Mr Thornton sorely needed to travel to Le Havre on a most pressing matter of business. He had put off the trip, for he was loath to leave his wife when she was some eight months with child, but she had assured him that twins would likely come early, and that he might see to his business instantly upon the babes' birth. He was then, in somewhat of a quandary, for he understood it to be safest for the babes if they did not come until the end of the full nine month, and yet he was hard-pressed to delay his business by a further month, when he had already put off his suppliers and buyers for several weeks.

By necessity, he worked long and late, and saw Isabel but little, yet still, he insisted on taking meals with her, for he thought her appetite poor, and in need of a solicitous husband's encouragement. The time spent at table was time he could ill-afford, for a large shipment of cotton from the Americas had gone down on crossing the Atlantic, and now all scrambled for cotton from Egypt, and bartered for raw cotton at such high prices, that the Masters were likely to turn very little profit. He felt haggard upon retiring at well past midnight – Isabel already asleep, and curled up in his nightshirt, in lieu of his physical presence – and he would silently disrobe, before sliding into bed, and falling asleep no sooner than his head had hit the pillow.

This night was quite different, for he came into his darkened room, to find Isabel sat up in bed, and with a furrowed brow. Instantly, Mr Thornton took up a lighted candle from the hallway, and tentatively brought it into the room, so that he might see what Isabel was about.

'Izzy, love?' asked he, stepping to the bedside and setting down the candle. 'Are you well?'

'Yes.' But she looked quite tense, and his senses were immediately on alert.

'It is the babes? Do you have pains?' asked Mr Thornton, now kneeling before her, at the side of the bed. Biting her lip, she merely gave an anxious nod. 'But it is early, love!' worried Mr Thornton.

'Yes, John, but twins often are.'

'Shall I send off for Dr Donaldson?'

'Nay, John!' smiled she, now taking his hand in hers, and bringing it to her lips. 'The pains are not strong, nor close together, and so there is no urgency. I will try to sleep – as you should, too – for it may be many, many hours yet, and I can see that you are tired.'

'Sleep! How can I sleep if you are in pain?' cried Mr Thornton, aghast. In truth, he did not think he could sleep, even if she felt not the slightest hint of discomfort, for he was now so very anxious to see his babes born safely; to know his wife would bear her trial, well.

'John,' scolded Isabel (although she was not angry, but merely attempting to direct him), 'you will be no good to me if when the moment comes, your head is flagged upon my pillow. Now sleep whilst I am not in need of you, and I shall try to do the same.'

'Very well,' agreed Mr Thornton, grudgingly, but he was instantly alarmed when he watched his wife rise from the bed. 'Where do you go?' demanded he; his voice laced with nervous excitement.

'To sleep in my bed. I will labour in there, so that your bed is not disturbed.'

'Then I shall sleep in your room; I'll not leave you on your own,' insisted the impatient father; the impassioned husband. And in one swift movement, he lifted Isabel into his arms, and carried her into her room, before settling her upon the mattress. Fully clothed (so that he might send off for doctor or midwife, the moment they were needed), Mr Thornton pressed himself against Isabel's back, as she lay quietly on her side.

'Sleep, John,' urged she, in a soothing whisper. 'I shall wake you if I have need of you.' And because he was so very tired, and because Isabel did not voice a single doubt or fear, after some thirty minutes, Mr Thornton did fall asleep beside his wife, in the hope that he might be a father by breakfast. When he awoke to the gloom that was a cruel winter morning, Isabel was still curled quietly beside him, and with no expectation of the babes arriving shortly, she only asked for him to call his mother to her room.

Mrs Thornton came with haste; her shoulders squared in a defiant determination to remain stoic and cool-headed, but inwardly, her emotions were in a frenzy; for surely, the babe did come too soon!

'No, mother,' urged Isabel, when Mrs Thornton voiced this concern in the mildest of ways. 'We suspect twins, Mother, and twins do often come early.'

'Twins!' cried the matriarch, now taking a step backwards, in surprise. 'You never said!'

'But we cannot know it with any certainty, so I bid John not to speak of it, but I have long suspected twins.'

'That is why Isabel looks so big, Mother; why she is still so slender, and yet her stomach so full,' put in Mr Thornton. His mother furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, before turning directly to her son (as though Isabel was not in the room), and saying, –

'Then we must call the midwife; even if Donaldson does not come at once, we ought to have the midwife.'

'But I have you and John, Mother!' pleaded Isabel.

'John! Yes, you shall have me, but John! John shall be in the mill.'

'I'll not work today, Mother; not if Isabel is to birth our babes.'

'But you shall only be across the yard, John!' cried Mrs Thornton, in exasperation. 'You may easily be called – and within moments! – if the babes look likely to come. There is no point in your sitting about the study, when you have so much to do,' finished she; her voice chagrined and full of reprimand.

'Oh! but John was to stay with me, Mother!' declared Isabel. Now Mrs Thornton paled, and looked to her son in question.

'Do you mean to stay until Dr Donaldson is called?' But Mr Thornton placed a reassuring hand upon Isabel's shoulder, and said firmly, –

'I mean not to leave Isabel's side until the babes are born.'

'Good God, John! Whatever can you mean by saying such a thing? It's not your place. It's not proper.'

'It's entirely his place!' snapped Isabel, now scowling through a pain (for they had grown stronger through the night), and Mr Thornton – his hand still upon her shoulder – felt her body tense against the pain, and steeled his determination not to leave her side. 'John is just as culpable as I for my current condition, and is to be just as much a parent before the day is over. Of course he shall stay if I wish it! And I do!' Now her voice was raised, and her face pink with stifled frustration and a smattering of discomfort, and Mrs Thornton chose – wisely – not to argue, but only sent off directly for the midwife, hoping that her daughter would see sense before anything too unseemly should occur.

The couple now alone, Mr Thornton turned to his wife with anxious eyes, and asked if the pain was very great, but she merely smiled him her good courage, and said excitedly, –

'We shall meet our babes, John. What is a little pain, to the joy of holding in my arms, your children?'

'Ay!' smiled Mr Thornton, warmly; his breast swelling with emotion, as he looked upon his brave wife. 'I long for it, my Izzy, but I cannot bear to think you shall suffer for bringing me such great joy.' And as the next pain came on, Mr Thornton sat himself behind his wife, and pulled her flush against his chest; his arms cradling their babes, as he shushed softly in her ear. Interrupted, were they, by the arrival of the midwife; a hard-faced woman, who looked accusingly to Mr Thornton, and showed – quite blatantly – her disapproval of his presence about the birthing room.

'You go now, Master. I shall tend to your wife,' said the midwife; Mrs Clark. She said it in such a way, as to suppose that he would not dare to disobey her; as though he stayed under sufferance, but now had the perfect opportunity to escape what was surely, a woman's domain. He did not move, but merely glowered at the imperious woman, before holding Isabel close, and soothing her through another pain. Mrs Clark sensibly waited for the pain to subside, before urging him again. 'You go now; I can manage, and Mrs Thornton, Senior, means to stay.' And at that point, Mrs Thornton appeared in the room with a bowl of water and cloths, in anticipation of some fevered brow.

'I stay, Madam,' replied Mr Thornton, curtly.

'There is no need, John,' urged his mother.

'It is my place. Isabel wishes it, and I wish it. I shall not discuss it further,' came his savage reply; holding possessively to his wife, who clung to his hands with no less fervour.

'Well I never!' chuckled Mrs Clark, looking at Mr Thornton, speculatively.

'Excuse me?' demanded Mr Thornton, indignantly, but the bold lady only shook her head and smiled.

'I'd never have thought you to be the type of man to stay beside his wife, but I see there's a private side to you which is far more pleasant than that which one crosses in the street. I'm pleased for you. My late husband stayed with me, and it made the world of difference.' Mrs Thornton sighed in weary exasperation, and rolled her eyes with chagrin, for now her only hope of ridding the room of her son, was Dr Donaldson.

It was some fifteen hours after Isabel's pains first began, that Dr Donaldson arrived. He bid Mr Thornton from the room, so that he might examine his patient's progress, but one dark look from that stern fellow, and one apprehensive widening of the eyes from Isabel, caused Dr Donaldson to relent (for he knew better than to take up a position against the indefatigable, stubborn mill Master), informing the prospective father that he might stay, but only if he remained at the head of the bed, and made no attempt to involve himself in any medical procedures.

Frustrated, was everybody, when Dr Donaldson announced slow progress.

'How long, Doctor?' asked Mr Thornton, anxiously, after Dr Donaldson's second examination. It had already been some seventeen hours since Mr Thornton had come across his wife, sat up late in bed, and although Isabel bore her pains well, she looked to be tiring. Dr Donaldson pursed his lips speculatively, and looked to his pocket watch, before turning a wary glance to Mr Thornton. 'Well, man!' demanded he, now squeezing tightly to Isabel's hand, as a result of his impatient anxiety.

'If your wife continues to progress at the rate she has, I think we will be looking at beyond thirty hours.'

'Thirty!' gasped Mrs Thornton, whilst her son shook his head.

'It is alright, John. Thirty hours is not so long; truly,' reassured Isabel.

'But twins, Izzy!' urged Mr Thornton, with a tremor to his voice.

'I agree with your husband, Mrs Thornton,' said Dr Donaldson, now looking to his patient. 'With the prospect of a multiple birth, and knowing that the babes shall be likely smaller and weaker, I should like to try and break your waters, in the hope this speeds things along.'

'Yes, alright,' agreed Isabel, readily. But she did not know what she was agreeing to, for the midwifery she had known was a gentle, tender art-form, and Dr Donaldson – whilst well-intentioned – was clumsy and caused her pain. Oh! thought she, on her first true test as a Milton patient; what great resilience to pain these Miltonian women must have!

Now those birthing pains came more frequently, and with great strength, and so at last, Mrs Thornton was able to make use of her water and cloths; gently mopping Isabel's brow, as Mr Thornton held her hand and whispered lovingly against her ear. In truth, now that he had seen the ardour of the pains – their length and frequency (and knowing there was worse to come), he could not have brought himself to leave his wife's side, even if she had demanded it. And yet still, a selfish part of him wished she had never asked him to stay; that he might still be ignorant, and happily toiling in his office; for the hours crept by, and although Isabel bore each pain alone, each was to him, an agony.

It was approaching midnight – and beyond one twenty-four hour period – when Dr Donaldson did at length announce that the first babe was immanently due, but his proclamation proved faulty, when one hour later, the midwife could not even see the head.

'The mother grows tired,' snapped Mrs Clark, turning impatiently towards the doctor. 'She is slight; look at her – those narrow hips. You'll have to use forceps, or you risk both babes; she cannot labour so long with the babes so young.' And Dr Donaldson quite agreed, but he had always made it his custom to speak in soothing, reassuring tones, so as not to alarm his patients, but in the midwife's rough, uninhibited way, she had truly shocked both mother and son. Mrs Thornton – who knew of forceps – was quite white, and looked anxiously to her daughter with a look of unrivalled pity. But Mr Thornton had no understanding of the word, and heard only that both babes were at risk.

'Then get to it, man, and use these forceps!' demanded he.

'John –' urged Mrs Thornton (for she knew her son did not understand), but he was now impatient and in a frenzy of anxiety for his two babes, and had waited many tired hours, hearing almost upon the hour, how very small and weak they might be, and so nothing could deter him, and he only demanded the doctor's haste, and all the more grimly, in the hope of quietening his mother's words of delay.

Bid not to look, Mr Thornton did not see what the doctor was about, but when Isabel cried out in a terrified, guttural scream of agony, he flinched in confusion, and turned his ire upon the doctor.

'What did you do!' demanded he, crushing a whimpering Isabel into his broad chest. 'You hurt her; did you not hear her cry!' And ignoring the father – for this was why Dr Donaldson had wanted the man to leave the room – the doctor placed the forceps about the babe's head, and pulled upon the next pain. Another scream which turned Mrs Thornton's stomach, as that cruel instrument helped the babe by hurting its mother, and even the staid Mrs Clark grimaced and exclaimed, –

'What a quantity of blood!'

'There, there, my love. Oh! my Izzy,' begged Mr Thornton, stroking his wife's back and blinking away his own sympathetic tears, as his heart beat wildly, and his breast burned with wrought emotion. 'What are you doing man? Cannot you hear her cry!'

'I had to cut her, Thornton!' scolded Dr Donaldson, coolly, and with the next pain he set aside his ominous tool, and placed his hands about the babe, instead.

'Cut her!' asked Mr Thornton, in alarm, looking in horror to his mother.

'Ay, John,' was Mrs Thornton's only reply, as she looked at the pitiful staining of blood upon the bed.

'The forceps are used to grip the babe's head, and pull it from the mother,' explained Mrs Clark, evenly. 'The doctor had to cut your wife, to fit the forceps in.' Mrs Thornton shuddered, and wished her son well away, for the knowledge of what was done quite unsettled her enough, without a verbal explanation.

'And you knew he would do that, Mother?' cried Mr Thornton, in accusation. 'You knew and you did not tell me! Izzy,' pleaded he, now turning to his Isabel, as she cried softly into his shoulder. 'If I had known he would hurt you so, I would not have bid him to do it.'

'It is alright, John,' sobbed she (for the pain smarted), 'I knew well what forceps are, and it is necessary for the babes. They are more important.' And without pulling her tear-stained face from the comforting nook of Mr Thornton's chest, she reached out her hand for Mrs Thornton, and gripped that larger, feminine hand, tightly.

'One more push, Mrs Thornton,' urged Dr Donaldson, 'and you shall meet your babe.'

'Thank God!' murmured Mr Thornton; his expression now quite harrowed, and within two minutes, where came the most beautiful aria mother and father had ever heard, as their babe was hastily swaddled and rubbed vigorously by Mrs Clark.

'Is it well; is the babe well?' asked Isabel, anxiously.

'Ay,' beamed the midwife. 'He is perfect.'

'He! A son!' gasped Mrs Thornton, and ignoring that proud grandmother and her expression of wonder, Mrs Clark bustled past her, and held out the babe to Isabel.

'No; John must hold him first. John!' In a daze, Mr Thornton held out his arms, and clasping that tiny person to his chest, he looked upon his son's perfect little face, and marvelled at the miracle which had been placed before him. That strong man – that tallest and fiercest of men – was quite undone by the tiniest person he had ever beheld, and his eyes welled with tears, before he turned his body from his mother and the midwife, and looked lovingly at his wife.

'Thank you, my love,' came his croaked reply, as he kissed Isabel's cheek, and brushed hastily at his own, in a bid to hide his elated tears. 'Thank you, my brave darling.'

'Now put that boy in his crib, Thornton, if you wish to hold your wife's hand again; another pain is coming on, and she's a second babe to bare, yet!' called a weary Dr Donaldson.

The minutes passed, and Dr Donaldson's expression grew more severe, for Isabel looked close to flagging, and for all Mrs Thornton had been against her son's presence in the birthing room, she was now glad to have him near, for only his deep, firm voice of encouragement, could stir his exhausted wife.

'Push, my love, you must push; our son shall be getting lonely.'

'I am sorry, John,' came Isabel's trembling reply. 'I am so very tired; I am not capable of much.'

'Not capable!' cried Mrs Thornton, in encouragement. 'Are you not the Isabel who protected my son from a mob? The Isabel who ran shamelessly from Crampton to Princeton, to tend to a dying pauper? Are you not the same Isabel who pulled a lad from The Hoppen, and then sat about all night in a wet dress, without catching a chill? Or the same Isabel who brought Higgins back from the dead?'

'Yes, Mother! I am no weakling such as Fanny!' gasped Isabel, with a wry laugh, as the next pain took hold – and with bitter determination – she mustered what little strength she had left, and soon her babe was born.

There came the swaddling of the babe, and the same vigorous rubbing of its body, but no dulcet tones cried out, and the room hung heavy with an ominous silence. All too soon did Mrs Clark cease rubbing the babe's back, and look sadly to Dr Donaldson, with a sorry shake of the head. Watching raptly, Isabel saw the look, and her heart lurched, for she knew the expression well; a doctor loath to break bad news.

'Let me see!' demanded she.

'Mrs Thornton –' urged the doctor, but she cut him short with a repeated demand.

'I am sorry, Mrs Thornton,' said Mrs Clark, softly, as she held out the babe. 'She did not make it.'

'She? She is a girl?' asked Mr Thornton, quietly. And although he knew what was being said, and what those pained faces and sorrowful tones of voice conveyed, he could not bring himself to believe it. 'I have a daughter?' asked he, leaning close to his wife, so that he might look at the tiny babe she held in her arms. But Isabel did not answer, for she had no voice. She fought to control her breathing, as a great pressure filled her breast and crushed savagely at her heart, until she was left panting painful breaths.

'She is dead, John. She did not survive the birth,' came Mrs Thornton's hollow reply, for there lay her grandchild; quite grey and tiny, and entirely devoid of life.

'Dead!' cried Mr Thornton. 'She cannot be dead! Look at her; she does not bleed. She is perhaps, only sleeping.'