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Isabel watched as the station attendants crowded around the elderly lady who had taken a fall upon the platform. She felt a pang of guilt at leaving the poor woman in the care of paramedics – and when daughter was as far away as Reading. And a fractured hip! Oh, it would be a nasty business, and for an elderly woman, no small injury. Her compassionate heart swelled with sympathy, and she felt herself quite useless – quite worthless – just to leave the woman to her lot. And yet, Isabel could not stomach a hospital; the smells, sounds and sights, too painful to her vulnerable heart, and so she only stood back, ascertaining that the lady was well looked after, and then returned to her bench to await the Oxford train. But there, once she took up her bag, she found that her precious metal box was missing. Frantic at the thought of losing the treasured contents of her box, she ran immediately to the information desk and described the tin and where it had been moved from.

'Munitions, you say?' replied a middle-aged man, with suspicious eyes. He looked at her intently, his jaw seemingly chewing on something unidentifiable. 'Try lost property. If it was a munitions box, someone may have thought it a suspicious package and taken it there. I'd give that a try.' Frustrated at being sent across the far side of the large train terminal, Isabel could only nod, fling her bag over her shoulder and hurry through the crowded platform, in the hope that she was reunited with her box, and did not miss the Oxford train.

Finding the station ill sign-posted, Isabel was forced to spend some fifteen minutes wandering about the platforms, before she found what she was looking for, and pushed through a small door into what she thought to be lost property or left-luggage. The room – which was little more than a cupboard of sorts – appeared to be deserted, and she called out for assistance upon finding no staff member within.

'Excuse me?' called she, her voice raised, but no reply came. She glanced about her; black bags on wheels, brightly-coloured tickets bound to the handles of the luggage, denoting recent overseas travel. So too, she spied a sportsman's racket and what looked to be a folding velocipede, but she could not see her brown munitions tin. 'Excuse me? Is anyone there?' called Isabel, her voice rising impatiently; her heart beating thickly, at the prospect of losing that most precious tin. There came the scrape of heavy boots upon the hard floor, and a man in white shirt and blue waistcoat appeared from about a doorway in the corner of the tiny room.

'Yes, madam? How might I help you?' asked the man; his voice melodic, giving the impression that his words were – to him – a song, sung many times a day.

'I had a battered brown munitions tin, which I left unattended for a few moments, and when I turned back, it was gone. Has it been handed in?' asked Isabel, anxiously. The man looked at her with a quizzical frown, his eyes boring into hers, as one pale brow was arched in suspicion.

'Munitions? I'll have to notify transport police if a box of bullets has gone missing from a busy platform.'

'No!' rushed she, holding up her palms in supplication. 'It is full of photographs and personal items. No ammunition of any kind.' The man only shrugged, looking a little disappointed that there would be no drama to ensue, before saying, quite carelessly –

'Nothing has been handed in, I'm afraid. Perhaps try the local police station – someone might have thought it suspicious, if it was a munitions box. Other than that, I can only suggest it has been stolen. There are thieves about; never wise to leave your personal things unattended.' Now he gave her a chastising look, and spoke to Isabel in such a way, as to make her feel the scolded child. Her temper rising – fraught at the prospect of her tin having been stolen, never to be returned to her – Isabel only scowled at the man, indignantly.

'I did not mean to leave it unattended!' snapped Isabel, scathingly. 'An elderly woman took a fall a little way up the platform, and naturally, I went to her aid. I had not anticipated that my possessions would be moved from my seat!'

'Ah, well,' smiled the man, not at all concerned by Isabel's cold look or raised voice. 'An opportunity is an opportunity to a thief; they care not how it comes to pass, but only take what they can and make off with it.' Isabel grumbled, and turned about, uncertain if she ought to rush to catch her train, or make towards the local police station, for she was loath to give up hope of being reunited with her tin, but suspected that journeying to the local police station would prove to be quite fruitless.

'That shall be the last time I ever try to do a person a service. One good deed and all I have of any value is quite lost!' muttered Isabel to herself.

'Don't worry, madam,' replied the employee, far too jovially for Isabel's liking. 'I happen to believe that when you do a good turn, you shall always have reward. You never know what is just around the corner.' And now the façade he showed to his customers dropped, and his gaze turned cool and assessing, before saying, 'you don't want to miss your train, madam.' And he bid her from his cupboard.

Isabel allowed one foot to follow another, and walked quite unconsciously through the crowded station, back towards her platform. Her feet were heavy, and she felt the beginnings of a headache as she lamented the loss of those photographs; those worthless trinkets, which were – to her – most precious. Her eyes fixed firmly to the floor, she was jostled amongst the throng of travellers, and quite uncaring, she ignored the tuts and muttered reproaches, and only hauled her bag a little higher upon her shoulder, in recognition of its having been knocked about. Now her train had pulled into the platform, and a melee of commuters alighted as those travelling to Oxford made their way to cram aboard.

There was such a crush of people, that one had to dart about the approaching travellers, as those arriving in London, wove about those who were hastening to leave it. John was in a temper, because his train had been delayed, and he had an early meeting across the far-side of London. He always liked to keep sharp to his time, and strode with purpose – his long limbs propelling him forward with speed – as he tried to calculate whether it would be quicker to take a cab, or if the traffic should detain him. So caught up was he in his assessment, that he did not see the slight figure walking – leaden steps – towards the train from which he had just alighted. Too late, he sensed her presence, and they collided, eliciting from him a low-spoken, –

'I beg your pardon. Forgive me.'

'It is quite alright,' replied the dull voice, not deigning to look up, and within an instant, she had passed him and was gone. John made to move off – one foot poised to rise in step – before the sight of that burlap sack struck him, and he spun about to watch the retreating figure. There, he saw it! That sack! And who did carry such a sack, and a woman, to boot! Now he assessed the slight frame, and that cocoa hair! His heart beat furiously, and he felt his breath catch as he stood dumbly; now jostled by impatient commuters. His eyes were wide and searching, and he so longed to run after her; to take up her arm and claim her attention, but he was too stunned to move; to find that strong firm voice, and he could whisper, only, –

'Look back at me. Look back.' Isabel stopped quite abruptly, and seeing her halted movement, John licked his lips in anticipation. She did not turn, but merely stood still, as though confused by her own inertia. 'Look at me,' urged John once more, beneath his breath. And she turned – quite slowly – and now faced him. That face! Their eyes met, and the air was knocked from his lungs. Oh! he knew that face, and had known it like no other. They stood – some fifteen or so yards apart – and only looked, as the crowds thinned about them. Now a whistle was blown, and the train began to sound its final warning, signalling its immanent departure. The sound of that train broke into Isabel's reverie, and her head turned to look at the train she needed to board. Her foot moved to make towards it, but finding his voice, John said, 'Isabel.'

She stilled – the train still sounding in warning – and his eyes pleaded with her to stay. One moment, and the train hissed as pistons released, and slowly, it pulled away. Now he stepped towards her; his chest tight, his legs numb. He could not help but shake his head, for although he had longed for this moment, dreamt of this moment, he had begun to think that it might not come.

'Isabel,' said he, now only one arm's length from her, and his business meeting was quite forgot; the punctual, reliable man of business, quite lost in the face of his destiny. 'Do you know me, Isabel?' He could see the question in her countenance, as the muscles in her face worked, twitching in disbelief. She looked as though she wished to scoff at him in consternation; as though she wished to deny the absurdity of a stranger knowing her name, let alone expecting her to know his, but something deep within her would not allow her to think the question ludicrous, for she knew – if she would only think on it – that his name was on her tongue.

'John?' came her quiet, hesitant reply. John's chest dilated with repressed excitement, and he felt his nose and eyes sting with the rush of emotion which swelled with his breast; which coursed up his throat and leeched into his skull, to linger behind the eyes.

'You were going to Oxford?' now finding his voice. She nodded. 'I live in Oxford.'

'I live in –'

'Kent,' finished he, with a gentle smile. Now her eyes grew round, and she frowned at him in accusation.

'How do you know that?'

'I have read the book,' came his whispered admission.

'Book? What book?'

'Think on it, Isabel,' urged he, willing her with the intensity of his gaze. And she could not help but think of her favourite book – for it hand been upon her mind but the night before! – and now she looked at the man before her; so tall and broad. His hair so thick and dark; the eyes of clearest blue, with dark brows, and lines about the face, which were few, but deep and which told of scowls and smiles. And perfect teeth; those perfect white teeth! She swallowed deeply, and shook her head in denial.

'Thornton. You are John Thornton.'

'Yes,' whispered he, now taking another step closer.

'And which book tells you that I live in Kent?' this last, an accusation.

'I have something I would show you, but I do not carry it with me. It is at my home in Oxford. Would you travel with me to Oxford? You did already mean to go there?' And she felt she ought to have refused him; to have left the man and taken a different train, but intrinsically, she knew that she could trust him, and so she said, –

'I did mean to go to Oxford. I will take the train with you, but I shan't go to your home.' He nodded in agreement, and seemed to relax a little, at knowing she would not flee.

'I live across from a pretty park. If you will take the next train back to Oxford with me, we might sit in the park and I will explain the book to you?'

Now they sat side-by-side upon the train, both stealing glances at one another. Isabel thought him the most handsome of men, and could not help but notice that he had a very pleasant scent. Still, she did not know the man; nor could she fathom how they knew each other's names; nor why they were so drawn to one another – both stopping to stare at each other at the station. The peculiar turn of events unsettled her somewhat, and so she attempted to feign indifference, and turned her face to gaze out of the window, whilst listening to John's baritone voice, as he called his business contact, and explained that an emergency had arisen, and that he was now unable to attend their meeting.

And as he spoke, he watched Isabel from the corner of his eye, thinking her far smaller that he had ever known her, now that she looked a little nervous. He was anxious not to frighten her, but so too, did he want to press her, to see how much she might already know or feel. He remembered the words his father had spoken to him – upon his turning twenty-one – and he knew that he might very well be a stranger to her, but she had never been a stranger to him. Encouraged was he, by her having turned about to look at him, as though some inner voice had urged her to know him; by the utterance of his name, unprompted.

'Are you married?' asked she, immediately cursing herself for having asked such a forward question.

'No!' came his immediate reply. 'I am entirely unattached,' this last said low, and with heavy meaning. Now some tense minutes of silence passed, where John looked to Isabel closely, his lips parting from time to time, as though he wished to ask a question of her in return, but did not dare.

'And you are from Oxford?'

'Ay, I live there, but my family are from Manchester.'

'Manchester? John Thornton is from Manchester?' asked Isabel, frowning.

'Urban sprawl.' He could see that she was unconvinced, but felt he could offer no further explanation, whilst confined to a busy train carriage, and so took his paper from his briefcase, and affected to read it, whilst secretly watching Isabel. Both travellers felt that the journey could not end quickly enough for one's own satisfaction, but no sooner had they alighted from the train, than they had to face the awkward prospect journeying to John's home.

'I walked,' announced he, apologetically. 'It was a fine day and I have long legs.' Now he frowned at the smaller woman before him, noting that her legs – whilst more than pleasing – were decidedly short. Isabel caught his look and smiled in amusement.

'I can keep up.'

'Might I carry your – sack?' now frowning at the strange choice of luggage, despite how pleased he was to see it.

'It is not very heavy.'

'But I might carry it, all the same?'

'Very well.' And so she handed him her bag, and watched him sling it over his shoulder quite effortlessly.

'Do you know Oxford?' asked John, after some fifteen or more minutes of silence.

'No. I was born here, but left when I was a few months old, and have never returned.' John only nodded, for he knew as much, and yet he felt the urge to check that all he had read and been told, all that he felt, would be verified by her own lips.

'Have you anywhere to stay whilst you're here? I see you brought a bag meaning to stay a while.'

'Not yet. It was only last night that I decided to come to Oxford. I mean to look for a cheap hotel, whilst I determine how long I might remain in Oxford.' John nodded once more, before looking at Isabel from the corner of his eye.

'I might know somewhere you can stay, and no; it is not with me, so do not trouble yourself,' now smiling softly. 'Here, then,' said John, as he came to a stop at the park bench. 'My townhouse is just across the road, there.' And he pointed to a row of Georgian, three-storey town houses, smartly painted in crisp white. 'I shall fetch what it is I have to show you, and then meet you back here, if you don't wish to come in with me, at all?'

'I shall wait here; it affords a pretty view.' He nodded and left, leaving Isabel to wonder what madness had compelled her to follow the handsome man to Oxford – to sit outside his house – and when he was a stranger! But yet, he did not feel to her, a stranger. Certainly an enigma, but not someone who was to her, unknown.

John walked back across the grass to Isabel, a holdall within his hand, and sitting down upon the bench, he set the bag between them.

'You would like some water? An apple, perhaps?' And he pulled both offerings from the bag, as though he thought to make a spontaneous, trifling picnic. Accepting the water, Isabel looked at the striking fellow, warily, and her patience at its end, she simply said, –

'Please; what is it you wish to show me, and what is the relevance of the book? How did you know my name, or that I am from Kent?'

'Isabel,' sighed he, his brow dipping in thought. 'I shall show you and tell you all, but first – and do not be afraid – but do you know a man named Dr Lyndhurst?'

'I do?'

'And did he speak of what might be real? Did he suppose that one might find reality within a book?' And he looked to her hopefully, his expression gentle and reassuring.

'Yes. He did.'

'And what is your favourite book?'

'North and South. Most assuredly, North and South!' cried Isabel, vehemently. Then she paused to look at John in question, before asking, 'is your mother fond of Gaskell? I'm not sure if it is kind or cruel to call a Thornton, "John".' John smirked a little, and owned that he considered himself fortunate not to be a "Mr Darcy".

'Suppose Dr Lyndhurst's proposition held much merit, and one could find one's own reality within a book? And suppose that book for you, was North and South.'

'Ha!' cried she. 'I wish!' John smiled broadly, and slowly opened the bag, only to pull out her lost munitions tin. 'How do you have that!' stuttered Isabel, baulking at the sight of that beaten, brown tin. 'I lost it at the station in London, and you have just retrieved it from your home in Oxford!'

'I might tell you a story – a true story – where you travelled from Kent to London – meaning to catch the Oxford train – but an elderly lady took a fall upon the platform, and in tending to her, your bag and tin were left unattended, and this munitions tin was quite lost.' And he tapped the lid of the tin. 'You were directed to lost property, and there – in a tiny room, laden with aged luggage – no porter or attendant in sight – you found and retrieved your missing tin, but when you stepped from that room, back towards the concourse, instead you found yourself outside, upon a provincial station platform; a great steam train roaring from its funnel, and a fog of black smoke. All were dressing in archaic dresses which swept the dusty ground, frock coats, bonnets and top hats, and a man named Mr Hale – just arrived in Milton, on that very train! – greeted you as his goddaughter.'

'So you suppose that I did – if you might term it such – go into the book?' asked Isabel, dubiously.

'Yes and no. To say such implies it was not truly real, but I might show you that it was. Look here.' And John opened the lid on the munitions tin, to reveal those photographs and pages of newspaper, her phone and that book!

'No!' cried Isabel, aghast. 'My phone was not in the tin; it was in my pocket! And my book – that is my copy of the book! I recognise the curled corners and creases on the spine, but my book is in my bag!'

'Are they? Have you checked?' asked John, as gently as he could. Of course, Isabel placed her hand to her pocket, expecting to feel the familiar outline of her phone, but oh! it was not there! Now with frantic hands, she rose abruptly, and began to quite hastily pat down her own body, searching all her pockets. Finding no hint of her phone, she turned quickly to her burlap bag, and almost placing her head inside it – in order to be certain that it was well searched – she sought for book and phone, but found neither.