Layton had spent one day abed – Isabel fearing a concussion – and was then up and about his duties. As Isabel was not venturing from home – having been lately fragile – she had little reason to cross Layton's path in the course of her day, for she did not need the carriage, and he had few duties about the house which brought him regularly into the presence of the family. This – and this alone – was the reason that Mr Thornton took no immediate action, but sought to bide his time. He thought he might watch the fellow, in order to discover what he was about. Trying, he found it, for he was impatient in his jealous, possessive love, and after one day of seeing the man only haul water about and teach William the way of horses, Mr Thornton quite turned from his observation with a scowl, and glowered at his latest invoices.

For all that Mr Thornton could not love with any tepid, measured ardour – for all that he clung fiercely to his Isabel, and despised the thought of others seeking the warmth of merely sharing her notice, he was a reasonable man, and would not act without honour. For, although the fellow had dared to speak that intimate name, it was but one word, and for all the suspicions it aroused – for all the suspicions Higgins had voiced – what crime had the man committed? What wrong action? What ill intent? Nothing could be certain of, but that a name was spoken.

It piqued in him a fit of jealous indignation, that he could not simply throw the driver out for daring to have a tenderness for his wife. But these violent, prideful emotions, were tempered by that recent memory, of having loved her so sorely, and so hopelessly – as Mr Thornton had thought it, at the time – when he has spied that misunderstood affection between Isabel and Mr Bell.

I could never help but love her, reasoned Mr Thornton. How can I despise another for loving her, when it is only the natural thing to do? Indeed, I ought to pity the man! And he grumbled to himself, that he could not see fit to simply have done with Layton, altogether. It smarted that his honour dictated that the man should stay until some fault was found, but Mr Thornton had seen nothing in the fellow which indicated he sought to draw from Isabel, some returning affection. He might love her only passively, thought Mr Thornton, but still he sneered, for he was not a passive man, and did not think that love could be passive, either.

Conflicted, he called for Higgins, and bid the weaver to his office, where he glowered and scowled, and thought himself a fool, for even entertaining the notion of speaking to a mill hand about such a delicate matter. But Higgins was sharp and recalled with clarity, the utter consternation upon his Master's face, when Layton had been smitten by the horse. He had watched the flow of emotions as they had crossed Mr Thornton's countenance; first shock, then disbelief, changing to anger, jealousy, then indignation, and lingering at hesitant doubt. He knew his Master felt – as would any man – that the driver was a threat – but he thought he had seen – for one passing moment – a flash of sympathy or understanding.

'Yo' wanted t' see me, Master?' encouraged Higgins. Mr Thornton frowned and swallowed deeply.

'Yes, Layton.' Higgins only nodded his head, for it was just as he had expected. 'You said,' another frown, and he turned his face away, for he could not help but grimace with distaste. 'You said he had a fondness for Isabel?'

'Ay, I'm certain tha' 'e does.'

'Why do you think this?' Higgins cocked his head to one side, and watched his Master carefully, before saying saucily, –

'Who would not? Hoo's a bonny lass, an' th' feisty temper t' warm a man.'

'Higgins!' scowled Mr Thornton, for he grew impatient.

'Master, if yo' is axing me, I'd tell yo' tha' Layton seems a harmless kind. I don't think he'd as try owt, but 'e 'as a look about 'im whenever th' Mistress is near, an' I'm welly sure 'e warmed t' young William Harris for yo'r wife's sake – 'er worried for the family, now they've lost Robert Harris' wage. Hoo's a bonny thing an' kind, but t' a man in service, hoo's a different creature, an' a man canna help but be warmed by it.'

'Excuse me?'

'Nay! Yo' axed my opinion, an' I telled yo', so don' go givin' me tha' look!' chided Higgins. 'I think er' more as a daughter, so I'll excuse my impudence, because I feel it's my place t' say it. Yo'r wife dun treat a person like a servant. Hoo makes no distinction between yo'r family an' th' staff. E'en Miss Margaret – as was – would order her maid Dixon, summat proper, but yo'r wife asks instead o' orders, an' it gives a man 'is pride. Any lonely man o' an age an' wi' eyes, would surely warm to 'er.'

'My wife had never lived with servants before she arrived in Milton,' admitted Mr Thornton, thoughtfully.

'Ay. An' I think it shows. Was hoo very poor, like?'

'What, Higgins?' asked Mr Thornton, now looking up at the weaver in confusion, for he had been lost in his own thoughts.

'I asked if hoo were very poor where hoo was before?'

'No. Only no one had servants. Not the likes of my family; that's for certain!'

'Will yo' send th' man away?'

'I'm minded to,' mused Mr Thornton, 'but I'd rather not; I've nothing to accuse him of. No, thank you, Higgins. You have given me much to think on. Now I might say back to work with you, but I think your Mary's making stew to-day, so perhaps over to the dining room, instead.'

'Will yo' join me, Master?' asked Higgins, for he did quite like the stern Master. The scowls and dark looks scared people off, but Higgins was never one to quail, and had grown to like the softer man behind the stern façade.

'No. I am still taking my meals with my wife – I might encourage her to eat a little more if I sit with her.'

'More!' cried Higgins, shaking his head.

'What, man?' demanded Mr Thornton.

'Well, only I sees a lot o' women what's wi' child, an' yo'r wife's babe grows quite large, I'm thinking.' Mr Thornton ignored the man's impudence, because Higgins had a way of making his interlocutor feel as though he had some familial bond with the person he so saucily discussed.

'Ay!' smiled Mr Thornton, proudly. 'The babe grows well, but my wife grows thin.'

'Oh!' coughed Higgins; his eyes widening in surprise. Mr Thornton looked to him in question.

'What does that mean, man?'

'Nothing, Master,' replied Higgins, presuming to place his cap upon his head, by way of curtailing the conversation. He had heard of such a thing before, but did not dare speak of it to the Master – not for all he quite liked him.

Now as Mr Thornton tried to think of some way in which he could shut up the infirmary and relocate Layton to the stable block (so that he might be kept as far from Isabel, as may be), Isabel continued her shortened hours in the mill infirmary. Her workload was never arduous, and seemed mostly to consist of wounds which had become infected, children grown thin and sickly through lack of nourishment, or workers with chronic conditions, who sought to drag out their working life for as long as their crumpled bodies could withstand, so that their families would not starve.

She was surprised, then, when a young mother came in with an ailing, fevered daughter of seven years, and an infant son, who was bundled tightly in a stained rag, his face quite red with screaming.

'Can I help you?' asked Isabel, frowning at the flagging girl before her. 'Sit up upon the table,' urged she, immediately washing her hands, as her heart began to beat thickly in her chest. Isabel had not touched the girl, but she knew on sight, that she was quite seriously ill.

'Tis not jus' Molly, Mistress, but Jacob, too,' whimpered the mother, gesturing to her infant son, with a jiggle of her arms. Isabel frowned.

'Both children?'

'Ay.'

'And have you any other children?' asked Isabel, cautiously.

'No; jus' Molly an' Jacob. There was another girl, but hoo died last winter.' Isabel could only nod, for the stories of infant deaths were all far too common for her liking.

'And you – your husband, you both feel well?' asked Isabel.

'We both do, but our neighbour's lad – 'e's not so well. They work up at Hamper's though, so they canna come 'ere.'

'Right,' replied Isabel, suspecting some contagion. She stood well back and merely looked at young Molly from a distance, as she tried to think of some illness likely to dwell in with those Miltonian pages. 'Molly,' said she, narrowing her eyes at the girl's neck (which looked quite swollen), 'do you have sores in your throat?' The girl only nodded. 'Can she comfortably speak?' asked Isabel, of the mother.

'No. There's great welts in 'er throat.'

'And little Jacob,' enquired Isabel, still standing well back. 'Can you pull back that blanket, so that I might see his face?' Anxiously, the young mother pushed aside the cloth, and revealed great red blemishes across the babe's cheeks and brow. There came the sting at the back of Isabel's eyes, for the babe looked a little less than six months, and at such a tender age, any fever would leech to the brain with ease, and his little life would be cruelly snatched away.

'If you will – all three of you – wait here and not touch anything, I will consult with my husband. I suspect a contagious – a catching – disease, which other children might have. Where do you live, please?'

'Knockwood.' Isabel grimaced; it was the meanest part of Milton, with over-crowed hovels and outdoor privies full to overflowing. If there was any such contagion in Knockwood it would likely spread, and fast.

'I will go and ask if we have any other children unable to work to-day. If we know their symptoms, we will find a diagnosis – that is, the name of the illness, and how best to treat it – more easily.' The mother nodded meekly; the poor woman unsuspecting in her ignorance, but Isabel – who knew better – was gripped with an ominous sense of dread.

'John,' said Isabel, not caring to knock upon the door to his office.

'Izzy!' cried he, standing in alarm at her sudden entrance. 'What is wrong? Are you unwell?'

'No, John. But there is a mother in the infirmary with one seven year old and one babe under one year, and I suspect it's scarlet fever. They live in Knockwood.'

'Scarlet fever!' repeated Mr Thornton, blanching. And he strode purposefully about his desk, and came to stand before his wife, looking at her intently, as he placed one steadying hand upon her trembling shoulder. 'Did you touch them, love?' And here she flushed and felt such a painful pang of guilt, that she felt it sear her heart.

'I did not, John. As soon as I knew both children were ill, I suspected a contagion, and the girl looks to have scarlet fever – but I am not sure; I only looked from a distance of four yards – and I feared –' She choked on voicing her selfish concern, and stumbled in her speech.

'Izzy?'

'I feared for the babe,' admitted Isabel in a whisper, one hand instinctively resting on her swollen stomach. 'Scarlet fever is rare in my time, John, and not serious. I've never come across the likes of this.'

'Thank God!' sighed Mr Thornton, in evident relief, as he pulled Isabel into his embrace. 'Thank you, love. Thank you for thinking of our babe. Now go and rest; you are not to return to the infirmary. I will send for Donaldson, and speak to Higgins and Williams to ascertain if we are missing any children who might be infected. Once Dr Donaldson gives his diagnosis, I am to the borough court to notify the council.'

'I will need to clean the infirmary with something caustic,' put in Isabel, her heart still beating wildly.

'No, love. You go on home. Take off your clothes and give them to Jane. We'll burn them. I will clean the infirmary once Donaldson's taken the family off.'

'But you might –'

'Nay! I had the fever when I was four years; it is what took my sister, Sophie. I shall keep you and the babe safe, my love.'

'Yes, the babe – I cannot help those people, John. I cannot risk the babe.'

'No, you cannot. You are a mother, now – or as good as! – and our babe must be your priority. Go home and see those clothes burnt. An unnecessary precaution, but do it, nonetheless, and I will come to you once Donaldson has been.'

Isabel did as she was bid, and once stripped of her clothing and dressed in a nightgown and robe (for her conscience was heavy, and she meant to keep to her room), she lay herself upon the bed and cried hot tears. Tormented was she, by the image of that young babe; screaming with a fever, and the mother – so unsuspecting in her ignorance – might very likely lose both children, after only losing one last winter. Her hands came again to her own babe, growing within her stomach, and she placed her palms flat against the swell, and prayed that her little one would never succumb to such a cruel, unnecessary illness.

It was in this attitude that Mrs Thornton found her daughter-in-law, having been informed by her son that scarlet fever was confirmed in Knockwood. The matriarch had been gravely alarmed and had placed a hand to her gaping mouth, as her thoughts immediately turned to her own lost daughter, and unborn grandchild. But Mr Thornton had soothed his mother with a single touch.

'Nay, Mother,' shushed Mr Thornton. 'Isabel did not touch them, but came directly to me. Her clothes have been burnt and she rests upstairs. I have much to do, Mother, if we are to limit the spread of infection, and I have no time. Go to her, Mother. She is ridden with guilt at being unable to help those children.'

So Mrs Thornton went to her daughter, and stood about the door, watching silently as Isabel's hands moulded to her babe. Those hands stilled, and pressed firmly, as she felt for her child's head, and the babe turned and rolled over in response to its mother's touch. She tried again – a smile about her lips – as a silent tear slipped from her eye, and then she moved her hands about, and pressed once more. Mrs Thornton stood quietly, watching her daughter with interest, for it was clear to her, that Isabel understood exactly what she felt. And yet there came a pause in the prospective mother's touch – a hesitancy of the hand – and the brow tugged in thought. Mrs Thornton held her breath in anticipation, and watched as Isabel repeated her motions once again; feeling her babe, and smiling at its movements.

'Isabel?' called Mrs Thornton, with a surprisingly tender voice.

'Oh, Mother!' And she sat up, hastily brushing the tears from her eyes.

'Are you well? You have been crying?' asked Mrs Thornton, uncertain if the tears were for the poor, afflicted children, or the result of something ominous she had felt within her stomach.

'Oh, yes, yes! I am well. I am only a little sad and feeling very guilty.' Mrs Thornton sat herself upon the corner of the bed and pursed her lips. She glanced about the room, and shuddered a little, to think that this was her son's bed – the bed shared by husband and wife – and not merely Isabel's private place of solitude.

'You did the right thing.'

'For our babe, yes,' said Isabel, in a small voice.

'For you, and for John. For myself, as well,' admitted Mrs Thornton, hesitantly.

'Pardon?' The matriarch frowned at the look of confusion upon Isabel's face, and asked herself – not for the first time – if the girl had any concept of what it was to be loved – of how painful it could be to love someone you feared for.

'You did not touch the children, but went to John, because you feared for your babe if you should catch the fever.'

'Yes,' with a guilty flush.

'But just as you feared for your babe, so did John and I. And I'll not claim to feel it to the same extent as my son, but we would have felt that fear for you, also. That innate protectiveness you feel for your unborn babe; John feels that for you. It would break him if he lost you.'

'And I feel it for him.'

'Ay,' said Mrs Thornton, wryly. 'That's why you threw yourself upon him at the riot, but have you not learnt yet, that for all that these men are big and strong, it's us women who hold them together? We managed – it was not easy – but we managed, and well, when my husband died. I've no false modesty, and I don't mind saying that had it been I that was lost, my husband would no doubt have still died, and John and Fanny! Why, I don't durst think!'

'Mother, I am sorry, but I don't rightly understand you,' said Isabel, furrowing her brow.

'No. I think you've never known love until you met my John. For someone who loves so fiercely, you've a lot to learn about being loved,' scolded Mrs Thornton. Seeing the look of hurt indignation upon her daughter-in-law's face, Mrs Thornton softened her tone and said, 'Isabel, these men must play protector. They keep us in our bed or hidden away safely indoors. You think it a form of oppression, or a means to make the man feel strong and brave, and perhaps it is, but I've not lived all these years without learning it's also self-preservation. A man cannot cope without the wife he loves. His children need a mother. We women cope when abandoned to our lot, but men sink low and lose their ways. They protect us to protect ourselves.

'That is why John lectured you so, for swimming in The Hoppen; why he locked you in your room when Watson's mill was burning. That is why – no matter how low or guilty you might feel – you have done the right thing in leaving that poor family to the likes of Donaldson. You must protect your babe and my John, by first protecting yourself.'

'Mother,' said Isabel, her throat tight, with suffocating emotion. 'What you say is true. I did not know love before I came to Milton. I have only three memories of my mother. One is of my sitting on her lap, whilst swinging from a tree. She laughs, and her hair is loose and glinting in the sunlight. She is beautiful and happy. The next she screams at me and strikes me on my leg with a vicious sting – which I can still hear ringing in my ears – because I broke an ornament she bid me not to play with. The last – the last –' She frowned, and looked tentatively to the stony face before her. 'The last is of her coffin. I am learning. I will endeavour to ease John's fears by keeping myself safe, but it goes against the grain, and the burn – it smarts, so don't begrudge me my tears.'

Mrs Thornton was not wholly unmoved, but she was loath to show any weakness of emotion, so she only nodded without softening her expression at all. She was surprised then, when Isabel threw back her head with laughter.

'Oh, Mother! You are very cool. I should hope that when the babe comes, you might warm a little, so that it is not afraid of Grandmamma! I think I've only ever seen you smile at John.' And to prove a point, Mrs Thornton grumbled. 'Here,' said Isabel, taking up her hand, and pressing it to her babe. 'It moves.' And now that smile emerged, and the features softened as the eyes grew warm and dewy, and as Mrs Thornton basked in the undulating movement of her son's unborn child, Isabel's tears came.

'Are you in pain?' asked Mrs Thornton.

'No. I am only thinking that this babe is such a blessing, and that poor mother I met to-day – who has already buried one child – might yet loose her other two.'