Isabel dressed slowly the following morning; she was apprehensive about what the day would bring, and was half-minded to take herself out, so that she might not be at home, should Mr Thornton feel himself obliged to call. But that, she could not do, for Mrs Hale - although she had passed the night well - needed care, and Isabel's rib was sore, making her movement stiff, and so she had no stomach for any unnecessary physical exertion. She sat with Margaret whilst Mr Hale read to his wife, and heard of her visit to Bessy Higgins.

'She was much worse,' confided Margaret. 'She looked to be in some pain, and with a difficulty of breathing. I read to her for a while, but she could not rest, for - oh! - I didn't tell you! But there was a riot at Marlborough Mills, and Mr Thornton was struck, saved only by his sister, who got caught up in the riot. She was quite hurt, by all accounts.'

'Fanny Thornton!' asked Isabel, in alarm. There could be no greater falsehood, for the foolish girl had gathered up her skirts and run off screaming; never would she have ventured outside; never would she have sought to protect her brother. Isabel bristled with indignation, but was not likely to correct Margaret in her faulty account of the riot.

'Yes,' said Margaret; her voice low, with a conspiratorial edge to it. 'For I had thought Miss Thornton quite a selfish creature. I had supposed her to be a coward, but now, I fear I have done her a disservice, and I can only hope that neither brother nor sister were too greatly hurt.' She looked upon Isabel with expectation, and - thinking her to be moved by the news that her much-admired Mr Thornton had been felled - she was unsuspicious of the flush which tinged Isabel's abnormally pale cheeks. 'And the strike, you see, has been broken up. The men have not the heart for it now that there has been this violence against a woman. Bessy said Nicholas is quite knocked down with it all - being a union man, and so set-against violence as he was. They've lost their cause and now must go back to work - wages none the higher - and Nicholas and his fellow union men shall suffer the brunt of it; though he played no part in that great mob.' Margaret was compassion for all sides, and looked only anxious for the fate of those starving men, but then her expression cleared, and she looked to Isabel with heavy expectation.

'But you were at Marlborough Mills!' cried she, in sudden understanding. 'And you said the streets quite rough. Did you see nothing of the riot?'

'Oh! I saw crowds of people; I sensed their mal-intent, but as it is, I've no knowledge of Fanny Thornton having been harmed at all.' And it was not a lie, of course, yet still, not an honest answer. Now they were interrupted by Mr Hale, who came to claim his daughter for Mrs Hale's companion, for he needed to go out on an errand, and so he left, and Margaret took herself off to Mrs Hale's side at the sofa, and Isabel repaired to her room, where she thought to rest; having passed a sleepless night.

No sooner had her head rested against the pillow, than Dixon knocked gently at the door.

'Mr Thornton, Miss Isabel; he is in the drawing room.'

'Mr Hale is gone out,' came her wary reply, with a pounding of the heart.

'He asked for you, Miss.'

'Not Margaret?' asked Isabel; though she knew it was hopeless; he would, indeed, have asked for her.

'No, he asked for you. Shall you see him, or ought I send him away, if you are resting?'

'No, I will come,' replied Isabel, for she knew she could not put him off. And yet her feet were leaden, and every step towards that ominous room took a vigorous bodily exertion, so that upon her arrival at the door to the room, her cheeks were flushed and her breathing unsteady through grave discomposure.

Mr Thornton stood erect, looking out the window, watching something in the street, but in truth, he was thinking of what he must say. He was afraid that he would speak ill; that he would offend or anger her with his words. He was afraid to be in her presence again - so vivid was the recollection of feeling her weight upon his body, of feeling those delicate fingers upon his face; the heavy rest of her head against his breast - where he felt it ought to be; a natural resting place, he thought, and yet the very idea of it thrilled him, until his passions heightened and he did not trust himself. Indeed, he feared his very reaction to her, and knew not what to expect. One moment - those happy recollections - he would envisage her blushes in her demure, becoming way; eyes lowered as pink crept up her neck. He would see her look up at him with lowered lashes, gratified by his words. He would imagine the warmth in her eyes, upon hearing his declaration, and if he allowed himself the indulgence, he would picture her coming to him; welcoming his embrace, and placing there - where it rightly belonged - her head against his breast. He longed to hold her thusly; to feel that cool, silken crown of hair against his cheek. To tilt down his head and brush his lips upon it, and drink in her sweet, maidenly scent. But in the very next moment, he saw her recoil; repulsed by his words. He feared her indifferent to him, and if she were not, at the very least, unwilling to marry him. He imagined the angry flush of her cheek, as she claimed her independence; as she repudiated his right to own her as a husband claims his wife. He shrank from the very vision of it, and felt his heart beat thick and fast in retaliation. No; he could not think on what she might say in response to his words; he would not dwell on a rejection which must be - by definition - so very painful, and yet, he could not allow himself to hope, for he thought himself not a very lucky man, and to receive any other response to his words, would surely make him the luckiest man in all of England.

He did not hear the door open, but felt a presence in the room, and so he turned about. There she was; she had come in so gently that he had not heard her, and yet his heart knew that she had arrived; even before his eyes or ears had sensed it. He looked her over in one all-encompassing glance, and saw the flushed cheek; the uneven breathing, and felt his heart race. He did not know if she was discomposed through injury, or at being alone in his presence, but he noted that she did not close the door, and so moved softly, to close it for her.

'Would you care to sit?' asked Isabel, in an uneven voice, as she gestured to the sofa. He knew her then - with the slightest of trembles to her voice - to be extremely anxious. He felt a stab of dread, and feared she had some insight into his purpose. That she could feel such anxiety at what he might say, killed that secret hope he had harboured, and stuck his throat dry. He took up the proffered seat, and watched her settle herself a safe distance from him. For all her uneasiness, still she sat in that upright manner; spine straight and shoulders held squarely back. He thought the attitude ingrained within her - not something that could slip away with a changing of emotion - for he had seen that very stance, as she stood before the window, only the day before, when she had looked out fiercely upon the rioters. He took strength in her self-discipline, for it reminded him of his mother.

He rose abruptly from his seat, and made to move quickly towards her. He caught the flash of alarm in her eyes and stilled himself before her, a frown creasing his brow, before he took a cautious step away; cheeks darkened as he spoke.

'Miss Darrow, I had not a chance to thank you yesterday - you left before I had the opportunity to speak with you, and before that,' he swallowed thickly, struggling for the words, 'before that, I fear I was very ungrateful.'

'You have nothing to be grateful for, Mr Thornton,' came her ready reply; her voice now steady, for the conversation thus far followed the pattern of the one she knew he ought to be having with Margaret. She was armed with foresight - she believed - and took courage in it. 'You believe you owe me a certain gratitude for my seeking to shield you from the rioters, but I did only what I ought. Firstly, as a woman, we have a certain sanctity of sex - a certain expectation that we shall not be harmed by men who are set against men. I may have been mistaken in that belief - although I shall admit it, only to an extent, for when the mob stood back and saw me to be a woman, they abated and fled.'

'It was the arrival of the soldiers, I am sure!' retorted Mr Thornton; his tempter rising at her allusion to the blows she had suffered.

'It does not signify. My purpose in speaking was to state that I did what I believe any woman ought to have done, in seeking to protect a man from violence, when she has the advantage of the protection her own sex offers her. Further!' added Isabel, hastily - for she saw he meant to argue, 'it was my duty to place myself between you and the rioters, for I am well aware that you would not have been thrust in harm's way, had I not ventured outside; had you not come to my rescue.' Her cheeks were hot in response to his darkened gaze, for her words had vexed him greatly. He loved her with a passion, and clung to her brave actions as a blissful memory, and yet he was so very angry with her for her foolishness, and he struggled to forgive her, for placing herself in such danger. Her words of admission - in acknowledging the fault - only spurred on that frustration until his jaw set in suppressed excitement and his body trembled with a tempered passion. 'Indeed, I believe that I ought actually, to be apologising to you, and so no thanks - no gratitude on your part - is necessary at all,' finished Isabel, proudly.

'You shall not put me off from words I feel need to be spoken,' insisted he, taking a small step closer; his imposing height towering above her. 'You deny me my right to gratitude - you try to put me off by claiming fault - and I do not deny a certain error of judgement - a rashness on your part - but I most readily deny that I should have nothing to be thankful for. I must speak of it; I must say the words I feel myself compelled to speak.' And he swallowed deeply; his breathing laboured, for he was on the precipice now, and would surely make the weighty proclamation within moments. He frowned, unsure of himself, and sought to weigh his words. He would not speak rashly, but would carefully make his case, so that he could feel no failing on his part; having nothing to regret. His will won out and he stopped himself short; his words dying away before they had truly left his lips.

'I do not try to put you off, sir,' replied Isabel, in a consoling voice. 'I merely state that I feel your gratitude unfounded. Indeed, I verily believe you should not have taken that blow there to your head, had it not been for my own actions, and so any reparation I could make you - in claiming my sex as a shield - was something that I - as a woman - was honour-bound to do.'

'I care not whether you feel your actions worthy of thanks, Miss Darrow,' replied Mr Thornton, confused by her gentle tone, yet defiant words. 'I know not whether my sense of obligation to you is real or imagined, but I choose to claim it all the same, for that obligation - in feeling that I owe my very life to you - it adds a value to my life to think - Oh! Miss Darrow!' sighed he, lowering his voice to a tender intonation of passion, 'to think that I - whenever I might rejoice in my own existence, that I may say to myself henceforth, "all this pleasure in life, all this pride I feel in doing my work, all this keen sense of animation, I might owe to her!" And in saying that - in my acknowledging myself to owe you that great debt - it would double the pleasure, it would swell the pride, and would intensify that feeling of existence, until I should not know if it is a pleasure or a pain to bear it; to think that I owe my very life-blood to one - nay! - do not move away - I must speak it,' promised Mr Thornton, following her with a hasty step, as she rose to her feet and turned from him in an agony of mortification. 'You shall hear me,' implored he, his hand reaching out and resting upon her arm, urging her to turn and face him. She obliged, but kept her face low, unable to look him in the eye, and he caught the deep flush of her cheeks; the parted lips and laboured breathing, and saw that she was moved.

Trembling now, that deep voice low and rough with unbridled emotion, he mustered his determination, and spoke his careful words, even though he was afraid. 'To think that I might owe my very existence to the one I love, as I do not believe any man has ever loved a woman.' He clasped hastily at her hand, and held it tightly in his, panting as he awaited a reply. Her bosom rose and fell; the blush to her cheeks seeped down her neck and spread across that olive skin, and she licked anxiously at her lip. He saw that she was utterly discomposed, and did not know if she was repelled or merely in an ecstasy of shock, but then he saw the eyes glisten, as tears welled against her lashes, and - still holding her hand - he watched the first tear fall. The floodgates opened and the tears streamed thick and fast in silence, and then he knew - instinctively - that the quantity of tears could only mean they were not the feminine tears of happiness; the avoidance of his eye spoke only of some great suffering at the utterance of his feelings. That she did not love him - would not have him - would have been a bitter blow. But that she could be so repulsed as to cry hotly, without a single word of reply, crushed at his soul and left him in an agony of hopelessness and hurt pride.

In indignation, he made to throw her hand from his, but just as he released his hold, he felt her tighten hers. He stared at her in question, for he could not mistake that tender gesture. The tears - those irrational, wholly feminine tears - they could confound him, but that plaintive squeeze of his hand, as though pleading for him not to let go, could not be the gesture of one repelled by his admission. Still she did not look at him; still she did not speak. He was impatient, but felt he would wait for her a lifetime, if only she would give him some sign that she welcomed his feelings. But she did not; she merely cried.

'Miss Darrow?' urged Mr Thornton, at length, for his heart was slamming into his chest with such rapidity and vigour, that he feared it would burst or be rent from his body. 'Will you not speak?'

'I -' She frowned, unsure, and then slowly lifted her eyes to his face. Her cheeks were tear-stained, her eyes red-rimmed, but he had never seen her more beautiful, than in that open and intimate display of emotion. He returned the pressure on her hand, willing her courage, and she found it, though what she said was not what he wished to hear. 'You ought not so say such things,' whispered Isabel, her head shaking sadly, and then he did abruptly pull his hand from hers, for her reproach scolded him, when he had begun to hope that she might feel something for him. She looked to him in alarm, sensing the carelessness of her words, and rushed to correct him in his thinking. 'I don't say such a thing because your declaration is unpleasant to me; I say it because I fear you have these feelings due to some misplaced gratitude for my actions yesterday, and if that is so, it will do us both harm for you to speak them.'

'Gratitude!' cried he, shaking his head defiantly, and claiming her hand once again; but this time his hold was fierce and his look dark; his tone impassioned and no longer tender or anxious. He felt himself a wronged man; his love for her belittled until it was merely a cold offering of thanks, when he had sought to offer her his life. 'There is no room for gratitude in my love for you, Miss Darrow!' spoke Mr Thornton, quickly. 'I tell you that I love you because I feel it in my soul; not because I am thankful that you took a blow for me!' His voice was rising, and he struggled to regain his composure, but he saw the shock upon her face, and he knew - in that instant - that she had truly believed him not to feel for her as he had professed. He thought it a delicate modesty, and indeed, she had always been timid when alone with him, and he was mollified and brought to reason.

The next, he spoke more calmly; with a softer intensity, which did not stir a tempest, but neither hid his passion. 'I told you I loved you because I do. I loved you before the riot. The harm that came upon us, only served to give me the courage to speak my feelings. The riot did nothing to make me love you.' Seeing her eyes widen in disbelief, his smiled at her wryly. 'Ay! It is true. Your actions yesterday served only to frustrate me; seeing you rush out into danger; your disregard for your own safety! It was like a spark to me and I alit in angry flames. I think I have never been so ill-pleased with someone, as I was when I saw you stood before the mill door.' He tone was so tender and intimate, that she - with her all secret love for him - ought to have yielded and melted into him, and yet his words riled her until she pushed him away from her and set her jaw, scowling angrily back at him.

'What right have you to be angry for my placing myself in danger? I am sorry that you sought to intervene; that you were injured whilst trying to protect me, but it was my decision to stand before those men; to defend your Irish. You sought to do nothing - as was your choice - and I, in turn, made my own. I will not be chastised for doing what was right; what was my right to do.' He glared at her rebuke, and his dark look of displeasure served only to provoke her further. 'You cannot command me, Mr Thornton. I am not one of your mill hands. I need not obey you. I need not feel your censure, nor consult you in my actions; you are not my kin, and I certainly shall not defer to your judgement, simply by the virtue of your sex. I am a free and independent woman, and so saying, I should act as I did, again, if such a violent eruption of people were to reoccur. I would defend any innocent people, and place myself before any endangered person of responsibility or dependants, where I have none whom rely upon me, in turn. This is my right, and I shall not be scolded for it!' Her chest rose and fell with exertion as she finished speaking, and Mr Thornton could only look back at her in wonder. So impassioned was she, in her claim of independence. It ought to have crushed him - the heavy blow he feared - for surely, she would not now consent to be his wife, if she clung to her independence so fiercely - and yet, he could not but admire her; that defiant spirit which would never be quelled. He thought, with small amusement, that she was so very like his mother; so northern in her ways, for all her foreign eccentricities.

'I tell you only how I felt. I did not castigate you. You will think on what I said, and see that I did not. I spoke only to show you, that had I not loved you previous to the strike, I should not love you now.' And he smiled a small and tentative smile, enraptured by her beauty as she stood defiantly before him. She was surprised by his gentleness of response, for she knew she had spoken harshly; that his tall and powerful man could be so gentle; so very humble and patient in his regard for her, almost brought her back to tears, but she steeled herself, for his avowal meant nothing; could mean nothing, for he was not for her.

'This is wrong,' said Isabel, quietly, underneath her breath, but he caught the words - ever attentive to her as he was - and he looked on her as she toyed with her fingers anxiously.

'What is wrong?' asked he, when no further words fell forth.