Margaret awoke late the following morning; she had fallen to her bed in such a fitful state – so very overcome by her audacious lie – that she had forgotten to wind her clock, and so she knew only that the sun was well advanced across that smoky Milton sky, and that the house moved about below her. She sat up in her bed; head still thick with restless slumber, conscience still greatly troubled with the lie which she had told – the lie Isabel had told! – and the tall, foreboding Milton manufacturer who knew of both falsehoods. She feared even looking upon his face; to see the disdain in Mr Thornton's eyes, and she did not even care for the man! Oh, what must Isabel feel! cried Margaret to herself, but she was pulled hastily from her lamentations, as the door to her room was slowly and cautiously pressed open, and Dixon crossed the threshold.

'Master forbade me to wake you, Miss Margaret. He said you was so run down last night that he wished for you to sleep. Now I expect you will be wanting your breakfast, no doubt. I will bring it up once the Master's finished with the tray.' Margaret nodded mutely, her mouth down-turned; a weary sigh upon her lips. 'But here I have something that shall no doubt put some colour in those cheeks – and your Papa, too! I should think.' And Dixon held out a letter – arrived just that morning – from Frederick.

Anxiously, Margaret waited for the faithful servant to leave, for she felt she could not possibly read the letter until she was alone. Hastily she tore at the seal and let her thirsty eyes fall upon that familiar, careless scrawl. The letter was dated some four days ago, and had obviously been waylaid en-route from Liverpool. Scanning the letter, Margaret breathed a deep sigh of relief, as she read that Frederick had boarded a packet the very evening he left Milton, just as had been planned.

'I am loath to leave you in your grief, my darling – and with father brought so low – but I shall not be sorry to leave England, for all the good it has ever done me. The hour is late and the bitter northern winds whip about my face. I shall be glad to be back in Cadiz with my Dolores. Oh! how I love her, and you shall love her too; I know that you must meet her. Now, of our Isabel, Margaret. She is a wild one, I think. I should not like her to lead you astray, but I think her a good and Christian heart, so I shall pray for her Mr Thornton. Such a fierce fellow must surely rein her in. Now I only hope that Mr Thornton does not ask questions about seeing us together at the station. No one must know of my having been in England, dear sister, for until you have written to Henry Lennox, and asked him to take up my case, I shan't know if I will one day have to return to clear my name. And Leonards! What good fortune that it was Isabel who came across him and not I. I dread to think what scene may have ensued, had that drunken fellow seen me, and on a public platform! where he may have called for any man to detain me. It was providence that father should have bid Isabel to walk with us to see you home, for I am certain that had she not met Leonards, we soon should have. And now I must be off, my Margaret; my packet leaves in not five minutes. I shall pray for you all, and write as soon as I am home.'

Margaret clung to his words with a deliberate fervour, for he seemed so very certain that Isabel had been their saviour, that evening at the Outwood station, and in believing her to be so, Margaret felt some small lessening of guilt; that the lie was in some way a reparation for the great service rendered, and so saying, she rose with renewed resolve, and dressed with care, before seeking out her father in his study, reading to him – no mention of Leonards or his having been seen by Mr Thornton – Frederick's letter.

'And so Frederick left England four days ago, Papa, and is now well on his way home to Cadiz. He shall write upon his return, and I will speak with Henry Lennox, and see what might be done for his case.' Mr Hale sank back into his chair and breathed long and deep, as though a great care had been lifted from his shoulders; his face trembled with the ease of his burden, and he looked to his daughter hopefully.

'Then Frederick is safe, and now it is just you and I, my dear; and Isabel, of course.'

'But it need not be, Papa,' encouraged Margaret. 'We might one day sail to Cadiz. Should you not like to meet Frederick's wife?' Mr Hale shook his head – he had no inclination to venture forth again; not now that his wife lay in the ground – yet he spoke an ambivalent "if you wish", and turned aimlessly to his books, before setting his watery eyes upon the page.

Mr Hale could no longer keep up cheerful conversation; the relief to him of learning that Frederick had safely got off from Liverpool, has assuaged his immediate fears for his son's safety, but he could not think on that son without regret. Regret that he would likely never see the boy again; regret that if Margaret was to have the chance to go to him and meet his beloved Dolores, he should not go himself – not being up to the journey – but would instead seek to persuade Mr Thornton to take up double lessons, where they could talk up the classics until even his hunger for those great and dusty tomes was sated. Indeed, after that brief reprieve brought about by Frederick's tardy letter, Mr Hale did not brighten again that day until the arrival of Mr Thornton, who came with a book he had promised at their last meeting.

He walked directly towards Mr Hale, and took his hand in greeting. That tired and trembling face looked upon him with benign eyes, which spoke of the pleasure and relief of seeing his friend as promised, and Mr Thornton felt glad that he had come – much as he had debated doing so – much as it was late, and he could ill-afford to spare the time – because the expression of gratitude upon Mr Hale's face, spoke to him of the great service he rendered his friend in taking the small trouble to visit.

He took up a seat beside Mr Hale, and listened to him as he spoke quietly of his interest in the book Mr Thornton had brought with him, and he saw, in every careworn line, and with every tremor of the hand, how aged his friend so suddenly appeared; how destitute of hope and mirth, and he knew – in that instant – that Mr Hale could not have borne the disgrace of his daughter's lie, had it come to his knowledge. The gentleman he had seen Margaret with at the station; that, Mr Thornton could not fathom. He had thought it very likely this Mr Dickinson who – according to Dr Donaldson – had been staying with the Hales at the time of Mrs Hale's death, and yet Isabel had denied any such person existed. She had shown herself capable of a lie, though, and since learning of that false alibi, he had begun to harbour a jealous suspicion that the man sighted at Outwood station was indeed this Mr Dickinson, and that somehow, both ladies of Crampton were caught up with him.

The very idea of it – of his Isabel having business with this man – a man she could lie for – lashed at him with the jealous tongue of a fiercely hissing snake, and as he sat before his friend, listening to that gentle and compassionate voice with all his close attention, he let the bereaved husband's words wash over him as a balm. Little did Mr Hale know, that the conversation they shared was of mutual relief, for Mr Thornton's vitality instilled in Mr Hale new vigour, and Mr Hale's every gentle tenderness, soothed those fiery emotions in Mr Thornton's breast, until they merely simmered, without that pungent, scalding bubble; always on the precipice of eruption.

But the eruption would come, for Margaret now entered the drawing room – face lowered with shame – but knowing that she could not – in all conscience – hide from the man who knew her falsehood. He stood upon her arrival – the same courtesy as ever – and she was forced to look at him. The raising of her eyes was tentative, and he saw immediately that she feared his rebuke. He was no cruel man, and for all he despised her actions, he would not insult his friend by behaving discourteously to the daughter. He bowed his head in polite greeting, and once she was seated at the far corner of the room – barricaded behind a basket of sewing which she took little interest in – he let his eyes steal over that abashed countenance.

He was pleased, he thought, to see that guilty flush; to see the downturned lips and lowered lashes. Let her be demure; let her feel my silent disapproval and the castigation of her own conscience, for it is right that she should feel it. It pleases me to see it, for it shows she knows her enormity, said Mr Thornton to himself. And there! Her hands; they trembled, as she worked about her needle, and he allowed himself to take a quiet pleasure in it, feeling it her penance. And with every tangible betrayal of her own deep-seated guilt – of her fragile discomposure – Margaret restored herself some portion, in his own esteem. She was, he saw, no habitual liar, and the falsehood did not sit easily upon those previously-unsullied shoulders. Mr Thornton was thankful for it; for her father and for her. One error – one blight – he might choose to overlook, but a proclivity to falsehood; that, he could not tolerate.

Mr Hale spoke on, and now came Isabel – wholly unsuspecting of Mr Thornton's presence, for he ought not to have come, but merely sent the book by with a hasty note of regret. She stilled in the doorway, upon seeing his imposing figure – folded so gracefully and with such a beautiful juxtaposition – beside the slender and feminine frame of Mr Hale. Her breath caught in surprise, and Mr Thornton – who had heard her lightness of foot as she approached the room, and had therefore been most attentively conscious of her arrival – heard that gasp, and knew too well its origin. So too, did Margaret, who looked anxiously to Isabel, as Mr Hale talked on with unsuspecting ease. Mr Thornton rose as Isabel recollected her senses, and continued her path into the room. She looked to him, her eyes now taking on the expression of challenge, which struck him as wholly opposite to that feminine timidity so undoubtedly displayed by Miss Hale.

'I have here that list, Mr Thornton,' said Isabel, with a calm and steady voice, as she moved to the small occasional table and picked up a sheet of paper. 'I have added only one provision to the list which Dr Donaldson had not.' She handed him the list, and he looked upon it with a frown.

'Tea and biscuits?' asked he.

'For shock. Tea with sugar. Or if one should faint. Tea and biscuits; far cheaper than medicines, sir.' He looked back at the list and did not question her suggestion, but looked instead to the handwriting, which was inelegant, and although smooth in line with a mature and learned fluidity, he thought it almost childish, in the shaping of her letters. He had never seen the like,, and was struck by it, for he dealt with merchants overseas, and knew of none with such a hand.

'You write in pencil?' And there she blushed; not at standing before him a liar, but in writing with pencil.

'Oh! Isabel does not get on with a quill,' explained Mr Hale, bemusedly.

'Nor do I,' replied Mr Thornton. 'I use a metal tipped pen as a convenience.'

'Ah, yes!' frowned Mr Hale. 'I believe my friend Mr Bell does, now, too. I, myself, have never had the inclination to purchase one of these pens, have I, Margaret?' now turning to his daughter. Her voice caught in her throat, and she coughed lightly to clear it.

'No, Papa. We have always used the quill.'

'And you, Miss Darrow – perhaps you are more familiar with the pen?' asked Mr Thornton, his tone heavy and foreboding; almost a challenge.

'I am,' replied Isabel, looking to Mr Thornton in question. 'Shall I ring for tea?' asked she, looking now to Margaret.

'Oh, yes.'

'I shall not stay; I have an appointment at eight o'clock.' Margaret appeared relieved – a symptom of her burdened conscience – but Isabel did not react to this announcement at all, which irked Mr Thornton all the more. 'Thank you for this list, Miss Darrow. Perhaps I may speak with you a moment, whilst I see myself out?'

'Certainly, John,' agreed Mr Hale, rising from his seat with the restoration of the youthful gait more befitting his age.

They walked down the stairs in silence, and upon reaching the hallway, Isabel took up Mr Thornton's top hat and handed it to him without uttering a word. He reached out his hand and took it; those long, elegant fingers curling about the brim of his hat, as he felt his skin bite against the nape. He looked down at her, her eyes half lowered; uncertain, but unafraid, and he was struck once again by the stark contrast between her demeanour and that of Miss Hale. He did not wish for her to fear him, of course, but for some sign of guilt; something to show him that he had not been utterly mistaken in her virtue.

'Have you nothing to say to me, Miss Darrow?' And she looked up at him, then. Her hazel eyes, flecked with gold. They rounded, the pupils dilating as they drank from his own cobalt depths. He saw in her look, an unashamed transparency, and he knew she understood his meaning, perfectly.

'You speak – of course – of the lie I told. I am not ashamed to have lied, sir, despite what you may think I ought to feel.'

'You do not regret the lie?' asked Mr Thornton, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

'Regret it? No, I do not. I am no fool. I do not act rashly, sir. I do as I wish, and so I do not regret the lie. I would give it again, if I had to.' He frowned; he was displeased, and the brim of his hat took the brunt of his displeasure, as his fingers tightened about it, forming an unforgiving fist.

'I had not taken you for a liar, Miss Darrow. It appears I was mistaken,' came his clipped reply, and she could see that she had angered him; that he had angered himself in loving her so deeply; in still loving her so deeply, despite the impenitent falsehood.

'I would not own myself to be a liar, sir. One lie surely does not make for a liar, but for a person who has spoken a falsehood.' He shook his head, angry at her ambivalence. She did not have the grace to blush, despite his evident displeasure. He thought that she must not care for his opinion of her, and the realisation of it stung him, provoking a retaliation of temper.

'It is nothing to you, then – that I know of this lie? You care not for my opinion of you?' She sighed and he thought – although he could not be certain – that he had seen her roll her eyes at him.

'You are very defensive, Mr Thornton. You seem determined to look upon every misdeed or word spoken not to your liking, as a deliberate slight. I lied to protect three people who were caught up in that fateful evening, sir. I had no thought of your regard for my falsehood.' He instantly bristled, his eyes widening and nostrils flaring, as his chest dilated in passion.

'Three people?' asked he, his voice low and strained. He took a step closer, almost crushing her in that darkened, narrow hallway. 'Three people, Miss Darrow?' implored he, again, for certainly, he knew she had lied to protect Margaret. He thought it possible she was caught up in the matter somewhere, herself – being an almost constant companion of Miss Hale, but the third; it was surely the unknown gentleman Miss Hale was with – embracing in the darkness. She protects him! he cried to himself. It is he who has led her to the falsehood! And all kind and noble thoughts of her having lied to protect an aggrieved Mr Hale fell to dust and scattered on those tempestuous northern winds. He stood before her, veritably snarling in vexation.

'It is this Mr Dickinson, then? You lied for him?' And here, he impulsively took up her wrist, and clasped it with his long fingers. It was impertinent of him; he knew that it was, and she had every right to be appalled; indeed, he felt that she ought to be, for he was disgusted with himself for his own loss of control, and yet he could not willingly relinquish his hold on her until he had those answers. Nor did she shrink for him but instead looked upon him with a softened, compassionate gaze, which threw him, utterly.

'I did not lie for that man you saw with Margaret,' said Isabel, slowly, her voice a sombre whisper. 'I could have lied for him, but I must own, I gave him very little thought. I lied for you, sir.'

'For me!' cried Mr Thornton. 'Why should you have to lie for me?' And when she did not immediately answer, he shook her by the wrist – so slight and warm beneath his biting fingers.

'I will tell you all, sir, but I must be assured of your confidence. It is a matter of law, sir – I fear – a matter of life and death.' He stilled; his eyes widened in surprise, and his jaw set. He looked upon her with ill-restrained frustration, but those hazel eyes only looked back at him consolingly, as though she longed to soothe him; to clear off all his doubts, and leave him calm of mind.

'Very well, but speak only the truth me to, Miss Darrow.'

'I shall – as I always have – but you must come with me.' And to his great surprise, she picked up the candle from the small table in the hallway, and opened the door to Mr Hale's study. She waited just inside the threshold, and after a brief pause, Mr Thornton followed, astounded that she should place herself in such a compromising position with him; alone, at this late hour, when he was supposed to have left, already. Softly, she closed the door and set the candle down upon Mr Hale's desk; scattered with an avalanche of books which had been left off at some tentative precipice, and awaited only picking up again before resuming their animation.

'Now,' said Isabel, 'I told a lie to protect three people; the first being Margaret. When Inspector Watson questioned her about Leonards' death, she told him that she was not there – denied being at the station. This was a lie, as you know, because you saw her there – with a gentleman. You accused me of lying to protect that man, and I admit, that he ought to have entered my thoughts, but he did not. If I were a true friend, I would have said I lied for him, but I lied for you and Margaret, not for the man you call "Mr Dickinson".'

'Do not claim to lie for me, madam!' scolded Mr Thornton, for he was affronted by her insinuation, and jealous of her claim that she owed this other man any obligation of falsehood. She knew of his temper and insecurities, however, and so did not react to his provocation.