Some fortnight later, Mr Thornton came down to an early breakfast – having seen to his son's underclothes, and settled him with his wife for nursing – and found his mother eagerly awaiting his arrival at the table. He felt her eyes watching him as he filled his plate with foodstuffs, and once seated, he looked pointedly to her, and said, –
'A good night, Mother. Johnny only awoke for nursing the one time.' Mrs Thornton smiled in triumph, proud of her grandson's hearty constitution and robust appetite, for the boy grew well, and was sure to be quite the little man before long.
'And Isabel?' asked Mrs Thornton, hopefully.
'You know Isabel means not to coddle him at night, Mother. She wishes him to settle himself if he should awake, and I think it quite right. I do not mean to pamper the lad when I am in need of sleep.' Mrs Thornton grumbled, for she thought the babe old enough to be moved to the nursery, and had asked almost daily, when Isabel would see fit to employ a nurse for the child.
'I go to Hayleigh to-day.'
'I recall, Mother,' replied he, in a sympathetic tone. Indeed, he knew his sister had need of his Mother, but Fanny would be trying, and Mrs Thornton could not tolerate her daughter's solitary company for any extended period of time. He knew, too, that his mother would miss her grandson, greatly; so involved had she been, in seeing to his care in those first six weeks. 'Let us hope the babe comes soon, and that you may not be kept long at Hayleigh,' said Mr Thornton.
'Harrumph!' frowned Mrs Thornton. 'If the babe would come early, Fanny would no doubt claim it small, and have need of me for longer. No, I put her off for a fortnight, and now I must go.' Mr Thornton nodded, and turned to his breakfast, but was interrupted by his mother's wary tone. 'And you are certain that Isabel shall manage on her own? If you will not have a nurse to assist her whilst I'm gone – and I'm not wholly sure we would want another person knowing of her peculiarities – cannot she send for Margaret? She is very fond of Johnny, and would no doubt gladly come?' Mr Thornton was vexed by his mother's continual allusions to his wife's habits in mothering their son, for he felt she had made great improvement in the past fortnight.
'Mother, Isabel shall do well. She is more than capable, but only has differing opinions to you, as to how to raise our son.'
'Differing!' cried she. 'I've never coddled you, but nor did I leave you to wail incessantly.'
'And Isabel does not. She soothes him far more, of late, and I have seen his crib is always beside her, rather than you, when I return home for my meals.' Mrs Thornton pressed her lips into a firm line.
'Yes, there has been some improvement,' ceded she. But still, she thought it strange that such a recent mother, should wish to do her husband's ledgers, and busy herself with the ordering of new supplies for the infirmary, when she might very well make visits with her son, or make an effort with his clothing. Now Mr Thornton rose from his chair, and came to stand beside his mother, placing one hand upon her shoulder.
'Do not worry for Johnny, Mother. Nor my Isabel, either. I shall care for both of them in your absence.'
'But you have the mill, John!'
'Nay, I am all caught up since Le Havre, and business it not so trying. I might ask – if Fanny does not mind it – that Isabel comes to you at Hayleigh. She will be lonely without you here.'
'Of course,' replied his mother, brightening, for the promise of seeing her grandson during Fanny's confinement, could do nothing but lift her spirits.
Still, she was loath to leave the little babe, and with a grim face, she held him to her for a tender moment, before affecting an attitude of indifference, and setting him back in his crib.
'I shall take good care of him, Mother,' promised Isabel, sensing Mrs Thornton's reluctance to leave.
'John said that you might visit with the babe, at Hayleigh, so that you have company?' Isabel smiled, for she knew her husband to have made the suggestion for the sake of his mother, and not his wife.
'Indeed. I shall just arrive, without giving Fanny the opportunity to turn me away.' Mrs Thornton drew in a long, deep breath, looking wistfully at her grandson, before saying primly, –
'I shall see you to-morrow, then,' her silent request that Isabel would come to Hayleigh, and with haste, for she had seen and held little Johnny, daily, and had no wish to break the habit now.
'Yes, Mother.' And pressing a grateful kiss to Mrs Thornton's cheek (knowing that the matriarch would claim it unwelcome, but would appreciate the gesture, privately), Isabel said, 'We shall come, and often, for we both have need of you.' Now she picked up her swaddled babe, and carried him from the room, as Mrs Thornton put on her coat and bonnet and made towards the carriage.
'Come, Johnny, we must see Grandmamma off, for she goes to stay with Aunt Fanny, so that you might have a niece or nephew. You shall miss her if you do not say goodbye.' Mrs Thornton bit back a smile, which was quickly killed, upon seeing Layton smiling warmly at Isabel and little Johnny. She turned to him and scowled.
'It is cold, Layton. Do not dally; my grandson shall catch a chill if you should linger.'
'Yes, Mistress,' replied he, hurrying to his place, and the carriage took off; Mrs Thornton glancing backwards at young mother and son. She tried to muster some excitement as she drew ever closer to Hayleigh, for soon she would have another grandchild, in the form of Fanny's babe but her heart was full of little Johnny, and the babe she had yet to meet, could be no competition.
Isabel had schooled her features and kept her voice bright, when saying farewell to Mrs Thornton. She had assured husband and mother that all would be well, but inwardly, she doubted that she would manage. She did not doubt her abilities to see to Johnny's needs, but she doubted that she was equipped to sit with him, alone; hour after hour. Isabel had seldom been alone with her son – always was Mrs Thornton about – and so there had been another in the room, who might dote, whilst pretending not to coddle. Now that lot fell to Isabel, and she feared she did not have the inclination to shower upon her son, the love which he deserved.
It was true – as Mr Thornton had assured his mother – that Isabel did not leave her son to cry quite so endlessly as she had done, previously, and she now took comfort in holding the babe in her arms, but she did feel as though she had to force herself to feel that maternal pang of longing, and feared her son would know of it, without his doting grandmother to act as a distraction.
Determined to overcome her reserve, she bid young William Harris to Crampton, with a note for Margaret, and instructing him to await a reply, Isabel set about dressing Johnny for his first trip into Milton, proper. The note was returned in the affirmative, just as Layton arrived from taking Mrs Thornton to Hayleigh, so Isabel bid him to keep the horses harnessed, and handed him her babe, so that she might climb into the carriage.
Mr Thornton saw – from his office window – Layton holding Johnny, and he felt such a lash of jealousy – that man, who coveted his wife, and now holding his son! – that he fairly forgot to question what Isabel might be about, and strode directly into the yard.
'Layton,' said he, now holding out his arms, heedless of being watched by the workers in the yard. Layton readily passed the babe to his father, and settled himself upon his seat, rightly assuming that Mr Thornton meant to hand the babe to his wife and see her off.
'Where do you go?' asked Mr Thornton, trying to keep his temper from his wife (for he was not insensible to the fact that the whip of jealousy he had felt upon seeing Johnny in Layton's arms, was akin to that which had overcome Isabel, when first Margaret had held their son).
'I am to Crampton to see Margaret, and then we shall take the carriage into town and to the drapers. Margaret is to help me choose some fabrics.'
'You mean to make some clothes for Johnny?' asked he, with a raised brow, as he handed the babe to his wife.
'Perhaps – probably not,' smirked Isabel, for the notion was quite ludicrous.
'Ought you not leave Johnny with Jane, perhaps? It's still quite cold and he is young. You need not take him?' asked Mr Thornton, doubtfully.
'Leave him with Jane!' cried Isabel, aghast. 'She is very good, John, and always means well, but I'd not call her sharp, and I'd not trust her with my son.'
'Very well.' And kissing her brow, now closing the carriage door, he bid Layton to drive on, thinking that his Isabel was truly growing into a fine mother, even if she did not recognise it, herself.
At Crampton, Margaret was in a fervour of excitement, for Isabel's note and invitation could not have come at a more fortunate time. Dixon thought her Mistress rather strange, to be so very well-pleased by the promise of a trip to the drapers, but although quite happily married, Dixon had sensed a melancholia to her Mistress in the past few months, and so she did not begrudge her lady, her excitement about dresses.
'Oh, he's a bonny lad, Miss Isabel,' exclaimed Dixon, upon admitting Isabel to the house. Still, the servant insisted on calling her by that old name; ignoring her married status, but Isabel in truth, quite liked it, for it was just as the original book would have written her. 'Let me see him, then.' And without awaiting permission, the sturdy servant took the babe into her arms and smiled at him. 'A handsome boy.' Now thrusting him back, 'but not so handsome as was Master Frederick. I durst say, not as handsome as Miss Margaret was, either, but my Mistress was such a fine woman, and so full of Beresford blood, that she was always destined to have fine children.' She frowned, looked disapprovingly at Isabel, and ceded, 'your Mr Thornton is alright, I suppose – for a northern manufacturer.'
'Indeed,' smirked Isabel, whilst Margaret sighed in exasperation.
'Shall we take tea here, first, Isabel?' asked Margaret, steering her friend into the drawing room.
'Yes; then we shall have a chance to speak with one another.' This being just as Margaret had hoped, she bid Dixon to fetch the tea things, and, waiting for the servant to see to her business and leave them to their privacy, she took hold of Johnny, and smiled down at him.
'You have such a fine son,' mused Margaret, wistfully.
'I think I do,' agreed Isabel, proudly. She watched her young friend closely, and saw that Margaret had that distinctive dewy look about the eyes, the curl of the lips, and the flush of the cheeks, as she gazed upon that tiny infant. Isabel's chest swelled with emotion and hope, and she asked tentatively, 'what news have you?'
'Well,' Margaret looked up and smiled; a becoming flush to her cheeks, as she failed to restrain her joy. 'I am with child.'
'Oh, how pleased I am for you!' cried Isabel, smiling broadly. 'This is wonderful news. I am so glad, Margaret. You shall make a wonderful mother.'
'Christopher is very pleased. I only told him yesterday, for I only saw Dr Donaldson that morning, but oh! I do not understand how I did not know it, but I am more than two months, so I must attribute my good fortune to your day counting.'
'And does Mr Hale know?' Margaret shook her head.
'I wished Christopher to know first, and so I told him after we retired for the evening, but we mean to tell Papa together, at dinner.'
'He shall be so pleased, Margaret. Oh, this has all worked out very well; very well, indeed.' For Isabel had feared that in marrying Dr Lyndhurst – instead of Mr Thornton – her friend may have lost her chance to be a mother, but now it did seem that all was right with the world.
'I have more news, which I think shall please you, too – perhaps not quite so much – I hope not quite so much, but no doubt, it shall amuse you,' said Margaret, with a knowing smile.
'Oh? And what news is this?' asked Isabel, eagerly.
'Henry Lennox and Ann Latimer are engaged.'
'Truly!' cried Isabel; her mouth gaping in a fine impression of Fanny Watson.
'Indeed; my Cousin Edith writes that Henry was quite taken with Ann Latimer at your dinner, and he enjoyed dancing with her, greatly. Then her father – for Mr Latimer had a private meeting with Henry about investing in the mills – pressed Henry to join them for dinner the following evening, and as Mr Colthurst meant to dine with Christopher, Henry supposed he might as well accept. Now Edith writes that Mr Latimer was quite taken with the idea of a London lawyer and future politician for a son-in-law, and being a wealthy man – and Ann not being so very young – he made his wishes quite clear, and offered a generous settlement.'
'So Henry marries for her dowry?' asked Isabel, indignantly.
'Perhaps a little; he is an ambitious man, and not romantic. But he is not quite so cold. When he returned to London, he bid Edith to invite Ann Latimer to stay with her at Harley Street, and there they shared some dinners and a concert – Edith and Captain Lennox as chaperones, of course – and Henry found her quite agreeable.'
'Oh. So Ann Latimer is to move to London?'
'Yes; I think that part of Henry's appeal, for Ann favours fashion and society, and London has far more to offer. Edith writes that they are to marry in a two month, and then we shall lose Ann Latimer to London,' said Margaret, evenly.
'What a shame,' replied Isabel, sarcastically. Margaret frowned at her friend in amusement, but did not chastise her for her mean-spiritedness, for she was simply relieved to have Henry Lennox attached to another, so that any future meetings between the families might not be so uncomfortable.
Thus it was that both friends (and little Johnny), found themselves quite happily ensconced within the drapers shop; Margaret now quite keen to buy fabrics, so that she might begin on her unborn babe's wardrobe.
'What are you looking for? Serge?' asked Margaret, as Isabel cradled her son and looked bemusedly at the bolts of fabric lining the walls and counters.
'Fur.'
'Fur! It is cold, but the snow is passed, and you are not quick in your work, Isabel. It should be the height of summer before you are finished,' warned Margaret, good-naturedly. 'Do you mean to make something warm in anticipation of next winter, perhaps?'
'I mean to make my son a plaything. A bear.'
'Oh! I shouldn't think it easy.'
'No, but I should like to try all the same, and a child shan't outgrow a bear so quickly, so it signifies little if I take one full year to finish it,' laughed Isabel. 'I have made up my own pattern; I might just as well try it.' After a moment's pause, Margaret decided that she might quite like a rag doll for her babe, so she too, began to look at fabrics for such playthings.
Here, Isabel found it difficult to hold Johnny and sort through the bolts of cloth, so she called Layton to take Johnny whilst she saw to her purchases. Those purchases became numerous, for Margaret was so very excited about the prospect of becoming a mother, that she allowed herself to indulge – in the spirit of Fanny Watson – and brought up half the shop.
The trip to the drapers being of no short duration, meant that Isabel was parted from her son longer than she would have liked, and so upon returning to the mill house, she immediately took Johnny upstairs to nurse him. Seeing his wife return home, Mr Thornton hastily followed his wife, stopping in the doorway, to look admiringly at the pretty picture made by wife and son.
'He looks to be quite hungry,' smiled Mr Thornton.
'Yes; I was longer than I had hoped. I had quite a good talk with Margaret at Crampton, and then we were long at the drapers, for Margaret was in need of many items.'
'Oh?' And so Isabel told Mr Thornton of Margaret's impending motherhood, and of Ann Latimer's betrothal to Henry Lennox, before her husband turned his attention to her purchases. 'Fur?' asked he, frowning at the thought of his son wearing something so ghastly.
'I mean to make a bear, not clothes!'
'A bear; for Johnny?'
'So he does not have to sleep alone. Sometimes I think he must be lonely.'
'You speak of Grace?' asked Mr Thornton, now seating himself beside his wife, and placing his arm about her shoulders.
'Perhaps a little, but I think of him; his feelings. Not just of Grace. Before I did only think of Grace; my feelings were so wrought, there was no room for Johnny, but now I wish to see him happy. I make the bear for Johnny's sake.'
'I am glad, love,' whispered he, pressing a kiss to her brow. 'You do me proud, Izzy.' And Isabel realised, as Mr Thornton returned to the mill to see to the rest of the day's work, that she did no longer think of Grace. She loved her still, and would not forget her, but now her heart and thoughts, were quite full of those who were yet living, and husband and son took pride of place.
It was a few days later, when Isabel was visiting Hayleigh (so that Mrs Thornton might yet see her grandson, whilst Fanny was about her confinement), and the matriarch was gazing proudly at little Johnny, that Fanny emitted a shrill wail of despair, and clutched frantically at her stomach. Isabel looked up in alarm, amazed that her young sister could be in such pain, for even if the babe was about to come, the pains usually began mild, and gradually increased in strength. Mrs Thornton only sighed, as though she had long-anticipated such an extreme reaction from her daughter, and did not lay Johnny in his basinet, but said –
'It shall pass, and quickly, Fanny.'
'Mother, I am dying! I am dying! This cannot be natural, Mother. There must be something wrong?' cried Fanny, her eyes wide; her bosom rising and falling with panting, fearful breaths. Now Isabel came towards her sister, and pressed her hands to the swollen stomach, and feeling a tightening of the swell, she smiled, and squeezed Fanny's hand.
'Your pains have started, Fanny. You shall meet your babe before too long.'
'Oh, but is it normal? Normal for it to hurt like this?' whimpered Fanny (even though the pain had passed). Isabel frowned and looked to Mrs Thornton.
'It is quite normal for there to be some pain, Fanny,' replied Mrs Thornton, irritably. 'That is why they are called "the pains". Did you think not to feel a thing?'
'Oh, but Isabel, you did not tell me it would be so painful as this!' bemoaned Fanny, and she created such a fuss, that Isabel began to fear that Fanny must have some legitimate complaint. Still, Mrs Thornton did not appear moved, but suggested only, that Fanny might like to retire to her water-bed, and upon her daughter readily agreeing, Mrs Thornton sent a servant to call for the midwife, and to run a note over to Mr Watson, at his mill.
Fanny cried and wailed, and claimed to be in agony. She said she could not get comfortable, and that she thought the babe would simply burst from her body, and when the midwife came and looked Fanny over, she said only that Fanny was in the early stages of labour. Mrs Thornton rolled her eyes, as though she had long expected such, but because she loved her daughter, she sat about quietly mopping Fanny's brow.
'I ought to go; this is no place for Johnny,' said Isabel, grimacing as a shudder ran down her spine, at the shrill, shrieking quality of Fanny's cries.
'Go!' scoffed Fanny; her face now red and angry. 'You call yourself a doctor, and yet you mean to go; and I very well might die!' And although Fanny was a dramatic, hyperbolic creature, there was such a possibility of truth about the statement (even if Fanny did not know it, herself), that Isabel and Mrs Thornton only looked to each other hesitantly, before the matriarch said –
'Fanny has a nurse already living in. You might leave Johnny with her and stay a while?' Her voice was firm and even, but beneath that cool façade, there was the faintest hint of an entreaty, which Isabel felt might have been just as much for Mrs Thornton's comfort, as it was for Fanny's.
'I shall stay until Dr Donaldson arrives, then.' Still, he would not come with haste, for the midwife saw no immanent need of him, and so Isabel sat about that deafening noise that was Fanny Watson. Now came a note from Mr Watson – handed to Mrs Thornton, for Fanny felt she could not read – being so very close to death – and the matriarch frowned and grimaced, and gave a sigh of deep displeasure.
'What does my Watson say, Mother?' asked Fanny, clinging to her mother's skirts, as the pain abated.
'He writes that he is heavy with business, and to send him word again, when Dr Donaldson thinks it time.'
'He does not come!' accused Isabel, in disgust.
'No,' replied Mrs Thornton with a scowl; for, although she thought the father ought to be beyond the birthing room, she thought it very ill for the man not to come at all.
One hour had passed – all inhabitants of that room now suffering a headache – when the midwife finally declared that she thought the babe to come, and soon. Dr Donaldson was sent for, and over-ruling Mr Watson's wishes, the midwife demanded that the father come at once. Such instructions, did – quite necessarily – stir Fanny into a fit of panic, and she began to claw at her mother's black bombazine, lamenting that she was about to die. Now a hand was hastily trust out, and the fingers formed a fist, gripping painfully to Isabel's arm.
'You cannot go!' cried Fanny. 'You cannot mean to go! Dr Donaldson not here, and my Watson at the mill!' The prospect of staying was – for Isabel – quite horrific. She did not think she could stomach a birth so soon after having lived through her own nightmare, and yet she could not leave her sister; there were no false tears or lamentations, but only a girl in whip of terror.
'I shan't go, Fanny,' encouraged Isabel. 'Not until Dr Donaldson arrives.'
But alas! The babe was impatient, and as the doctor hurried up the stairs, a cry was torn from Fanny's lips, and – after only a little pause – came the ringing cry of life. That pause – so small, so slight – was an agony for Mrs Thornton and Isabel, but then the cry rang true, and upon trusting open the door, the midwife said, –
'Too late Donaldson; she's birthed a girl.'
'A girl,' said Isabel, quietly to herself, as she stepped back against the wall. Now the doctor opened up his black leather bag – a business-like snap! to the case – and whilst the babe was pressed to her mother's arms, he set about his purpose.
Mrs Thornton smiled softly, as she leant forward to catch a glimpse of her healthy granddaughter. She was a big, hearty thing, and had such a set of lungs, as to quite outcry the mother. And Fanny – who had claimed to carry a boy – only looked and smiled, cradled her babe close, and said, –
'My daughter.' Those spectators of that happy scene, could not help but be surprised to see the flighty Fanny, now so quiet and still, and not one word of complaint passed her lips, as Dr Donaldson tended to her.
Now Isabel felt a queer combination of inadequacy and elation. For the babe was safe and well, and Fanny through her trial, just as Isabel had wished it. And yet, there sat a happy mother, with an instant glow about her. And Fanny, of all creatures! To quite dote on the little treasure, where Isabel had struggled to do the same for her own dear son! As mother and grandmother huddled over babe, Isabel edged towards the door, and went in search of Johnny, feeling the need to hold him, and embrace that same emotion, now so lately shown in Fanny.
Isabel pressed her son to her bosom, placed her nose about his head, and sucked in a great, deep breath. Yes! There was a stirring of emotion; a tenderness of heart, and she held him quite possessively, but she was racked with guilt, for not having smiled at her new born son, as her sister now did, new daughter. Interrupted was Isabel, from her quiet moment of reflection, by the heavy tramp of Mr Watson now striding up the hall, and stepping closer, Isabel heard Fanny say, –
'A girl, Watson. We have a beautiful daughter!' Mrs Thornton stepped aside, so that father might meet babe, but the rotund man only craned his neck, and supposed that she was bonny.
'Don't worry, Fanny; perhaps next time,' said he, quite coolly.
'Don't you want to hold her?' asked Fanny, with a whimper.
'I've business to see to; I must be to the mill.' And he turned, only to find Isabel about the door. 'I did not know you were here, Mrs Thornton,' said he.
'Are you disappointed to have a daughter?' came her challenging reply.
'Certainly not!' blustered Watson, but he knew that he was caught, and with a weary sigh, he turned and stepped towards the bed. 'Let me have a little hold then.' And although he tried not to smile, Watson certainly did quite like her. And to leave no doubt, he said, 'I'd like to name her after my mother.'
'What was your mother's name?' asked Mrs Thornton, with concern.
'Irene.' Mrs Thornton shuddered, and Fanny gaped and gasped.
'I had meant to call her Olivia!' scoffed Fanny.
'But my mother was called Irene.' And Mr Watson shook his head at his wife's displeased face, and turning back to his daughter, said, 'I am your papa, Irene.' Then he coughed and thrust the babe back towards her mother, before citing some pressing matter of business, and walking from the room with flushed cheeks.
Leaving soon after, Isabel bid Layton to take her home, but upon his bringing them to a stop at the mill house, she made no move to alight from the carriage. Opening the door and peering inside, Layton's breath caught, to see his mistress softly crying.
'Oh, Mistress,' said he, his tone plaintive. 'Is it the babe? I heard the servants speak of the babe, and of course you would be upset, but –' And unsure what to say, but wanting to bring her comfort, he ran to Mr Thornton's office, and rapped vigorously upon the door.
'Come in,' called the Master, in his firm, commanding voice.
'Sir,' said Layton. 'It's Mistress Isabel.' Immediately, Mr Thornton was on his feet, and striding about his desk. 'Please, sir; she is not ill, but only Mrs Watson had her babe whilst Mistress Isabel was visiting.'
'Is my sister well?' demanded Mr Thornton, anxiously.
'Yes, sir.'
'And the babe?' His heart now pounding.
'Yes, sir. Only she had a daughter, sir, and I think the Mistress a little shaken.' Mr Thornton sighed deeply, and placed one hand across his eyes, rubbing at his brow.
'A daughter,' repeated Mr Thornton, softly.
'Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir.' The poor driver feared some burst of temper, or unsavoury male emotion, and could only dither anxiously about the door.
'Do not be sorry, Layton. It is a good thing. A very good thing that the babe is well, and that is all that matters. Now where is my wife?'
'The carriage, sir. She was crying.' One sharp nod, and Mr Thornton swept from the room, across the yard, and into the carriage, closing the door behind him.
'Love,' said he, his voice soft and soothing.
'A girl; a little girl.'
'Yes, love.' Now placing his arms about her, and pulling wife and son into his embrace. Isabel nestled her head beneath Mr Thornton's chin, and said, –
'She is very pretty. And Fanny was so pleased with her; looked such the natural mother. Why can I not be so, with Johnny?'
'You are a natural mother,' urged he, rubbing at her arm. 'You are only grieving, my darling. But I have seen how well you love our Johnny, only you don't know it. And that bear; I've seen your efforts with that bear, and although I shouldn't know what it was if you had not told me, I know you've spent much effort on it,' teased Mr Thornton, playfully.
'I am crying and you mock my woeful stitching?'
'Tis not just the stitching you are ill at. But following the pattern, threading the needle, choosing the fabrics, love,' rumbled Mr Thornton, now kissing his wife's head. 'Let me take ten minutes whilst you nurse little Johnny; I'll set my work aside, and then we shall bathe him, and perhaps read to him. Should you like that; the three of us alone?'
'Yes, John. You are my dearest two.'
That afternoon – matters of business cast off – Mr Thornton and Isabel sat about their room, watching little Johnny Thornton gurgle at the timbre of his father's voice, as he read to his son, The Tinderbox, from a collection of Hans Anderson tales.
'See how he loves your voice, John? You soothe him,' said Isabel, looking warmly upon her sleepy babe.
'I think perhaps the story bored him, love.'
'No; it is your voice. Won't you sing to him? I know no songs from Milton.'
'Sing; I cannot sing, Izzy,' said Mr Thornton, cajolingly.
'Please? Can I not hear you?' Mr Thornton pursed his lips in thought; hesitant to sing, but wanting to please his wife. He turned to look at his son, and felt his lips tug upwards.
'Alright then, but I have warned you I don't sing well, and if you tell anyone of this, I shall make you face the corner at mealtimes, and you'll have only bread and water for one week!' He tried to sound stern, but Isabel only laughed, much to Mr Thornton's chagrin. Taking up her hand and kissing it, he laced their fingers together, and leant over their babe.
'Johnny, my lad; my little lad,
You stole your mother's heart.
Johnny my lad, my little lad,
Where should your father start,
In winning a smile, or staking a claim,
To half of your mother's heart?
You and me, we look the same,
Won't she leave me just one part?
'Johnny my lad, my little lad,
I cannot begrudge your place.
Johnny my lad, my little lad,
You are your father's ace.
If mother could love me, as I love you,
I'd know I'd come first place.
You and me we're part of a two,
We've already won the race.
'And Izzy, my love, my darling love,
You're all I need and more.
Izzy my love, my darling love,
You're always at the core,
Of all that I do and hope to do,
To keep you wanting more,
Of me and you, of me and you.
Our kisses too many to score.
And Izzy, my love, my darling love,
We're more than what was penned.
And Izzy, my love, my darling love,
Our story will never end.'
Now he turned away with flushed cheeks, and frowned at the window, as though there was something of interest beyond the pane, and so he missed the expression of delight as it crossed Isabel's face. Indeed, he sang beautifully; a rich, baritone voice, which was heightened in its beauty, by its very rarity; by the intimacy that was hearing that unassuming voice. Silently, Isabel placed Johnny in his crib, and sat behind her husband on the bed, placing her arms about his shoulders, and nestling her face against his neck.
'You are such a wonderful father, John. Such a wonderful husband. Johnny and I are so lucky to have you.'
'Nay; I am the lucky one, Izzy.' He turned his head to face her, and kissed her gently, sighing deeply as their lips parted. 'Lie down with me? I wish to be close to you.' At Isabel's slight nod, Mr Thornton lifted her arms from about his shoulders, and gently lowered her to the bed, pulling her body snug with his. 'You are a wonderful mother and a wonderful wife. I could ask for nothing more of you. Do not doubt yourself.' Now his hands ran tenderly along the lines of her body; his passions tempered, so that he might sate his need for intimacy, without pressing his wife for more than she was ready to offer.
'I feel so guilty for not having loved little Johnny with the same rush of fervour, as did Fanny when she held Irene, to-day.'
'Yes, love, but it is not the same. You could not; your heart was too sore. But now – now you love him with that rush of fervour. You only doubt that you do, because you doubt your own worth as his mother. It is guilt which numbs your heart to him; nothing more.'
'You are right, of course. I do love him, quite as much as I love you, although I love you quite indecently.' Here, he smirked, and kissed his wife with passion – basking in those blissful, heady moments – before quelling his desire, with languid brushes of his lips, and slow strokes of his palms.
'Did you say the babe is called Irene?' frowned Mr Thornton, some minutes later.
'Yes, why?'
'My great aunt was called Irene. She was a fearsome thing; I think even Mother was wary of her. She had a mouldy, musky smell about her, and I dreaded when she would say to me "Johnny, lad, come and give your Great Aunt Irene a kiss", and she would purse her lips at me, quite threateningly.' Mr Thornton shuddered at the recollection. 'Fan was too young to remember her – she died when I was eight, I think – but Mother, well! She shan't be pleased to have a granddaughter named Irene.'
'Johnny, lad, come and give your wife a kiss,' teased Isabel, pursing her own lips.
'A welcome invitation!' rumbled he, and he kissed his wife quite thoroughly, quite tenderly, until Johnny cried (not very loudly), and demanded that he be fed.