Mr Thornton was gone, and after three days of sitting abed with only Mrs Thornton and a sleepy Johnny for company, Isabel began to feel that she could not bear another day of her husband's absence; and he was likely to be gone for more than another seven days! Mrs Thornton would sit about and embroider; those clothes lovingly made for her grandchild, now embossed with Johnny's initials, J.G.T. But as she worked, she kept a surreptitious eye upon her daughter, and thought her very quiet.

Indeed, Isabel had never held lively conversation with Mrs Thornton, but so too, had she always appeared to despair of the utter silence that was the drawing room, when Mrs Thornton would be about her sewing, leaving Isabel with the solitary occupation of a book. Now, Isabel did not read, nor sew, but sat in bed, or in a chair – keeping to the warm confines of her room – and only did anything other than sit and gaze sightlessly about the room, when she was nursing Johnny, or changing his underclothes. Certainly, she took good care of him; she was attentive to his needs, but not motherly; not warm. She seemed to take no pleasure in tending to her babe, and did not smile, nor offer any conversation.

Mrs Thornton – a taciturn creature – had been obliged to initiate conversation with Isabel – which was entirely contrary to her natural proclivities – and with each attempt, the stern woman found herself struggling to think of a new, non-contentious topic of conversation. Indeed, she could not speak of Fanny – now seven months with child – and she could not speak of the infirmary, because Mrs Thornton knew (although Isabel did not), that it had been quite ripped apart in her son's pique of grief. She had thought to send for Margaret, but Isabel had shunned the notion, citing Margaret as being too feeling in her grief; too likely to spew forth unwanted emotions and lamentations, or talk of her "dear mamma". It left then, only Mrs Thornton – that austere, taciturn creature – to try and lift her daughter's spirits, and in those painful moments of awkward silence, she mentally chastised her son, for having seen fit to flee to Le Havre, less that forty-eight hours after his wife had given birth to a slumbering babe.

She understood he had pressing business, of course, and she did not deny his need to go, but to go with such haste! No, Mrs Thornton was not fool enough – nor so enamoured with her son – as to make herself blind to his actions. He had fled when he could not understand his wife; when he could take no comfort in her regard. He had fled when Isabel had refused to look at him and welcome his proximity, and not knowing how to retract the words they had passed, he had – in his fog of bereavement – and feeling the press of business – quite taken himself off.

Mrs Thornton sighed wearily, regretting the great distance between Milton-Northern and Le Havre, and the necessary long absence it imposed upon the family. The sound of her mother's impatient exhalation drew Isabel's attention, and she looked questioningly at her mother, watching those deft fingers conduct her needle about their fabric stave. Isabel narrowed her eyes at the work, decided that her mother was still about the business of stitching new initials into little Johnny's garments, and an eddy of warm feeling tingled within her breast.

'Thank you for embroidering Grace's blanket, Mother,' said Isabel, impulsively; her voice still dull, but not now totally devoid of tender sentiment. 'I had not thanked you for it, but I was very grateful.'

'She was – will always be – my granddaughter – my first granddaughter. You need not thank me for it,' replied Mrs Thornton, gravely.

'I think Johnny quite long,' mused Isabel, some ten minutes later.

'He is very small,' frowned Mrs Thornton.

'Yes, of course – he is a babe, but I still think him quite long, considering how small he is. Perhaps he shall take after John.'

'A son ought to favour his father,' said Mrs Thornton, not taking her eyes from her needlework.

'And a daughter ought to favour her mother; is that your implication?'

'Ay, perhaps,' replied the matriarch, her brow dipping warily, for Isabel had proved quick to temper, at the slightest mention of her daughter.

'I think you are right. John wished for a daughter who might favour me, and I wished for a son who might favour him. At least I shall have my wish, or rather, I suspect I shall. Although, I wish John could have had his, too; for his sake, and for mine.' Isabel paused, and looked at the babe with pursed lips; looking for that glimmer of her absent husband. 'Johnny has quite a crop of dark hair – almost black!' Now she sighed, and fidgeted with the bedclothes, before looking pointedly at her mother. 'When do you think John shall return? I think it very ill of him to leave us as he did.' Mrs Thornton could only press her lips into a grim line, for she could not – in all conscience – disagree.

'He did say ten days or so, depending on the crossing.'

'He spends one day with his son, and then he is gone for ten! He accuses me of being unfeeling, but he! He!' complained Isabel, shaking her head. 'I am disappointed in him.'

'But you know he had urgent business to see to,' cajoled Mrs Thornton, unable to ignore a mother's natural urge to defend her son.

'Oh yes, of course! The mill must always come first!' Mrs Thornton could only frown at the bitterness to Isabel's voice, and began to despair that by the time her son returned from Le Havre, he would find a wife who quite despised him.

She was interrupted from her concern, by the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels, as they tramped within the yard; and only one visitor rode the carriage to the front door! Mrs Thornton sighed in frustration, for she had informed Fanny of the birth – and Grace's subsequent death – and had bid her not to come to the mill house in her increased state until Isabel could receive her younger sister with a semblance of equanimity.

'That shall be Fanny, no doubt,' mused Isabel.

'Yes. I shall meet her down stairs, and see her on her way,' said Mrs Thornton, grimly.

'Oh! But she is come to see Johnny, surely? She is his aunt, after all. How could she mean to come and not see Johnny?'

'Do you wish me to take him down to her?' But Mrs Thornton was quite sceptical that it was a good idea.

'Yes, if you should like,' replied Isabel, quite carelessly.

But Fanny Watson was not content to sit about the drawing room with her mother. She did not wish to behold her nephew under her mother's staid scrutiny, but picked up her skirts, and with a flurry of silk and lace, took herself directly to Isabel's bedroom. Mrs Thornton hurried after her – Johnny in her arms – and snapped in a hissed whisper, for Fanny to be sensitive and considerate. But Fanny was not a considerate creature, and did not understand the notion of delicacy, where it did not pertain to her own supposedly-fragile state of health.

'Isabel!' cried she, with an effusive gush. 'Oh, Isabel, what you have suffered. And John! For John to have gone off to see to his dreary mill business, well!' And she frowned and pouted, before sitting herself in a chair, and pressing a hand to her rounded stomach.

'You look well, Fanny,' said Isabel, quietly (for that day, Fanny did not affect an ailment).

'Oh, yes! I am a Thornton. I am always of robust health!' cried she; for she could not compete with a woman who had lost a babe, and so she could only profess to bear her condition with ease, supposing Isabel to have been a weakling.

'I am glad to hear it,' smiled Isabel, now quite relishing her foolish sister's contradiction. 'And how do you get on?' Now Fanny so longed to complain; to lament her dreary lot, for she was seven months with child, and her entire body was swollen. She could not wear her engagement ring nor wedding band, and so her hands were now unadorned. Her ankles had swollen, so that she was forced to wear such unbecoming slippers, that she truly feared anyone – even her unpleasant husband – catching sight of her feet. She was tired, and had little energy. She could attend to nothing for longer than a fleeting moment, but no sympathy could be had, from grieving mother and grandmother. The attention she so craved was not to be had in claiming ownership of some great affliction, and so after gaping and gasping for several moments – whilst weighing up her options – she only said, –

'Oh! I am surely never better. I do not truly know what all the fuss is about.'

'I am surprised you bear it so well,' put it Mrs Thornton, eyeing her daughter warily.

'But being with child is not an illness, Mother!' shushed Fanny, with an air of self-importance. Then she turned to Isabel and pulled a wide-eyed grimace. 'Anyone would think Mother had quite forgot – being so very old. She does go on as though it is an illness!'

'I do quite agree, Fanny,' smiled Isabel. 'It is not an illness. But still, you bear it very well, and ought to be quite proud.'

'Well, yes,' smiled she. 'You were quite sickly, but Mother says that southerners are weak.'

'Indeed,' was all Isabel could reply, for she knew her sister could not help but force a competition.

'Might I hold him then; my little nephew, Johnny?' asked Fanny, in excitement. So Mrs Thornton placed the babe within her arms. He had been sleeping quietly, but no sooner had Fanny taken him, than she gasped a shrill wail of, "Oh! he is so small!' and the babe awoke in a temper, and scowled his little face, crying until he reddened.

'Let me settle him for you, Fanny,' urged the matriarch, solicitously, but Isabel interrupted.

'No! Fanny shall be a mother soon; do let her try for herself.'

Now, Fanny had never had a care for children, and had given little thought to the practicalities of being a mother. She had meant to employ a wet nurse and a nursery nurse, and hoped to keep the babe well out of sight, and so she had never thought on what it might be to hold a babe, or the cacophony of noise it might make when expressing its displeasure. Indeed, her immediate inclination was to recoil in horror, for she thought herself quite likely ill-equipped for such a responsibility. But Isabel had urged her to settle little Johnny, and so Fanny did what felt natural to her – knowing nothing of babes – and jiggled the infant about her breast, and shushed with soothing, cooing words. He settled, his countenance paled, and his frown abated.

'You are a natural, Fanny,' said Isabel, encouragingly, as Fanny gave a doe-eyed look to her little nephew.

'But he is not a trying infant,' warned Mrs Thornton, doubtfully. 'Your babe might have a very different temperament.'

'Nay! Fanny, you will do very well,' urged Isabel, feeling that in motherhood, Fanny might finally find something in which she could excel; some outlet in which to put another being before herself. Mrs Thornton – having low expectations of her daughter – did not share this hope, and said only that Johnny ought to be nursed.

'Oh, you nurse him yourself!' asked Fanny, aghast, as she watched her sister move to place her son to her bosom.

'Indeed. It is healthier for the babe.' But Fanny only crinkled her nose in disgust. 'Did you know, Fanny,' said Isabel, thoughtfully, 'that nursing enables one to lose weight, without having to take exercise, or restrict one's diet.'

'Lose weight!' asked Fanny, with interest, now looking down at her own figure, which was rounded and swollen in every direction.

'Yes, and I should expect that if you were nursing, it might be quite unseemly for Mr Watson to request your company.' This last interested Fanny greatly, and she thought that she might very well nurse her own babe, if only she could overcome the revulsion such a thought stirred in her.

'Well, I shall think on it,' said she. 'I might like to nurse my son, for I shall only have him to myself for a few years, before Watson takes him off to the mills, and I lose him to his father.'

'But you might have a daughter,' cautioned Mrs Thornton. Looking closely to Isabel, Fanny frowned, and bit her lip, before saying softly, –

'I feel the babe to be a boy, but if she should be a girl, I should still be quite blessed.' Now Isabel smiled, and took her sister's hand and squeezed it; well-knowing that Fanny craved a son.

'Thank you,' whispered Isabel, as her eyes grew dewy. Fanny returned the press of Isabel's hand; not quite understanding the emotion she saw in her sister, but knowing that it was something motherly, which she would likely feel for herself, at the end of the two month. Fanny left – having been bid to come again, whenever she should wish it – and Isabel looked accusingly to Mrs Thornton.

'Why do you look at me so?' bristled the matriarch.

'I think you very cool towards Fanny, sometimes, Mother. You have no expectation of her. Perhaps if she was pushed – if she felt the burden of disappointing someone – she might make more of herself. You ought to encourage her to be a mother to her babe. All about us, infants are dying; it is quite wrong for the likes of Fanny to bear a child and then leave it to the lot of a nurse; to only kiss its head at bedtime. If a woman has a babe, she ought to be its mother, and in the fullest sense!'

But Isabel was not prone to hypocrisy, and so when Mrs Thornton left to see to some household matters, she lifted Johnny from his crib, and held him tightly to her breast.

'My little Johnny,' said she, in a soothing voice. 'Do you know your mamma? I should suspect you are quite lonely – missing your little sister as you must do. But you have Mamma now. And Grandmamma, and even Aunt Fanny! Papa – he does love you – but as he has gone off – and when you were not quite two days old! – no doubt you shan't remember him.' But for all her son gazed up at her sweetly, Isabel could not muster within her breast, that motherly pang of deep-seated affection. She felt only a responsibility and duty to her son, but no fervent desire to love him without reserve. It puzzled her, and she felt herself a failure as a mother, and knowing herself to be the one at fault (for one could hardly blame a babe of less what one week old!), Isabel wrote to Margaret, and informed her of her predicament.

Margaret did of course know of Johnny's birth; of his sister's passing, and the Crampton household had sent their best wishes and deepest sympathies to the mill house, but Isabel had eschewed visitors, and wished to avoid her friend, Margaret, in particular. Mr Hale had been greatly discomfited by the news – and Margaret, no less so – but neither Margaret nor her father had known Isabel to be expecting twins, and so there was shock, and then regret, but not the sorrowful disappointment for the couple, which was felt for them by Dr Lyndhurst (having been taken secretly into Isabel's confidence).

'Isabel writes,' said Margaret, as she came into the drawing room, at teatime.

'How does she get on?' asked Dr Lyndhurst, looking up from his newspaper. Here, Margaret frowned and bit her lip in hesitation.

'She says that she is well – that little Johnny is well – but she has asked if you might call on her, Christopher.' Her voice now rising in question. 'Why ever would she ask to speak with you, and if she did not wish for me to visit?' Now she looked a little hurt, as though slighted by her friend. And although it seemed a little petulant, Margaret could not help but pout a fraction, for her compassionate nature compelled her to wish to bring Isabel some comfort, and her friend's refusal to see her denied Margaret of her wish. And yet now, Isabel sought that very service from Margaret's husband!

'I think, love,' replied Dr Lyndhurst, evenly, 'that Isabel might wish to speak with me as a medical man.'

'But you are a doctor of the mind!' scoffed Margaret, with a small, incredulous burst of laughter. 'Isabel might send for Dr Donaldson if she is unwell.' But Margaret knew nothing of Isabel's past, and Dr Lyndhurst would not break her confidence – not even to his wife – so he said only that he would go to Isabel on the morrow, and that he would be sure to ask if Margaret could offer her friend any assistance.

Dr Lyndhurst came, looked upon little Johnny, and smiled his admiration of the babe, but he was – upon entering Isabel's bedchamber – quite disturbed by her sallow look, and shadowed eyes. Her complexion was so wan, that she had about her a sickly pallor, but yet she professed to feel quite well.

'And where is John?' asked Dr Lyndhurst, setting himself down beside Isabel's chair.

'He is gone off to Le Havre – did I not write it in my note to Margaret?' put in Isabel, with a surprised frown. 'Well, yes; he has gone off – the afternoon of the burial – and shan't come home until at least a ten night.'

'Gone off?' repeated the doctor, in a studied, measured voice, so as not to show his surprise.

'Yes. He had pressing business, and of course, the mill comes first,' explained Isabel, bitterly.

'And you; how are you?'

'You see, I am quite well.' But he did not agree, and when the babe cried and Isabel merely dipped her brow with an assessing glance, and turned away from little Johnny, Dr Lyndhurst thought her not quite well at all. Not ill – he did not think her ill, but certainly not well. And to prove his theory, he picked the babe up – without seeking permission – and held him close to settle him. Isabel did not blink one eye, and when pressed for her approval of his actions, she said only, 'I am quite happy for you to hold him, Lyndhurst. Only I wish you would have let him cry. I like to hear him cry.'

'Well, let me put him down, then,' agreed the doctor, who was not at all surprised by Isabel's unmotherly proclamation. 'Now, tell me – because you are very pale, and hardly look to have slept, and you did speak bitterly of John – what has come to pass between you? He would never have gone off, were there not some misunderstanding or conflict between the two of you.'

'Well, you are very clever; I shan't say you are wrong, but it is not John who troubles me, but Johnny.'

'We shall come to Johnny,' agreed Dr Lyndhurst, quietly, 'but first tell me of John.'

'We crossed words – he was angry with me, for I did not cry to his satisfaction, and I was not warm to Johnny, nor did I speak of my feelings – but it had only been some twelve hours, so I think his ire a little precipitous. But alas! he was grieving, so I must forgive him for it. But oh! I told him what my thoughts were, and they angered him, provoking such cruelty from him that he laid the blame for Grace's death, quite firmly at my door.'

'And what had you been thinking?' asked Dr Lyndhurst.