The following week - some two days before Isabel's first dinner party as Mrs John Thornton - Isabel came in from the mill infirmary, to find a pot of tea and plate of sandwiches waiting for her. She sighed with satisfaction, and looked longingly towards the sofa, where she wished that she might sit and enjoy a light meal, but Mrs Thornton had laid out upon the dining table, a collection of place cards and glassware, along with an assortment of linens.

'If you will take your tea at the table, Isabel, I will show you through our glassware, and you might choose which cut you would prefer,' offered Mrs Thornton, for she felt keenly, that she ought to allow the young wife to make her own decisions, and yet, she did not quite trust her new daughter's judgement.

'Oh, I hardly have a preference. They all look very fine,' replied Isabel, seating herself upon that firm, hard-backed chair. 'Which you do usually use?'

'These ones,' said Mrs Thornton, handing to her, the most ostentatious glass upon the table. It was not to Isabel's tastes, but her tastes were not to Milton standards, and so she felt her dislike of the glass a fair indication that is was just the very set to suit their purpose.

'I agree,' smiled Isabel, gratefully drinking her tea. Mrs Thornton watched the young wife's eyes close, and her lips curl with satisfaction, as she sipped at her black tea. Mrs Thornton thought she had never seen Isabel look so comely and gentle, as she did in that fleeting moment of calm and simple domesticity.

Mrs Thornton had surprised herself with her feelings for her son's wife. She had thought to hate the girl; to merely tolerate her with a cold ambivalence for the sake of her son, but Isabel had made him so very happy, that her frostiness had thawed, until she had been forced to tolerate the girl with equanimity. Those early weeks - or months - of marriage, had been trying for the matriarch, for she so often saw Isabel do something vexatious, and the maternal core of her person, wished to chide and rebuke until the girl quelled, but Mrs Thornton had never done so. Such a deed was her son's responsibility, and for all that Mrs Thornton had been irritated by cushions and wasted candles, wifely-baking and fraternisation with the working poor, she would not have so openly insulted her son by speaking against his wife. Where once she had imposed herself with her iron will, and stood against a wilful suitor, she now faced a wife - ordained by God and law - and there could be no denial of the woman's rights.

Thus, Mrs Thornton had held her tongue, and suffered the little inconveniences and mortifications of taste and feeling, as she had watched her son's wife coddle him, and slowly, unobtrusively, bring changes to their home and habits. She could not precisely identify when the change had come, but come it had, for over time those little impositions - the early candles, the trips to the kitchen, and the clutter of books about the drawing room - had become to Mrs Thornton, less irksome, until the point where she would have felt their absence as a trifling loss.

She attributed her change in sentiment to her son, and told herself that it was only justified that she should find some small satisfaction in the changes about the house, because they pleased her son so greatly, as he was first in all that she thought and did. But in truth, Mrs Thornton had come to quite like her new daughter. She thought her bold and daring, in a hearty, hale way, and took pride in having such a fearless daughter-in-law. She felt keenly, the staunch loyalty of Isabel, whenever she spoke in defence of husband or mother (which was sadly required often, for Fanny was a fool, and prone to idle, careless speech, which was distasteful to one so loyal and protective, as was Isabel).

And even towards Fanny, Isabel showed a caring friendship. True, Mrs Thornton saw that her son's wife found amusement in her daughter - and not always in the kindest way - but she had affected to diagnose Fanny with severe migraines, and had told Mr Watson, that Fanny ought not be approached more than once a week, unless by invitation. Isabel was, thought Mrs Thornton, a fine wife, but one in need of constant improvement, for she was shockingly ill at needlework, and appeared to know nothing about making soaps or posies, about music or dancing; to such an extent, that Mrs Thornton suspected Isabel had been raised as a boy, rather than a girl!

'Shall you write out the place cards for the table, or would you prefer that I do it?' asked Mrs Thornton, as Isabel washed down her sandwiches with yet more tea.

'Oh, if you will,' blushed Isabel, for her hand was still very untidy. Mrs Thornton nodded curtly, and set about her task of writing up the name cards for their dinner party, and whilst her gaze was fixed upon the place cards, she spoke cautiously, -

'Was Watson displeased when you spoke with him - about Fanny's migraines?'

'He was not, but he did scoff at me when I suggested he did not go to her more than once a week, and suggested that "he should be so lucky".' Here, Mrs Thornton grimaced with distaste, for her daughter - although married to an unattractive fellow - made very little effort to be to him, a good wife. 'I hope you do not think I spoke ill, Mother, but I did talk with Fanny, and tell her that -' She frowned, flushed and sipped at her tea.

'Told her that?' encouraged Mrs Thornton; eyes still fixed to her place cards.

'That a wife who does not do her duty, cannot expect her husband's loyalty. I spoke in only those terms, and believe I was understood, but I cannot rightly say.'

'Oh, Fanny will have known what you meant. She has a nose for scandal. She might appear naïve, but upon matters such as that, she will have heard more than enough rumours to have understood your meaning.'

'She bore it with a great deal of equanimity, then!' recoiled Isabel, in distaste. 'I find the notion quite repellent. Why, if ever - no! I shan't even say it. No!' And she scowled into her empty teacup.

'Ay, but you married for love. It would be a betrayal of trust, but there's no trust between Fanny and Watson.'

'Perhaps when they have a child, affection will grow between them.'

'Perhaps.' But Mrs Thornton did not sound hopeful.

'Were you a love match; with Mr Thornton - George Thornton?' asked Isabel, tentatively. She did not know if she spoke ill, for Mr Thornton's father was never spoken of, and Isabel knew not why.

'We were,' replied Mrs Thornton, her pen stilling in her hand. 'I was a girl of eighteen, and he was a handsome man; I could not help but love him.'

'Like John? Did he look like John?' asked Isabel, eagerly.

'He was tall and broad like John; though John is bigger; stronger. He had the same dark hair and pale skin. The same long nose and strong lines about his mouth.'

'John has your brows. I think of it as "the Thornton scowl", but I suppose if it is yours, if it not "the Thornton scowl" but whatever your maiden name was,' added Isabel, unguardedly.

'Scowl!' cried Mrs Thornton, in vexation, and here, Isabel blushed.

'I am rather fond of John's scowls. They make him quite handsome.'

'Perhaps they are an asset to a man, then,' said the matriarch, wryly. 'But as I am I woman, I'll not take it as a compliment.'

'I do not think you should! A compliment would no doubt offend you; you're not weak enough to need my words of admiration; to simply feel you have it - unspoken - is enough for a proud woman such as you.' And the matriarch's face softened with a lop-sided smile, before she called her features back into their habitually stern expression. 'So he was handsome?' urged Isabel, keen to return to the late Mr Thornton.

'Ay, but not so handsome as John.' And the mother was gratified by Isabel's enthusiastic nod, which seemed to say "of course he was not; such a feat would be impossible!"

'And you fell in love at eighteen years old?'

'Yes, but he was older at twenty three, but not old enough to hold a secure position to take a wife, so we did not marry until I was twenty.'

'My! I'm certainly glad John is as old as he is, then. Waiting two weeks to marry him was tedium enough, but two years!' And again, the matriarch was flattered by Isabel's honest compliment of her son, and so she did not allow herself to be repelled by the display of tender sentiment or hyperbole.

'Two years is a long time, when you are young and in love,' agreed Mrs Thornton, stoically. 'John came quickly, and he was my pride; our pride. Then there was a little girl - Sophie - when John was four - but she was lost at five months.'

'I am sorry. I cannot imagine.'

'And I hope you never do,' mused Mrs Thornton. 'Losing Sophie was hard but we had to bear it as best we could - for John, if not for us - but my husband took to his work, and where once I had been helpmeet in his business dealings, I was no longer wanted. I didn't fight for his attentions or affections, but turned my own to John, and by the time Fanny came some six years later, my husband was someone I had a duty to, but not someone I loved with any fervour. Then came the troubles, and when all was lost, I grieved for my children's loss and for our shame, but not for myself.'

'But you still wear black?' asked Isabel, tentatively.

'I am a widow. I married him for life, and I keep my word.'

'I think you very strong; I am far weaker; I know that I am. I can only thank you for bearing your troubles and your losses as you did, for John would not be who he is without you.' Mrs Thornton frowned at the distasteful pang of soft emotion, which swelled within her breast, and pressed the pen towards Isabel.

'You write John's place card. He will appreciate it being written in your hand.' And so came to a close their private words, which shared the secrets of Mrs Thornton's heart, but neither would forget that brief conversation, nor the lesson to be learned.

Mrs Thornton had just begun to show Isabel through the table linens, and those napkins now proudly baring the initials "J. I. T.", when a sound rang out in the still, Milton air, and a cacophony of noise instantly filled the yard.

'What is that noise?' cried Isabel, rising immediately from the table, and running to the window overlooking the mill yard.

'It is a fire bell,' replied Mrs Thornton, grimly, her eyes scanning the skies for a surge of smoke, but all was smoky in Milton, and nothing could be gleaned from inside the mill house.

'A fire bell?'

'One of the mills,' explained Mrs Thornton, with a pale face.

'Cannot such fires kill hundreds?' asked Isabel, aghast.

'Ay! God help them; whoever's mill it might be.'

'Shall we not go down to the yard and see if anyone knows?' And Mrs Thornton did wish to know, for a mill fire was a grim business. 'There is John!' cried Isabel, now seeing Mr Thornton striding purposely from the sheds, and in an instant she was flying down the stairs, over the front steps, and towards her husband.

'John, whose mill is it?' called Isabel, and upon hearing her voice, he looked up with a dark expression; no hint of fear.

'Watson's.'

'Watsons!' cried Mrs Thornton; now not merely pale but truly quite white.

'Ay! But at least Fanny lives out at Hayleigh; she'll not be at risk,' replied Mr Thornton, in an attempt to calm his mother. 'The same cannot be said for the hands, though,' said he, beneath his breath.

'What was that, John?' asked Isabel.

'I've no time to stop; I must go and help. I've sent one hundred of my men, and now I must be gone myself.'

'But the hands; what is it that you meant when you spoke of the hands?' Mr Thornton sighed, and wrapped his long, elegant fingers about the back of Isabel's neck, urging her towards him.

'The mill is old, love. It's not been modernised as has mine. It's been a fire risk for years, and Watson's sheds are such a ramshackle maze, that in all that smoke, there shall no doubt be a melee of poor souls, trying to find their way out.'

'And you go to help them escape?'

'Ay, and the wounded.'

'Then let me come with you. I shall bring a bag of medicines and -'

'No!' cut in Mr Thornton. 'You stay here with Mother.'

'But John -'

'I told you no,' glowered he.

'You cannot be serious, John? If people are injured and I might help them -'

'But you'll not be satisfied with waiting for the men to bring the poor folk to you, will you? You'll no doubt go in after them!' And he saw in her look that she would; if a terrified voice were to cry out, she would act without thinking of her own safety.

'I shan't, John,' pleaded Isabel.

'And I do not believe you, now go on back inside.' When she did not move, Mr Thornton looked sharply to his mother.

'Mother, see Isabel back to the house!' And he looked pointedly to Isabel with a stern finger. 'You'll do as Mother bids you.' But there, her eyes narrowed in irritation, and upon seeing that familiar look of defiance in her eyes, Mr Thornton realised that if she was so very determined, that his mother would not be able to prevent Isabel from doing as she wished. A sea of hurried bodies dashed past, and orders were called out. He could not delay, but he durst not leave her.

'Come!' said he, taking hold of her hand. And thinking that he was to take her with him, Isabel instantly curled her fingers about his, affectionately. But then he led her towards the house, and she stilled her step in protest.

'John? You are going the wrong way.'

'No, love. You are going back inside.'

'I will not!'

'I have not the time to argue, Isabel!' scowled Mr Thornton, in weary vexation.

'Then go! I don't keep you here.' He knew - of course - that she would not be long behind him, and he would not risk her safety. He sighed; he was loath to do it, but he must.

'Come then, and change your skirt for something smaller.' And again, he took her hand, and led her towards the house; this time finding no resistance to his stride.

'You will help me dress, John?' asked Isabel, as she saw her husband follow her into their room. And he silently stepped past her, and through the connecting door, into her own room, where her clothes were kept. But he did not open her wardrobe, but noiselessly turned the lock to the outer door, and slipped the key into his trouser pocket.

'John?' called Isabel from their bedroom. 'Did you find me a dress?'

'No, love. I know nothing of dresses,' replied he, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. 'I must go, Izzy. I am sorry.'

'You do not mean to wait for me? I shall be quick. You might fetch my medicine bag from the infirmary whilst I dress? I shan't delay you by two minutes.'

'I cannot spear two minutes.' And with an apologetic look, he left the room and closed the door behind him. There, she heard the key turn in the lock, and his steady steps retreat down the hall, causing her heart to hammer violently in her breast.

He has locked me in! said Isabel to herself. And without thinking, she ran to her own room, and tried the outer door; but alas! it was locked, too.

'John! John! Come back; you cannot mean to leave me here,' cried she. Her voice was loud and angered, and she knew that if she stood before the mirror at her vanity, she would see a red and scowling face look back at her. 'John!' cried Isabel, once more; fists now hammering upon the rattling door. 'John Thornton, let me out! I shall not be your prisoner!' But his steps had retreated, and the house was silent. He had gone.

Mrs Thornton stood anxiously about the drawing-room, listening to the tramp of men within the mill yard, and the raised voice of her daughter-in-law from upstairs. She did not know what her son had intended to do - she could never have anticipated such an action on his part - but she knew - instinctively - from the volume off noise, and the quick, decisive step of her son - now upon the upper staircase - that Isabel was not merely unhappy with her husband, but in a lashing of fierce, unladylike temper.

'John!' asked Mrs Thornton, askance at the thumping and hammering, which came from the floor above. 'Whatever is that noise, John? Where is Isabel?'

'She is locked in our room, and I have the keys; she is not to be let out until I return home,' came his short reply.

'You cannot mean that!' cried Mrs Thornton, in alarm.

'I do, Mother. She cannot be trusted, and I'll not have her run off into an inferno.'

'No; she ought not go, but to lock her in! Listen to her, John.' But he did not need to stop and listen, for he could hear her angry cries; now wordless - muffled, through the floors. But the vibrations of her banging fists upon the bedroom door, did echo through the house, and he could veritably feel her frustration vibrate up his legs, as he stood before his mother.

'There is water in the room; she's no need to come out, so you had best ignore her cries, Mother.'

'A man cannot lock up his wife, John!' scolded Mrs Thornton, in dismay.

'A man cannot allow his wife to run into a burning building. She knows no danger, Mother. She cannot help herself!' came Mr Thornton's grim reply, as his chest dilated with repressed frustration, as his cheeks flushed with angry passion. 'If anything should happen to her, I'd -' But he could not even voice his fears; could not say the words. The very thought of it sent his heart to racing, until he heard only the rush of his own blood within his ears. 'No; she stays where she is until I am home, and God help anyone who defies my wishes by unlocking her door!' He turned and left. He did not need a word or look of assent from his mother; she would not disobey him when he had spoken so boldly.

Mrs Thornton clasped her book of Commentaries firmly in her hands. She had sought out that faithful book upon her son's departure, for her linens would not give her the strength or courage to withstand the angry cries of her daughter-in-law, as she continued to pound her fists against the door. Mrs Thornton had opened up her favoured book, and set her eyes upon some inspiring scripture, but although her eyes saw, they did not read a single word. Instead, she sat - without purpose - and listened to the thud of fists or feet; she thought it likely the girl would kick as well as pound her fists. She listened to the angry call of her son's name, and with the passing of some twenty minutes - when Isabel must have reasoned that Mr Thornton was long gone - did she instead call out that most painful of words.

'Mother!' Mrs Thornton ignored it, but it came again. 'Mother!' She sighed, and willed herself to pay the sorry voice no heed. 'Please, Mother!' Her hands trembled about the book, and in irritation - for she thought herself weak in her response to two pitiful words of sorrow - did Mrs Thornton set down her Commentaries, and stand about the window, looking out into the mill yard.

It was quiet; the machines had stilled for the day, and only a handful of workers remained; those women or aged hands - too old or too weak, to be of any use - who darted about the yard with cotton scraps. There, she spied Mary Higgins, and two older woman, who tended to the dining room. Mrs Thornton grimaced at the stillness of the vision, and thinking of the waste - wishing to be gone from Isabel's cries - she turned and walked quickly from the room.