'Miss Darrow,' said Mrs Thornton, glaring at that discomposed young lady before her. It was patently obvious that she had been crying, and never having seen such an outward display of emotion in the girl, Mrs Thornton was momentarily perturbed, but then she called to mind the angry, echoing steps of her son, and her hesitancy vanished in an instant. The eyes sharpened and the lip curled. Let her cry, said Mrs Thornton to herself. Let her feel the loss of him; she'll find no truer heart, nor a stronger man.

Isabel looked up at the sound of that cold, accusing voice, and blinked furiously as she bid her few remaining tears to disperse. She cursed herself for letting the matriarch see her weakness, and in defiance of her tears, drew herself up to her full height, and although she was small and Mrs Thornton was a tall and sturdy woman, there was something in the rigidity of her posture, in the unrelenting gall of the eyes, and the subtle widening of her stance, that impressed upon Mrs Thornton, the magnitude of her opponent.

'Mrs Thornton,' said Isabel, with heavy expectation. She gave the older woman such a look, and spoke in such a tone, as to make Mrs Thornton feel as though her very presence was an impertinent inconvenience to the young girl.

'You have been speaking with my son. I know not what has passed between you – he would not talk ill of a lady, for he is a gentleman – but I know with absolute certainty, that you have wounded him, once again. No doubt it is this new southern doctor. You have a penchant for him, perhaps? I can only say that I hope you shall go with him when he returns to Oxford, or that dreary southern Kent! I thought it ill-advised for my son to have you here at this infirmary. I could see you had designs on him. You sought to catch him once, Miss Darrow, and then you cast him off. But that was not enough for you! You had to come here, pushing yourself before him, seeking his attentions once again, and now this southern doctor comes and my son is all forgot!'

'I don't know what you speak of. Southern Doctor! I met a gentleman last evening, and sat in his company – in a room full of others – below one hour. We barely spoke to one another, Mrs Thornton. I know not what Mr Thornton has said or done, to lead you to form such a foolish conclusion, but you are entirely mistaken.'

'My son has said nothing! He has pride, my son. No, I speak to you as a woman who knows what you are about, and I say to you; I want you gone! I had thought you too wilful, too intractable to make him a good wife. I was against his ever offering for you, and was glad when you rejected him – though I hated for you hurting him. Now you toy with his affections like a cat with a mouse, and you cast him off again. You are implacable in your mischief and certainly no lady!'

The stern, dark figure of Mrs Thornton stood proud, towering over Isabel, scowling her reproach, and Isabel – although affronted, although indignant in the face of such callous accusations – felt she could form no defence, for she had rejected Mr Thornton; had then allowed him to kiss her, only to push him away with her hurtful admission. Despite his cruel reproof – despite the cut which sliced through her, at hearing that dishonourable word, flung at her as a weapon of censure – she knew he could not think well of her, and she could not blame him for it. Isabel felt, stood in that infirmary – Mrs Thornton's nostrils flaring with displeasure – that she deserved the haughty sentiment of the matriarch, despite the faulty logic on which the older woman's disregard was formed.

Yet Mr Bell – who had taken himself into that smaller back room to bathe his face of all trace of his erupted emotions, in revealing himself to be Isabel's father – heard the accusations of the mother, and casting off his surprise at learning Mr Thornton had proposed and been rejected, he could not allow his daughter to be castigated in such a fashion. Stepping out from that back room, he presented himself to Mrs Thornton with that affable smile he so often wore, but the smile was forced and scornful; the eyes lit with the anticipated pleasure of his playing with words, at the proud mother's expense.

'Miss Darrow is not a lady, indeed?' said Mr Bell; his voice causing Mrs Thornton to look up sharply. Her brow furrowed on realising that they had not been alone; that every word she had spoken had been overheard, but she stood proud and unrelenting.

'Mr Bell,' said she, in a grim voice, her chin lifting in haughty defiance, 'what can I do for you; my son is in the mill house, if you should like to speak with him?'

'No, madam; I shall make an appointment with Mr Thornton, should I have anything of which we need discuss.'

'You are inspecting the infirmary?' asked Mrs Thornton, with an accusing tone of voice.

'I have made a donation to cover the cost of surgical equipment.' And here, he smiled indulgently at Isabel. The warmth of his look did not go unnoticed by the attentive matriarch, and she instantly bristled, feeling her son's landlord to be in league with his tormentor.

'My son will not want charity, Mr Bell. It is not a charitable endeavour that he is running, but a business.'

'Still, it will add value to the property to have the building fully converted. I have looked it over and see that it is currently a meagre enterprise. An investment could have this place set up just as well as that belonging to any private doctor – if not better.'

'Add value?' blanched Mrs Thornton. 'You are not thinking of selling the property, Mr Bell?' She dreaded the thought of a new owner; one who might interfere or look to put up rents.

'Oh, no! Not selling it, but the mill will have a new owner. You see, Mrs Thornton,' explained Mr Bell, stepping closer to that stern face – now pale and anxious – and looking upon her with an ambivalent smile, 'you might – erroneously, I must say – not think Miss Darrow, here, a lady, but she is now a landlady; I have given her the mill. You might wish to think on that, before you direct your ire at her again.' At soft smile played about his lips, and his eyes shone with mirth, as he watched Mrs Thornton's face pale to porcelain, and she instantly recoiled in alarm. Those wary eyes darted between father and daughter; the brow contracted into deep trenches, and the lips parted in consternation.

'Miss Darrow – owner of this mill!'

'Indeed. I think it rather splendid.' And turning to Isabel, Mr Bell clapped his hands jovially and smiled at her. 'I think we ought to make haste back to Crampton. We shall need to celebrate your new acquisition, my darling.' And although Isabel thought it a little cruel to leave Mrs Thornton reeling, she was too touched – too warmed – by the paternal protection and regard of Mr Bell (something she had never known), to seek to undo the tempest he had stirred, and so allowed herself to be drawn from the small building, leaving Mrs Thornton – once again – to see the infirmary locked up.

Mr Thornton had taken himself directly to his private study, knowing it to be the only place he would not be disturbed at such a time of day. Still, he saw fit to lock the door behind him, so that he would have the privacy he needed to cry his manly tears. He was fierce in his heartache, and paced the room frantically, as his hands burrowed through his thick crop of dark hair, and tugged anxiously until his scalp burned in complaint. He set his teeth and scowled until he could feel all of the muscles in his face working. He clenched his fists, turning his knuckles white, and brought that fist to his mouth, where he sunk his teeth into the flesh of his forefinger, and let his eyes bleed out his agony, through tears. His cheeks were hot and his vision blurred, as fresh tears rose up to replace those which had fallen from his lashes, but he could not prevent them, and would not prevent them, for he wanted to purge Isabel from his soul.

'Mr Bell!' hissed Mr Thornton, aloud. He was sure he must have been mistaken. 'Mr Bell!' The very name now a curse upon his lips. He shook his head, his strides about the room unrelenting. He is old enough to be her father! he said to himself, and he felt a swelling of revulsion wash over him. The mere thought of that man – old friend, as he had once thought Mr Bell to be – that man past his middle years, to be the one to win her; to be with her so intimately! And he shuddered and turned his face away, as though the very picture of her love for this other man, had been placed before him. Let her love him; let her bind herself to the man! said Mr Thornton to himself, with all the bravado of a proud man, thoroughly felled. It matters not to me! I don't need love; I've never had it and it did me no harm. She is not what she appeared; now let this be a lesson. No one shall touch my heart again; no one shall get near it. Indeed, she is quite forgot!

The next, he was striding between his desk and the sofa, and he caught sight of a copy of Plato's Republic, which had foolishly sat beside his chair, ever since the evening he had first seen Isabel reading it at tea. He grabbed it up in haste, and with a bitter grimace, flung it across the room; a heavy thud as it hit the bookcase and fell to the floor. But then the thought struck him that perhaps there was something in her past which left her trapped – compelled beyond her will – for he truly thought that she had loved him, and for all Mr Bell's interest in her, he had never seen it returned.

Immediately he was beside the bookcase, picking up that copy of Plato and holding it to his breast. I am sorry, love! cried Mr Thornton, inwardly. I did not mean it! And then his head dropped and his knees folded, as he slowly sunk to the floor. The book brushed against his lips and he kissed it reverently. His tears had been shed and dried – his skin now crisp – but still she was in his heart. Nothing could rid him of her, and he knew, that despite the pain of loving her when she belonged to another – when she shunned him for another – that if he had the courage to try again, he would master himself and place himself at her feet, begging her to love him and only him.

He had been locked away for well above an hour, and Mrs Thornton sat staunchly at the dining table, awaiting his return. She tried to focus on her linens, and relied upon that repetitive action of dipping and diving her needle, to still her disquietude of mind, but nothing could ease her mind until she had seen her son. His flagrant temper when he had returned home, his abandoning his work in the middle of the day, was so very unlike him, that she worried he had suffered some great devastation, and she feared his learning of the mill's new ownership would only push him further into those murky depths.

She waited impatiently, keen for his return, and yet she dreaded it. She did not want to see that weakness in his eyes; that distasteful vulnerability she had never known him to have, until he met that wretched girl! Her maternal jealousy wanted him to walk into that dining room and seek her soothing words. She wished herself to be the one to heal him, and yet her pride despised the very thought of looking upon those sorrowful blue eyes, and she warred with herself until she could only set aside her embroidery and push herself restlessly from her chair.

She was not prone to pacing. The very purposelessness of the action irked her, and for all that she was tempted, she would not deign to do it. Instead, the proud figure – clad in black bombazine – placed herself before the drawing room window, and stood sentient; looking down at the yard below, as the workers moved in a hive of activity. She drew in a deep breath, and felt her body relax at the familiarity of the sight. She had not been able to enjoy looking out on her son's domain – as was her wont – because the mere presence of that awful girl in the stable block – playing at Doctor – riled her until she refused to look from the window.

She could not see into the infirmary from where she stood, but if she was so inclined, she could strain to see if the door was open or closed. What she could not avoid, was the tramping path of workers at the shift changeover, as they would amble over in the direction of the infirmary. Mrs Thornton's lip curled as she looked down on the dusty yard. She could not be certain, but she thought she might be able to see tracks in the dirt, showing the weary tramp of the hands to the stable block. The mere suspicion of it was enough to spoil Mrs Thornton's view, and she spun about on her heel, no longer able to take solace from the scene below. Upon turning, she gaped in surprise to see her son stood across the room from her. So quiet had he been in his approach, that she had not heard him enter.

'John?'

'Mother.'

'What has happened? You left the mill and have been shut up in your study beyond this past hour.'

'All is well, Mother,' said Mr Thornton, in that quiet way of his. The calm timbre of his voice – the familiarity of it – instantly settled Mrs Thornton's anxieties, and she felt the tension in her body ease.

'Shall you return to the mill now, John?'

'Yes, Mother.' His expression was placid, and she saw no signs of distress; she could not rightly understand it.

'You will be back in time for dinner?'

'I may not. I must run a note to this Dr Lyndhurst who visits from Oxford. He wished to view the infirmary. I shall call past his hotel and arrange an appointment.'

'Does Mr Bell stay in this hotel, too?'

'Yes, why?' frowned Mr Thornton; his throat tightening.

'John, – ' Mrs Thornton's brows dipped low, eliciting her son's suspicions, further.

'Mother?'

'Mr Bell has handed ownership of the mill to Miss Darrow. You will be her tenant.' He drew in a deep breath, and gripped the back of the sofa by which he stood, needing some anchor with which to steady himself. He had hoped – foolishly, aimlessly hoped – that he had been mistaken in what he had seen, but to give the mill to Isabel! There could surely be no other explanation.

'Well,' said he, his voice not quite even, his cheeks dark, 'it should matter little to us, Mother. We have our contract; the rents cannot change until our lease is up and we have another eight month.' And somehow, he had mastered his will, and spoke with a forced indifference, which belied to turmoil raging within his breast.

'It does not trouble you?' asked Mrs Thornton, doubtfully.

'Not if Miss Darrow means not to interfere.'

'Mr Bell had contributed funds towards the infirmary, John. He said it will add value to the property to have it properly set up for surgery and the like.'

'I am sure it will,' replied Mr Thornton, with affected ambivalence, but in truth, he could see that with Mr Bell's wealth, the older man was able to give Isabel exactly what she wanted. She would have now her little infirmary, but made better and more daring than he – working man, as he was – could ever provide for her – and she had her name upon the deeds to a valuable property. It was, he thought, the ultimate gesture by which Mr Bell could show his encouragement of Isabel's independence; of course, Mr Bell would be the man to win her. And he left, returned to the mill, and set about his work, where he laboured twice as hard to make up for the hour he had lost in regretting Isabel.

Determinedly, and with great self-discipline, Mr Thornton took himself off to Dr Lyndhurst's hotel, dreading all the while, an impromptu meeting with Mr Bell. He stood about the lobby, waiting for the doctor to come down from his rooms, and cast his eyes about for that lucky gentleman, but he was nowhere to be seen. Mr Thornton was relieved, but then feared that the older man was visiting in Crampton, and found himself longing to see his old landlord instead.

'Mr Thornton!' smiled Dr Lyndhurst, pulling him from his painful reverie.

'Dr Lyndhurst, good afternoon. You said you wished to visit the infirmary. Would to-morrow afternoon suit?'

'Ah! I had hoped to visit when Miss Darrow is running it – it would be far more informative to view it when it's open to the workers, and I understood from Miss Hale, that Miss Darrow would not be at the mill to-morrow.'

'Miss Darrow ran the infirmary today. It will not open again until the day after to-morrow.'

'Well, any time on Thursday, then! I shall make myself available.' Mr Thornton bristled. He did not want to entertain the man in the presence of Isabel, and yet his pride would not allow him to hide from her when he had a clear purpose for standing before her.

'Thursday it is, then. Shall half-past eleven be agreeable?' asked Mr Thornton, in his quiet, even voice.

'Certainly.' And so it was fixed, and Mr Thornton could not rid himself of the task even if he would try; he would stand beside Isabel and force himself to be indifferent to her.

Mr Bell had urged Isabel to keep their relationship with one another a secret. Though he felt no shame in being her father, he was sensible to the fact that she had been born to another man, and even his old friend, Mr Hale, would be gravely shocked by such a revelation. It was then, with only the warm familiarity of two acquaintances who were almost (but not quite) family, that Isabel sat across the drawing room from her father, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, and the dark night poured in through the windows, whose curtains the Hales – in their country ways – had not seen fit to draw.

Mr Bell proved himself to be lively and at ease, where Isabel was still a tempest of uncertain emotion, but she felt his warm gaze on her throughout the evening, and was content to merely sit and listen to his voice, as his enchanting stories of his travels to South America, entertained the party. After a time, Dr Lyndhurst was announced, and smiling broadly at his new friends, he sat himself close to Margaret, and explained where he had been and who he had met since they had taken tea together at noon.

Isabel was still wary of the man, but was relieved to see that his attention was so wholly focused upon Margaret. Indeed, her friend accepted his tender smiles and rapt attention, with a demure blush to her cheeks and a grateful smile, and Isabel caught a glimpse – for the first time – of what Margaret Hale might look like if she was in love. Her brows dipped as she paused in her soliloquy, and she cast an assessing eye over the doctor. He was tall, but not so tall, nor broad, as Mr Thornton. His hair was a fair brown, with a little greying at the temples. He had sharp and clear green eyes, which fairly drew his interlocutor's gaze directly to him. He had an aquiline nose which – although she did not like it, especially – suited his sharp and chiselled features. He was, in short, a handsome man; most pleasing to the eye, but not a dandy. He showed no signs of vanity, and his dress, though very fine, was really quite staid.

He is a little old, frowned Isabel to herself, looking upon her young friend – only lately turned twenty years of age. Her nose crinkled at the thought of so young a woman binding herself to a man who must surely be past his middle thirties, but then Margaret spoke low and the doctor laughed, transforming his face with such supple, mobile movements, that Isabel realised, that were it not for those greying temples, he would look little more than a day older than Mr Thornton.