Mr Thornton had been some four days married, and was busy about his mill; the few hours he could spare, spent seeing to his business at the borough courts. He felt a stirring of guilt at leaving his wife in the company of his tepid mother and over-zealous sister, but Isabel assured him that she knew - from having read Gaskell's book - that he was something of a slave to his work, and that she had expected no different from him upon marriage. He suspected, however, that had she not the sanctuary of the mill infirmary to turn to, she would not bear his long hours with half the equanimity.
Indeed, the morning after their marriage, Mr Thornton had taken a long and late breakfast, and then crossed the mill yard to his work (having much to catch up on; so lately having been required to turn away workers and orders, when the mill had looked to close). His mother - disapproving to the last, in his tardiness to work - had only grumbled that he ought to be "getting on", and urged him from the dining table, leaving Isabel in his mother's care. Mrs Thornton had shown her new daughter about the house, explaining the household duties, and endeavouring to pass over the mantle of "Mistress of the house", with as little ill-grace as possible. She had been shocked, therefore, when Isabel had simply replied that all looked very well managed, and that she might pay a visit to the mill infirmary, and see about setting up the new surgical equipment, which had arrived that very morning.
Mrs Thornton had been vexed by Isabel's evident disinterest in the running of the household, but said nothing of it, for the girl had not been married one day, and so the matriarch reasoned, that Isabel perhaps needed a little more time to adjust to the habits and layout of the house, and her position as her son's wife, before she was ready to oversee menus and orders with the grocer.
But then Isabel had sought out the quietude of the mill infirmary each subsequent morning, and did not return but to take her midday meal, soon departing again for the company of those rough workers and her tonics and potions. By the fourth day, Mrs Thornton felt she could no longer hold her tongue, and so - that evening - as the family sat about the drawing room, Mrs Thornton set down her embroidery, and spoke up; her firm voice laced with a hint of accusation.
'You spend much time in that little infirmary of yours, Isabel. I wonder that there is such a need for it. Are the hands so very sickly?'
'No, Mother,' replied Isabel, evenly. 'I have been keeping to my usual hours; I have seen no more patients than any other week. Beyond my hours, I have been seeing to the improvements that Mr Bell bid me to make, so that we may be properly outfitted for complex procedures. If a limb were to be mangled - a hand lost -'
'Mangled!' cried Fanny, in dismay; her mouth agape. She turned to Mr Thornton, and said, 'I find it very strange, brother, that you should allow your wife to spend all her days about such ghastly business, and with such rough fellows. And Isabel!' continued she, 'I cannot see the appeal. You would be better to accompany me on my visits. I would be happy to make you an introduction to the other ladies of society.'
'Allow it?' asked Isabel, her brow arched, as she looked to Fanny with a slight frown. 'Must John "allow" me to do as I please? May I not choose to do so, simply because I wish to? I was not aware that I needed my husband's permission, to spend my days as I should please.' Here, Mr Thornton gave a weary sigh and set down his paper, looking to his wife with a narrowed gaze. He had expected words to be exchanged; he had only hoped that more than four days of marriage should pass before the conflict erupted.
'The concern though, Isabel,' said Mrs Thornton, her expression grim, 'is not how you spend your free time, but whether indeed, you have any. You are a wife now, and have duties to attend to. The running of this house, for example! You have a reputation to uphold - as the wife of the premier Master in Milton - and you cannot do so, gallivanting about Princeton with Miss Hale; nor playing at doctor in your little stable block.'
'Do I embarrass you, John,' asked Isabel, pointedly, turning to her husband.
'I am very proud of you; I care nothing for idle gossip; as Mother well knows.' Mrs Thornton sighed and harrumphed with displeasure. She thought her son quite under his new wife's spell. No doubt all men were, in the first flush of matrimony, but it could not last, and he would - Mrs Thornton felt certain - regret not managing his wife with a heavier hand, once he grew weary of her wayward behaviour.
'And the running of the household?' asked Mrs Thornton, in exasperation.
'I see no need to change anything,' said Isabel. 'I am wholly ignorant on the running of such an establishment. I have never lived with servants, nor placed orders for foods, but only been to the shops and purchased them myself. I know not where to avoid for adulterated goods, and if you take pleasure and pride in it, I see no need for me to take on your mantle. Indeed, if you are willing to continue running the house, Mother, I should be most grateful.'
And although Mrs Thornton did think her new daughter to be shirking her wifely responsibilities, she was secretly quite glad to be permitted to retain her iron control of the house. She saw that her son was not at all displeased with his wife's request, and she admitted - with a certain satisfaction - that Isabel truly was ignorant on such matters; that she would find it difficult to see to the household with such regimented economy. Here, a small smirk quirked the corner of her lips, and she lowered her gaze to her embroidery, so as to hide that prideful smile.
'Very well; if it pleases you both, I should be happy to continue running the house.' At least here, said Mrs Thornton to herself - her needle undulating with animation - I am needed; she cannot replace me in my own domain. For all her strength and pungency of spirit, she cannot run for John, a warm and happy home. The chin jutted proudly, and husband and wife looked to one another with satisfaction; seeing the matriarch well-pleased.
'I, for one, should never allow another woman to run my home once I am married. It is what a woman craves; it is a woman's right!' said Fanny, with an expression of sheer incredulity upon her foolish face. 'I am only thankful that Mr Watson's mother is dead! and I shall not have to encounter any resistance to the changes I wish to make out at Hayleigh. Indeed,' said Fanny, in her careless way, 'my Watson has given me free rein, and I mean to have new papers, new drapes and linens. I shall have to see the dinner service before I can reach a decision on that, but I might just as well have new, as not.' Mr Thornton frowned at Fanny's propensity for careless spending, and thought himself lucky - not for the first time - that Fanny and her excesses would soon cease to be his responsibility.
'I am not so sure Mr Watson is thankful that his mother is dead, surely, Fanny?' asked Isabel.
'Oh! but Watson is old. It is to be expected, and if the father would only go, too, it should suit us very well, for Watson says he has quite the purse, but is miserly with it.' Mrs Thornton grimaced at her daughter's ill-considered speech, and was minded to reprimand her for it, but was painfully aware that she could be to son and wife, just such an interference as Fanny so despised.
'Well, we are very fortunate then - are we not, John - in your having such a fine and able mother, as to feel her company a blessing, rather than an inconvenience,' replied Isabel, with no attempt to hide from Fanny, the note of scorn to her voice.
'Certainly; we are very fortunate. A man could not ask for a better mother,' smiled Mr Thornton, looking proudly to his mother. She was gratified, and found herself thinking - for the very first time - that she should not be sorry give up a daughter, now that there was other female company to be had.
Finally claiming the sanctuary which was their bedchamber, Isabel breathed a long, low sigh of relief, to be finally rid of the constant presence of mother and sister, and thought happily of the hours she would pass the next day, working in the mill yard. But then a wave of guilt gripped her, and she looked to her husband with a cautious frown, as he stood at his wardrobe, disrobing.
'Do you truly not mind my taking to the infirmary each day?' asked Isabel, as Mr Thornton slipped into bed beside her.
'Truly not, Izzy, but if you do so only to escape the house, you must say so, and we shall find you something else to do.'
'It is true; I know not what else to do with myself. I cannot forever be at Crampton, and reading with the little Boucher children is Margaret's domain - I should not wish to impose upon her.'
'How did you pass your time at Crampton?' asked Mr Thornton, now kissing her smooth shoulder.
'Tending to Mrs Hale, or keeping company with Margaret or Mr Hale. I could speak with him for many an hour about the great thinkers. But your mother; I have only seen reading Henry's Commentaries, and I can hardly join her in her needlework. I am so uneducated that I could not even identify for you a piece of worsted! And serge; what is it? Surely they are all the same. I must admit, I'm glad you are in the cotton business, for that! I can identify.' Mr Thornton laughed heartily, for having worked previously as a draper's assistant, he felt the irony of his having far greater knowledge on such a matter, than did his own dear wife. 'You laugh at my ignorance, husband?' teased she.
'You did best me in my knowledge of the future cotton industry, love.' Mr Thornton clasped Isabel to him and trailed his fingers up her spine, before looking at her earnestly. 'I wish for you to be happy; you must not hide away in your little infirmary,' lips now brushing the soft skin of her neck.
'I have thought on that, and hoped that I might help you with the mill?' asked Isabel, biting her lip demurely.
'Oh, you wish to be a spinner, now?' asked Mr Thornton, pausing in his ministrations, to arch a wry black brow. 'I did say that I don't care for idle gossip, but even for me, a spinner would be a step too far, Izzy.'
'With the ledgers, fool! I am rather good with figures.'
'You do have a fine figure,' smirked Mr Thornton, gazing hungrily at his wife.
'You are dreadful!' laughed Isabel. 'Give me your ledgers, and I shall allow you to admire my figure.'
'Allow?' asked Mr Thornton; one brow arched, again. 'So four days in and it is a chore now, is it? One deserving of a reward?' his tone one of playful indignation.
'No, indeed! It is a pleasure, and one deserving of payment; my seeing to your ledgers shall pay off my debt.' Mr Thornton - although reluctant to give up his ledgers (for he trusted no one with them but himself), decided - in that moment - that is was easier not to argue, and so he gave a vague nod of assent, so that he might love his wife, but he fully expected Isabel to promptly return to him the ledgers, citing it too tedious a task.
Of course, Isabel relished the chance to engage her mind, and took the ledgers from her husband greedily, repairing to his study in the mill house, so that she might work in peace. Once sat behind Mr Thornton's desk, she glanced over the ledger, baulked at the nasty, scratchy handwriting - which was so characteristic of Milton - and spent more than a quarter of an hour trying to determine if she was looking at a number one or a number seven. Figures deciphered, she rather astutely decided that the quickest, and most precise way of tallying the accounts, would be to use the calculator on her phone. This ensured her task was completed with a rapidity which impressed her husband greatly, and she stood in his mill office - a satisfied smile upon her face - as he marvelled at the speed with which she had completed the work.
'Izzy, love, I had never thought myself to have underestimated you until now, but you have surpassed my expectations. I could not have completed these accounts with half the speed, and I see the sums are all correct.'
'So I am to be your new bookkeeper, am I?' asked Isabel, with a smile. Mr Thornton looked up at her, narrowing his eyes as his brow crinkled.
'Ay! A bookkeeper who works in pencil. You shall have to learn to use a pen, love. Try one of my tipped pens; a quill shall not suit, but a metal tipped pen very well might.'
It did not, of course. The ink was so wet, and she was left-handed, so her work smudged as she wrote. The dipping of the pen into the ink caused droplets to splash upon the desk, and she found the task so very tedious, that she soon reverted to pencil, and informed her husband that he would have to trace over her work with his pen, if he was so desirous of numbers written in ink. Her gall vexed him, and yet it made his heart beat wildly, for his beloved was like no other, and he thought himself so very blessed, to have beside him such a delightfully challenging wife.
Mr Thornton's belief in Isabel's excellence, was confirmed once again, one evening, as Mrs Thornton sat about her linens with tired eyes; her stubborn frugality preventing her from deigning to see the candles lit. Fanny - who was about nothing - appeared not to notice the gloaming, but Mr Thornton - sat beside his wife - frowned and sighed for wont of occupation, and upon being unable to read his paper - through lack of light - he rose abruptly from his chair and stood at the window, with a restlessness of limb. Now Isabel recalled reading in that book, how Mr Thornton had wished his mother would order candles, but had durst not ask it of her, but here, she felt she could incite one small, insignificant change, so as to please her husband, without greatly upsetting the mother. And so it was that she called for Jane to light the candles, more than a half an hour earlier than Mrs Thornton would have liked.
'Jane, if you would light the candles; my husband wishes to read the paper.' Mr Thornton turned from the window in surprise, and rewarded Isabel with a gratified smile, as he came towards her, to reclaim his seat at her side. Mrs Thornton looked up slowly from her work, pursed her lips, offered up some small grumble of annoyance, and then turned back to her linens without speaking a meaningful word.
Does not mean to interfere! said Mrs Thornton to herself. Happy for me to maintain the running of the household. And the candles! we shall burn through a whole case before the week is out, if she is to make a habit of this! thought the matriarch, disdainfully. But then she lifted her gaze to her son, who now sat quietly with an air of relaxation, which had been wholly wanting as he stood about the window, and with a mortified sigh, she saw that Isabel had anticipated her son's needs and wishes, where she had failed to do so. It smarted, and - not knowing that Isabel was armed with the unfair advantage of insight into Mr Thornton's private thoughts - she asked herself if she was an attentive mother.
Their necessary years of hardship had meant that she never coddled, nor spoilt her children - certainly not her son - and unlike Fanny, he would never ask for anything. She had taken his calm acceptance of the way of things, for granted - she saw that now! - but acceptance was all that it had been. He was willing to cede to his mother's wonts and habits, but they had not satisfied his own. Another sigh, and this time the proud matriarch was forced to own, that it was for the best that her son had married; too set in her ways; too blind as she was, to notice her son's changing needs.
And so it was that Isabel worked in the infirmary, saw to her husband's ledgers, and made small, inconsequential (though not-unnoticed) changes to the mill house and its habits. The candles were lit earlier of an evening; as soon as darkness made reading irksome. Sweet foods were more frequently served at the table (so as to satisfy Mr Thornton's penchant for those little delicacies), and cushions appeared upon the sofa, along with a selection of Mr Thornton's favoured books, which now sat upon the side table, next to a netted ornament which fought off the dust.
Mr Thornton felt those changes - keenly aware that they were for his benefit - and his breast swelled with emotion, at the thought that Isabel would seek to create for him, a more comfortable and relaxing home. Mrs Thornton - in turn - thought it unnecessary to keep books about the drawing room, when a serviceable book case dwelt within her son's study, but she noted the frequency with which he picked up and set down a book of an evening, and grudgingly ceded that it was more convenient for him to have such items close to hand; ready for perusal, whenever the fancy should take him.
The sweet foods, she did not approve of; coddling, she thought it, and she promptly told Isabel one tea time (when Mr Thornton was about the borough court), that Cook had not the time to make up such foods, unless it was a special occasion. Aghast was she, then, when Isabel's response had been to venture down to the kitchen the following day, only to make up batch of sweet treats with her own hands. Mr Thornton could not have been more delighted with his wife's efforts, for not since their days of hardship, had Mr Thornton had anything cooked for him by anyone other than a paid servant.
And all the while, Fanny made note of the small changes which took place about the house. She thought her brother to be less severe; indeed, he had come down to breakfast the morning after his marriage, a relaxed and happy man (and being ignorant, she could not fathom why), and had only grown more placid and temperate as the weeks stretched by. The small comforts Isabel offered, were - to Fanny's mind - quite paltry. There had been no re-modelling of the home; no new papers or fine carpets; no new ornaments or change to their regime of social engagements, and yet her brother's demeanour had altered quite markedly.
A pretty example, Fanny thought it, of how to appease one's husband, and with her wedding day now but one week away, she made a mental note to see her husband well fed (although she had no intention of gracing the kitchens with her own presence, and Mr Watson's figure was so well-rounded, that it was unlikely that he currently went without anything his stomach desired), to keep the rooms well-lit with candles, and to ease the greying Mr Watson's back with cushions.
The poor girl could not foresee that the change in her brother was wrought by much more than cushions and candles alone; but the joy of having married for love, the bliss of privacy in the hours of darkness, and the contentment of knowing that the one he loved beyond all reason, spent her day thinking of his comfort and how best to please him.
Mr Watson - who was marrying Fanny for her beauty and youth (for he was in wont of an heir) - would not be so easily appeased, and poor Fanny - who valued Mr Watson only for his purse and standing in the community - would never be attentive enough to her husband's moods and needs, to anticipate them before he should ask. And neither would she dedicate her day to pleasing him; instead choosing to focus her attentions on making a spectacle of her home, in the hope that the other Master's wives might be envious of her accomplishments and fine tastes. Her marriage was not destined to be so happy - for there was no true and lasting affection on either side - but nor would it be so volatile; each partner having little expectation from the other.
There was one expectation, however, for which Fanny was not prepared, and upon the eve of her wedding, Mrs Thornton took her daughter aside and set about the thankless task of explaining to Fanny - in the vaguest sense she could - what would be expected of her on her wedding night, and any other night her husband might choose. Fanny paled (as had been expected), and after spluttering and gasping for several moments, asked her mother if she was quite sure of what she was saying.
'Certainly I am, Fanny!' snapped Mrs Thornton, impatiently. 'I have been a wife; I have borne three babes!'
'But, Mother!' gaped Fanny, 'I think this cannot be so, for Isabel has not complained of any such horrors.' Now, although Mrs Thornton was loath to envisage such a thing, she could not prevent a certain satisfaction from creeping into her prideful, maternal bosom; no woman could be repelled by such a son; certainly Isabel would bear her wifely duties with - at the very least - equanimity.
'All marriages are different, Fanny,' said Mrs Thornton, with a sigh. 'Your brother married for love, and surely you see how Isabel cares for him. Such matters are not bothersome where one marries for love.'
'But I do not love Watson!'
'No, but you might come to, in time.' Though she thought it quite unlikely. And Fanny - who obviously thought it equally unlikely - was quite inconsolable, and - complaining of a head ache - took herself off to bed before the evening tea could be poured.
'Where is Fan?' asked Mr Thornton, thinking it quite strange that his sister should keep to her room on the eve of her marriage, when she might otherwise have been the centre of attention. Mrs Thornton grimaced.
'I spoke with her about certain matters, and now she feels unwell.' Mr Thornton frowned, and turned away, his cheeks flushed at such an allusion. But Isabel - for all she thought Fanny a fool for engaging herself to a man so dull and unpleasant as Mr Watson - took pity on her young sister, and said she might go and speak with her, to see if she could lift her spirits (though how anyone could muster excitement at the thought of marrying dreary Mr Watson, Isabel had no idea).
The conversation could never have been anything but awkward. Fanny - in her propensity to the melodramatic, was found upon her bed, lounging back in a listless fashion, her hand posed artfully across her eyes, in the attitude of a very recent swoon. Isabel frowned upon seeing the younger girl; uncertain as to how affected Fanny Thornton truly was, by the knowledge of her wifely duties, and how much of the display was simply for her audience's benefit.
'Fanny,' called Isabel, gently. 'May I sit with you?'
'I hardly think you can make me feel any better, sister!' cried Fanny, her cheeks flushed. 'You are a very unnatural creature, if you take such matters lightly.'
'It is a frightening prospect,' agreed Isabel, cautiously, 'but it does not necessarily follow that it need be unpleasant. Indeed, many women take pleasure in lying with their husbands.'
'Pleasure? You take pleasure in it?' gagged Fanny, her eyes threatening to pop from their sockets, in her utter consternation. Isabel truly regretted ever attempting to soothe her foolish sister, and yet she felt it her duty, for young girls were so wholly naïve, that it was all too easy for husbands to be selfish, where women of her own time would not tolerate such a lack of consideration.
'Men wish to lie with their wives, Fanny, so that their wives may bear children,' explained Isabel, carefully. 'But is it also a pleasant experience for a man. It can be for a woman too, if one's partner is considerate. A good husband ought to wish to please his wife.' Seeing Fanny's pale, distressed face, Isabel quickly continued, 'and should you not find such intimacy agreeable, you must be consoled that it is a means to beget children.' Fanny only grimaced. 'You wish to have children, surely?' posed Isabel, hoping to persuade her new sister that all was not ill.
'Children? I should lose my figure, and then half my new dresses shan't fit!'
'That is very true. If you were to begin increasing, you would undoubtedly find some dresses no longer fit, but they could be put away for another year, and -'
'But then it should not be of the latest fashion!' cried Fanny, sitting up in alarm. A trifling concern, said Isabel to herself, but she saw that fashion was of the utmost importance to Fanny, and so Isabel employed a different means of consolation.
'Of course,' mused Isabel, with effected casualness, 'if your pretty dresses were to no longer fit, your Watson would have to buy you new ones. A whole new wardrobe, I should imagine.'
'That is true,' grumbled Fanny. 'But I do not think I should care for an infant. They cry, and the noise should give me a headache.' It was true; Fanny Thornton did not appear to have any maternal sentiment at all. Indeed, Isabel had yet to see her show any true signs of affection for any being. Stirring such feelings for a man almost twenty years her senior - a man with a dull personality and large waist - would be no easy feat.
'Do try to smile, Fanny,' cajoled Isabel. 'You are to be married tomorrow, and all are sure to admire your beautiful dress. Why! I have been shopping in New Street, and there is much talk of your upcoming nuptials; you have the whole town's attention.' And here, Fanny smiled prettily, and bobbed her head in an attitude of sanguine contentment. But, for all that Fanny was a shallow creature, she was not brainless enough to be let such fleeting admiration woo her into happiness at a lifelong bind to Mr Watson, without an ounce of trepidation.
'Mother says you married Johnny for love,' whispered Fanny, crinkling her nose in distaste.
'Yes, I did, but many don't.'
'I wonder what it would be to fall in love,' sighed she; now plucking at the frills on her skirts.
'I think it a wonderful thing, where your love is returned, but it does not necessarily follow that a love match will make for the easiest marriage. Take your Watson, if you will. You do not love him yet. If he were to be always working in his mill, or drinking in his club, you would not miss his company?'
'Miss him! No, I should not miss him!' scoffed Fanny.
'If you loved him, you might miss him in his absence, and then you should spend your day quite miserable, as you await his return.'
'And if he loved me, he might try to read me poetry!' put in Fanny, with undisguised disgust.
'Poetry?' asked Isabel, in confusion.
'Yes! It is in all my lady's novels. The men fall in love and read poetry to their lady, and poetry is so dull!'
'Yes,' agreed Isabel, for it was easier to concur, than try to persuade Fanny otherwise, for Isabel's favourite poem had not yet been written. 'Fanny,' asked Isabel, seeing that her new sister looked a good deal brighter than she had when first Isabel had approached her, 'do you have any doubts about marrying Mr Watson - beyond -' she coughed, felt her checks flush, and continued, 'beyond the marriage bed?'
'Oh no! Watson is well set up, and I should be glad to live at Hayleigh, away from all these noisy mills. He is very good to me, and will see me well kept.'
'Why, then you ought to have a happy marriage!' encouraged Isabel. 'A man might wish for your company of an evening - not infrequently at first - but Mr Watson is not a very young man; I should not think he would be a bother.'
'Yes. And being so much older than I, he may not live for long.' Isabel frowned, for she had not meant to encourage Fanny by suggesting that her husband would suffer an early death.
'Surely you do not wish for Mr Watson to die, as well as his father?'
'Oh, no! I think being a widow very dull, and I don't favour black at all.' And now Fanny brightened; a warm, genuine smile lighting her face. 'Did I show you my trousseau? Jane has had it all packed up, but if you should like to look at it, I can just as easily get it out and then she can put it all away again once we are done?' And although Isabel thought it a terrible waste of time, and felt quite sorry for the extra work it would cause Jane, she felt - all things considered - that it was best to allow Fanny this small pleasure, on the eve of becoming Mrs Watson.