Whilst Isabel and Mr Thornton kept secret their suspicions that they were to have two babes, and whilst Fanny lamented the lack of attention she had received from her Thornton family – for they had quite forgotten her and her imagined aliments, upon Isabel's being found anaemic, and then being almost touched by scarlet fever – Margaret waited patiently for her own joy. More than four months had passed since Isabel's announcement that she was expecting, and in those four months, Margaret had come across four disappointments.

She did not cry at each lost chance, but looked sadly to her husband, and felt a heavy burden for not having been able to provide him with the good news she knew he so longed to hear. And Dr Lyndhurst did long for a child – he quite fancied his own great brood, if only the Crampton house was big enough for such a riot of infants – but what Margaret could not ascertain, was that the pain she saw looking back at her, with each monthly shake of the head, was – firstly – a sympathy for her. Her husband knew it hard on Margaret, to see her dearest friend with child; to have the loud, brash creature that was Fanny Watson, ensure that all of Milton knew she was expecting. Worse, was it made, by a letter from Cadiz, in which Frederick announced that he was married, and his Dolores with child, also, and after not one month of marriage!

Margaret watched her father closely, as he read the letter over, and she saw his kindly smile; a swell of pride within his chest at knowing his son would continue the Hale name. But so too, was there a sadness, which caused that lined face to tremble, for Mr Hale knew his grandchild would forever be to him a stranger, with Frederick cast off in exile, and the journey too great for the older man to make.

'I am very pleased for him,' smiled Mr Hale, but his voice was thick with emotion, and there was a slight quiver at the back of the throat.

'Excellent news,' agreed Dr Lyndhurst, who saw his father's suffering, but knew not how to allay it.

'Yes,' nodded Mr Hale, with an absent-mindedness reminiscent of those early days of grief, following the death of his wife. 'Yes, I am very glad.' He sighed deeply, and inclined his head wistfully, before saying, 'it is a shame I shall not ever hold the child, but still.' Now forcing a genial smile, 'I have the promise of yours, my Margaret, and that does warm me, so.' The poor father could not know the pain his words had caused her, for now Margaret felt that burden double, upon disappointing not just husband, but father.

'Margaret, dearest,' said Dr Lyndhurst, when they retired that evening, 'you do know that although I long for us to have a family, I am not impatient for it? That when the time is right, the babe shall come?'

'Yes,' smiled Margaret, stoically, but his words were but a paltry balm.

'Margaret?' cajoled her husband, upon seeing that stubborn frown, which spoke of some suppressed emotion or anxiety, which she was fearful to voice. 'Speak to me, my love. Let us have no secrets.'

'Well,' said she, as she moved to his embrace, 'it is only that – in Helstone – I knew of two women, who were married for many years, and never fell with child. One of women longed for a child so very much, that she took an orphan in, and raised it as her own.'

'That's a very kind and noble thing to do,' agreed Dr Lyndhurst. But her words made him fear his wife thought their circumstances so very dire, that she might seek some drastic action, which – as yet – he was loath to take.

'Yes, it was kind, and she was happy; the child, too. But the other lady – she wished for a child of her own flesh and blood – the husband, too – and she prayed with my father – fervently – but no babe came. I did not understand at the time – Cousin Edith not then, being married – how it was a woman came to be with child, but the lady who took in the orphan, did tell me that some women simply cannot bear children.' Now she turned sadly to her husband, and looked on him with anxious eyes. 'What if I should be such a woman, and we may never have a child?'

'But Margaret, my love! You cannot think such things, and after only half a year! What is half a year? Not long!'

'But if in one year – or two – and still there is no babe?' trembled she.

'Then I should still love you as my own flesh, and if we should not be blessed with a child of our own, then perhaps we might be blessed with a child in need of a loving home?'

'But it is not the same,' frowned Margaret; she did so long to feel the kick of her own child, as it moved within her womb.

'No, not quite the same, but Isabel was an orphan, and would have wished for a home such as we could give a child. Or you have the little Bouchers! You think them very dear.'

'But don't you want a son? A son of your own blood, to carry on your name?'

'Yes, dearest,' sighed the doctor. 'I wish it, but I was so very blessed to find you, that I cannot now be greedy.'

'Then I shan't be greedy, either,' smiled Margaret, as she sought bravely, to follow her husband's example. Yet still, she worried that she would fail her husband, and wished for the reassurance of her friend.

It was, then, a tremulous Margaret Lyndhurst, who called at the mill house the following day. She had slept little, anticipating how she might broach the delicate matter of her childless state with the ever-increasing Isabel, and so Margaret had about her, a touch of pallor and a slump to her shoulders, which could not possibly be termed "haughty".

'Margaret, are you unwell?' asked Isabel, rising to greet her friend, as she was announced at the door to the drawing room.

'Oh, quite well, Isabel. Only a little tired I should think; I did not sleep well.' Isabel pursed her lips, and cast a weary glance at Mrs Thornton, who was sat about the window, embroidering clothes for her grandchild. Isabel looked pointedly at Margaret – engaged in a silent communion – and it was not more than the flicker of one perfectly-arched brow, which bespoke of Margaret's wish for privacy.

'Margaret,' said Isabel, with affected exuberance, 'let me show you over the nursery. Mother added new drapes just yesterday.' Margaret smiled gratefully, as she retreated from the presence of Mrs Thornton and was led up the staircase to the family rooms. 'I am sorry, Margaret,' sighed Isabel. 'I ought to have had John set up a private room for my use, but I thought not to exclude Mother of an evening. Little did I know that I would be cooped up indoors for fear of scarlet fever, and now I cannot escape her sentient shadow, for there is a figure of black always about me – and not an enigmatic masculine kind, which might otherwise be quite welcome!' Margaret frowned, her lips contorted into an amused ribbon.

'You speak of Mr Thornton?'

'Oh!' blushed Isabel, for she had been unguarded. 'Yes,' now swallowing deeply. 'I always welcome John's company. I never tire of him, but he works long, and often.'

'Never tire?' asked Margaret, anxiously.

'No. You think I ought to? I shall admit, I am not cautious in my love for him, but perhaps love with an unladylike intensity,' replied Isabel, thoughtfully, as she recalled to mind the vision of her holding Mr Thornton's top hat in the hall at Crampton – there lifting it to her face and drinking in his scent. She blushed at the mere thought of it, and Margaret, who was concerned by an altogether different expression of love, mistook that blush for what she feared it might be.

'Isabel, I might ask you – as a doctor – as a female,' and Margaret paused, for she knew not what to ask.

'Oh! Do come to my room, Margaret. Jane is forever about the hallway, and the nursery is not yet set up with chairs. We may speak candidly in my room.' Margaret blanched at the thought of it; her friend now being a married lady.

'But your room? I could not –' began she, before Isabel waved her hand, dismissively.

'Oh, but I never sleep in there. Indeed, it is a very grand room for what is in truth nothing but a wardrobe.'

'Never sleep in there?' came Margaret's strangled reply, as she fought to keep her voice even.

'No,' replied Isabel, now opening the door to her room, and closing it softly behind her. 'Do tell me what troubles you, Margaret. I am no good to anyone in this state,' said she, alluding to her rounded stomach. 'John has made me quite helpless, and I have – at last – decided to embrace it. But if I might help you in some small way, I should be very glad to do so.'

'It is only – that –' Margaret's brow furrowed, and her cheeks were stained with pink.

'It is a personal matter?' encouraged Isabel, to which she received a nod of reply. 'And it is a female matter? Not something you would wish to speak with Dr Donaldson about?' (For he was still the Hale family doctor.)

'It is about being with child,' admitted Margaret. 'Or my not being.'

'And it concerns you?' asked Isabel, with sudden understanding.

'A little,' whispered Margaret, and she looked at her hands, as they were wrung upon her lap. 'I have been married seven months, and still I am not with child. Yet you and Fanny –'

'But we are all different,' put in Isabel, in a soothing, gentle tone.

'Yes,' nodded Margaret, but it was a hollow gesture, for the truth of the words did not allay her fears. 'That is as Christopher says, yet still –' And she shrugged her shoulders in a despondent attitude. 'My Cousin Edith, she had little Sholto, and very quickly after marriage. Then just this week, I received a letter from Frederick. He has married Dolores, and she is with child – the very first month.'

'I see.'

'Papa feels a little low about it – knowing he shan't see the child – but he hopes to greet my own, soon.'

'And are you merely impatient for a child, or do you fear that it will never happen for you?'

'Well, I did know of a woman – from Helstone – who had no joy, and took in an orphan after many fruitless years. Another could not bear to give up hope of one day holding her own babe, but when we came to Milton, she was still without child. Might I be such a woman?'

'Margaret,' replied Isabel, carefully, 'I think whether one falls with child, a type of lottery. It is a miracle of nature, and miracles do not come lightly, thus we cannot expect them to come with the regularity of any London train. For some, the miracle comes early – your Frederick, perhaps. One month! Well, I should think a man might like to be married a little longer than one month, before his wife considered delicate. I have known many people who have waited years for a child, and then gone on to have several. Seven months is not long enough to give up hope. It is trying, and frustrating,' said Isabel hastily, upon seeing her friend's frown, 'but not long enough to think yourself unable to fall with child. And you are young. Some eight years younger than I! You have much time, Margaret.'

'Am I doing something wrong, perhaps? Is it possible that Christopher does not know that I am doing something wrong?' Now Isabel's eyes widened in alarm, but she fought to keep an even countenance, for she did not wish to make her friend uneasy, in displaying her own shock.

'In what way do you think you might be doing something wrong?' spoke that studied, doctor's voice.

'Well, you said,' here, Margaret coughed and turned a deep crimson, 'you said you always wish to be about Mr Thornton; that you never tire from him and never sleep in this room, so I suppose that means you sleep – elsewhere?' finished Margaret, raising her eyes to look at Isabel, through her lashes.

'Oh!' Never had Isabel thought herself to be shocked by such a suggestion, and from the mouth of Margaret Hale!

'I would not call myself a cold wife,' hurried Margaret. 'I do not deny my husband, but I am not wishing to be always about him. I do sleep sometimes on my own,' explained she, with much mortification.

'Yes. I understand your concern, but I might say –' But how could Isabel correct her, without betraying Mr Thornton's trust, in alluding to her own husband's habitual passions! And if Margaret did not wish for such intensity of passion from her husband, as Isabel did willing accept – encourage – from her own! 'Well, I might just say that you over-estimate –' Oh! she could not say the words to one such as Margaret. 'Let me put to you a question,' sighed Isabel – for she was greatly discomfited. 'Fanny Watson has not a care for her husband. She is – by my estimation – what you might term a "cold" wife. You hear she has often a need for solitude. And yet she fell with child, and quickly. I think you need not worry that you err without knowing it; that you must always "be about" your husband.' At this, Margaret looked greatly disappointed, for if she had some fault that might be remedied, then a babe might follow.

'Then there is nothing I might do to hasten things?' asked Margaret, pleadingly.

'Ah! Well, now do you know how to count your days?' Isabel was not surprised that Margaret could not understand the question, and so a quiet quarter hour was passed, with Isabel explaining to Margaret, the science of that miracle called "child". Armed with this new information, Margaret's spirits brightened, and she was quite able to return to the drawing room and Mrs Thornton's exertions over those little clothes for her grandchild, without the threat of tears.

So too, did she bear the unexpected arrival of Fanny, who was now quite shockingly plump, and with equanimity – and sometimes, even a little amusement – Margaret listened to Fanny's myriad complaints. Isabel was chastised for keeping to the house and not doing her duty in calling at Hayleigh (for now Fanny must venture to the mill house, when Fanny was jostled so, by any journey in the carriage), and Mrs Thornton was bemoaned for having made more clothes for her brother's babe, than she had for Fanny's.

Margaret's concerns for her lack of child were distracted further, by the timely interruption of Henry Lennox. He had come to Milton with Mr Colthurst, and thought it his duty to call in on Margaret and Mr Hale, in respect of their previous acquaintance, and his position as Cousin Edith's brother-in-law. Having been unable to attend Margaret's wedding, Henry had never met Dr Lyndhurst before, and although a polite fellow who knew how to present himself in society, inwardly, Henry Lennox was not disposed to like the man; for he had succeeded in securing Margaret as his wife, where Henry had failed.

Now Margaret – in her delicacy – had not informed her husband that Henry Lennox had once proposed marriage, but she did allude to his having once held her in his regard. Dr Lyndhurst – knowing his wife's sensibilities – suspected that the "regard" Margaret had alluded to, must have been quite explicitly stated, or his wife would never have felt the need to inform him of it. Not being a jealous man, Dr Lyndhurst had every intention of being polite and welcoming to Margaret's former suitor, but upon the gentleman's arrival – and after less than five minutes in the man's company – Dr Lyndhurst determined that Henry Lennox was a slippery fellow, who might look and act the gentleman, but whom had the spiteful nature and coolness of manner, which belied his social standing.

'Margaret!' cried Henry Lennox, upon entering the drawing room at Crampton. 'How well you look.' And he strode purposely towards her and took up her hand. 'It has been too long.' Now he turned his attention to her father, and with a sombre expression, he addressed the widower. 'Mr Hale, it is a pleasure to see you again.'

'Thank you, Mr Lennox. We are very grateful to you for sparing us the time for this social visit, when you are in Milton for business,' smiled Mr Hale, kindly.

'Oh, but you are family, sir, and I should always spare the time for family,' replied Henry Lennox; his eyes seeking Margaret's own. She dropped her gaze demurely, and awaited her father's introductions.

'This is my son-in-law – Margaret's husband – Dr Lyndhurst. Christopher, Mr Henry Lennox is a lawyer from London, and the brother of Captain Lennox – Cousin Edith's husband.'

'A pleasure to meet you,' intoned Henry, with a curt bow of the head, but his expression showed that he took little pleasure in meeting the man who had bested him in love.

'And you are in Milton with Mr Colthurst, I understand?' asked Dr Lyndhurst, as Dixon arrived with tea, and Margaret began to pour.

'Yes,' nodded Henry. 'He is in parliament – as you will know – and I am quite familiar with the man. He has an interest in the machine and the growth of industry in the north, and I thought I might be of some assistance to him, in my capacity as a lawyer. My brother – Maxwell – has expressed an interest in dabbling in cotton, so I thought I might reconnoitre the mills and the investment opportunities they offer. My brother, did – I think – have some notion of starting up his own mill, but I hardly think he could do so from London, so I mean to limit his involvement to an investment in a working mill, already well-established.'

'Well, Mr Thornton is to meet Mr Colthurst to-morrow, and he is the man who will be able to advise you on all matters of business in Milton,' said Margaret, amiably. But Henry Lennox did not care for the note of admiration in her voice, and he bristled at her suggestion that he ought to consult a tradesman, and he, himself, a gentleman!

'I shall conduct my own investigations, thank you, Margaret. I'll not allow myself to be swayed by one who might be biased and looking for an investment in his own mill,' came his clipped reply, as he cast a disapproving eye about the room. Small, he thought it. Small and dark, with a clutter of ornaments which were far from new, and although quite pretty in a homely sort of way, not really very fine; not becoming of a lady.

'Oh, but Mr Thornton wants no investors; he's very well set up, is he not, Christopher?' continued Margaret.

'Indeed, and you could not find a more honest, straight-speaking fellow,' defended Dr Lyndhurst, who was supported in his statement, by a concurring nod from Mr Hale.

'Well, certainly. Mr Colthurst obviously values the man's opinion, and so I expect he is of the highest reputation,' replied Henry Lennox, defensively.

'And of course, Mr Thornton is married to my goddaughter,' said Mr Hale, proudly. 'And they are to have a child in two months or so.'

'I have not met your friend, Margaret, but if she is a friend of yours, I am certain that I shall like her.'

'Mr Colthurst will be well pleased with Isabel, I should think,' put in Dr Lyndhurst, for he felt Henry's speech to be entirely false; no sentiment expressed with any honesty, but spoken for appearance, only.

'Oh, do you know Mr Colthurst?' asked Henry, in alarm. For he was a London lawyer, and thought himself quite above a provincial mill town doctor.

'Indeed, I have been quite active over the years, in laws pertaining to the asylums, and Mr Colthurst took an interest. We have shared many an agreeable conversation in the past.'

'Why, then I am surprised that he had not scheduled to meet with you. I know his diary, and we are only to tour the mills, and meet with a Mr Latimer to discuss investments and the Milton economy,' insisted Henry.

'Oh, but you dine at Marlborough Mills to-morrow evening, and we have been invited,' explained Margaret, smiling.