Now came the Thorntons' dinner; the first over which Isabel would preside. All of the arrangements had been seen to with the fastidious attention to detail, which was so very innate to Mrs Thornton. Isabel had ceded to all of the matriarch's suggestions, and would have quite willingly sat along the length of the table, close to Mr Thornton, or in some unobtrusive little cluster with the inhabitants of Crampton. Alas! The dinner was in honour of her new status as the Master's wife, and so she would play the hostess and Mistress of the house, thus finding herself at the foot of the table, bereft of her husband's sanctuary.

Isabel – although not prone to vanity – was not entirely dissimilar to any other female of one's acquaintance, and where she felt unsure and lacking in confidence; where she suspected that she would be made a study of, only for the memory of her to be taken home and shared – most scathingly – amongst the drawing rooms of the Master's wives, she chose to armour herself with a fine and beautiful dress. That rich coral silk did give her courage, and fit her as a second skin. The exquisite dress was – of course – entirely the product of Mrs Thornton's accomplished needle, and although Isabel had laboured over the garment for many an hour, she had contributed to it but three dozen stitches, which had not been unpicked by her mother-in-law and set to rights, after the house had retired for the evening.

Now Isabel had ordered a bath drawn, and Layton saw to the carrying of the water, where he would set the pail down before the door to Isabel's room, ready for Jane to carry the warm water the short distance from doorway to bath. Whilst the pail was carried up and down the stairs by Layton, Mrs Thornton called her daughter-in-law into her own chamber, and showed to her the finished article.

'Here, Isabel. I have adjusted your dress after your last fitting yesterday, and you should now find it more comfortable, for I have let out the sides a little.' Isabel looked over the gown – held proudly in Mrs Thornton's out-stretched arms – and smiled with delight.

'Mother, it is beautiful! I am not insensible to the fact that this dress would be in pieces if it were not for you, and I must thank you for it!' Mrs Thornton only inclined her head in acknowledgement, for although it was quite obvious that a proficient hand had laboured over the gown in atonement for Isabel's awkward stitching, she did not wish to discuss the matter, lest she be accused of some excess kindness.

'You are hosting a dinner as Mrs John Thornton,' came Mrs Thornton's short reply. 'You must be adequately outfitted.' But in truth, Mrs Thornton had taken pleasure in trying to teach her new daughter the art of dress making, and upon finding Isabel ill-equipped for such a challenge, she had found an even greater satisfaction in silently acknowledging to herself, that Isabel was not so capable, nor so wholly able, as to replace the matriarch as once she had feared.

'I shall do my best to make John proud,' said Isabel, quietly, for she felt her mother's words to be a warning or pre-emptive censure, and did not realise that they were a mere half-truth offered up so as not to betray the intimacies of Mrs Thornton's heart. Mrs Thornton heard the smallness to Isabel's reply, and knew that she had stung her, yet she did not have it in her to cajole, nor to reassure her daughter of the evening's success (for Mrs Thornton did doubt Isabel's ability to behave herself in company), and so she called out sharply, –

'Jane!' The maid came quickly to the doorway, and stood awaiting her commission. 'Please hang this dress in Isabel's room, and then go down to the drawing room. There is a vase of roses on the sideboard. You may take one and add the petals to Isabel's bath water.'

Now the servant hurried off with the dress, and hung it carefully upon the wardrobe, but as she moved to hurry down to the drawing room, she came across Layton on the stairs.

'You are in a hurry, Jane,' smiled Layton, kindly.

'I am to take a rose from the arrangement on the sideboard, and place the petals in Mistress Isabel's bath, but she never lingers in the bath. I shan't have long to see to Mrs Thornton's hair, before I have to tend to Mistress Isabel.' The poor girl was in a fluster, and her cheeks were suffused with a becoming blush. She was – most certainly – a little over wrought, for she was not the brightest girl, and had to work hard to meet the matriarch's standards, and yet she was a loyal servant, who wished to see her young mistress proud. But it would be a lie not to own, that those pink cheeks and laboured breathing, were not also a symptom of Layton's proximity; of that soft, boyish smile.

'A rose, you say?' replied Layton, thinking Jane quite dear. 'You go on up to Mrs Thornton; I can fetch the rose; it shan't take me a moment, and I've nothing more that needs doing – unless the Master should return and make demands of me.'

'But you would put the petals in the bath tub?'

'If Mistress Isabel is not in her room, I do not see the harm?' And he smiled encouragingly, before offering a charming wink, which only made the poor, infatuated girl's heart beat all the more thickly. It was then, Layton's offer of assistance – keenly felt – which allowed Jane to be swayed from her purpose, and so she hurried back up the stairs, to see to Mrs Thornton's hair.

Edward Layton had a soft heart, and a notion for romance, so he was happy to help the harried young maid, and did not mind plucking pink petals from a thorny rose, and watching them drift slowly into a steaming bathtub. Indeed, he completed this little indulgence with such care, and such slow deliberation – as he let each petal float softly to the water's surface – that he was still about his task when Mr Thornton came quickly up the stairs.

Upon finding the outer door to his wife's room open, Mr Thornton stood about the doorway and looked inside. What he saw made his heart thump violently within his breast. His tendency to jealousy – his possessive love of Isabel – instantly drove him to anger, and he stalked purposefully into the room and spoke in his deep, authoritative voice, –

'What do you think you are doing? Why are you in my wife's room, and placing petals in her bath water!' His tone was so demanding, and laced with such covetous vexation, that Layton instantly turned about in surprise, and could not help but look quite guilty.

'I was only putting petals in the bath to fragrance the water, sir. Mrs Thornton requested it.' Now Mr Thornton's brows rose in anger, and he spoke low and sharp.

'My mother asked that you come into my wife's private room and place petals in her bath water?' Here came the blush and deep frown, as Layton realised his error.

'No, sir. Mrs Thornton asked if of Jane, but she was anxious to see to Mrs Thornton's hair, and as I had no immediate occupation, I offered to see to the bath water, sir.'

'What is wrong?' asked Isabel, drawn from Mrs Thornton's room by the raised voice of her husband. Mr Thornton turned to his wife, and upon seeing no expression of shock or indignation at finding a male servant in her private room, he instantly bristled. His ire was turned towards poor Layton, completely ignoring his wife's question.

'Layton,' said he, his voice cool, his gaze penetrating, 'you are never to step foot into my wife's private room again. Indeed, you will not venture into any lady's room, unless the owner of the room has personally requested it of you, and there is a chaperone present. Do you understand me?' And this last, came out a bark.

'Yes, sir. I beg your pardon, sir. I did not mean to – I only thought to help, and as Mistress Isabel was not present in the room, I had not thought –'

'No, you did not think!' glowered Mr Thornton. 'Now be gone!' Layton left, and Mr Thornton closed the door behind him, locking it abruptly, before scowling at his wife, as his chest dilated with suppressed passion.

'John, that was excessive. I am sure he was only trying to help.'

'He was in your room, and placing petals in your bath water!' cried he, spinning on his heel to face his wife.

'Yes,' frowned Isabel, for she was not quite certain if Layton's crime was in being found in her room, or in the dismantling of the rose.

'It is not proper, Isabel!' hissed Mr Thornton, in exasperation, for he could quite plainly see that Isabel did not understand the impropriety of the man being in her room, and when the family was about!

'But I was with your mother; I was not alone in my bedchamber with him.'

'It is still improper.'

'Well,' sighed Isabel, seeking now to appease her husband, but unwilling to agree with him, 'he knows not to do so again, and no harm was done; you need not let it anger you.'

'No harm done!' scoffed Mr Thornton, now gripping Isabel's arm and pulling her close, in the hope that he could instil in her some understanding, for his heart was jealous and it piqued him that Isabel could not understand the nature of his love for her. 'These petals,' said Mr Thornton, disdainfully, 'are the actions of a lover, not a male servant. He had no place – I have never placed petals in your bath water, and I am your husband!'

'Oh! that is the sting? You are neglectful, husband. You should have littered my bath water with flowers long ago.' And she placed her arms about his waist, cajolingly. 'Come, John. You are my lover. I shall not be wooed by two dozen rose petals; my heart belongs only to you.'

'Well,' grumbled Mr Thornton, his shoulders still tense.

'I am anxious that I shall disappoint you this evening,' admitted Isabel, meekly. And she had chosen her words well, for the timidity in her voice, and the look she gave him – which spoke to Mr Thornton of her reliance upon him – stole away all possessive jealously, and stilled him into placidity.

'You cannot disappoint me, Izzy,' replied he, placing a tender kiss to her brow.

'Not even if I should vex Mr Slickson again?' eliciting a deep rumble of laughter from her husband.

'I should be disappointed if you did not vex Slickson. I've no preference for the man, as you well know. But,' added Mr Thornton, his voice low and throaty, as he felt the gentle lines of his wife, beneath her clothes, 'I've quite the preference for you.' There came from Isabel an altogether inviting look, and Mr Thornton immediately pulled his hands from her waist and stepped back – his throat tight with longing. 'I shall leave you to bathe.' And tugging at his collar (which now felt far too tight) he slipped into his own room to see to his toilet, for he did not dare indulge his passions, and his resilience to his wife's charms was wearing thin.

The house was lit with candles, and on this occasion, Mrs Thornton did not resent it. For there – in the softly glowing room – did the rich mahogany furniture shine in testament to its thorough polishing. The netting and domes had been pulled from the ornaments, and the drawing room was displayed to its full, illustrious advantage. Mrs Thornton surveyed the room with her cool discerning gaze, and surmised that no standards had slipped; that none could accuse Mrs John Thornton of running a slatternly household. Of course, Isabel did not run the household, but for this one evening, she would assume the mantle of "mistress of the house", and Mrs Thornton would willingly allow herself to be relegated from the foot of the table.

'Mother,' said Mr Thornton, now stepping into the room in his best golden cravat and waist coat, 'the room looks very well; you do me proud.' Mrs Thornton smiled in acknowledgement of her son's praise.

'I only hope Isabel knows her place as hostess, this evening.' Mr Thornton pursed his lips, displeased with his mother's lack of faith in Isabel.

'She will do well, Mother. She is anxious to do well. You will gesture for the ladies to retire from the table, if Isabel should not judge the moment well?'

'Of course, John.'

'But I am certain that she will.' Mr Thornton frowned as he looked over the richly-laid dining table, and suddenly felt – for the very first time – that the table was unpleasantly large, for there was a great distance from the foot to the head of the table, and no conversation would be possible with his Isabel that night. 'And her dress?' worried Mr Thornton, now turning back to his mother. 'You were able to let it out a little? I don't want her corset laced too-tight.'

'Nay, John! Stop fretting. Here, look. She comes now, so you shall see for yourself.' And the rustle of skirts announced his wife, as Isabel came into the room.

A vision, he thought her; the coral silk making her olive skin glow in the candlelight. Her skin had lost its darkness in the time that she had been in Milton, but still it held that subtle honeyed tone, which bespoke of her Italian grandfather, and it made her skin veritably glow in the candlelight. So accustomed as Mr Thornton was now, with each facet of her person, still he delighted as a small boy about some treasure, in the way her cocoa hair danced in the candlelight; the soft, warm amber sheen to her hair, mesmerising him as he looked on.

'Isabel,' murmured Mr Thornton, stepping towards his wife and taking her hand in his. 'You look so beautiful. I do not deserve you.' And lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed it chastely. He allowed his eyes to greedily trace her figure, and let them to linger on the slightest swell of her stomach; the roundness which he so proudly – keenly – saw, but which to their unsuspecting guests, would be quite invisible.

'You are very handsome this evening, John,' whispered Isabel, with a blush. In truth, she always thought him handsome, and was fond of him in black and white, but in his fine evening-wear – softened by the gold cravat and waistcoat – the imposing masculinity of his person was tempered by a gentle romanticism, which she quite delighted in from time-to-time. If either had known what the other was thinking, as they looked upon each other so unguardedly, they would have realised they both craved the intimacy they had lacked of late, and yet, neither would speak of it.

'John!' hissed Mrs Thornton, for he stared at his wife like a lovesick fool. 'John, Fanny and Watson are coming up the stairs, and I have just seen Hamper's carriage.' And – ah! – the spell was broken, and into the melee the couple were thrown, as they danced that dance of socialising for propriety's sake.

Mrs Thornton had placed Mr Hale and Dr and Mrs Lyndhurst beside Isabel at the foot of the table. Isabel thought the gesture was a kind one – made to ensure that she would have a familiar companion at the table – but Mrs Thornton's motives had not been quite so charitable. Indeed, she had feared a repeat of Isabel's outlandish speech – as given at the Thorntons' previous annual dinner – and so she had contrived to have Isabel set away from the Masters. But Mrs Thornton was not well-acquainted with Dr Lyndhurst, and so she did not know his interests, or generous attitudes towards women. She could not have anticipated, therefore, that Margaret and Dr Lyndhurst would prove to be the most explosive conversational partners for Isabel.

Lulled into a false sense of security, was Mrs Thornton, as their guests had arrived and ambled about the drawing room in their finery; happy – if not genuine – smiles upon their faces. Isabel had not spoken one controversial word, but had been warm and welcoming to all of the Master's wives. Mrs Thornton knew her son's wife well, and plainly saw that although appearances were maintained, Isabel held no regard for her guests – and in some cases, even appeared to deride them – but still, she knew well enough to hide such unwholesome sentiment from her unsuspecting guests, and the very effort of concealment, led Mrs Thornton to suppose that Isabel would do or say nothing, to embarrass her son.

Thus, the party repaired to the dining table, and Mr Thornton – seeing his place card written in his Isabel's own (unruly) hand, smiled warmly at her down the length of the table, eliciting a shy blush in return. The food was brought out, and small clusters of conversation erupted about the room.

'You think the arrangements officious?' asked Isabel of Margaret, as she watched her young friend survey the table. Indeed, Margaret had hoped that Isabel – who appeared utterly devoid of any airs – would have reduced the number of side dishes at the table – but to her disappointment, Isabel had not.

'Oh, no! I see you have similar taste to Mrs Thornton,' flushed Margaret; embarrassed at being so easily read.

'Hush!' laughed Isabel, softly. 'This is all Mother's doing. I am merely pretending to be the hostess for appearance's sake. No, it is a matter of pride for Mother – having lived those years of hardship – to now offer such hospitality to her son's peers. And she feels the luxury of it all the more, for all is possible by virtue of John's great achievements.' Dr Lyndhurst smiled in understanding, but Margaret dipped a frown.

'And your inheritance; do not forget that,' cautioned she.

'Yes,' agreed Isabel. 'Until women can flourish themselves, in business, they can hope only to assist their husband's finances in the form of an inheritance or dowry.'

'Women; flourish in business?' asked Mr Henderson, who was sat closest to the guests from Crampton.

'Well certainly! Why should they not?' asked Dr Lyndhurst, turning now to the talentless mill Master.

'Why should women not flourish in business?' scoffed Henderson, loudly, now drawing the attention of the men at the other end of the table.

'What's this?' asked Mr Slickson, instinctively looking to Isabel.

'I merely asked why a woman should not one day flourish in business,' replied Dr Lyndhurst, evenly, for he had a placid temper, and was difficult to provoke.

'Humph!' snorted Mr Slickson. 'A woman cannot flourish in business – as you call it – because a woman has not the mind for business. What knows a lady of anything but needlework and running a household?'

'But that in itself,' put in Mr Hale, cautiously, 'is a form of business, is it not? There is book keeping, and the management of servants.' Mr Thornton smiled warmly at his friend, for it was so very akin to his nature, to put forward a tentative argument for the defence, and for it to be done so with such affability, that even the most boorish of Masters, would not deign to scold him for it.

'Perhaps,' said Mr Hamper, 'we speak of different things when using the word "business", Mr Hale. I'd not say running a household – no matter how grand it may be – is akin to running a mill, now. No,' ceded he, 'women have their uses – and some of them even have a brain!' – and here, some of the man scoffed out their laughter for such a pretty joke! 'But a woman can never be a Master. A woman can never become a pioneer or leader of men. She might assist her husband a little, but mark my word, no woman shall ever strike out on her own. Ladies shall always be in the shadow of men, and there is no room for hiding in the shadows, when it comes to business.'

'Hear! Hear!' snorted Mr Watson, who was already on his second glass of wine.