?'

'I shall, but the papers - your mother shall not like the papers at all. A riot of colour and in such cramped and darkened rooms.' He shook his head sadly; he so wished for his Maria to feel at home.

'But you can talk him into changing the papers, no doubt?' asked Margaret. Mr Hale nodded absent-mindedly, and determined that he would go to Mr Donkin's at once, leaving Isabel to give a secret smile, for she knew that if the papers were to be changed in the Crampton house, it would not be through Mr Hale's doing.

The ladies continued along New Street and headed for the hotel where they had taken a private room, ready to await Mr Hale's immanent return from the landlord's. It was only as they stepped inside the hotel, that Isabel recalled that Mr Thornton would be awaiting Mr Hale's return. This is where he first meets Margaret; where he first notices her great beauty, she warned herself. Upon a moment such as that, she felt certain she could not intrude, so she excused herself by citing the need to wash up after being out in the dusty streets, and left Margaret to retire to their private room.

'Is you please, Miss, there is a Mr Thornton in your room, awaiting the return of the gentleman, Mr Hale. He did call an hour or so before. I told him the family was gone and he called again not five minutes ago,' explained a harried maid. Margaret nodded her head in her proud way and lifted her chin.

'Thank you,' replied Margaret. 'My father shall return from his errand presently. Please direct him to Mr Thornton upon his return,' and so saying, she walked straight into the room and greeted its waiting inhabitant. She was not uneasy about forming an introduction with the gentleman; he had proven himself disposed to be of use to her father, and had shown great patience in calling on them twice, so she was inclined to be civil and show him respect; even though he was nothing more than a tradesman. It was with a straight back and regal bearing, therefore, that she glided elegantly into the room; her long neck made more graceful by the slightest of lifts to her chin as she stood before the Darkshire manufacturer. He was abnormally tall - appearing to stand a full head above others - but even so, he did not intimidate Margaret; she was too well schooled in society habits from her decade spent in London, to allow herself to be unsettled by the presence of a tall, dark stranger; however rough and uncouth he may be.

Mr Thornton, for his part, did not feel so composed. He had not the advantage of knowing whom he would be greeted by when he had first sensed the door to the room being opened. He had thought to meet a Mr Hale; a gentleman in his later years, but instead a proud young lady stood before him, as if daring him to disregard her. He frowned to himself. She must be the daughter? he asked himself. But he had expected the daughter Mr Bell had spoken of to be a young girl; not a young lady; not the great beauty stood before him.

'Mr Thornton, I believe?' He nodded. 'Will you not sit down?' asked she - but her words came out an order rather than a request - and she seated herself before continuing uninterrupted. 'My father just this moment left to attend to some business; he was not informed that you were waiting on him, but he shall be back within a moment.' Seating himself as he felt himself to have been instructed, Mr Thornton could not help but observe that she appeared to have assumed an authority over him. Master that he was, he was accustomed to giving orders and having them followed, and yet here was this young lady who had swept into the room as a queen and had him do her bidding.