Mr Thornton stood - arms folded defiantly across his broad chest - as he stared down at his wife; seated at the table like an errant schoolgirl. His chest dilated with vexatious passion, and his nostrils flared with the effort of restraining his temper. His jaw was set - the muscles flexing and twitching - as his darkened, piercing eyes bore into hers.

'Well?' asked Isabel, when still he did not speak. Her tone of voice was challenging, and showed him well, that she did not quake under his dark looks or harsh tone. Not even his rough handling of her, appeared to have caused her a moment of disquietude.

Indeed, as Isabel sat looking up at him - defiantly, he thought - he saw in her look, the audacity of her own flared temper. His eyes narrowed as he looked on her with rising irritation. He determine in that instant - as their eyes met and she scolded him with a single, withering look - that he would play the heavy-handed husband; that she would know her place, so that she might learn what was expected of her, and might feel the value of the freedom he had tried to give her, without carelessly throwing his trust back in his face.

'Well!' scoffed Mr Thornton; his eyebrow arching at her impudence. He shook his head, and smiled to himself, but there was no mirth in that look; only a scolding incredulity. 'Who do you think you are, Isabel?' asked Mr Thornton, softly; that voice low and quiet - threatening in its very gentleness.

'Excuse me?' frowned Isabel, in confusion.

'I asked who you think you are.' His voice now rising. 'Answer, if you will!'

'I do not understand you, John,' replied Isabel, hesitantly.

'Indeed; you do not!' And in an instant, Mr Thornton had lunged forward, bracing himself against the table with his strong arms, and he loomed over her small form; his great shadow drowning her petite frame. 'I asked you who think you are. The answer is my wife!' His teeth were clenched and his cheeks darkened, as his chest rapidly expanded with suppressed excitement. 'You will behave as my wife! Isabel. I do not ask it of you; I demand it.'

'I am not a good wife to you?' asked Isabel, indignantly, with a look that could have shamed him, had he not been so imperiously angry.

'I do not think you truly know what a wife is, Isabel!' replied Mr Thornton, carelessly pushing away from the table and turning his back on her, as a puff of air fell humourlessly from his lips. 'You think an hour in the kitchen - your company at night - is enough to make a wife?'

'Oh! Is that all I do for you; all that I am to you? A kitchen hand and a bedfellow?' And here, Mr Thornton spun on his heel and gave Isabel such as look as to smite her down.

'No!' cried he. 'You are my wife. I expect more from you; I had hoped for more! You claim an equality with me Isabel; then let me speak plainly - as I would to any man. You have no rights. You are mine to make demands of as I see fit. If I do not wish for you to call in by Francis Street, by God, you will not! If I do not wish for you to spend hours of every day, working in the mill infirmary, I shall lock it up and hide away the key. If I wish for you to call on my colleague's wives, you will do it, and with good will! You did not wish for that to be your lot; you wanted your independence, and I gave it to you, but it has done you no good; done us no good.'

'John! Whatever do you mean? I cannot understand you?' chocked Isabel; her voice now thick with emotion.

'I mean that you do not know your place; that you disappoint me,' said he, in that quiet, final way of his. Here, her eyes widened in sad surprise, but he ignored the look of hurt, for softness would do her no good; had done them no good. 'I tried to give you your freedom; to treat you as my equal by letting you take a role in my work, in trusting your judgement to do what was right by Robert Harris and the mill infirmary - despite my own misgivings - but you fail, Isabel. You think yourself so strong and capable. You claim the rights and independence of a man, but you are a woman, and I often think, a fragile one, at that!'

'You think me weak?' asked Isabel, in consternation. Mr Thornton had not the heart to tell her that she still cried out at night; she obviously did not know it, or if she did, she did not think he knew.

'It is not a crime - no insult for a woman to have a weakness.'

'Ha! You wish I was weak!' cried Isabel, defiantly - defensively - for in truth, she thought she might cry, and then she would both look, and feel, quite weak.

'Isabel,' sighed Mr Thornton, walking now to the side board and picking up a sheet of paper, the mill accounts, and writing tools. 'Let me speak plainly; let me treat you as my equal, for I have not been these past months - I have treated you as a regal creature who could do no wrong, but today is too much, and it cannot go on.' Now setting down the writing implements before her, he pressed a metal-tipped pen into her right hand. 'You will write in pen from now on, Isabel. You will have to write notes of acceptance for dinners - it is not simply a matter of my ledgers - you must learn to write in pen.' Frowning, Isabel passed the pen into her left hand and - her breathing laboured and her face scowling, as she fought the onslaught on tears - she dipped the pen into the inkwell.

'No, Isabel,' said Mr Thornton, quietly. 'Your right hand. You tried with your left and it always smudged, so you will use your right hand.'

'But I am left-handed!'

'I know, but you will learn to use your right hand until such a time as you can use your left without smudging your words. Sit on your left hand if you must, but you will not use it.' Isabel blinked rapidly, as she looked down on the ledger, and then to the blank page before her. 'What, love? Cannot you do your sums quickly, without the aid of your calculator?' At Isabel's look of surprise, Mr Thornton gave a wry smile.

'Yes; I know you cheat on your sums. I indulged you, for I saw it made you happy, but you have vexed me to-day, so now I feel the need to tell you that the game is up. You married me, Isabel. You chose to be my wife. We have no phones here; no clever calculators. This is my time and you will learn to get by, using the same means as everyone else. Unless you do not wish to do the ledgers, now that don't have your clever calculator or pencils?' Here, a note of challenge to his voice, which although she did not offer a reply, he felt she would not - for all her defiant nature - be able to ignore.

'Now, Mother;' sighed Mr Thornton, his voice softening, for he could see that he pained his wife, and he took no pleasure in it - yet he felt he had to speak. 'You took on the task of walking over the house, yet you do not do the job to Mother's satisfaction. You will do better, or you will take on responsibility for the entire household, Isabel. Whilst my Mother carries the burden of running our home, it will be run to her standards. If you are not so fastidious as she, and cannot assist her as you have promised - meeting the standards she dictates - then it is only fair that you take on that mantle, and run our home as you see fit. I do not wish for that; Mother takes pride in our home, and I would not take the task from her. I would not occupy your time and take away your freedom, but I will not have you naively thinking that you assist Mother in the running of our home, when in fact, the moment you are about some other occupation, Mother has to re-do your work because you have been remiss in your attentions.'

'Mother walks over the house again, once I am gone?'

'Ay! And I do not blame her, Isabel. She takes pride in her role, and you are letting her down. She did not wish to hurt your feelings, and so said nothing. She did not even tell me, only I caught her at your work and demanded to know the reason for it.'

'I did try. I do try!' Isabel's voice now a whimper.

'Yes, but you don't know the way of things. You need to learn, and you've not taken the time to learn. I might ask that you spend an hour each day with Mother, learning all there is no know. If Mother should ever take ill, or go to Hayleigh in Fanny's confinement, you will need to see to her tasks.'

'Fanny is with child!' exclaimed Isabel, in surprise.

'No, but if or when she is, she'll no doubt demand Mother's company; afflicted as she'll assuredly be.'

'Very well,' nodded Isabel. 'I shall apologise to Mother. What you say is right. I ought to learn and did not think on what I should do if your mother was to suddenly be off.'

'Robert Harris,' continued Mr Thornton, before his ire ran out. 'No more visits. Higgins will call by to keep an eye on him, and you may call once a week unless needed.'

'But, -'

'No buts! I know you go there because you want the company. I know that's why you spend so much time in the infirmary. You ought to spend more time with Margaret - she'll no doubt appreciate help with the wedding. Mr Hale would enjoy speaking with you. And the Master's wives; it would be easier for you if you visited them when Fanny does. You ought to know them a little, if only so that you are not left alone when the women withdraw after dinner. You'll have time then, to learn dressmaking, too; if you're not always being Doctor.'

'Dressmaking?'

'Ay! Do you not hope for a child?' asked Mr Thornton, a note of pleading to his voice. 'You think it fair that the task of outfitting the babe falls solely on Mother's shoulders? You'll want to see to that, surely, Isabel?'

'If I am so very useless - such a disappointment - I wonder that you should bother with me,' whispered Isabel, defensively. Mr Thornton looked away; it smote his heart to know he caused that tone; provoked that look, but he would not lie to her. He was a plain and honest man, and could not hide his feelings; impassioned, as they were.

'Do you know what I thought when Ben Boucher came running into the yard as I spoke with Higgins? He said Tommy was in The Hoppen, and I can tell you - Higgins turned white! The river is lethal; many a strong man - a strong swimmer - has been swept away, or had their head bashed in on the rocks, there. I ran off with Higgins - being the stronger swimmer - but it was only when I came running down the lanes towards the thicket, that I realised you'd no doubt gone in after the lad. How I didn't fall to my knees there and then! I've no idea. I certainly thought you'd likely drown!' cried he; his voice now rising at the mere thought of what could have been her lot. He panted in a bid to suppress his ire, and forced himself to soften his tone, but he was so very angry, that his words came out a sarcastic snarl.

'And then I see you bold as anything, making light of your little dip in that murderous river. And you've stripped off to your smallclothes and all! Forget the sorry sight you looked - dress gaping at the back and sodden - clinging to your body! I thought not for the impropriety of it; I didn't dwell on the eyes of men leering at my wife in a wet, revealing dress. Oh! it angered me; I'm possessive, and I'll not deny it, but had you no thought for the danger you placed yourself in, undressing in the thicket like that?'

'Danger?' And her look was blank; he knew she did not understand him at all.

'Miscreants, Isabel. They lurk in the thicket. Displaced men. They'll see a pretty woman - half-naked, I might add! - and they'll prey on her. It's not a safe place for a woman to be alone; the thicket that runs The Hoppen.

'They - there are men who would, -' And she swallowed thickly, unable to finish speaking.

'Ay!' It pained him to say it - to even allude to it - knowing how afeared she would be by such a suggestion, and yet for all her fine mind and bravery, she was naïve to the world of Milton, and the dangers it could pose.

'Ought I have left Tommy in the river then; waited for you or Higgins?' asked Isabel, sadly.

'Yes, love. I'll not lose you. You could not have saved the boy if you had been killed yourself. Now the soldier in you - she ought to have thought ahead. Perhaps you might have taken more bodies with you when you went out searching for the lad. A river; I'd always take a length of rope, and the washing all strung up in Francis Street - there was plenty of rope to be had!'

His words stung her. She had been a fool; she knew she had been. Everything she had learnt as a soldier, had taught her that it was foolish - and endangered others - to rush in without thinking; that she had to plan ahead. I cannot fit in here; I don't know the way of things, and I cannot even play the modern soldier, despite all that I was taught, scolded Isabel, of herself. And she hung her head in despondent shame.

'I cannot do this,' whispered she, her breath misting the polished surface of the dining table.

'You can,' replied Mr Thornton, softly. Now placing the pen back in her right hand. 'You will; the ledgers. Once done, you may bathe and change out of those wet things. And now I must get back to the mill.' And he walked silently from the room, without looking back at her.

There she sat, damp clothing drying tight to her skin; the unpleasant smell of algae, lingering from the cloying river water. She was cold, and felt a chill which would no doubt be bone-deep if she was to sit about in those damp underclothes; that musky, blotchy dress. She trembled, but it was not through cold. The trembling came on slowly; a shudder, and then it built gently and steadily, until she realised that she was crying silently, sobs which noiselessly racked her body. But there were no tears upon her cheeks; at least, none that she could feel, for her hair - once neatly coiled upon her head - was a bedraggled, sopping mess - loose tendrils flailing out to lick dirty tracks of water down her neck and face. There her warm tears mingled with the chill trickle of stowaway river, and so it was not until Mrs Thornton drew close - approaching silently - that the matriarch realised her daughter-in-law was crying; wet as she was; cold as she must be.

'Isabel?' came Mrs Thornton's strained enquiry.

'Mother!' And Isabel's head snapped up abruptly, and those wide, hazel eyes looked to her in shock; that expression slowly fading to shame, and then hopelessness. It was the unguardedness of the look; the natural cry of that intimate, familial name, which gripped the proud matriarch's heart, and loyal to her son as she was, she could not help but feel pity for the wretched girl before her.

'Go and change into something dry, Isabel. I shall call Jane to help you.'

'No, Mother. I must see to the ledgers. John is relying on me.' Mrs Thornton frowned with displeasure, and thought it more than likely that Isabel was simply being stubborn; too proud to bathe and change before setting down to her work; too ashamed at having been so publicly scolded by her husband.

'You will catch a chill.'

'I am well, Mother. If you will ring for tea, perhaps, and join me in a cup as I work?' And there was that hopeful look again; a softening of the eye which seemed to plead with her mother's hidden, inner tenderness. And yet it was not a plea Mrs Thornton could despise, for it was proud and noble. There was no quivering lip or self-pity in that look, but rather an expression of the eye which simply said, "I will do my duty, but I find it hard. Stay close, please, if you will." So tea was called for; Mrs Thornton poured, and then set about darning a shirt sleeve, whilst Isabel frowned and scowled and creased her brow, over that perplexing ledger.

Mrs Thornton watched - surreptitiously - as Isabel dipped her pen into the inkwell, and set her right hand to the page, but her fingers looked uncertain, and held the pen lame. The wrist moved tentatively, but the pen lagged behind, and the nib caught upon the page, flicking ink across the table. Mrs Thornton frowned, just at the very moment that Isabel looked up in startled apology.

'Sorry, Mother. I shall clean it up.' But Mrs Thornton was already out of her chair, wiping carefully at the spill; lest her daughter-in-law drip river water unnecessarily about the room.

'You are left-handed, are you not?' asked Mrs Thornton, as she seated herself once more.

'Yes, Mother. I am trying my right hand.' Mrs Thornton nodded wordlessly, and appeared to busy herself in Mr Thornton's shirt, but all the while she stole glances at her new daughter, watching as she chewed at her bottom lip, and concertinaed her brow in vexation.

'You are holding your pen wrong,' said Mrs Thornton, without a hint of accusation. And without further comment, she stood, drew close to Isabel, and rearranged her fingers upon the pen. 'Try now.'

And the glide of the pen across the page - although unrefined and uncertain - was steady. Her pace was slow, and her hand - now less fluid in its motion - had not that easy, natural flow, and so the roundness to her letters (which Mr Thornton had thought quite childlike) gave way to something more akin to her Milton family. Each letter was spiky, looping crudely from one to the next, and - to Isabel - looked like the hand of a child, lately picked up their first pen. But to Mrs Thornton - observing with a shrewd eye - it was simply an inelegant, masculine scrawl, but not childlike. There! she had written the date, but now she must be to her sums, and Isabel had not that great invention which counted numbers for her, and having scrutinised the ledger before she had picked up her pen, Isabel knew she was to be many hours at her task.

Some time had passed, and little progress with the ledgers had been made, and Isabel could think of no way to account for her sudden ineptitude, where previously she had been so quick to tend to the ledgers. Isabel chided herself for what she now saw to be unjust pride, and she owned herself to having been quite smug in the rapidity which with she saw to her husband's books, and then basked in his approbation. What a fool! said Isabel to herself, now frowning at the ledger, in confusion. To be so quick to steal praise where it had not been earned. Vanity! cried she, inwardly. Has love made me so vain, but I must always have John's admiration? And she knew that she did crave it more than she ought. She grimaced at her own weakness, and turned her attention back to the work before her; determined that she would see it completed, and by her own merit, in atonement for all the praise she had greedily accepted from her husband in the past.

'Are you good with numbers, Mother?' asked Isabel, stretching out her neck to ease her aching shoulders, as she shifted in her chair. She had been sat at the ledger for well beyond an hour, but had accomplished very little.

'You are usually very quick in your sums!' replied Mrs Thornton, in alarm. For she had thought the cause of Isabel's slow progress, to be the adoption of her right hand, but now she saw that her daughter-in-law was quite lost as to how she ought to tally the accounts.

'I had only wondered at what method you might use for the ledgers?' asked Isabel, quietly, for she was capable with figures, but the method! The method for such mathematics she had quite forgot, relying so completely upon her calculator, as she had since her school exams. Now Mrs Thornton was not a simpleton, but neither did she have the most learned of minds, and so it was with a hesitant grumble, that she set aside her son's shirt, and pulled the ledger towards her, glancing at it with an all-encompassing gaze.