He was gone. Isabel stood wretched, alone in the drawing room, pondering on his great revelation. Upon first hearing his declaration of love, she had truly felt him compelled to action through some noble sense of honour, but as she refuted the necessity of such a self-sacrificing act, she had seen the vehemence of his conviction in his eyes; those blue windows to his soul, which cried out to her until her breath was stolen, and she was left in a rapture of agony and longing. At the very first utterance of that sacred word "love" - though strong and hard-of-heart (as she had taught herself to be) - all her efforts of the past were dashed to dust, and that great barrier she had erected over time, to keep those at bay who may hurt her the mostly gravely, came tumbling down with greater readiness and surer calamity than the great oak doors to the mill yard ever did. And she had not been tramped upon by some fervent mass of feral beings; she had not been attacked by a great and mighty surge, but had heard only that most touching of words, spoken in a tender, yet passionate voice.

It was the softness against the surge; and it had undone her, leaving her bereft. The agony of it! The torture to her soul, as her skin was set alight by his gentle intonation and his most beautiful of words. To hear them spoken - and in such a way - and to fear them so untrue - offered only through compulsion - had been to her, to offer water to a parched man, lying close to death in some vast and torrid desert; throat baked under the blazing sun, lying only one inch from death. She had thought Mr Thornton's words to be as the water that caught that parched man's eye, glistening with promise, stirring hope and a determination to snatch it up in triumph, but the glass dropped, the water sunk, bleeding into that unrelenting sand, and the agony of thirst was all the greater, for having had so lately, the promise of what one's heart so fervently desired.

But he had declared his conviction of sentiment, and had claimed his right to speak his feelings; so wholly felt and so unflinchingly impassioned. She could not deny his honesty; she could form no rebuke, and the very truth of that first declaration of love; the very tenderness and openness of heart with which it was made, ought to have been a balm to her fevered skin, and so it was. For the tears had abated and cooled upon her flushed cheeks, and so she had found the voice to reply, but the very realisation, that where she loved, it was returned, was only a pleasure in guise, for then she felt the burden of his own heart; of inflicting upon him one ounce of what she suffered in her unquenched love for him, for she could never have him, alien as she was. How, she asked herself, had such a cataclysm of unspoken love erupted, where it had no place in being? The story was not hers, but Margaret's, and for all her selfish desire, for all her personal hopes and dreams, she could never usurp the heroine of what had been for her, the most passionate and tender of love stories. And she! she, Isabel Darrow! To find herself the object of such a man's admiration? The blighted one! who had not passed one month of continual contentment in all her life? Who had lived off morsels of pleasure dropped one crumb at a time - often laced with arsenic, biting her about the throat when she least expected it, and gnawing at her insides.

'He cannot love me!' whispered she, into her lonely prison cell - for that was how that most comfortable and domestic of rooms now felt to her; stifling and suffocating in its bleak and hopeless prospect. 'He cannot!' repeated Isabel, her voice now taking on an edge of desperation, her fists clenching in defiance. And yet, if she allowed herself the indulgence of looking back on their every previous meeting, she could not but admit that never had he shown a preference for Margaret. A curiosity, indeed, and he appeared so take pleasure in her company, but only in a vexatious way, as though she was to him some itch or irritation, which was - when scratched - of sharp and fleeting satisfaction, only to be impatiently cast off once that initial relief was felt. No; he had looked upon Margaret closely - attentively - but never with any warm glow of feeling; never with unguarded admiration or tenderness of sentiment. And, if she was wholly honest, and sought not to see only what she wished - in the sense of her not being an impediment to the tale - she had sensed in Mr Thornton, a certain satisfaction in finding himself so understood; in knowing that his opinion was attended to and respected; not only listened to as any idle, obedient creature might, but readily understood and added to, probed and questioned, until he, himself, found that it was not he alone who imparted knowledge.

And in so seeing, Isabel thought back on each fleeting exchange of farewell, passed privately in the hallway; each look or shake of the hand. The trace of a smile at finding his gloves warmed for him, or the evident satisfaction in watching her smooth that nape of his top hat. Did I force this on him? she asked of herself, anxiously pacing the room and biting at her thumb. Did I prevent him from drawing near to Margaret, by interjecting myself into their debates? Did I steal that opportunity to stir feeling in one another, by my very presence; by my every spoken interruption? And she thought on it with a heavy sense of guilt, and looked desperately to apportion to herself the fullest serving of blame, for she felt all three smitten by her very being. For now, Margaret had not the love of such a true and noble heart - as was Mr Thornton's - and that very man himself, was now lost in a hopeless passion, for she - Isabel Darrow - could assuredly never be his; not for all she could want it. And for herself; had she not found herself in Milton - the most mysterious of places - through some speculative quest to find a place called "home"? She had certainly stepped into a ready-made family in the form of the Hales, but oh! to find a man to love and admire with such unquestionable certainty of passion! She spun on her heel, her heart racing; blood flowing fast; that beating organ sounding a tattoo against her breast. The cheeks flushed with emotion as an inner turmoil raged within her, for in coming to Milton, she had blighted her own existence by falling in love with one she may never have.

She determined to avoid him; to push Margaret before his very presence, and sit back meekly, watching love germinate between them, until its roots were twisted about their ankles, and so very embedded and taken hold, as to offer both lovers an anchor which no gusty northern wind, nor any foolish argument, misunderstanding or misplaced jealousy could smite. And yet, if his heart was true to her as he had threatened, if her own was true to him as she knew it always would be, what of poor Margaret? What happiness would there be for those ill-fated three? None! She knew there could be none; not whilst she remained in Milton. She thought she might flee, but to where? She knew not if the world even existed beyond the pages of Milton. And Mrs Hale - suffering in her last - she could not leave her, nor Mr Hale, and she had become a friend of sorts to Margaret, who would need comfort when her mother passed. It was impossible! She must bear her agony in silence, and trust in the tale to right itself if she stepped back and become only a shadow in the background; no longer a key player.

And whilst she thought on this - undisturbed in that room - Margaret sat beside her mother and talked of the favoured child, Frederick. The affectionate mother had much to say about her precious son, for he was the handsomest baby one had ever seen, and even Dixon - who had no inclination to fill the role of nurse - had, upon seeing the fair boy's perfect face, quite warmed to him, until such a time (and it had not taken long) that he was second in the loyal servant's affections, only to her most-beloved Mistress.

'He was such a beautiful baby, Margaret dear,' intoned Mrs Hale, with a wistful longing, as she lounged upon the water-bed. 'You were not so beautiful. Indeed, I said to Dixon when first I held you in my arms, "what an ugly little thing!" but then she said, "Not all can be as Master Frederick!" and it was very true. I remember it so well. And all were so fond of him. I, myself, wished to always have him in my arms, and when I could not hold him, I wished for his cot to be beside me, so that I might look upon him.' And here, Mr Hale took himself from the room, for he could not bear to hear of his son.

'And oh! Margaret!' whimpered Mrs Hale, heedless to her husband's departure. 'To think that I don't know where my dear boy is, and that I shall never see him again!' The sobs came, and Margaret took up her mother's hand and brought it to her lips in a gesture of comfort, but it was a fruitless endeavour, for she was not the favoured child; nor was she long-missed. And Mrs Hale - now so close to death - grasped at her agony of longing and regret, and allowed herself to descend into a fit of hysteria. Indeed, she made no attempt to quell the tears, and quite actively thought on all that pleased her about her son; all those happy memories, seeing those bright and innocent smiles, he always offered his mamma.

She indulged herself in the pleasure of remembering him and missing him; she indulged herself in the outpouring of grief, and when she was quite done, she turned to her daughter and said, 'Margaret, if I am to die - and I know I shall, now - very soon - I must see my boy again. I cannot go to my grave without seeing my first child once more. I know not how it is that I may see him, but it is my dearest wish, and as you yourself, dear,' she took her daughter's hand with her own; now cold and clammy, 'you will wish for your last and greatest desire to be gratified when you find death awaits you, and so I charge you - however it may be done - to bring him to me, so that I might see him one last time.' She broke off; the painful sense of longing for her son, and the inevitability of death, leaving her weak and trembling and Margaret, so fervent in her desire for her mother's comfort, thought not of how granting such a request might be accomplished; thought not if it was quite unreasonable for her other to ask it, but only squeezed the frail hand tenderly, and promised to write to her brother to ask him home. The danger to her brother was - she feared - quite great, but she could not bring herself to think on it, for to refuse her mother's wish would be unbearable, and to think of the fate that could befall her brother if the navy caught him! That; she could not countenance.

'Mamma, I will write to-night, and ask Frederick to come. I am certain he shall come, Mamma, and directly. I am sure of it,' added Margaret, with a smile.

'You will write before the last post, Margaret?' asked Mrs Hale, hopefully; those plaintive eyes rounding with longing. 'The last post is at five, and you must not lose one day; I fear I have not the time!'

'I will write as soon as Papa is home, Mamma.'

'Papa has gone out! I did not know it. But you will write now, Margaret? You will not wait for your papa and deny me my wish?'

'Oh! Mamma!' sighed Margaret, for her mother's pleading grew her weary, and yet she truly thought she ought not send off to Frederick before speaking with her father, for the dangers to her brother were great, and she trusted not her own judgement. The invalid saw her daughter's reticence, and pleaded once more, invoking every symptom of demise to assuage her cause.

'But your papa will want for my wish to be granted, Margaret. You know he is solicitous for my comfort and has denied me nothing in my illness. And truly, I long to see my boy, for very soon I shall be gone from this world and I shall have to wait twenty-two days for him to come to me; even if you should write to him by the last post.' Again, Mrs Hale descended into a fit of sobbing, which Margaret could scarcely look upon; so frail and pitiful did her dear mamma now seem.

At length, Mrs Hale composed herself sufficiently to regain her power of sight, and upon attaining it, she used it to accuse Margaret of sitting idle, for she had not yet moved to write the promised letter. Impatient, she demanded her pens and paper, and endeavoured to sit up in bed, so that she may write the precious letter herself. The exertion of movement, the excitement of writing to her son and seeing that favoured child one last time - and perhaps in little more than three weeks! - left Mrs Hale in a fit of trembles, which hindered her ability to compose the letter. Margaret took her hand to still her, speaking softly to console her mother's over-wrought nerves.

'I shall write the letter, Mamma, only let us wait until Papa returns home and then he may advise me what is best to be done.' Again, Mrs Hale shed her tears, and accused Margaret of breaking her promise to her, and - seeing no other means of securing her mother's comfort - Margaret agreed to write the letter. As soon as it was writ, Mrs Hale bid her daughter to take the letter off to the post-office, fearing that any delay would see her son return home after her demise.

Upon returning from her errand, Margaret found Mr Hale sat about the drawing room with Isabel, whilst Mrs Hale slept - exhausted through her heavy crying. Mr Hale looked up and asked his daughter where she had been, for she had not left the house on any form of errand, since that fearful fit the evening of the Thornton's annual dinner.

'I went to the post-office, Papa. I went to post a letter.' And here her voice shook with some anxious emotion and a frown seeped across her brow. 'Oh! Papa!' rushed Margaret, as a child compelled to confess to a parent some foolish misdeed. 'Papa - I wrote to Frederick, asking him to come home, so that Mamma might see him again, for it's her greatest wish and she urged me so. Oh! Papa! Have I done wrong? Is it so very unsafe for Frederick to return?' She looked imploringly to her father; a bewildered child seeking the comfort and reassurance that the wise parent alone, can bring. But Mr Hale was troubled, for though he too, knew his wife to long for her son, and though he wanted nothing more than to see that wish granted, he felt the risk to Frederick, to be so very grave.

'The danger to him is great,' replied Mr Hale, simply, a note of defeat to his voice, for the letter could not be got back; the deed was done.

'All these years after the mutiny!' asked Margaret, with rising excitement. At this, Mr Hale turned anxiously to Isabel, as though unsure if he should speak. Of course, Isabel knew of Frederick's trouble with the navy, for although he visited Milton only briefly, his was a character so carefully placed, as to add one additional and exquisite barrier to Margaret and Mr Thornton's shared happiness. But alas! even that mere passing allusion to the man - spoken only in her mind - was enough to stir in her breast, an agony so sublime that Isabel feared she would tremble before her company and be of no comfort to any of them. The very least I can do, thought she, with that stoic determination of character she had sculpted for herself so carefully, is to see the Hales well set. If I have blighted Margaret's future happiness, in addition to dear Mr Thornton's - not to speak of my own pitiful existence! - then the very least I can do in reparation is to be a strong, consoling presence for the Hales; a source of reassurance, and a staunch protector of Frederick when he makes his cloaked return.

'Isabel must know, Papa, if Frederick is to return,' encouraged Margaret, and at the assenting nod of Mr Hale, Isabel feigned ignorance, and listened to Mr Hale's sad tale.

'My son - Frederick - he was such a happy boy, and ever so admired by all who met him. He had no interest in the classics, of course,' frowned Mr Hale, with obvious regret, 'but his mamma so loved him, and Margaret, here; a sister could not be a greater champion for an older brother. He was quite set on joining the navy, and although we were sad to see him gone, we were so very proud of him.' The wistfulness to Mr Hale's voice died away, and a cloud drew across his face to darken his countenance. 'Frederick thrived on his career in the navy, but he got caught up with a Captain Reed, who was a cruel and unrelenting tyrant. He would beat his men and dole out no small share of injustice. Over time, Frederick - along with some others of his crew - felt they could no longer tolerate Captain Reed's cruelties - perpetrated always against the smallest and weakest on board - and they set the Captain and his most-loyal of men, adrift in a boat.'

'With supplies and a compass, so that they might make shore!' put in Margaret, for she felt this of importance.

'Yes,' sighed Mr Hale wearily, for to the navy, it had not made the slightest difference at all. 'They called it a mutiny - although Frederick assures us that Captain Reed was quite mad and that he had no choice but to act - and so the navy rounded up what men they could - some of them (including Frederick) having fled, and those they found were put on trial and hanged. Frederick has been in exile ever since, and lives in Cadiz, in Spain. There's a bounty on his head and he's not set foot in England these past years.' Mr Hale sighed once more in resignation. 'And now he is asked to return to see his mamma one final time.'

'And you say it is very dangerous, Papa? That he will be in grave danger, should he come?'

'Yes; for the government must take a very hard line with anyone who rebels against its authority. The very strictness of their unyielding punishment of such rebellion, is their means of keeping men under control; lest they heed the warning. The navy is the very worst, for where else but at sea is a man in command so wholly isolated? The authorities on shore are stringent in their pursuit of any dissenters, and offer bounties on the heads of those doomed men who dare to question their authority. They send off ships specifically for the purpose of rounding up those who are wanted and have fled the shores of England - they spare no expense, even as the years pass; they do not forget, and time will offer Frederick no sanctuary.'

'Oh, Papa!' cried Margaret. 'What have I done? I ought not to have written to him, but it seemed the thing to do - Mamma longs to see him so - but now I fear that he will come, despite the risk, for surely he won't stay away if Mamma has explicitly asked for him?'

'Nay, Margaret. You do well. Your mother wished to see him and he would wish to come; I know he shall. I would not have durst written, but it was the right thing to do. I should have thought on it too long, and then perhaps, I would have written too late to do your mamma any good. No; you did well my dear. What shall come of it - of his being in England - I cannot know, but we ought not to have kept mother from son.'

'You may of course be assured of my discretion,' said Isabel, in reassurance. 'Indeed, I know he must be kept hidden - even here in Milton, where he is unknown - but should there be a sighting, we could quite easily say that he is a distant cousin of mine, perhaps, who is visiting from overseas? Indeed, living in Cadiz under the sun, shall he not have darkened skin?' Mr Hale, anxious, and therefore quick to grasp at any small consolation with all the vigour his battered spirit could muster, readily nodded his agreement.

'It is true, Isabel,' nodded he, before retreating to his study and burying himself in some translations.