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.
Then came little Johnny, and his sleeping sister. Such an occurrence - such joy and such sorrow - could surely only have inflamed those tempers and sparked greater, more frequent eruptions, or brought with it, a greater understanding of one another's hearts. Happily, it was to be the latter, and for all their crossed words and accusations of before, upon Mr Thornton's return from Le Havre, the mill house was quite a calm and soothing place, with the proud grandmother fairly doting on her grandson, and Mr Thornton playing the attentive, affectionate husband, and the thoroughly modern father; just Isabel had wanted him to be.
Mr Thornton was hard pressed with work, for he had much to catch up on at the mill, but he was loath to leave wife and son - mother, too - to spend the daylight hours cooped up in his frigid mill office. He wished - although he would not admit it - to do little but sit about with his son in his arms, now watch Isabel nurse him. If Mrs Thornton noticed that her son found excuses to return frequently to the house, she did not comment on it, despite thinking his eagerness to dote upon Johnny, a symptom of his being quite soft. She would have chided him for sitting about the bedroom whilst Isabel nursed the babe. She would have urged him to have Johnny sleep in the nursery, so that her son - hard-working as he was - might get an uninterrupted night's sleep, but she held her tongue, out of respect for all that they had suffered.
Mrs Thornton would - of course - have fairly baulked at her son's changing Johnny's underclothes, or assisting with his bathing. Indeed, Mr Thornton - although a feeling father - did grimace when first taking up the commission of seeing to his son's napkin, and although he did not voice his thoughts to his wife, he truly felt it not his place - as a man - to see to such things. Still, Isabel had asked it of him, and explained that it was the way of things where she was from. He did not wish to disappoint her, so he compromised by seeing to his son's underclothes upon waking each morning, when neither Mr Thornton's mother, nor any of the servants, might know what he was about.
'You do that very well, John,' said Isabel, as she stretched her limbs beneath the warmth of the bedclothes. Mr Thornton only gave her a look, before turning his focus back to his son, who was quite wet through.
'You are far more accomplished, love,' said he.
'All the more reason to practice then,' smiled Isabel, thinking that really, men were all so very alike; the thoroughly modern, and the archaic. Johnny grizzled, for the room was cold, so Mr Thornton hurried about his task, and then swaddled his son, before nestling him against his night robe.
'Hush now, young man. All is finished, and now Mamma shall feed you,' cooed Mr Thornton, as he bounced little Johnny against his broad chest. It was a beautiful sight, which Isabel quite basked in, but she could not help but note that the tug on her heart was greatly owing to the sight of her husband, and not necessarily her son. The corners of her lips turned down, and she gave a small frown. 'Izzy?' asked Mr Thornton, seeing his wife's clouded countenance.
'It is nothing, John. I shall feed him.' And she held out her hands for her babe. Mr Thornton could not linger, but hurried with his dress and toilet, before joining his mother for breakfast.
Mrs Thornton was - of course - sat at the table, waiting for him, and when he entered, she smiled gratefully at finding him alone. For although she now found Isabel's company quite amiable, and she no longer had such a jealous, possessive regard for her son (knowing her love alone, to be insufficient), the matriarch quite relished the changes to their household routine, which had been wrought by Johnny's birth. Breakfast - which had always seen husband and wife join her at the table - was now a quiet twenty minutes for mother to converse with son - as of those days of old - now that Isabel was abed nursing. Still, Johnny was yet so young - only some four weeks old - and the first flush of novelty and excitement - the crush of familial love - had not yet abated, but lie within the matriarch's bosom in a fervent simmer. And so - although she really ought to have talked of business and those matters which were now quite forgot of an evening, when wife and infant son sat about the drawing room - Mrs Thornton could not help but speak of Johnny.
'He slept well through the night?' asked she; both eager to know that her grandson was restful, and to ascertain that her son was not starved of a working man's rightful claim to sleep.
'Yes, Mother. He awoke twice - only for nursing - and settled well both times. He did not disturb me.'
'He has quite the appetite,' put in Mrs Thornton, proudly. Indeed, the boy was nursed frequently, and had gained much weight (both to Isabel and Dr Donaldson's satisfaction), and even Mrs Thornton - now that little Johnny had that pleasing chubbiness about his cheeks and arms, which took away the notion of his very fragility (despite his still being a very small babe), did concede, that he would likely be a tall lad, on account of his being quite "long".
'Yes, I think like me, nothing shall deter his appetite,' agreed Mr Thornton.
'It is as it should be.' Now Mrs Thornton hesitated, and watched her son at his breakfast for some minutes, whilst she sipped slowly at her tea. 'I suppose Isabel slept well? That she finds no trouble nursing?' The question was posed in such a cautious tone, and with such unspoken meaning, that Mr Thornton could not help but pause in his meal and look pointedly at his mother. He blinked, licked his lips, and said only, -
'She does her best - as she always does. I can ask no more.' Mrs Thornton frowned, dissatisfied with his response, but nodded her head in acknowledgement of having heard it.
'A note came from Crampton - Mrs Lyndhurst wishes to call. Ought I put her off again?' Mr Thornton rubbed his hand against his jaw, and sighed wearily.
'For now, if you would, Mother.'
'But Isabel means to call on Fanny to-morrow. Surely if she will see Fanny, she will see Mrs Lyndhurst?'
'But you go to Hayleigh with her; it is a family obligation, and Fanny is confined to home and in wont of company. It is not the same; Mrs Lyndhurst might very well visit in Princeton if she is in need of an occupation,' replied he. But in truth, he thought Isabel ought to start receiving guests, again.
Mrs Thornton sighed and nodded, and agreed to write the note, but thought that her daughter-in-law was a little peculiar. Why, she! If she was the mother of such a babe, she would quite proudly show him off, yet Isabel had no such inclination, and only fed and changed him, then sat about waiting for her husband to finish his work. Indeed, Isabel had even reclaimed the ledgers, and would set Johnny in his crib, whilst poring over the accounts, and if he cried, she would leave him to it; much to Mrs Thornton's chagrin.
It was to such a riotous noise, that Mr Thornton returned home that evening. Johnny was in his crib, crying with much gusto, and Isabel merely read a book. Frowning, Mr Thornton peered down at his son's red face, and asked, -
'Does he need nursing?'
'No, John. I put him down not thirty minutes ago.'
'Changing, then, perhaps?'
'He is quite dry. And he has no temperature or rash,' added she, pre-emptively. Now Mr Thornton lifted his son into his arms, and rocked him gently; Johnny's tears ceasing quite abruptly.
'He only needed soothing, then.'
'Yes,' agreed Isabel, smiling at the sight of father and son. The vision was spoilt by her husband's questioning frown, as he looked down at his wife.
'You did not wish to soothe him?'
'If he is picked up every time he cries, he shall never learn to settle himself,' replied Isabel, defensively.
'Certainly, I would not coddle him, but he is very young, love, and his face quite red!' Now turning back to his son, Mr Thornton said, 'why were you so upset, young man? My boy is made of sterner stuff!'
'You mean to say I ought to have held him, then?' accused Isabel, who felt herself castigated by a husband who had not sat about a fussy infant, each hour of the day.
'I mean only that I would not have wished him to work himself into such a state; to be quite so red-faced. But I see you mean to leave him crying, and I shall, of course, defer to you.' Now he stooped to kiss his wife's forehead, and gave a reassuring smile, which tempered her frown. But he felt in need of reassurance, himself, and determined that he would call at Crampton whilst Isabel took Johnny out to Hayleigh on the morrow.
Fanny Watson was now some eight months with child, and quite truly rounded, for it. Her babe grew well and sat low, causing Isabel to suspect an early birth, but the expectant mother was so terrified of "the pains", that Isabel did not voice this concern to Fanny. Instead, she told her husband, who mentioned it in passing to Mr Watson. The expectant father was quite glad, and readily believed that it was likely, for he had never known of any woman to suffer as his Fanny did.
Made all the more ridiculous was the matter of Fanny's health, by the fact that in the presence of the Thorntons, she now (ever since the birth of little Johnny), liked to claim herself to be getting on very well. Thus, Watson complained to his brother-in-law of a cantankerous wife who was prone to bursts of shouting, then wailing. Of a wife who slept ill and had therefore taken to napping all throughout the day. Of a wife who was so particular in her palate, as to have eschewed all red meats and eggs, and to detest the smell of wines and cigars. Indeed, she was so very sensitive (she claimed), that she could not abide her husband sitting at the opposite end of their large dining table, and eating his beef with a glass of port, for Fanny claimed that smells lingered, and would waft down the length of the table. Her ankles were swollen; she could not walk. She could not sit comfortably within a chair, and took to lying upon a water-bed, which had been set up in her private drawing room.
In contrast - as Isabel held Johnny to her breast, and Mrs Thornton sat primly and square-shouldered about the drawing room at Hayleigh - Fanny forced a series of smiles and said, -
'Oh! I bear it very well. I've no complaint at all.' Then she crinkled her nose and pouted a little, before saying, 'I should be glad to fit into some better dresses, and I do miss the concerts. There was a very good one last week, by all accounts. Ann Latimer wrote me a note telling me of it. She said it was well played, but not of the latest music; she has heard better in London.'
'Has she been lately in London?' asked Isabel.
'I do not know,' scowled Fanny. 'I am so shut up!' And now she lost her temper, and a groan of frustration escaped her lips. 'It was very well for you, Isabel, because you are quite within the centre of town, and might know all that is happening. It is no inconvenience for our acquaintances to call on you. But here! Hayleigh is so out of the way, and nobody comes by! I am quite alone.' Of course, Fanny had spent many years complaining of the noisy, smoky mill, and when she had married Mr Watson and acquired the house at Hayleigh, she had been quite quick to voice the merits of living beyond the mill district. Mrs Thornton was very tempted to remind her daughter of this (for she did not like hypocrisy), but Isabel only smiled encouragingly, and voiced her agreement.
'You are quite isolated from everyone out here; I agree; it must be a trial.' Pleased at receiving sympathy - without having to claim a weakness of health - Fanny smiled, and looked expectantly at her mother, but Mrs Thornton made no effort to concur. A complaint was upon Fanny's lips - about to beg her mother for validation of her sorry predicament - when Johnny began to wail.
'Oh!' gasped Fanny, her eyes agog. 'I have not heard him cry like that! before. What a lot of noise.'
'He is not a loud baby,' grunted Mrs Thornton, proudly.
'He can be a little fussy, though,' ceded Isabel, at the look of horror on her poor sister's face. 'Indeed, John is a fussy, particular man; no doubt Johnny takes after his father.' And ascertaining that the babe did not require a change of napkin, Isabel laid him down within his basket and turned back to Fanny, intent to ignore him.
'John is not a fussy man!' bristled Mrs Thornton. 'He is only punctilious and demanding in his standards. You would not have him be slatternly? No, John is exacting; that is not the same as being a fussy, niggling babe in need of coddling.' Now she turned her fierce frown upon her daughter, and said, 'Johnny's cry is not loud for a babe. Yours may well cry louder.' Isabel sighed at her mother's frosty countenance, feeling really quite sorry for poor Fanny, who only needed a little confidence and reassurance about her upcoming trials as a mother.
'Cannot you stop him from crying, or do you not know how? Does your nurse simply take him off when he cries, so?'
'He does not have a nurse; Mother and I care for him,' replied Isabel with a frown, which meant to say it was a perfectly natural arrangement. Fanny shook her head, her blonde curls bobbing and bouncing, as her mouth gaped open in surprise.
'You shall have to get him a nurse, Isabel! I mean to have Mother here, with me!' scoffed Fanny.
'With you!' cried Mrs Thornton, quite mortified.
'Of course, Mother. I had thought you might have brought some things with you to-day, so that you might stay with me for the duration of my confinement, but I see that you did not.' She scowled and gave her wailing nephew a look of great vexation. 'I see you did not think of me, but only care for John's son. But John always was your favourite. Of course, I am quite forgot, even though I shall have need of you. You were with Isabel, and she is not even of your blood!'
'Hmmm,' frowned Mrs Thornton; her lips compressed into a firm line. In truth, she had no wish to stay at Hayleigh. Fanny would be trying, and Mrs Thornton would miss her son and grandson. She was of course, quite flattered, and felt a swell of pride at being so needed, but thought the compliment not to be so very great on account of Fanny's being particularly helpless. Neither did she relish the idea of assisting at the birth; she would, of course, but the mere thought of the shrieks and wails - which her daughter was certain to delight in - fairly made that stern matriarch shudder.
'Well; do you come or not?' demanded Fanny (who had hoped her previous castigation and self-pity would induce her mother to stay - and with haste, for she was very bored). Mrs Thornton sighed, and looked warily to Isabel, who only sat biting her lip (whilst Johnny lay crying). It was quite true that Mrs Thornton was a great help to Isabel with her son, but more so, that Mrs Thornton was aware of Isabel's peculiar tendencies towards him. The older woman was loath - proud as she was, and despising tittle-tattle as she did - to have a nurse come to their home, and observe the cold young mother, who left her son to cry himself hoarse, in favour of picking him up for a few moments.
'We shall see,' was all she said, determining that she would speak to John, and see what might be done about little Johnny.
And at the very same time - on the other side of Milton - Mr Thornton sat in Dr Lyndhurst's office in Crampton, and grimacing, asked what he ought to do about his wife.
'Her spirits seem quite reasonable, and there is no conflict between us, but she is not motherly towards Johnny,' admitted Mr Thornton with a guilty blush. He felt that he was criticising his wife, and he was loath to do it, but he thought her to be struggling. 'She sometimes seems to take pleasure in him, and I will think this phase is passed, but then she will leave him to cry, rather than go to him. Always, does it end in Mother or I seeing to him, for I think Isabel would simply leave him until he required a change of clothes or feeding.' Dr Lyndhurst ran his finger along his lip, and folded one leg upon the other as he contemplated what he had heard. The revelation had not surprised him, for he had noticed a similar tendency toward the babe's crying, when Mr Thornton had been in Le Havre.
'Has Isabel told you why she leaves him to cry?' asked he.
'She said she did not wish for him to become dependent on others to see himself settled. But I think him rather young!'
'Indeed.'
'And I cannot understand it, Lyndhurst; my wife has always been so tender; so caring - when she is not arguing,' added Mr Thornton, with a wry smile. 'I do not think she enjoys being a mother to our son,' said Mr Thornton, sadly. 'She is always pleased to see me at the end of the day. She would talk to me for hours if she could, but I see her take no such pleasure - no such interest - in our son. I fear she has no pride in him; she does not wish to show him off, and mothers like to do that, do they not? A first child and a son! Why, she has not even wanted to see Margaret.' And he shook his head, quite lost.
'Margaret is disappointed not to have been able to see Isabel or Johnny, but she understands that Isabel has suffered a loss; do not worry about Margaret,' said Dr Lyndhurst, softly.
'Is she ill? What can I do?' beseeched Mr Thornton. 'Is this a symptom of the malady Isabel suffered from before - before she came to Milton?'
'Ill? Malady?' asked the doctor, in alarm. 'No, man. She is not ill; she grieves!'
'But she does not cry, nor sit idle as she did!'
'I might tell you something, Thornton. Some of this I know to be true. The rest,' he inclined his head and curled his lip, 'the rest, I suppose it to be so - from research and experience, but it is not an accepted proposition within my world.'
'Go on,' urged he.
'Very well. Firstly, I might say - with certainty - that although Isabel does no doubt wish Johnny to learn to settle himself, your wife leaves your son to cry, because she finds the sound of his tears quite soothing.'
'Excuse me?'
'Your daughter - forgive me -' rushed Dr Lyndhurst, upon seeing a cloud instantly mar Mr Thornton's features, 'I am sorry to have to say this - to remind you of it - but your daughter was born dead; she did not cry. A mother - upon birthing her child - waits anxiously for that first cry, and it did not come.' Mr Thornton frowned and swallowed thickly; the memory of it causing his eyes to sting.
'She did not cry,' came his hollow agreement.
'And so when your son cries, it reassures Isabel; it is to her, a sign that he is safe and well. I presume she does check him before she leaves him; check to see that he is not unwell or in need of changing, feeding?'
'She does. She always checks, and then leaves him.' Mr Thornton looked to the floor, his chest tight with guilt. 'I had thought,' said he, in a quiet, shameful voice, 'that she was punishing him for having lived, when Grace had died.'
'No, man! No, no. I think him very precious to her; although, she may not know it.'
'But she is not motherly. She takes no pleasure in our babe. I'm not too proud to tell you, that I take great pleasure and comfort from holding him, and she! She is his mother and it is only natural that she ought to feel more strongly than I, and yet she does not seem to.'
'Now here is where I give you only theory - many would disagree - but I have seen in some mothers, that they do not warm to their babes. Often it has followed a traumatic birth. My patients did report quite different feelings; some a terrible depression, which clouded their entire life, others only a discord with their babe. Now three women I have known of, did report feelings of failure as a mother, feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness.'
'That cannot be so with Isabel. Worthless, inadequate! How could she possibly think herself so?' Now Dr Lyndhurst smiled, sadly.
'Her daughter died. She told me - when I called on her - that she blamed herself; that her daughter would likely have lived, were she in her modern world. She told me, too, of your accusations.' Mr Thornton flushed with guilt and shame, and turned his face away.
'I did not mean that; she knows I did not!' said he, defensively; almost vicious, in his eagerness to believe his own words.
'I am sure. She is a doctor; she will know that no swim in a river some eight months prior - no angry pounding at the door, no slim limbs - would have harmed the babe. It was only a matter of nature; of an arduous birth; too much for such a small babe.
'Then what are you saying, man!' demanded Mr Thornton, for the conversation pained him, and he did not wish to speak of such unhappy things.
'Only that the grief of losing the babe, the feelings of culpability - which all mothers are bound to feel to some extent - have wrought in her, what I might term a "post-confinement melancholia", which is specific to her son, meaning that she has not bonded with him. I think her aware of this lack of bonding, and feeling quite guilty for it, which only serves to make her feel a greater inadequacy as a mother.'
'And what do I do? What can you do?'
'I can do nothing. It is a symptom of grief, which she will no doubt overcome with time and support. What I would say, is that she ought to be encouraged to carry on as she did before; the infirmary - if you will allow it - social visits. Church, and your Sunday dinners with the Watsons, once Mrs Watson has given birth. Isabel ought to feel her worth as a woman, so that she might know her worth as a mother. She must be lifted from her grief, and keeping shut up shan't aid that.'
'I will make the infirmary a priority, then. And perhaps you might come to dinner? All three of you, tomorrow?'
'Yes; I shall answer for us; we shall come. Mr Hale; he may have a pupil, but certainly Margaret and I would be delighted to join you.'
The following afternoon, at the midday meal, Mr Thornton announced that Dr Lyndhurst and Margaret would be joining them for dinner; Mr Hale unable to attend, for he was giving a lesson that evening. Mrs Thornton rolled her eyes in vexation, for although she always ordered enough for unexpected guests, her son had not given her much notice to arrange for two additional people at the table. She chose to say nothing, however, for she was of the mind that her son had deliberately formed a last minute engagement, so that Isabel would not be able excuse herself. His wife had made very little remark, other than to nod and frown, and having not eaten a great deal, she took herself upstairs to nurse Johnny.
Mrs Thornton found Isabel rather taciturn that afternoon, and supposing she was anxious about entertaining, she sought to raise her daughter-in-law's spirits, but she did not truly know how. Indeed, Mrs Thornton was not an affectionate woman, and quite detested idle, purposeless gossip, preferring silence when there was nothing of any import to say. Nor was she a woman prone to any delicate, feminine sensibilities, so she took little interest in dress or personal ornament, other than wishing to see that her family were smartly and respectfully presented.
It was then, with a grimace, that Mrs Thornton set aside some muslin squares she had been embroidering and - seeking to engage her daughter in their dinner plans - said, -
'What dress do you think you will wear? You have almost got your figure back, entirely; so slight were you, throughout. I think you might very well wear one of your older dresses, and you've not worn those dinner dresses for so long, I should think you would enjoy wearing one again?'
'Oh, I had not given it a thought,' replied Isabel. 'I suppose any of them may do; it is only Margaret and Dr Lyndhurst; not the Master's wives.'
'Very true,' agreed Mrs Thornton - for they were southerners, and their house in Crampton was not very fine. 'And Johnny, what of Johnny?'
'What shall he wear?'
'Yes; he has quite a wardrobe to choose from,' encouraged Mrs Thornton (who did, admittedly, take a small amount of genuine interest in what her grandson might be presented to their guests in).
'Oh, but you made almost everything - certainly, every item that was not shop-bought. You might choose, Mother.' Mrs Thornton was displeased with her daughter's disinterest, but thought she might as well go and choose an outfit for Johnny. Yet, upon showing her selection to Isabel, the young mother only frowned at it.
'Oh, I would not have chosen that; not for such a special occasion - Margaret and the doctor are to be godparents - if they should agree - and so he ought to wear his best when we ask them.' Ignoring her irritation at finding Southerners were to be asked to act as godparents, Mrs Thornton went upstairs to choose a different outfit, and brought back a little dress and drawers she thought just the very thing, but again, Isabel grimaced.
'You do not like it?' asked Mrs Thornton, in irritation (for she had made the pieces, herself).
'I like it, but I am not sure it is the right thing for our dinner.'
'What is not right for our dinner?' asked Mr Thornton, now returning home, and drawing close to inspect the swath of fabric held in his mother's hands.
'Isabel asked me to choose an outfit for Johnny to wear this evening, but I have chosen ill,' grumbled Mrs Thornton; for in truth, his clothes were all very similar.
'Did you have something in mind, love?' asked Mr Thornton, his shoulders tense.
'I did not have anything particular in mind; only, the pieces your mother has shown to me, don't seem quite the thing,' replied Isabel, ponderously.
'Well, why don't you go up with Mother, and look for yourself?
'Yes, I think I shall.' And not waiting for Mrs Thornton, Isabel picked up Johnny, and left the room.
'Such a fuss, John!' sighed Mrs Thornton, in irritation. 'If it was Fanny making such a fuss, I might have expected it, but Isabel! Well, she's never been one to be particular about clothes.' Mr Thornton did not agree, for he felt his wife took great pleasure in seeing him well-attired, but he did not tell his mother this.
'Nay, Mother. Isabel is only a little anxious, and wants to show Johnny at his best,' replied he, in good humour, for he genuinely believed this to be the case, and it gladdened him to know that his wife took pride in their son.
At length, Isabel dressed her son in dove grey, because Mr Thornton meant to wear a dove grey cravat. He came into her room (which acted as her dressing room), and placed his hands about her waist, smiling when he saw what she had chosen for their son to wear.
'You dress him to complement my cravat?'
'Well, he has your hair!' blushed she.
'And you, -' whispered Mr Thornton, his lips glancing across her neck. 'You look very well, love,' his voice low and silky. She sucked in a deep breath, and her spine straightened, as his amorous tone sent shivers down her spine. But she pulled away, for she did not welcome his attentions, and so did not wish for him to stir such longing in her. Mr Thornton did not rightly understand his wife's feelings; he only knew that she pulled away from him, and welcomed no passionate intimacy. He supposed it was too soon - Johnny being only four weeks old - but still, it stung him a little, to have her pull away so quickly, for although he knew he could not indulge all of his desires, he wished to feel a little closer to his wife; a loving, possessive touch; a heavy kiss, but she quite eschewed them all.
'Shall we go down? You might hold him, John. Then he shall be seen to his best advantage.' Mr Thornton had grown accustomed to Isabel's expectations that he would hold his son often and before others, and their guests being such close friends, he did not disagree, although he knew his mother would find it strange.
They came, and Isabel shared with their guests a warm welcome. Margaret peered excitedly at little Johnny - nestled safely in his father's arms - and exclaimed with delight at seeing his handsome little face; his bluest of eyes, and his thick, dark hair.
'Oh, he is a treasure,' sighed Margaret, wistfully; still unsuccessful in her own endeavour to become a mother.
'Let me see how he has grown,' smiled Dr Lyndhurst, looking directly to Isabel, as though seeking her approval. When she only smiled back, he reached out and took the babe from his father. 'My, what a long boy!' chuckled the doctor, much to Mrs Thornton's chagrin.
'Oh, Christopher, you have a way with him,' smiled Margaret, coming to stand beside her husband, so that she might lean over the placid, happy babe. It pained her a little, to see her husband hold a babe, when she was as yet, unable to give him one of his own, but so too, did she think it the most beautiful sight.
'He was not crying, and he does not cry now. I would not call that "a way with him",' grumbled Mrs Thornton, which only prompted a mutual smile between Isabel and Margaret.
'Here, dearest; you hold him,' urged Dr Lyndhurst, handing the babe to his wife, but no sooner had Margaret cradled the babe to her breast, than Isabel tensed beside her husband, and frowned at the sight of her friend doting on her son. She did not like to see Margaret hold her husband's babe; to see a little John Thornton in Margaret Hale's arms. It sparked in her a possessive jealousy for the child, for he was her son; hers and Mr Thornton's. Ever mindful of that book, she saw what might have been, and it pained her to think that perhaps it was not simply what might have been, but what ought to have been.
'Izzy?' whispered Mr Thornton, as he caught sight of that displeased frown.
'You ought not to hold him!' said Isabel, stepping hastily towards Margaret, and in a lash of possessiveness, she fairly swept Johnny from Margaret's arms, and took him off to the window at the other side of the room. There she bounced him in her arms, and shushed him as though he had been crying (which he had not), and not realising that all now stared at her, she said, 'there, there, my boy. My little Johnny. Mamma is here. I am your mamma. There, there, my little Johnny,' now pressing a kiss to his smooth brow.
Margaret stood wounded - her mouth open - watching in alarm, and slowly turned her gaze to Mr Thornton. Finding him only looking across at Isabel - an expression of consternation upon his face - she turned to her husband in question. He saw the look of hurt in her eyes, and squeezed her hand lovingly, just as Mr Thornton turned about in apology.
'I am sorry. Isabel has been -'
'It is quite alright, Thornton,' said Dr Lyndhurst, quickly. Now turning to his wife, 'I am sorry, Margaret, but,' added he, in a low, entreating whisper, as he looked at the concerned husband, 'I must say I am glad. Thornton, she is being possessive. This is good.'
'Shall we set Johnny in his crib, and sit down to dinner?' asked Mrs Thornton, with a weary sigh, for her dinners were always interrupted by her daughter, and this time, before they have even sat at the table.
'Yes, Mother. An excellent idea,' replied Mr Thornton; now hopeful after hearing the doctor's words. 'Isabel, lay Johnny in his crib. I shall place it close to you at the table.' And now that there was no threat of Margaret holding Johnny, Isabel quite happily and amiably conversed with their guests, and with evident pleasure, invited them to be godparents. Both readily accepted (although Margaret was a little perplexed by her friend, but attributed her strange behaviour to grief). And once the meal was over, Mr Thornton and Dr Lyndhurst lingered at the table, under the pretext of discussing some small matter of business.
'Thornton,' said the doctor, 'has Isabel ever reacted like that before?'
'No, and I can only apologise for it. I hope Margaret was not too hurt by Isabel's behaviour. I do know that when I was in Le Havre, she took Johnny to the worker's dining room, and half my mill hands held him,' said Mr Thornton, with a hint of irritation.
'Ah! Do you think, then - do you think it might be Margaret who was the problem?' asked the doctor.
'How so?'
'The book - the original book, which did not contain Isabel?'
'Ah!' said Mr Thornton, with sudden understanding. 'Yes; I think it possible - maybe even likely.'
And whilst Isabel was not a particularly hospitable hostess that evening, she was a very attentive mother, and kept her son beside her, fussing and petting him, to the extent that Mrs Thornton grimaced at the sight of it, thinking how irritating it must be for her grandson, to be so coddled. In turn, Mr Thornton was very well pleased, and a warmth grew in his chest at the sight of his wife doting on their son, and so he excused her taciturnity, and forced himself to lead the conversation with their guests.
Upon retiring that evening, he pulled Isabel close to him, and said, -
'Do you not care for Margaret to hold the babe, because of the book?' Now she blushed and bit her lip, and using his finger, he pressed on her bottom lip to release it from her teeth, before gently brushing a kiss against that abused ribbon. 'I love you, Izzy, my darling. You and only you. I have never loved another and never could. The Bible could tell me that I ought to love Margaret - or any other woman! - God could send a messenger to me in my sleep, and proclaim that I shall, but still I never could or would.'
'I know, but I did not like it.'
'You are possessive,' smiled Mr Thornton (quite liking her possessive nature).
'Yes,' blushed she, her eyes fixed to the floor.
'And this evening,' asked Mr Thornton, raising his wife's face with a finger to the chin, 'were you possessive of the babe, or of me?'
'Both of you; both John Thorntons.'
'Mmmm,' smiled he, a low, seductive rumble, rising from his stomach. 'Shall you be like Mother, then? Possessive of your son?' now teasing. Her eyes widened in alarm, and she placed a palm to his chest, beseechingly.
'Never, John. Do not ever let me be like Mother. For all that I might love her, for all that she is a good mother to you, I could not ever wish to be like her. I want for Johnny to find a wife, and your mother - The Old Dragon - must have scared all the ladies of Milton away, so stern and possessive is she.' Now he smirked, and kissed her deeply.
'I thank God for it, for it means I was left free to marry you.' And, because this was quite true, Isabel silently forgave Mrs Thornton's jealous nature, and thought her not so very ill an example, of what a mother could be to son. And she felt within her breast a tentative swell of maternal affection, which if stirred, would likely bubble quite fervently.