Whilst Margaret was hoping to find for herself, the same good fortune as had been apportioned to Isabel, in having fallen so quickly with child, Fanny Watson was in a state of dismay. Dr Donaldson had been called to Hayleigh (for Isabel – as a woman, was not a proper doctor, and thus fit only for diagnosing feigned migraines), and after an examination and a long conversation with one of his most trying patients, Dr Donaldson excused himself, and left Fanny to a fit of sobbing. She embraced those tears, and encouraged them to come all the more freely, by thinking on every moment of sufferance she had ever experienced in her coddled existence. The tears brought her husband (who had just spoken with the doctor), and he knocked gently on her door, before having to rap vigorously with his knuckles, so that his knock might be heard above his young wife's wailing.

'Fanny?' said he, looking down upon her prostrate form, as she shuddered upon the bed. 'Whatever is the matter, Fanny?' For he saw no cause for tears.

'Oh, my dresses, Watson! My figure. I dare to say I shan't find another moment's happiness again; even if I should live until I'm eighty!' Mr Watson could only roll his eyes at his wife's hyperbole.

'Perhaps you ought to call on your mother, and share your news with her?' suggested Mr Watson, for he had no time to deal with his wife's lamentations on ill-fitting gowns and concerts that might be missed. He had not thought the suggestion to truly lift Fanny's spirits, but had merely thought to remove her from his presence until she had calmed her tears, but the very thought of the mill house quite brightened Fanny's countenance, and she sat up upon her bed and sniffled prettily.

'Yes, I might go to see Mother. She will be desperate to know. Would you call round for the carriage?' Mr Watson gratefully retreated from his wife's room, and Fanny bathed her face with a wet cloth, feeling really quite positive about her diagnosis, for she always took delight in being the centre of attention. And – although a foolish creature – she was not insensible to the fact that Mr Watson's night time visits to her room would undoubtedly, be out of the question; and what a boon that would prove to be!

Isabel had just returned from her hours in the mill infirmary (much to Mrs Thornton's chagrin), and was sitting down to tea, when the clap of hooves stole into the mill yard, causing Mrs Thornton to frown about her tea cup.

'Fanny, no doubt,' announced the matriarch, as she rose from her chair and walked towards the window (for Fanny was the only caller who insisted upon the carriage driving to the front steps of the house, and not merely setting her down at the mill gates). 'Yes, it is she,' sighed Mrs Thornton, as she watched her daughter alight from the carriage, and swish her skirts about her, to rid them of their creases. She could not reason why her daughter's unexpected arrival should unsettle her so, but Mrs Thornton felt sure that there was something in Fanny' posture and gait, that spoke of some excess of emotion.

Indeed, the front door opened at the hands of a servant, and Fanny's shrill voice was heard to cry out, –

'Mother – she is in the drawing room? And Isabel, too?' Now came the rustle of skirts, and the clanking of her crinoline, as the hoop bashed its way up the staircase, and in she came to drawing room, with a stomp of feet and cry of, 'Mother!'

'Good afternoon, Fanny,' came her mother's stiff reply.

'What a lovely surprise!' exclaimed Isabel, for she did welcome her new sister's company, as it balanced out the frostiness of her disapproving mother-in-law.

'Mother, Isabel, I have news!' beamed Fanny (who had now quite reconciled herself to her condition). 'I am with child! Watson is to have an heir within a seven month!' announced she, triumphantly. Both Mrs Thornton and Isabel were surprised, for surely, Fanny always suffered with a migraine! But whilst Isabel was merely shocked, Mrs Thornton felt a stir of pride. Fanny – who had always been a weakling – had proved herself to be fruitful.

'I am very pleased for you, Fanny. Congratulations,' said Mrs Thornton, evenly.

'Yes, it is wonderful news. And you are happy?' asked Isabel, cautiously, for she recalled Fanny's proclamations upon the eve of her wedding, and could not quite envisage her young sister playing the role of mother.

'Oh, certainly! Watson is to have an heir – which shall please him no end – and I shall give to Mother, her first grandchild, so you see, I am pleasing everybody! Now,' said Fanny, glancing carelessly about the room, 'where is John? I should like to share my news with Johnny.'

'He is working – in the mill,' frowned Mrs Thornton, for it was now near the middle of the day, and Fanny ought to know that Mr Thornton was always working.

'Oh, well never mind,' replied Fanny, flapping her hand dismissively. 'You may tell him when he returns home, but oh! he shan't like being second place to me.'

'Second place?' asked Mrs Thornton.

'Well, no doubt being so very old, he had thought to give you the first grandchild, Mother.' And Fanny looked so well pleased with herself, and so very proud, that Isabel could only grimace.

Certainly, Fanny's joy in her news seemed to tend towards the superficial, but Isabel knew well – from that sage book – how Fanny was never thought of but to be spoilt or pampered. Both mother and brother hand been careless in their rearing of the youngest Thornton. For all that they had given her and appeased her, never had they held any great expectation of her worth, no thought of great achievement. And so often had Fanny been overlooked, so that the brother might be praised by that proud maternal heart. And she stands before us, said Isabel to herself – as she looked upon her sister's ringlet-shrouded face – such pride in pleasing the mother, and she shall not be the first! Isabel did wonder if she ought to speak, but looked instead to Mrs Thornton, who now appeared a little discomposed. For that mother – although favouring the son – did love her daughter, and did not wish to see her hurt.

'Won't you sit down and take some tea?' urged Mrs Thornton, thinking it best that her daughter was sitting, before informing her of Isabel's condition; lest the girl fall into a faint.

'Yes, I shall take some tea and some of that lemon cake, but I cannot take a sandwich, Mother. The fish paste does not agree with me in my condition.' Fanny smiled insipidly, and turned to Isabel. 'No doubt when you are with child, you will find there are many foodstuffs you cannot stomach. Why, that is why I called on Dr Donaldson; I became so very delicate. But Watson is so pleased at the prospect of a son, that he shan't mind a change of menu.'

'Fanny –' began Mrs Thornton warily, but Fanny interrupted.

'As a nurse, I suppose you think you know what you ought to expect when it is your turn, Isabel, but oh! one so easily tires, and I cannot walk at all. And I feel so unwell of a morning, that I can hardly rise from my bed until noon.'

'Fanny, you are only two months along!' scolded Mrs Thornton, for if she could not bear her condition with equanimity now, her mother dreaded to think how she would tolerate the discomfort of being so near her time.

'Only two months!' scoffed Fanny. 'I think you have quite forgot how it is, Mother; you being so old. But it is a trial! I shall bear is all for Watson, of course; he is so desperate for a son.' Here, Fanny turned to look at her mother, a slight frown tugging at her brows. 'I had thought you might be eager for a grandchild, Mother, and yet you look a little underwhelmed.' And now she scowled, in her dainty, girlish way.

'Of course I am pleased, Fanny,' sighed Mrs Thornton. 'I am very pleased for you, and look forward to meeting your babe, but you ought to know that –'

'I wonder what I ought to call him?' wittered Fanny; not caring for her mother's speech. 'No doubt we ought to name him after Watson's father, but if only he would hurry up and die! I could not name him after Watson, for I always call him "Watson" and "Watson Watson" should sound rather foolish.' Isabel tried – and failed – to suppress her laughter, and ended up choking on her tea, and as it was a most unladylike thing to do, and at Fanny's expense, Mrs Thornton – who was still chagrined about her continued work in the infirmary – glowered at her daughter-in-law in warning. 'Perhaps I ought to name him after John?' continued Fanny. 'John may never have a son – and it would be quite fitting to call my son John; him being the head of our Thornton family. But Watson would no doubt only let our youngest son be named after Johnny, so perhaps for the next babe.'

'And what if you have a daughter?' asked Isabel, in caution.

'Oh! no, I'll have a son. Watson shall want me to bear him endless children until he gets his son, so I might as well give him one now. John shan't mind, shall he, Mother? My having the first son?'

'Fanny!' snapped Mrs Thornton; her lips pinched. 'If you would only be quiet one moment, I might tell you that Isabel is expecting too, and some three months along.'

'Three!' cried Fanny, blanching. 'But I am only two!'

'Sorry, Fanny,' soothed Isabel, but there was very little she could do to appease her sister, whose bottom lip now trembled.

'So I shan't give you your first grandchild, Mother?' And now she looked hotly at Mrs Thornton, and said in an accusing tone, 'I had thought you to be better pleased, but now I see that my babe is nothing to you, because you have the promise of John's. Oh! he has always been your favourite!' And she cried her tears with accomplishment, before asking Jane to see her up to her old room, so that she might lie down to rest.

'Poor Fanny,' mused Isabel, looking cautiously to her mother.

'Yes,' agreed Mrs Thornton, but with little sympathy.

'Do you think her truly disappointed about our babe, or is it likely just the shock?' Mrs Thornton furrowed her brow and pressed her lips together, before looking furtively at her daughter-in-law.

'No doubt,' said Mrs Thornton, wryly, 'if Fanny can be more afflicted than you, she will be satisfied enough.'

'So I ought to treat her as though she is ill, and not merely increasing?' asked Isabel, dubiously.

'Oh, yes. She will send off weekly for her nurse, and have her spend the day at Hayleigh; I should think she will enjoy that very well.'

'Why should Fan require her nurse to Hayleigh?' asked Mr Thornton, just now entering the room.

'She is with child, John. By two months,' explained Mrs Thornton.

'Ah!' And his brows lifted in surprise. 'I had not thought – ah! Well, yes –' His cheeks flushing at his allusion to such a thing. 'I trust she is happy? I know Watson shall be,' continued Mr Thornton, clearing his throat and moving over to the tea tray and serving himself, so that he might hide his blushes from his mother.

'Yes, both are pleased, but Fanny had hoped to bear me my first grandchild,' said Mrs Thornton, in a weary voice.

'Ah! I see. Well, I am hoping to hold a little Isabel in six months, so perhaps Fanny will have the honour of giving you your first grandson,' replied Mr Thornton, amiably.

'You hope for a girl?' asked Isabel, as her heart swelled with glad surprise.

'Of course, love. If I might have a little you.'

'But woman are so inferior to you Milton men,' grumbled Isabel; all warm sentiment at her husband's tender proclamation, now forgot.

'Inferior!' cried he. 'And I have for myself such a wife, and such a mother! However could I think of women as inferior?'

'But there is no equality for a woman. To bring a daughter into the world and see her stifled and bid to do this and bid to do that, where a brother might do as he pleases!'

'Yes, that is true,' said Mr Thornton, slowly, 'but perhaps she shall marry well; a man who delights in her independent spirit.'

'Yes,' sighed she. 'I shall have to hope for it, but I think it a mean feat! And you do not crave a son?' asked Isabel, tentatively.

'Of course you do, John! Why ever would you claim to prefer a daughter? Who would see to the mill, if you were only to have daughters?' exclaimed Mrs Thornton.

'But I would not expect a son of mine to have to follow in my footsteps, Mother. I would expect him to do his duty, as I like to think that I have done. If our family should require him to see to the mill, then I would expect it of him, but if he has the luxury of choice, I should like for him to choose for himself. He might wish to stay in school and become a scholar, or take up the law or medicine – after his mother.' And here, Mr Thornton smiled warmly at his wife.

'A scholar!' cried Mrs Thornton, aghast. 'But you are a man of business, John. The Thornton name goes far in the world of business. Beyond the world of trade, what is the name of Thornton?'

'I care not for the name, Mother, so long as I can take pride in it. You know I have never cared for the accolades of others; only that I feel the worth of our name for myself. If I should have a son, and we did well enough to see him happy in his own choices, I'd not trench upon him as a young man, bidding him to do this and not to do that.'

'But as his father, it would be your right, John. Your duty to him,' implored Mrs Thornton, for truly, she did not know what her son was about.

'Nay! I became a man without a father's guiding hand, and for all you guided and supported me, Mother, you never once commanded me, but respected my independence as a man. Perhaps Father would not have allowed me that – had he lived,' said Mr Thornton, quietly, for he was uncomfortable speaking about his father. 'But I tasted independence at an early age, and I'd not prevent my son from tasting it too, if circumstances should allow it.'

'So you'd see the mill pass over to another family, if your son did not wish run it?'

'Ay! It would be a bitter pill to swallow, but as I said, Mother, I'd not trench upon my son.'

'And so you wish for a daughter? You see no need for an heir?'

'A daughter can be an heiress, can she not?' asked Isabel, softly, and Mr Thornton took up her hand and squeezed it.

'Ay!' sighed he. 'I should like a son first, but only so that there was an older brother to care for his sisters. But I'm of a mind that our babe is a girl, and I cannot regret it, loving it as I already do.' Isabel – as an expectant mother and modern woman – was warmed by her husband's tender sentiment, but Mrs Thornton was greatly perturbed.

'John, you are soft!' scolded she, grimacing at her son.

'I think you are a thoroughly modern father, John,' encouraged Isabel, quietly, and he turned to her and smiled.

'Thank you, Izzy,' whispered he. 'I shan't let you down.' Now turning to his mother, and speaking in his clear, direct way, Mr Thornton said, 'Mother, do not trouble yourself; I hope for many children, and if Isabel does not object, I shall see you have your grandson. I mean to keep my son about me in the mill, so that he might have a passion for it, and learn the trade from an early age. It is my hope that any son should choose to follow me into business, but if he chooses not to, I'll not force him. Let that be enough, Mother. I follow your example; you were to me, mother and father, and I could not have asked for better.' Mrs Thornton turned away, lest her son see the emotion swimming in her eyes, and once she was certain that her voice was steady, she said only, –

'I never doubt your judgement, John. You shall do whatever is best.'

Mr Thornton's judgement dictated that a man in his early thirties, named Edward Layton, was to be their new driver and man about the house. He proved himself to be an agreeable fellow, by helping to lift bedsteads and wardrobes, in order to furnish his own room. So, too, did he take kindly to young William Harris, who was only too glad to accept the position of stable boy, and he instantly endeared himself to Mr Thornton, by proving himself to be invaluable when assisting in the purchase of horses. Mrs Thornton did not like the fellow – who was originally from Bath! – because she thought him to be too familiar in his willingness to please, but she, it seemed, was the only member of the household, who did not like their new driver.

The upper maid, Jane, fairly blushed at the sight of him, which only made Mrs Thornton dislike Layton even more, and after bristling in vexation for a fortnight, she could hold her tongue no longer. She had ventured down to the kitchens one afternoon, when she stopped at the foot of the stairs, overhearing Jane and the scullery maid, Lucy, blushing and giggling as they discussed how very handsome he was.

'He has such a fine Roman nose,' sighed Jane, wistfully.

'I thought it wa' Greek, like them Greek statues yo' get in th' museum,' frowned Lucy. Here, Isabel came in from the infirmary (always using the staff entrance when working in the mill yard), and turned to the younger girls, laughing.

'Let us say he has a Greco-Roman nose, then. That way, you may both be right.' Both girls smiled happily at their friendly young mistress, only to see the imposing shadow of the matriarch fall upon the kitchen table.

'Isabel, may I speak with you?' came Mrs Thornton's clipped request.

'Certainly, Mother. May I change my dress first, or do you need to speak with me at once?' asked Isabel, unsuspecting.

'No, you may change your dress,' replied Mrs Thornton, her intense gaze fixed firmly upon the two chattering servants. She moved but the slightest fraction, to allow her daughter-in-law to pass her and venture up the stairs. Once Isabel was out of sight, she drew close to the younger girls, and said sharply, 'I'll have no bawdy talk, and neither of you are to get any ideas about the man. I shan't have any unseemly business going on under my roof.' Lucy – who was younger than Jane – veritably quaked in her shoes, and could only look at the floor in fear, as a meek whimper escaped her lips. Jane – in turn – offered a deferential bow of her head, bobbed her knees, and said, –

'Yes, Mrs Thornton. Begging your pardon, Mrs Thornton,' before scurrying off upstairs to clear the fireplaces. Now that stern black-clad figure turned regally, and glided up the staircase, installing herself in the drawing room to await her daughter-in-law's arrival.

At length, Isabel stepped into the drawing room, and with a weary sigh, seated herself close to the fire, so that she might melt away the chill from having worked some three hours in the cool infirmary.

'Isabel,' said Mrs Thornton, primly, 'you cannot encourage the girls in their mischief, and any such talk – it is unseemly! And certainly, as John's wife, it is wholly inappropriate for you to join them in their idle conversation.' Isabel frowned.

'You think that Layton would be offended by the girls' admiration of his nose?'

'Whether they admire his nose is neither here nor there!' scolded Mrs Thornton, drawing herself up to her full height, as she sat rigid before her son's wife. 'Layton ought to never know of their regard for his nose, for they ought not to be discussing it.'