Mr Thornton groaned against the throb of his head, and slowly opened his eyes against the dull ache, but he was instantly aware of a deadweight upon him. He blinked about the dust which caked his face, and saw the glistening of amber as the hot sun blared down under that mobile crown which had danced before him only three days before.

'Isabel!' gasped Mr Thornton, in horror, rolling onto his side, so that he might rest her gently upon the ground. The scurrying, scuffling steps of retreating rioters were nothing to him. The tramp of hooves and roars of soldiers went unheard, for on the ground before him, eyes closed and body battered, lay his broken Isabel. 'Isabel! My Isabel!' cried he, in lowered, soul-wrenched tones. 'What have they done, my Isabel? What have they done!' And he scooped her into his arms and cradled her tiny frame to his body - loose locks with an amber sheen, pressing softly against his neck - as he rose slowly from his knees. He teetered as he found his feet, his head swimming from the blow, but he would not fail to see her safely inside, and he forced himself forward, her head resting gently against his chest.

'My Isabel, dearest! What did you do? You did that for me!' He sighed; half with regret, and half with splendid longing, for she had protected his body as a mother would shield her young babe, and he had never felt a keener satisfaction in knowing himself thus thought of, but nor had be felt a more pungent revulsion for such a foolish act; such an unwanted service. 'Oh! my Isabel! How you anger and delight me!' murmured he, now reaching the door - and his mother, ever watchful for his safety, immediately unbarred the door to admit him. Her face was white with horror - all colour drained from the skin. She could form no words to voice the violence she had seen; the actions of the girl; she could only stare wide-eyed at her son as he carried Miss Darrow up the stairs and into the drawing room, yet even in her stunned condition, her possessive jealously swelled, and she noted - with an indignant eye - that her hair was shamefully askew.

'Cloths, Mother. Smelling salts or vapours; whatever you ladies use! And something to bath her wounds. And the doctor! send someone for the doctor!' Mrs Thornton did not argue - although she did not wish to leave her son for even one moment - for he, himself, had been struck, and required the attentions of a doctor; the cleaning of his own wound. Immediately, she left to do as he bid, and Mr Thornton stole the opportunity to kneel beside his reposing Isabel. He took up her hand in his own, trembling fingers, and brought it to his lips as he gazed down upon her sad face.

'Isabel, my love. Why would you do that? To see you harmed has hurt me as nothing else could. My Isabel! My love! What you are to me, you cannot know.' And his eyes filled with tears he had not cried since his father died, and one fell defiantly from each eye, forcing him to hastily wipe them away at the sound of his mother's return. She looked upon her son intently. She saw the glistening eyes; the flush to his cheek and the emotion which gripped him, but she chose not to speak of it; not until she knew both were well.

'Move aside, John. I have the vapours.' And Mrs Thornton uncorked the bottle and placed it beneath Isabel's nose. Isabel's face crinkled and she dipped a frown, before shaking her head listlessly, and blinking rapidly.

'Oh!' gasped Isabel, before trying to raise herself up. Mrs Thornton did not impede her actions, but noted that the girl stifled a wince of pain as she curled her spine and sat up. 'Mr Thornton!' rushed she, with sudden realisation (for she had not seen him stood to the far corner of the sofa). 'He was struck in the head! A stone! Where is he! is he well?' Mrs Thornton noted the concern in her voice; the unfettered anxiety which was written so plainly across her face, and although she was angered by the girl's foolish actions - actions which had drawn her son from safety and seen him hurt - she could not help but feel a note of pleasure in seeing Miss Darrow so solicitous of her son's health.

'I am well, Miss Darrow,' came his quietly spoken reply; keeping his voice low, as though to speak clearly would injure her further. She turned immediately at the sound of his voice and looked to him with evident relief.

'Sit! You must sit and I must check you over. That wound; I need to look at it!' For there was a quantity of blood - no trifling graze - and she had seen him knocked senseless and feared some concussion.

'The doctor has been sent for; Williams went,' announced Mrs Thornton, with reproach.

'Yes, but I am a doctor, also. Please, Mr Thornton; if you will sit?' And she spoke suddenly with that singular commanding tone that both Thorntons knew a doctor to use when with a difficult patient or irksome relative, and he instinctively obeyed.

'A doctor!' repeated Mrs Thornton, incredulously, watching as Isabel rose swiftly from her seat and knelt before her son.

'Yes, Mrs Thornton. Where I am from, women receive the same education as men. Many women are doctors. I have performed surgery, as well as tending to minor accidents and ailments. I am quite knowledgeable.'

'But your hair! It is come loose,' warned Mrs Thornton, for surely, the girl could not mean to tend to her son when her own person was in such slatternly disarray? Isabel felt the reproach, and hastily - with much impatience - clasped clumsily at her hair and pinned it to her head, with an utter disregard for her appearance.

And so saying, she set about cleaning and examining the wound to Mr Thornton's temple. She frowned with displeasure, noting that Mr Thornton had come off far worse than Margaret ever would have. I ought not to have come here! Isabel scolded herself; but in truth, her actions had spared the Irish, and so she could not wholly regret them. 'You will require stitches,' informed she, to mother and son, with a cool detachment which seemed only to reinforce that she was accustomed to tending to the sick. 'When the doctor comes, he will have the tools to stitch the wound, but if he has not a steady hand, I should like to perform the procedure, for the wound is to the face, and you will want it done neatly so the scar is minimal.' Mrs Thornton's eyes widened in alarm. She expected her son to say something in complaint, but he thought only of the tender touch of her fingers to his face.

'Do you have any pain elsewhere, Mr Thornton, or do you believe this wound to be your only injury?' asked Isabel, with business-like abruptness.

'No other injury,' came his quiet reply. She nodded in acknowledgement and then peered about his eyes, assessing his pupils and attempting not to lose herself in their crystal blue depths. He, himself, felt a stirring as she gazed upon him, and although he knew her actions to have some medical purpose, he could not fathom them, and so allowed himself to revel in the intimacy of her touch and gaze.

'Mr Thornton, I am going to say to you a number, and I wish you to remember it. I will ask it of you several times, so don't forget it. Now, the number is eighteen thousand and fifty seven,' said Isabel, with a small quirk of the lips; amused by her own little reference to that book. 'Now, what was the number, Mr Thornton?'

'Eighteen thousand and fifty seven,' replied he, in a dubious voice.

'And your full name, please?'

'John Thornton,' with a puzzled frown.

'And what is the name of the prime minister?'

'Lord John Russell.'

'What is the purpose of these questions?' asked Mrs Thornton, irritably, for the whole while she conducted the interview, Miss Darrow held her son's face in her hands.

'I am checking for a concussion; an impairment to memory; both long-term memory, and short-term. Now, Mr Thornton, what number did I ask you to recall?'

'Eighteen thousand and fifty seven,' replied he, not at all concerned, for it was quite clear from her manner of speaking and her natural confidence, that she knew what she was about.

'Very good. Now, hold out your hands in front of you - arms stretched, please.' He did so, and she took his hands in hers - much to Mrs Thornton's vexation. 'Now, pull back against my hands with as much force as you can muster.' She caught Mr Thornton's doubtful frown and gave a small smirk in reply. 'I am stronger than I look. Please, do as I say.' He followed her instructions, showing no weakness of strength. 'And finally, could I ask you to stand and walk in a straight line along the edge of the drugget?' He did so, without deviation, and so Isabel was satisfied that he showed no signs of dizziness, weakness or confusion. She then set about cleaning his wound, ready for it to be stitched, and in the process, cleaned all trace of dust from his face. Mrs Thornton bristled, feeling her attention too intimate, and yet she had watched all with a keen eye, and had to acknowledge, that she neither touched him, nor addressed him, in any way which a male doctor would not. There was nothing suspicious in her actions, but that she was a lady; a lady who thought her son handsome; a lady her son admired.

Rescued was he, thought Mrs Thornton, by the arrival of Dr Donaldson. He frowned about Mr Thornton's gash to the temple, and opened his well-stocked bag to locate his thread and needle.

'A brandy, Thornton?' asked the doctor, by way of offering pain relief. The patient shook his head, for he would not cloud his mind until he knew that Isabel was well.

'You have a steady hand, sir?' asked Isabel, anxiously, as Dr Donaldson loomed towards Mr Thornton with his needle. The doctor's eyebrows rose in amusement and he turned with a smile to the piquant young lady before him.

'You fear my work to be inferior?' She blushed as his provocation - which was as he had hoped - and he turned back to Mr Thornton. 'Have you any complaint about Miss Darrow stitching up this wound?' asked Dr Donaldson, hopefully, for he was keen so see her work; it would surely determine her level of skill.

'No, sir,' replied Mr Thornton, no less intrigued. Isabel was bid to wash up and take her place before her patient, and all the while Mrs Thornton looked on anxiously; a watchful eye on every deft movement of the fingers.

'I am sorry for any pain,' said Isabel, with a soft, low voice, as though speaking privately to him, and Mr Thornton stilled his breath, feeling the gentleness of her sentiment, and the break in her professional façade. She worked quickly, and - Mr Thornton thought - quite painlessly, for he had once had his hand stitched after catching it on a spindle, and Dr Lowe - who had attended to him at the time - had not been half so gentle. 'There!' announced Isabel, with a prideful smile, looking upon her handiwork. Dr Donaldson drew near, narrowing his eyes in assessment.

'Yes, very fine! Yes, indeed!' He smiled indulgently and turned to Mr Thornton. 'I did well letting Miss Darrow stitch you up. You will have a smaller scar thanks to her.'

'Then I must thank you both,' replied Mr Thornton, stiffly, as Mrs Thornton leant in to inspect the wound. She grudgingly ceded - internally, only - that Miss Darrow's work appeared very tidy, and gave an outward grunt, which was, by her standards, a compliment, for said grunt contained no word of complaint.

'And now you, Miss Darrow; I must see to you,' frowned Dr Donaldson, gazing upon her sullied dress. He stood behind her and looked upon her back, traces of blood staining the cotton of her grey dress. 'Have you a room I might use, Mrs Thornton? Miss Darrow will need to remove this dress.' Mrs Thornton nodded briskly, and swept from the room, indicating that Miss Darrow and Dr Donaldson ought to follow.

Once safely ensconced within a made-up guest room, Mrs Thornton excused herself to see to her daughter, whilst Dr Donaldson conducted his examination. He made no remark, other than to describe to her, the wounds she had obtained; a scattering of bruises to the ribs; one of them likely cracked - due to a rough clog, he supposed. There were a series of gashes and grazes - which accounted for the blood - but all were inconsequential, save for one puncture to the skin which would require five stitches. Her hands were scuffed from shielding Mr Thornton's face, and her arms were bruised, but all wounds, he announced, were superficial, and he supposed she passed out only through shock.

'I should like to go home,' said Isabel, as Dr Donaldson packed up his bag. 'Would it be possible for me to ride with you as far as Main Street?'

'Miss Darrow!' cried he, in alarm. 'Drop you at Main Street? Certainly not! I shall see you to your door. I was to call in upon Mrs Hale, anyway, so it shall not be a trouble.' Gratified, Isabel slipped quietly from her temporary sick room, and settled herself in the waiting carriage, as Dr Donaldson spoke a few moments with Mr Thornton, who had just returned from a hasty interview with the police superintendent.

'How is she?' asked Mr Thornton, as soon as the doctor entered his study.

'She is well,' replied Dr Donaldson, soothing the usually unflappable Master with an open palm. He suspected a keen interest on the part of the gentleman, and if he was not mistaken, he thought it likely that the affection was returned. 'She had only small cuts and scrapes. Quite a few bruises, but she is not a weak thing; they shall not trouble her. I gave her five stitches - not done as neatly as yours - but they are to the back, and not the face, so I shouldn't think it signifies. I suspect a cracked rib, but she has not complained of restricted movement, so perhaps I am over-cautious.' Mr Thornton nodded. Well! thought he. Well! He called her well? She does not sound well at all! he grumbled, inwardly. For in his grand passion for her, the thought of one small mar upon her golden skin was as a mortal wound to him. Seeing Mr Thornton unconvinced, Dr Donaldson spoke on, in an attempt to reassure him. 'I should think the wounds only a trifle to her, Thornton. She has upon her skin some scaring. A surgical scar by all accounts, and a smattering of other scars I could not fathom. One wound I found, surprised me all the more.' His brow furrowed, and his voice took on a curious lilt, as though he was discussing an interesting case study which had baffled him these many years past. He paused in thought, not realising Mr Thornton's impatience, and stuck out his bottom lip in contemplation.

'Donaldson?' prompted Mr Thornton, at length.

'Ah! Yes, the scar! Why, it looked a curious type of wound. I would say a gunshot wound, but I have only encountered three or so in my time, so I cannot say as much with any confidence. I know that she has lived in far-flung foreign lands, but a young lady to have suffered from a rifle!' Mr Thornton was appalled, and fought the urge to dash to the guest room and hold her to his breast so that he might ensure, with his roaming hands and firm embrace, that she was truly quite well. Oblivious to his interlocutor's discomfort, Donaldson bid Mr Thornton good day and saw himself to his carriage.

Mr Thornton stood numb, in the centre of his study. He wanted to go to her; to thank her and chastise her for her foolish actions; he wanted to see for himself that she was truly unharmed, and yet he felt he could not go to her; not if she was alone in the guest room. He paced the floor in agitation, vexed in the knowledge that he would have no opportunity to speak with her in private, but impatient to look upon her once again. He strode purposefully into the drawing room, and settled himself upon the sofa, waiting restlessly for her appearance. Mrs Thornton was to be his sole companion, for Fanny was still not recovered from her histrionics, and as his mother leant over her worsted-work, Mr Thornton pored listlessly over the day's paper. He frowned, thinking that Isabel was gone a very long time, and wondered if she had not been taken ill. He could refrain no longer, and turned abruptly to his mother, his newspaper cast aside.

'Mother, ought not you go and check on Miss Darrow? Dr Donaldson left some time ago and still she has not emerged from the guest room.' Mrs Thornton looked at her son in consternation, and the fragile sense of calm that she had clung to as they had both taken up their habitual evening pastimes, was dashed to dust within that one brief question, for her son had not sat quietly without declaration or question, simply because his mind was free from thoughts of that girl, but merely because he waited for her.

'She is gone, John!' rushed Mrs Thornton, and in seeing his dumbfounded expression she instantly felt vexed and set her mouth into a grim line.

'Gone! She is gone!'

'Yes, John. Donaldson said she was quite well, and she wished to go; she had made up her mind and you know she is one to do and say however she pleases.' Mr Thornton stood and paced uneasily, shaking his head in disapproval.

'Donaldson did say she was well - that the wounds were superficial, but still I think they must have been many in number! And she was quite knocked out! I am sorry she has gone; she cannot have been well enough to go!'

'She said she was and Dr Donaldson agreed. Indeed, he took her in his carriage. She said he would call on Mrs Hale, as it was. I saw no reason for her not to leave with him. It was quite proper! Nothing was neglected.' Mr Thornton stopped his pacing and stilled beside his mother, one hand placed upon her shoulder in a gesture of thanks, but she was too vexed to acknowledge it. 'What has been done for those Irish people?' asked she, keen to talk of something else. And with his usual business-like formality, his hand slipped from her shoulder and he turned squarely to the window, looking out on the now-deserted mill yard, as he spoke in that low, determined way of his.

'I sent off to the Dragon for a hot meal for them all, the poor wretches! I was able to catch Father Grady as I was speaking with the superintendent and he has agreed to speak to them; to calm their fears and keep them from fleeing off back to Ireland in one great body, which would only excited the fools out there, further! I am sorry that Miss Darrow has gone, for I had not a chance to speak with her.'

'There was no need, John!' sighed Mrs Thornton, in exasperation. 'Let us talk of something else,' cajoled she. 'That girl has caused enough trouble; we need not dwell on it.'

'Trouble!' cried her son, with rising excitement. 'But I had meant to thank her, for I don't know where I should have been but for her. I expect I should be lying dead!'

'Oh, come, John! and stop this foolish talk. You should certainly have not been dead. Miss Darrow only took a few knocks and scrapes and that would not be enough to kill a man like you!' But she spoke wishing, rather than believing it to be true, for she had watched all from the window, and had seen quite clearly, that the mob had only abated upon coming to their senses at seeing that tumble of feminine hair. Not heeding her words, Mr Thornton continued to voice his own impassioned thoughts.

'She saved me, Mother!'

'Are you now so weak as to need to be saved by a young girl? And such a tiny one at that!' He reddened at the accusation, but innately he knew that his Isabel was no mere tiny thing; a warrior, he thought her. And brave; so very brave! Cheeks still aflame, he turned to his mother and said in a quiet and feeling voice, -