It was after an absence of fourteen days that Mr Thornton finally returned to Milton. He was tired and cold, and would have wished for nothing more than a hot meal and a long sleep in a warm bed, were it not for his battered heart. He had regretted leaving Isabel, no sooner than he had boarded his packet to Le Havre, and each day parted from her had been a torture to him. He had told himself - upon determining to see to his business in Le Havre - that it would help both Isabel and himself, to have some time apart, so that their tempers might cool. In truth, his had cooled the moment he had destroyed the infirmary, but when he had gone to his wife that afternoon, and found that Isabel would not - could not - look at him, he had felt sick to his stomach. He had felt unworthy of her notice, let alone her regard, and he had thought to take himself off, to spare her the pain of having to look at him; and similarly, to punish himself for his evil, hateful words of blame, by rending himself from his beloved.

But on the crossing to Le Havre - the cold winds clawing at him, and making his chest tight with each inhalation of icy, biting breath - he had come to see that his foolish, selfish actions, had punished his whole family. He - he knew his punishment was being parted from son and wife, and he felt he readily deserved it, but as he stood alone, sailing further from those he wished to be closest to, he realised that Isabel would feel abandoned. That her turning her face away had been the feisty indignation of a tortured soul, but not a lasting reproach; that where she turned from him one evening, she might very well wish to cling to him the next. And his mother; such a burden to bear! And she had lost a grandchild! It was not mother and father's grief, alone! Then he thought of his son, and his eyes stung with tears, for he craved that little life as a balm.

Foolish though he thought it was, Mr Thornton felt he had formed a bond with his infant son, that first day of holding him; of keeping him close by. It pained him to think that now he would be forgot; a stranger to the babe. It was son and wife he thought of, as he lay in bed each night. He would wish for nothing more than to lie beside Isabel - their son between them - and revel in the life their love had made, whilst quietly remembering and honouring the life that had not survived.

But the weather was poor, and it took him an extra day to reach Le Havre, than he had hoped. Then his business did drag on, with endless meetings and some three days of negotiations with a major buyer. He had been one day from boarding the boat back to England, when an acquaintance claimed his time, on some matter of business for his brother, Watson.

Watson's broker of raw cotton had delayed Mr Thornton, and told him that Watson could no longer be supplied; his mill having been out of action some four months, due to the fire. Mr Thornton had insisted that Watson's mill had been operational for the past month, and orders held in hand, but the supplier was weary of receiving payment, from what he now considered a "new" mill; so many of Watson's clients, having been snatched up by competitors, whilst his mill was being re-built. A whole day was lost in negotiations with the supplier, only for the man to refuse to do business with Watson, until the end of the quarter, and so - although he was loath to do it, and for the sake of his sister, Fanny - Mr Thornton had delayed his return to Milton. He spent the following day meeting with his own suppliers, to see if they would do business with his brother. Mr Thornton's word was gold, and the complication was remedied, but now he was two days late in leaving Le Havre, and the weather grew poor.

The high winds and snow made travel arduous, and so it not until the evening of the fourteenth night from home, that Mr Thornton arrived in Milton, on the final train from London. Ignoring the chill, he did not wait for a carriage - which would be slow, due to the icy conditions - but walked home as fast as he could, without slipping. Hastily pulling off his great coat, his heart beating wildly with nervous anticipation, he bounded up the stairs and into the drawing room, hoping to find his wife. But Isabel had gone to her room to nurse their son, and so he was greeted only by a startled Mrs Thornton.

'John!' said she, rising in surprise. 'We did not know you were to come to-day. We received no note.' And her voice held a hint of accusation, which he did not feel unjustified.

'I am sorry I did not write, Mother, but I did not know when my business would be complete, and then I did not know how long the journey should take; the weather was so poor.'

'But no note, John! Nothing at all, and your son left at two days old! Your wife left!'

'Yes,' said he, swallowing thickly, and he hung his head in shame. Mrs Thornton frowned at him with displeasure, and with a deeply furrowed brow, she turned away and grumbled, -

'I thought I had raised you better than to suffer from your father's weakness.' His eyes flashed in pain, for although he loved his father, he could not respect him, for he took his own life and left his family destitute. There could be no greater slight to Mr Thornton; not from the lips of his mother.

'I am sorry, Mother. I did wrong; I ought not to have gone. I do know that, but once I was aboard the boat, I could not turn about, and I was detained long on business, and then further on behalf of Watson. The weather was against me, and now I have been kept from home a fortnight! It was never my intention.' He was panting as he finished, and his cheeks were flushed with excitement, as his eyes looked pleadingly at his mother.

'Well!' said she, merely shaking her head.

'And Isabel, and Johnny? How do they get on, Mother?' asked Mr Thornton, anxiously.

'Healthy; both healthy, but your wife has sorely been in need of you. I - John,' and the matriarch's voice cracked. She faltered, and she felt her eyes brim, but she did not hide away her feelings. They had long been repressed. Some twenty-six years or so, in fact - for never had she confronted her late husband, when he had turned away and buried his head in his work, at the loss of their infant girl. Never had she let her husband see her mother's tears, but had cried them over her young son's forehead, as she wept for her lost babe.

'I needed you, John!' came Mrs Thornton's strangled, guttural cry, as she pointed to her breast. And hearing the crack to her voice, seeing that unfettered emotion from his mother; the trembling of her body, as tears - never seen before - slipped from her lashes unbidden, Mr Thornton strode quickly to his mother, and placed himself at her feet. 'I needed you, John. Your grief is my grief, and I have felt the babe's loss, too. I have been a mother to your wife, John, but it was not me she needed! A Thornton left me to my lot once before, and now you punish me by doing it again!' came her anguished cry.

'No, Mother. I would never leave you; never leave you,' insisted he, now grabbing at her skirts. 'I did not leave you; I only went for a little while, but I am back, and I shan't go again; you shan't be on your own.'

'A little while!' cried she. And anger swept through her, as she stared down upon her son. How dare he! cried she to herself. He calls two weeks a "little while"! She saw he did not know a mother's love. He could not know her pain; his wife's pain, and so he belittled it, with that careless and dismissive turn of phrase. And in a lash of frustration - some collective quarter century of hurt - she raised her hand, and struck her son about the face. Now breathing deeply, nostrils flaring, as she sought to regain her composure, she stared at him with a smiting look, and said, 'two weeks is far too long when one's babe has died. A husband's place is with his wife. You chose that wife - that quick tongue - and if her words anger you, it's on your head. You'll not have my sympathy, John. You made Isabel your wife, and now you'll stand beside her.'

He only stared up at her in stunned surprise. He could not find his voice. She had struck him. Never - not even as a boy - had his mother struck him. Never had she cried, and in the space of not five minutes, both eruptions of emotion had spewed forth. He trembled at the thought of causing in her, such unrestrained pain and emotion, and he tightened his fists on her skirts, as though he were a young boy pleading to stay beside his mother.

'Please, Mother!' said he, his eyes searching her face, plaintively. Now her anger left her, as she saw only his shame and hurt, and her maternal heart swelled, to take away his suffering, and see him happy, once again.

'Ay,' her voice now strong and steady. 'I am your Mother. You have my love unconditionally. Do not beg of me; I shall always be beside you. But go and be beside your wife.'

'Forgive me, Mother?'

'If you ask for my forgiveness you shall have it, but there is no need. A mother never turns from her son, John. A mother - upon finding fault - wishes to correct it, might chastise her son for it, but never does her regard waver.' Now she cupped his face to take away the sting, and brushed her thumb upon his cheek. 'I tell you for the sake of your marriage; I don't castigate you for my own sake; a mother suffers her blows in silence. A wife does not, John,' finished Mrs Thornton, sadly.

'Thank you, Mother. I am proud to be your son, and I was proud to raise our name again. But when I am weak, I fear our very name a slight to you; never are you weak - always do you guide me, and give me your good words.'

'I shall send for tea, your hands are cold,' replied Mrs Thornton. She could say no more; hear no more - their words were quite used up. She had found fault with him and let him feel that fault by both word and hand, and the revelation smarted. Yet she could not regret the sting, but now only sought to soothe it. Cradling his face in both worn, maternal hands, as she looked down upon him with a warm, prideful gaze, she said simply, 'go and see your son; he has grown.'

Anxiously, but full of excited longing, Mr Thornton walked quietly to Isabel's bedroom, and without knocking, he opened the door. He did not know what he should expect; hot tears or angry raving. He would not have been surprised if a blow should strike his other cheek, and knew that it if should, he would welcome it as his recompense. He was almost disappointed, as the door pushed back and the sight of her flooded his vision, to find not a smiting look or a vehement scowl, but a view of her back, as she settled their son into his crib.

'Isabel?' said Mr Thornton, low, as he swallowed deeply. That face; oh! he longed to see that face, but durst not hope that the expression she wore would be welcoming or forgiving. He held his breath in anticipation, and watched as she spun about at the sound of his voice. There, a gasp of utter relief was torn from her lips, and he saw her body sag, as she exhaled deeply.

'John!' His name on her lips! The brightening on those eyes, which at first glance had been so dim! He trembled with passion, and thought his heart's tattoo must deafen them both, as Isabel ran towards him. She threw her hands about his neck, pressing his body tightly against hers, and the gesture - so possessive - so unguarded in her craving need of him - stole away his fears and doubts, and his guilt and self-pity melted, too; leaving him only with the intention of soothing her. He did not hesitate, but gripped her tightly in reply, and buried his face in her hair. 'John, you are home!'

'Yes, love. I am home. I did not mean to keep away, but business and the weather -'

'But hush! You are chilled,' frowned she, pulling from his embrace. 'Now come towards the fire, and warm yourself. You cannot hold Johnny when your hands are blocks of ice.' He smiled shyly, as he peered longingly at his sleeping son, before hastily sitting beside the fire, and holding his hands towards the flames. 'I shall ring for tea; you must be hungry?' asked Isabel, quite anxious to rid him of that bone-deep chill; still clinging to his icy hand, as though she feared losing him.

'Mother has sent for it,' replied he. It was in that instant, that he was struck by the realisation of her need of him. To talk of tea, when he had left her at such a sorrowful time, and been so delayed in returning home! No ire or castigation, but only a welcoming embrace, a tendency to clinginess, and solicitous of his well-being. It warmed his battered heart as no roaring fire could, but it smote him, too, to know how desperately his Izzy must have needed him.

'Then shall I ask her to join us in here, where it is warmest?' asked Isabel.

'But come to me; we must speak,' urged Mr Thornton. Isabel only frowned at him, before stepping close and sitting herself upon his lap. 'Izzy, love; I am so sorry for my words to you, I -' but she silenced him with a finger to his lips.

'We both spoke ill, love,' whispered she. 'I did not mean my words. Did you mean yours?'

'No! Never!'

'Then all if forgot and forgiven.' Now she kissed his lips, and he fairly melted into her; so long had he wished for - needed - some outward expression of her love for him.

'Oh, Izzy! Izzy! My darling one,' murmured Mr Thornton. The fire and its heat were quite forgotten, as he moved his hands from the flames, and pressed them to his wife's waist. His lips dragged languidly across hers, trailing across her cheek, murmuring over the bridge of her nose. Delicate, reverent kisses, were placed over her closed eyelids, and he brought his large hands up to cradle her face. 'Izzy,' sighed he, his warm breath bathing her skin in the promise of love and protection; blanketing her skin as a soothing balm. 'Izzy, I have needed you. I have needed you.' Now his lips sought hers, and he kissed her long and slow; not passionately, but so tenderly, so soulfully, that neither could doubt the other's love, and yet it was not enough. He thought one thousand kisses would never be enough, and he smiled against her lips, and thought of Mr Hale and Catullus.

'Your hands are warmer now,' said she, after some five minutes of tender kisses. 'Might I give you your son?'

'I long for nothing more, love.' And whilst Mr Thornton held his son (who he agreed did look quite long!) Isabel went to Mrs Thornton, and bid her to her room, so that the all might sit together, and rejoice in little Johnny, rather than grieve for little Grace.

The crib was moved to Mr Thornton's adjoining room, and husband and wife repaired to their marital bed; their son placed between them, just as Mr Thornton had wished it, on each of those sleepless nights in France.

'I should not think he knows me,' mused Mr Thornton, a little sadly.

'But he settles in your arms; I think he knows his papa's touch.' Mr Thornton smiled that boyish smile, and said most reverently, -

'Papa!'

'Yes, John,' agreed Isabel, smiling softly. 'He certainly knows his papa's voice - that deep timbre! They can hear it in the womb.'

'Truly? It is not something women say, simply to encourage the father to take an interest?'

'No, you!' scolded Isabel, jabbing him in the side, with a bony elbow. 'Are you pleased to be his father, John? To be my husband?' asked Isabel, her face now serious; her heart doubting.

'Pleased! What a cool turn of phrase. I am the happiest of men,' replied he, lacing his fingers with his wife's, as he watched his sleeping son. Mr Thornton's eyes grew heavy, and the lids began to droop, but he battled fiercely, desperate to cling to that most precious of sights.

'Sleep, John,' urged Isabel, now speaking to him in the same soothing tone she used to settle little Johnny.

'No, no, love,' insisted he. 'You have not nursed him, yet, and I mean to settle him for you, once he has nursed.'

'But I can move now, and without pain. You need not stay awake when you are exhausted; I can put Johnny in the crib myself.' Mr Thornton's cheeks flushed, and he looked a little sheepish, biting hesitantly at his lip. 'What it is, John?' Now she narrowed her eyes at him in understanding. 'Do you wish to watch, John?'

'I have missed so much - being away,' said he.

'Very well,' replied Isabel, smiling broadly; touched by his eager willingness to be the thoroughly modern father she had asked of him. So Mr Thornton stubbornly stayed awake, so that he might watch his wife nurse his son, and once she was finished, he dragged himself from bed, set Johnny in his crib, and curled up beside his wife, relishing the scent of her.

'I destroyed the infirmary, Izzy; after we argued,' confessed Mr Thornton, into Isabel's thick mane of glossy hair.

'I know, love. I saw it.'

'Are you very angry?' She sighed and turned about to face him, stroking his cheek with her fingertips.

'No, John. It is a pity - money has been wasted - but you were expressing feelings you could not help but feel. I smiled at the sight of all that damage. It made me think of my father, Mr Bell. He once said that you Milton men know not how to keep still, and Mr Hale said the Oxford dons know not how to move. You could never be inert in your grief and anger, love. I would not have expected it, for you are a Milton man.'

'I will have it all repaired, love. I will see to it at once.'

'Of course you shall; any opportunity to toil, and you Miltonians snatch at it with greedy hands!' Mr Thornton chuckled wryly; an enticing low rumble, and sighed, before his body began to relax into sleep, only for him to startle himself from the fringes of repose, with a mumbled call of, -

'Do you truly not like pears?'

'I do not. I favour strawberries and green apples.'

'But you seemed so happy to eat them?'

'Only the first time you gave them to me, and only then, because Dr Donaldson prescribed them for Mrs Hale in the book.'

'I wish that you had told me,' came his sluggish reply, as sleep gripped at him. 'I scoured all the grocers in Milton for such a quantity of jargonelle pears. I would not have made the effort, but that you seemed so very keen for them. When you have our next babe, I will bring you apples.' And he promptly fell asleep, leaving Isabel to frown into the gloaming. For, although she wished to bear her husband many children, and although she did love little Johnny, she struggled to attain that rush of maternal sentiment for her son, and not knowing why, she feared she never would.

Now Mr Thornton and Isabel were as close to one another - as full of mutual understanding - as any two lovers ever were. They had always held for each other, a fierce passion; a strength of feeling that could never be denied, nor separate them for long. But with that passion came the stubborn, fiery tempers, which so often sparked lashes of displeasure. One would readily set aside these little, irksome feelings, knowing it was a small price to pay - a necessary price - for such unbridled love. But Mr Thornton and his wife - although similar in many ways - were such alien creatures. Many times, would husband not understand wife, or wife find compromise impossible, and as with their troubled informal courtship, so too in those childless days of their marriage, had such misunderstandings and eruptions of temper occurred, as to temporarily push husband and wife away from one another.