Now it was some days since Boucher had thought to drown himself, and his widow was sickly and useless, relying on her neighbours for support, whilst scorning the whole world for the injustice of her predicament. Her children were at fault for being so very cumbersome in number and such a disruption to her in her torpor. She left them without direction and had even seen fit - in her careless grief - to leave her husband laid out before the children; that stained, distorted face quite scaring the infants, until one of the younger ones thought it not his father at all, for he did not "look quite right". Margaret - who had been making frequent visits to Mrs Boucher, in the company of her father - was alarmed that a mother could be so thoughtless, and found Mrs Boucher to be very crude in her grief, and utterly useless.

No help could be offered that would be listened to or appreciated. Mrs Boucher was hard done by. The Masters were at fault for causing the strike with their miserly and heavy-handed ways. Mr Thornton more so, for bringing in the Irish which sparked the riot Boucher was caught up in; for not seeing him charged as conspirator. The Union - and thus Higgins - for making an outcast of her erstwhile husband. God, for not having interceded to dry up that brook so that her husband might have failed in his attempt to drown himself, and then secretly (with a blame she did not voice) she found fault with her husband, for allowing himself to be brought so low; for being so weak as to leave her with the inconvenience of six children.

And it is so often a sad fact that when one is caught up in grievance upon grievance - when one feels oneself so ill-used and unfortunate beyond all good reason - one cannot see the good before one's face. The Unfortunate has not the time to notice the assistance that is offered, nor the compassion that is shown, for The Unfortunate can only dwell upon the injustice of one's lot. And so afflicted was Mrs Boucher; nothing could do her good, nor see her right, and Mr Hale and Margaret - who persisted in visiting her - felt themselves entirely useless.

Isabel, in turn, felt her own agony, for Mr Thornton had sent round a note informing her that the Mill Infirmary would open on the morrow, and she was to be there for eleven o'clock, but she had not seen, nor spoken to him, since her confession in Mr Hale's study. She feared not his censure, for she knew he held secretly, a forgiving heart, but she was perturbed - deeply so - that he should think to call her "friend".

The offer of work at his mill had been to her, a precious gift, symbolising his good faith in her skills and knowledge; showing him to believe her an equal, and not merely an idle creature fit only to be looked upon as an ornament. She had longed for an occupation. Mrs Hale's decline had utilised her skills but little, and she had found no satisfaction in tending to a woman she knew would die, yet longed desperately to save. The mill infirmary was to give her that missing piece of herself that she had yet to find in Milton, and she was grateful for it.

She knew she would have been grateful, had the offer of work come from any other Master in Milton; it mattered not whose yard she worked in, and yet the delicious realisation that it was he - Mr Thornton - who felt her capable, respected her with such a commission, doubled the pleasure in the offering. She had thought it a symbol of his regard for her; showing her how universally admired she was, by one mere man. It showed in him, too, a certain willingness to allow her independence, though she knew that as an unmarried lady, her independence in such respect would always be far greater; that which Mr Thornton allowed his friend would be very different to that which he allowed his wife.

And thus into her mind, entered the paradox; friend or wife? She wanted his regard; to be thought of and looked upon kindly. She wished to be near him; to hear his voice and look upon his face. She wanted, too, her own independence; to exert her own free will, and have no restraint upon her wishes. She knew she would give up the latter in moving from friendship to wife, and she was not certain she could make such a sacrifice (even if Margaret were not destined to be his). And yet, until that evening in Mr Hale's study - when Mr Thornton had declared an open wish to be her friend - Isabel had thought that if he did not love Margaret, he would love her; that the question of acceptance or rejection lie in her resolve. But now she was adrift, for he no longer spoke of love, but something tepid and more freely-given. She saw that she had gained from him the independence of a man's occupation, but lost her chance of love. But it was never ours, she warned herself scathingly, for she saw that she had come to think of him as hers.

Somewhere between his proposal and the incident at Outwood station, she had given up her belief that he belonged with Margaret, and perhaps naively - certainly selfishly - she had allowed herself to think that Margaret and Mr Thornton simply would not be. That he loved her - Isabel - and therefore could not - would not - love Margaret. And she had reasoned that Margaret - knowing of her regard for Mr Thornton, and suspecting that the gentleman returned it - would certainly never allow herself to form an attachment to a man so openly admired by her companion. Indeed, the case had looked to Isabel quite hopeless; Gaskell had written well, but her tale could not withstand the presence of another, and Isabel was another! She was in Milton - how, she did not know! - but in Milton she was and would remain.

She had now her own character and storyline. She felt she really ought to take up her part and let the writer lead her where she will. But just as she had been on the precipice of such a resolve, Gaskell's characters had intervened; there were Frederick and Leonards - that dreadful Outwood station - madness to have ever gone there - for either young lady! Why a writer would torment their characters in such a way! Then came the lies - they had to come - and with the lies came the rebuke, and although Mr Thornton appeared to have forgiven her - to have understood the lies of both she and Margaret - he had turned from her, wishing upon them the stale, passionless regard of "friendship", and left her without even the handshake of said friend.

Now she was caught up in the Crampton house - alone (for the Hales were about their plight in Princeton) and where once she had delighted in the thought of walking into the Marlborough Mills infirmary and tending to her first patient, now she feared an indifferent greeting from the son - nothing more than a volunteer, whose work he considered the kind of charity which was so despised by all men northern - and an openly hostile greeting from the mother. Oh, the mother! Isabel grimaced, clenching her fists. She could go anywhere; face all kinds of danger, and do it quite willingly with only a little fear, but place before her the indifference of the man she loved, and the staunch dislike of his mother, and she veritably trembled. This is madness! scolded Isabel of herself, laughing cruelly at her own weakness. I've never been one to quail over a cold look or harsh word! And determining this to be so, she took herself out to bask in the freshest air that Milton had to offer.

She had no destination in mind, and walked with no purpose other than to work off her nervous energy, and so it was only a matter of time until her aimless wanderings brought her into the mill district - one of the few areas she knew - and there, after passing a myriad of faces lingering about mill yards - some worn down through vigorous exertion, others gaunt and half-starved as they queued in hope of work - she came upon Nicholas Higgins.

He too - like those thin, wretched creatures with grim mouths and pained faces - looked for work, but he held himself differently, proud man as he was. He did not slouch, and although his clothes were in need of patching, he had not that slatternly air that so tainted those hopeless others. There was - to Isabel - something in his very posture which avowed his defiance of his circumstances. He needed work and would take anything that was honest, but he was not so desperate as to go against his principles and break with the union. Nor was he of that injured, suffering kind, who have only pity for themselves, and think life to owe them a living. He would not stand mute in line, hoping for a fellow brother to fall ill so that he might take his place. He had about his bearing a ferocity which said, "I know I am a steady hand and worth my wages; now take me if you will and pay me fair, and I'll play fair by you, but I'll have my wits about me."

'Nicholas!' called Isabel, hurrying to match his purposeful gait. He looked round, surprised to hear the call of his man in that soft, southern dialect, for surely only a working Milton lass would call out to him in such a way? But he turned and saw her, and gave a wry smile, for he knew Isabel to be no true lady.

'Miss Isabel,' came his curt gruff of a reply. His eyes were sharp and pierced her in question, but they were not unkindly.

'Do you look for work?'

'Ay, I do.'

'And have you been to Marlborough Mills?'

'I did, an' th' o'erseer sent me off, seein' as thems not lookin' t' take on Union men like me.'

'So you did not see Mr Thornton? You did not speak with him yourself?'

'No, I was sent off afore I should 'ave seen Thornton.' Isabel frowned impatiently.

'I wish you had spoken with Mr Thornton, directly. Will you go again and speak to the man himself? Mr Thornton is firm, but fair.'

'Appen he's fair t' a bonny face like yo's, but not t' a man sellin' labour.'

'But Nicholas, that is unjust!' cried Isabel, in despair, and there was something about the look of disappointment in her eye which piqued Higgins' interest, and the keen observer suspected that the girl might have a fondness for the dark and brooding Master.

'Yo's a foreigner. Yo' know nothing!' scolded Nicholas, but he had not the conviction of his previous rebukes, for he was in need of work, and felt guilt over Boucher's death. The man was weak - assuredly - but Mrs Boucher was ill and useless, and Higgins would not see the children starve.

'Where have you tried? Slickson's?'

'Ay, Slickson's, an' Henderson's.'

'And they are fairer men than Mr Thornton?'

'An' if I was t' try him, would yo' leave me be?' asked Higgins, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

'I would!' Isabel smiled.

'If I do go, I go for th' little Bouchers! It's a lot t' ask o' me t' tramp up Marlborough Mills again when I was told t' clear off, but I'll not see those childer clem, so ay! - 'appen I might go.' Higgins pulled his cap down sharply, grunted something which sounded frightfully to Isabel's ears like "wench", and strolled off along the street. So stubborn, she thought; how alike Mr Thornton, Nicholas Higgins is.

And so it was that the following day, as Isabel passed through the gates to Marlborough Mills, that she saw Nicholas Higgins stood against the wall, waiting to speak with Mr Thornton.

'Nicholas!' smiled Isabel, before her face fell. 'How long have you been waiting to speak with Mr Thornton?'

'Since eight o'clock, I reckon.'

'But it is almost eleven o'clock! Does he know you are waiting?'

'He saw me stood 'ere, ay, but 'e was on 'is way out an' said 'e could not stop. I might as well wait until 'e returns, seein' as I've tramped about everywhere I can think t' look.' Isabel nodded her understanding, knowing that Nicholas Higgins' patience would pay dividends with Mr Thornton, and just at the very moment that she thought of the man, she heard his step gathering behind her as he walked along Marlborough Street and towards his mill.

'Miss Darrow,' said Mr Thornton, with a dip of his head, just as his eyes landed on Higgins. 'Still here?' asked he, his brows knitting with surprise.

'Yes, Master. I'm needin' t' speak wi' yo', Master.'

'Not now, man. I cannot stop.' And turning back to Isabel and holding out his hand, he said, in a far warmer, kinder tone, 'this way please, Miss Darrow.' But Isabel did not move to follow Mr Thornton's instruction, but merely blinked at him with an expression of vexation. 'Miss Darrow?' asked he, with a frown.

'Cannot you spare even two minutes to speak with this man, who has waited for you three hours?' Mr Thornton bristled at being questioned before another, and his cheeks darkened.

'I cannot; I have an appointment at eleven o'clock, as you well know.' And here Isabel smiled softly and looked about her shoulder, peering down into Marlborough Street.

'Do you know, sir, I'm very sorry, but I have just recalled an errand I promised to run for Mr Hale, and I fear I shall be late for our appointment.' Oh! she was infuriating. His chest dilated with repressed frustration, and he took a hasty step towards her, those straight black brows lowering in vexation.

'We keep sharp to our times, here, Miss Darrow,' came his warning reply.

'Of course; it is only right. And yet, you are not paying me, and I have seen no contract. No, I shall have to run this errand for Mr Hale, and shall return within a quarter hour.' And she turned from him and stepped out into the crowded street. 'Oh, and see now, you have no appointment at eleven o'clock, sir.' Smirking at Nicholas Higgins - whose eyes twinkled mischievously - she dipped her head and walked briskly up the street. Mr Thornton could hardly believe the audacity of the woman; she was meddlesome indeed, and her first day had not even begun! So shocked was he, that he simply stood looking upon her retreating figure, with a bewildering mixture of frustration and pleasantly piqued temper, swelling within his breast.

'Reckon tha' one's a handful, is Miss Isabel,' offered Higgins, enjoying the look upon Mr Thornton's face. That face immediately snapped round to his upon hearing the worker's use of his beloved's name.

'You know Miss Darrow?' asked Mr Thornton, sharply; his tone possessive.

'Ay. Hoo's supped wi' me. Hoo doesn't talk so much as Miss Margaret, but when hoo does, hoo interferes,' his eyes shining with amusement.

'And what is your name, man - I recognise you as a union man, that's for certain!'

'Higgins, sir.' So this is Miss Hale's informer! thought Mr Thornton, and the notion pleased him, for he recalled his Isabel calling the weaver "biased".

'Well, Higgins, it appears I have some minutes to spare; now what is your business?' asked Mr Thornton, turning on his heel and striding quickly to the mill office. Higgins followed, pulling the cap from his head.

'I'm lookin' fo' work, Master. Anything yo' can give me.'

'Men are looking for work all about! thanks to you and your union. You expect me to give you work? I'll not give you work, man!'

'I thought as much,' replied Higgins, 'and I wouldn't 'ave asked, but fo' six childer who are clemmin'; their father driven mad by th' riot - drowned hisself in't brook past dye-works.' Mr Thornton recoiled; a searing pain coursing through him as he thought upon the weakness of suicide; the weakness and despair of his own father.

'So you mean to support his children?' asked Mr Thornton, sceptically.

'Appen I feel some responsibility to th' man's family - the Union forcing him to strike,' Higgins replied, his feet shifting anxiously beneath him.

'Ay! You and your Union cause nothing but strife. No! I'll not give you work; not a man such as you.'

'Apologies, Master, for taking up your time. I wouldn't 'ave come, but th' lady said yo' was fair an' wouldn't tell me 'ow t' spend my wages.' Mr Thornton looked to Higgins sharply. He had heard of Hamper's stipulations as to how the men could spend their money, and he did not agree with it. 'Miss Darrow sent you here? Said I'd give you work?'

'She only said you was fair, Master.' Mr Thornton seethed inwardly. He did not wish to hire the man - a Union man! - when the strike had cost him so dearly - and yet he did not want to disappoint Isabel. He felt himself pushed into a corner, having to finally choose between his business and his beloved Isabel. He had already taken on the cost of the infirmary, with the free treatments for the children, and that little expense - which could not wholly be justified within the business - was borne for Isabel. He could do no more.

'I cannot give you work, Higgins. I am sorry that Miss Darrow asked you to come. She has wasted your time.'

'It's my fault for listenin' t' th' lass. I thank yo' for talking t' me civil, Master.' And he set his cap upon his head and loped from the mill, across the yard, and out onto Marlborough Street.

Nicholas Higgins had not been gone above two minutes when Isabel knocked tentatively at the office door.

'Come in!' bellowed Mr Thornton, in ill-temper (forgetting that Isabel was likely due at any moment). He cheeks flushed upon seeing her open the door, and he stood to greet her, his eyes conveying his remorse.

'Did you speak with Nicholas Higgins?' asked Isabel, hopefully.

'I did.'

'And did you take him on?

'I did not.' Isabel merely looked at him in confusion, but he knew - instinctively - that her retort would soon come, so he stood patiently, waiting for her rebuke.

'Did he tell you of Boucher and the six starving children? The mother who shall likely die? He speaks the truth!' implored she.

'I had not believed him, but your confirming that it is true does little to change my mind; I cannot give him work.' She frowned and shook her head as though in defiance of his words.

'Did he tell you I urged him to come to you?'

'He did.'

'Is that why you refused him? Because you are displeased with me?' With a grimace - blood pumping thickly in his ears - he walked quickly to the office door and closed it behind her; keen to ensure they were not overheard.

'Displeased?' asked he, his face now close enough for her to feel his breath upon her skin. 'You meddle in my business, Miss Darrow; sending Higgins here with the promise of work - then failing to keep our appointment so that you might thrust upon me an interview with the man.'

'Yes; I can see that I have angered you. But know that I promised him nothing. I only said that he ought to try you - that you were fair. I see now that I was wrong.' She dropped her eyes to the floor as silence hung between them. 'Shall we look over this medical room, then, Mr Thornton?' asked Isabel, at length, for he showed no inclination to direct their conversation. Indeed, he could not; he was too greatly piqued. She had barely crossed the threshold to his mill yard when she had begun disrupting his schedule and interfering with his business decisions, and now she called him unfair! 'Mr Thornton?' prompted Isabel, her voice soft and wary.

'Indeed; I must see you set up; I have another appointment. You should not have run your errand.' The door to the office was pulled open and he led her outside across the yard, towards the stable block.

'Here,' said he, taking out a key and unlocking the door. He stood back to allow her to enter, and watched as she cast her assessing eye over the room.