The Crampton house was a sombre place over the following days. Mr Hale felt the loss of his oldest friend keenly, for now he had no one with whom he might reminisce about his early days with his wife. Margaret – anxious for her father – saw not how very withdrawn Isabel became, and so it fell to Dr Lyndhurst to offer her some small comfort.

'He told me,' said Dr Lyndhurst, as Mr Hale sat with his daughter, looking over a book which had once belonged to Mr Bell, 'when I returned from Milton, he told me you were his daughter. I believed he wished for me to know so that someone might offer you the comfort a daughter needs on losing a parent.' Isabel only nodded blandly. 'I think he feared that Mr Hale would have been disappointed in him, and Bell knows that I am not an especially pious man; nor had our friendship been of sufficient duration for me to feel betrayed by never having known of such a relationship existing between Mr Bell and your mother.'

'I understand.'

'He was very proud of you; exceedingly so! He told me of your speech at the Thornton's dinner; he quiet delighted in it,' smiled Dr Lyndhurst, softly. Isabel returned the gesture with a wry smile of her own.

'I can quite imagine!' And she certainly could, for his whole character was just as she had read, and she took solace in knowing that if she so wished, she could go up to her little attic room, take her munitions tin from the closet, open up that book, and read of her father and his playful ways. She had not done so, of course. She was afraid to even touch the book, now that she was in Milton, but it was a comfort to her all the same; to know that she had such a treasured reminder, if she should choose to look to it. 'I feel a little foolish,' admitted Isabel, 'to feel such an emptiness within me, when I knew him so little. My loss is insignificant to Mr Hale's.'

'But he was your father!' urged Dr Lyndhurst, in lowered tones. 'You thought yourself to be an orphan, Isabel. You had been parentless for the greatest part of your life. Having Mr Bell as your father – even if it had been for only one day! – was undoubtedly a treasure for you. Of course you should feel the loss, and keenly so!'

'How could he possibly be my father?' asked she, turning to Dr Lyndhurst with pleading eyes. 'This world; either it is not real or I am not real. How on earth can two such beings collide?'

'But it is real; it is the same world, looked at only through two different sets of eyes. And here – living in this new world – you are writing your own future, and to do so, you have to have a past. Mr Bell was your past; you wrote him, or I should say, he wrote himself for you. He was your father, as assuredly as you are living and sitting in this drawing room, before me.'

'I was born in Oxford. My father – I was told – did die when I was only a few months old – Darrow, he was called. My mother – she was Jane, as Mr Bell had told me – took me to Italy; she had an Italian grandfather, and she met a man there and re-married. Then she fell with child and both she and the babe were lost in childbirth. I came back to England, then, and lived in a children's home. I was placed with families who were paid to look after me, and when I was too old to be looked after, I had to leave and find a home for myself, so I worked and I travelled, and that is how I saw the world.'

'You see then! All of the particulars; they match. He was your father, and so saying, when the will is read, you will find yourself provided for. He wanted me to assure you.'

'He knew he would die.'

'He did; but perhaps with not such alacrity.'

'It does not matter; I knew that it would happen; it was in the book; I simply did not know quite when, for things have gone awry.'

'Not "gone awry",' chided Dr Lyndhurst. 'Simply changed, and I, for one, am gladdened.'

'Margaret?' asked Isabel, with a burgeoning smile.

'You do not think me too old?' laughed the doctor, nervously.

'Oh, no! But how old are you?'

'Thirty one, but I am grey beyond my years.'

'Oh!' smiled Isabel, her mood lifting. 'Certainly not too old then, for I do believe Mr Thornton is thirty!'

'He is our standard, is he, to which all suitors much be compared?' asked he, with a teasing smile.

'To me, most definitely. And all shall fall short, I am afraid; even you.'

Now this admission was no surprise to Dr Lyndhurst – who had early on in his acquaintance with both troubled lovers, sensed a passion which would be difficult to quell or rival – but it had been spoken with such regret, that he determined Isabel to have lost all hope of happiness with that man. He recalled too, the cold way in which Mr Thornton had observed her when he had conducted the tour of the infirmary, and despite Mr Thornton's determined protection of her, when the doctor had sought to look at her injured had – when he had asked to speak with her in private – still, Dr Lyndhurst had sensed some animosity between the two, and so it was that when next he was in Milton, he took himself off to Marlborough Mills to speak with Mr Thornton.

The hour was late, and the mill gate was closed – the machines having come to rest for the day – and so Dr Lyndhurst was forced to wait at the mill door for many minutes, until Williams – who lived on the mill grounds – came to open the gate.

'The Master's up at th' house,' said Williams, with a heavy jerk of his head. Dr Lyndhurst tipped his hat at the fellow, and strode off purposefully across the yard. The door to the house was immediately opened to him, and he looked up at the window, and saw the black-clad figure of Mrs Thornton looking down at him, as though she had watched his approach and sent the servant to the door, so that he would not have to tarnish the highly-polished door-knocker with his gloved hand.

Dr Lyndhurst was led up the stairs and into the drawing room, where he found that proud, austere woman stood rigid before him.

'Please excuse the interruption, Mrs Thornton, but I was hoping to speak with Mr Thornton.'

'And you are?' demanded she, her expression foreboding, as her eyes swept over his sharp dress. She was aggrieved to find she could not fault it; it was elegant and smart, yet not of the strictest fashion, and without the distasteful feminine flourish that young men of society seemed to favour.

'Dr Lyndhurst, ma'am.'

'Ah! So you are the southern doctor!' And he caught the coolness of her eyes as she realised who she was speaking to. Her top lip lifted in the merest of twitches, and he sensed that she had a pre-conceived opinion of him, which was undoubtedly not to his favour.

'I am indeed, Mrs Thornton.'

'And you had left Milton, had you not?'

'I returned upon the death of Mr Bell – to break the news to the Hales and Miss Darrow, personally.' At the mention of that woman's name, Mrs Thornton's chin jutted in defiance.

'How kind of you, doctor. It seems you are very attentive to the family,' said Mrs Thornton; a note of accusation to her voice. He blinked slowly, and inclined his head to one side, as he attempted to understand her hostility towards him, and slowly, a smile tilted at his lips, as he reached his understanding.

'Yes; I care greatly for the Hales,' replied he, cautious in his explanation. Now came Mr Thornton, who had ventured from his study at the sound of a male voice. 'Ah! Mr Thornton; I beg your pardon for the interruption, but I had hoped to speak with you.'

'It is no trouble. Shall you join me for a drink? The dining room will be private – you wish to speak in private?'

'I do, sir.'

'Fanny is in the dining room!' warned Mrs Thornton, and Mr Thornton grimaced.

'My sister is lately engaged, and must oversee every last detail of her wedding. I fear we shall not see the table for satins and silks. Come to my study.' And once he had seen his guest settled with a brandy, Mr Thornton seated himself and asked the question he had longed to ask, upon first finding the gentleman in his home. 'How are the Hales and Miss Darrow?'

'Mr Hale is quite lost – the death coming so soon after his wife and Bell being his oldest friend. They saw each other rarely, but wrote often. I fear he is lacking in male companionship.' And here, Mr Thornton felt a twist of guilt in his gut, for he knew his friend looked forward to their meetings, and he had allowed his trouble at the mill to become an excuse for what he would not have put off for anything, had Isabel not pained his heart.

'I shall call round tomorrow. Business has kept me from visiting, but I shall make the time.'

'I know all will be pleased to see you.'

'All?'

'Did you know that Mr Bell has split his estate between Miss Darrow and Miss Hale?'

'Between them both?' frowned Mr Thornton, in surprise.

'Of course; Miss Hale was his goddaughter, and having no family, he had always promised Hale to look after his daughter.'

'But I had thought –' But Mr Thornton stopped himself in mid-career; he would not speak what he had thought or seen; he would not risk Isabel's reputation.

'You think it strange that Mr Bell should leave the far larger portion of his assets to Miss Darrow?' The larger portion! cried Mr Thornton to himself. How he must have loved her; to have already given her the mill; to usurp the goddaughter who had been promised all. 'I must admit, I think it very good of the man to leave Miss Hale with anything of significance, but I know that Miss Darrow shall not begrudge her friend, for she has no interest in money at all. Indeed, I hardly think either young lady does.'

'I don't understand you, sir!' frowned Mr Thornton, as he slowly shook his head. 'Good of Bell to leave Miss Hale anything? She was his goddaughter and he had no family. Surely it was implied?'

'Well yes, but he did have family after all!' said Dr Lyndhurst, leaning forward in his chair. 'Miss Darrow – she was Bell's daughter.'

'Mr Bell's daughter!'

'Yes. He had thought her his friend, Darrow's. Bell had a tendresse with the mother before she married Darrow. Mr Bell went off to South America for his studies, thinking to write to his lady, but she had fallen with child, and the friend – Darrow – offered to marry her and claim the babe as his own. Well, Mr Bell was due gone for above a year, and the mother – Jane – could not face the scandal, so she married Darrow and claimed Isabel to be his. By the time Mr Bell returned from his studies in South America, Jane was gone off to the continent, and so Bell knew nothing of it. Of course, when Mr Bell came to Milton for your mother's dinner and he saw her; why! he knew at once that Isabel was his. Though I don't believe he told her until the day after I met her, when we all took tea together. Believing herself to be an orphan, you can imagine what a revelation it was; how she must now feel, finding herself parentless once again.'

'He was her father!' whispered Mr Thornton. One large hand came up to cradle his jaw, as he thought back on that intimate scene in the infirmary; Mr Bell's hand upon her heart promising to be there, even when they were apart; her fingers reverently tracing his features.

He was her father! He knew that he would die, and he had told her. Oh, my love! My love! pleaded Mr Thornton, inwardly. And in his passion, he rose abruptly from behind his desk and stood before the window, looking out into the darkened winter sky; his hands clenched and fisted into his trouser pockets, in a bid to keep them still.

'I assume this news unravels some misunderstandings, Mr Thornton?'

'Indeed.' A silence stretched between them, which neither man chose to break. 'It is late,' said Mr Thornton at length, his voice low and muted, as his thoughts raced within his head.

'But you might go to her tomorrow?' replied the doctor, with implicit understanding.

'We had a – disagreement. I said something unpardonable.'

'One thing I have learnt, in studying the mind, is that when you love a person – truly love them to the point of selflessness – you will forgive them anything.' And he rose silently from his chair, showing himself out, as Mr Thornton stood looking out into the darkness.

'Her father! How I might have been the one to comfort her!' lamented Mr Thornton, in a whispered, awe-struck voice.

Now Mr Thornton had hoped to call round at Crampton after his meeting with his banker, Mr Latimer, but the meeting had dragged on, with his banker assuring him that his loan could not be extended. The only way to secure the funds Mr Thornton needed to keep his mill operational, would be to take up a speculation he had heard of from Fanny Thornton's betrothed, Mr Watson. Mr Thornton was loath to enter into any such risky venture, having learnt from his father's calamitous mistakes. He knew that with any speculation, came great risks, and being an honest man, he was not prepared to take the risk with the small sum of funds he did have, for if the speculation was to fail, his payroll would be lost and his workers would go unpaid.

He returned to Marlborough Mills with a heavy heart, feeling that all he had strived for and built over the years, was about to be ripped from him. He knew it was the way of business; that some men would prosper, whilst others would fail, but as a self-made man, it wounded the pride to think that all he had built would come to naught, if his buyers did not pay on time; if there was not a sharp rise in the demand for cotton.

Upon entering the drawing room, he found his mother sat staunchly in her chair, her gaze fixed upon her embroidery, but he could see from the tension in her lips, that she longed to ask him how his meeting had gone with the bank. He knew that she would not directly ask him, and that she would be impatient for news, and so as not to leave her suffering, he came close to her and rested his hand upon her shoulder, in a small display of affection.

'I am sorry, Mother. The loan cannot be extended.' Those lips pursed, and the embroidery was dropped upon the lap; heedless of where the needle should land.

'What shall you do?'

'There is a speculation I might take up; Watson offers it to me, and Latimer recommended it – but a speculation, Mother!'

'But can it be so very risky – if both Watson and Latimer think it the thing to do?'

'Can you ask me that, Mother? When we – of all people – know that there can be no certainty in speculation? If I should take it up and the scheme should work, the debts will all be paid and we shall have a pretty sum of ready capital, but if it should fail!'

'How bad would it be?' asked Mrs Thornton, frowning.

'The workers would not be paid.' Her jaw set and a long, composing breath was drawn in though flared nostrils.

'It would serve them right,' replied Mrs Thornton, now mechanically picking up her sewing and deftly locating her needle. 'The workers brought this strife upon us when they all turned out.'

'Ay, Mother, but you would not have me risk harming others?' And he looked to her for that courage of old, where she had instilled in him – as a young man – the need to hold his head high and be a man of honour. Her lips formed a grim line and she sighed in resignation.

'No, I would not have you lose your honour.' And here Fanny came in with a package of silks, and with an idle frown, cast them upon the sofa and began to rifle through them, seemingly heedless to the conversation going on about her.

'Let us pray for warm weather; people will want cotton if we have a warm spring,' replied Mr Thornton, glancing at his sister's numerous purchases in irritation.

'And if not?' asked Mrs Thornton, wryly.

'Then the mill might close and we shall lose the house, Mother, but if you can bear it, I shall see you well.'

'If I can bear it!' cried she, with vehement indignation. 'Hardship is nothing to me, my son! I think only of you and your rightful place. It is not right that you should fail. It is not right that Miss Darrow should come to own this mill and through no merit of her own. Why! she might turn us out as soon as the notion takes her.

'I will speak with her about the lease, Mother. She may be happy for me to sub-let it, but let us not worry until the time comes; I hope to hold out for a few months more.'

'I do not see why,' complained Fanny, as she scowled at her silks, 'you do not just take up Watson's scheme. He says that it is certain to profit, and then all your problems would be solved. Oh!' frowned she, 'I must get some lace to go with this.'

'Lace!' scolded Mrs Thornton, frowning at her daughter's carelessness. She could not fathom how her daughter could be so very foolish as to trouble herself with the petty details of her trousseau, when they faced losing the mill and house. 'Cannot you simply write off to London for a dressmaker, Fanny?' asked she. 'I am certain it would be quicker.'

'But, Mother, I must know all the details, and I must buy some lace.' And she swept from the room, leaving her package of fabrics upon the sofa.

'The cost; she thinks nothing of the cost!' chided Mrs Thornton.

'Ay, but she never has. Soon she shall be Watson's concern. We can only be grateful for that, Mother; that Fanny will not suffer any hardship, even if we ourselves must.'

But in speaking so, he felt himself suddenly so wholly unequal to the task of apologising to Isabel; of trying to win again, her affections. He had failed – or as good as failed – for he knew no warm weather would be enough to repay the loan and see them through to the end of the year, and he felt the absurdity of him presenting himself at Isabel's feet; she – his landlord, and him able to offer her nothing but his devotion.

I ought not go to Crampton, he told himself. What right have I to try and press myself upon her when I have failed? And in a fit of insecurity and self-pity, he took himself across the yard and to his office, where he shut himself up, refusing to pause again that day; not even for tea. He would find a way to save his mill, or he would give her up, but he wound not bind her to a failure.

Isabel and Margaret (who had both recently found themselves heiresses) had endeavoured to buy up some fabric for the young Bouchers, thinking to make the children something warm for the coming winter climate. Isabel had told Margaret – quite emphatically – that she could carry the fabrics and pour the tea, but was wholly incapable of stitching any kind of garment, and Margaret – having not believed her – had suggested that she might knit some socks instead.

'Knitting?' said Isabel, aghast. 'Oh, no! I cannot knit.'

'However did you make your clothes?' asked Margaret. 'Did you always have a dressmaker?'

'Always.'

'And was that affordable?' frowned Margaret, doubtfully.

'Oh, yes. Very.'