Shadow in the North

Chapter Fourteen - Soft and Gentle

Mr Thornton groaned against the throb of his head, and slowly opened his eyes against the dull ache, but he was instantly aware of a deadweight upon him. He blinked about the dust which caked his face, and saw the glistening of amber as the hot sun blared down under that mobile crown which had danced before him only three days before.

'Isabel!' gasped Mr Thornton, in horror, rolling onto his side, so that he might rest her gently upon the ground. The scurrying, scuffling steps of retreating rioters were nothing to him. The tramp of hooves and roars of soldiers went unheard, for on the ground before him, eyes closed and body battered, lay his broken Isabel. 'Isabel! My Isabel!' cried he, in lowered, soul-wrenched tones. 'What have they done, my Isabel? What have they done!' And he scooped her into his arms and cradled her tiny frame to his body - loose locks with an amber sheen, pressing softly against his neck - as he rose slowly from his knees. He teetered as he found his feet, his head swimming from the blow, but he would not fail to see her safely inside, and he forced himself forward, her head resting gently against his chest.

'My Isabel, dearest! What did you do? You did that for me!' He sighed; half with regret, and half with splendid longing, for she had protected his body as a mother would shield her young babe, and he had never felt a keener satisfaction in knowing himself thus thought of, but nor had be felt a more pungent revulsion for such a foolish act; such an unwanted service. 'Oh! my Isabel! How you anger and delight me!' murmured he, now reaching the door - and his mother, ever watchful for his safety, immediately unbarred the door to admit him. Her face was white with horror - all colour drained from the skin. She could form no words to voice the violence she had seen; the actions of the girl; she could only stare wide-eyed at her son as he carried Miss Darrow up the stairs and into the drawing room, yet even in her stunned condition, her possessive jealously swelled, and she noted - with an indignant eye - that her hair was shamefully askew.

'Cloths, Mother. Smelling salts or vapours; whatever you ladies use! And something to bath her wounds. And the doctor! send someone for the doctor!' Mrs Thornton did not argue - although she did not wish to leave her son for even one moment - for he, himself, had been struck, and required the attentions of a doctor; the cleaning of his own wound. Immediately, she left to do as he bid, and Mr Thornton stole the opportunity to kneel beside his reposing Isabel. He took up her hand in his own, trembling fingers, and brought it to his lips as he gazed down upon her sad face.

'Isabel, my love. Why would you do that? To see you harmed has hurt me as nothing else could. My Isabel! My love! What you are to me, you cannot know.' And his eyes filled with tears he had not cried since his father died, and one fell defiantly from each eye, forcing him to hastily wipe them away at the sound of his mother's return. She looked upon her son intently. She saw the glistening eyes; the flush to his cheek and the emotion which gripped him, but she chose not to speak of it; not until she knew both were well.

'Move aside, John. I have the vapours.' And Mrs Thornton uncorked the bottle and placed it beneath Isabel's nose. Isabel's face crinkled and she dipped a frown, before shaking her head listlessly, and blinking rapidly.

'Oh!' gasped Isabel, before trying to raise herself up. Mrs Thornton did not impede her actions, but noted that the girl stifled a wince of pain as she curled her spine and sat up. 'Mr Thornton!' rushed she, with sudden realisation (for she had not seen him stood to the far corner of the sofa). 'He was struck in the head! A stone! Where is he! is he well?' Mrs Thornton noted the concern in her voice; the unfettered anxiety which was written so plainly across her face, and although she was angered by the girl's foolish actions - actions which had drawn her son from safety and seen him hurt - she could not help but feel a note of pleasure in seeing Miss Darrow so solicitous of her son's health.

'I am well, Miss Darrow,' came his quietly spoken reply; keeping his voice low, as though to speak clearly would injure her further. She turned immediately at the sound of his voice and looked to him with evident relief.