Snow fell in a steady dusting over the rolling hills as the carriage bumped along the narrow road from the school. John shifted on the leather seat and turned his eyes from the dreary scenery out the window. He leaned his head back and let out a heavy sigh; his breath puffing out like smoke in the icy air.

The ride from school to Milton was a dull one, and was hastened no more by John's anxiety to reach home. When at last the city came into view, he straightened up, eager to catch the first glance of the Thornton house.

The stately manor of the Thornton family stood long the river on the far edge of Milton. Branches of towering oaks, reaching down like blackened skeleton arms, framed the view to house. The familiar, weathered stone of the home stood cold and grim against the grey sky, and windows stared out over the lawn; dark and lifeless.

As the coach made its way up the drive, a heavy-laden wagon passed them, piled with high with trunks and grand furnishings. John had to take a second look. What was happening with those things? Those were items from his home, treasured by his family for generations.

Workmen filed down the grand front steps, loading another wagon with crates. When the coach pulled up to the house, John didn't wait for the driver to come to a complete stop before leaping out of the carriage. He sprinted up the steps, then had to stand aside as men carrying a large davenport blocked the doorway. They took no notice John, and when one of them lost their grip on their end of the heavy piece of furniture, the other muttered a curse.

After spending a moment grumbling over their misfortunate task, one of them said something that caught John's attention.

"What's happening here anyway? The lady of the house redoing everything?" the younger of the pair asked, a short, thickset fellow with shaggy, straw colored hair.

"You daft? Haven't you heard what happened here?" The older man, who had a short grey beard, replied.

"Naw, I was down to London these past few weeks."

"Well, Mrs. Thornton here has to get rid of everything, sell the house too. Mr. Thornton got himself in a mess with some ruddy speculating deal, lost everything and made a bloomin' pile of debt. The old man just couldn't take it. Did himself in."

"What? Drowned himself in river, did he?"

"No, a bullet to the head."

With those last words, John felt as if he were hit with a ton a bricks. He couldn't catch his breath for a moment, and then he stepped forward, snapping at the men.

"Out of my way!" His adolescent voice cracked with emotion on the last word.

The men looked up, startled.

"Here now, who do you think you..." The older workman's eyes widened, "Hold on, you must be-"

"Mr. Thornton's son, yes." John took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure, "I've just returned home from school and I need to see my mother. So if you would be so kind-"

"Yes! Yes! Our deepest apologies to you." The man nodded his head in John's direction, then turned to his fellow worker. "You heard the young man, George, move it!"

With a grunt, George lifted up his end of the davenport and moved so John could get through.

"John, is that you?"

A short, slender woman dressed all in black appeared at the end of the hall. John quickened his stride to greet her, then placed his hands on her shoulders and gently kissed her forehead.

"Mother." He murmured, no longer able to hold back the tremor in his voice.

"Oh, John." She held her son tight; her head nestled under his chin. "I wanted to tell you myself, in person, but I heard the workman talking outside just now. How vulgar of them to speak like that."

"It can't possibly be true. Tell me it isn't, Mother."

"'Tis true, John. Your father is dead."

John pulled away from her and went into an open door to his left; what used to be his father's office.

The huge oak desk at the far end of the room would have dwarfed most men who sat behind it, but Mr. Thornton had been tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular build. It was obvious that John took after his father in looks, but his quiet, serious nature came from his mother. He was thankful when she followed behind him, but didn't break the silence he so needed to sort out his thoughts and what he had just learned.

Most of the things had been taken out of this room already; bookshelves were bare and the place by the fire for Mr. Thornton's large leather armchair was vacant. The Turkish rug that had covered the floor was rolled up and leaned in a corner; waiting to be taken out. John let his eyes travel to a stain on the floor by the desk, normally hidden by the rug. As a small boy, he had knocked his father's inkwell over, and his father had come in to find his son attempting to mop up the spilled ink with his handkerchief. John was so nervous about how his father would respond, but Mr. Thornton simply pulled out his own pocket-handkerchief and finished cleaning it up with his son. When all the ink was gone, there remained a black stain on the wood floor. With a reassuring smile at his concerned son, Mr. Thornton pulled up the rug to cover the spot, and the accident was never mentioned again.

"How did Father lose everything, even the house?" John asked quietly, turning to face his mother. "He had all his investments tied up in the speculation, but he didn't borrow from anyone."

"It wasn't just the first speculation that fell through. He was convinced that nothing could go wrong with that one, and he would get double what he put in. Another deal came along, bigger, and better, sure to make a fortune." Mrs. Thornton sadly shook her head. "However, with all his money tied up in the first one, he had to borrow from his friend Mr. Chambers to get in to the other speculation."

"How much?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't tell me. He would only say not to worry; everything was certain to come out well."

"But it didn't."

His mother shook her head. "You should have seen his face when he heard the news. That in its self practically killed him. The life went out of his eyes that day, and all he would do is pace in his study, repeating over and over to himself, 'I'm ruined, I'm ruined'"

"Was he in his study when he…" John couldn't finish, but Mrs. Thornton nodded, understanding her son's question.

"Yes."

"When did all this happen?"

"Your father heard the news last week, and then…well, it must have been four days ago now."

John walked over to the fireplace, let his forehead rest against the high mantle, and stared into the cold ashes.

"Why?" He slammed his fist against the mantle piece. "Why did he do this to us?"

As his shoulders began to shake, his mother came along side him and put her arm around his back.

"Asking why does nothing. What your father chose to do is done. While we must contend with the consequences, we must not let our minds deliberate on the past. You are strong, my dear son, and together we shall overcome this."

Mrs. Thornton asked if her son wanted something to eat, as it was getting late into the evening. She was keeping on a few servants until packing was completed. However, John wasn't hungry; the very thought of food made his stomach threaten to return the small meal he had eaten on the carriage ride from Mrs. Archer.

Instead, he climbed the grand staircase and followed the hall down to his sister's nursery. Her nurse was just exiting the room, flustered and red in the face. As she closed the door, a wail resounded, causing the poor woman to cover her face in her hands and sag against the wall.

"Why, Master John, you're home!" she started as she noticed John coming towards her.

"May I see Fanny?"

"Why, of course. But, my lands, is she in an awful fit of temper tonight. I can hardly do a thing with the wee lass!"

"I'll see if I am any help." A fleeting shadow of a smile passed over John's lips. "You go and have a cup of tea."

"Thank you, Master John," the woman sighed, and practically skipped down the hall.

The wails had risen in volume as time passed, so John braced himself as he opened the door.

In the middle of the floor sat Fanny, surrounded by numerous toys and dolls but nothing that captured her attention at this moment. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears streamed down her scarlet cheeks, and her mouth was closed only for a moment as she took a breath in preparation for another scream.

Then the door closed. At the noise, Fanny paused her performance and peeped open her eyes to see who had succumbed to her.

"Joh! Joh!" she squealed, hysterics instantly forgotten as she scrambled to her feet and ran with outstretched arms to her brother.

"And hello to you, Fanny."

John scooped up the three year old and held her close for a moment. Fanny giggled and squirmed away, leaning over and reaching out a grasping little hand for his pockets.

"What are you at, little goose?"

"Where treats?" she queried, fishing into his pockets and then dropping the crumpled letter she found with much disappointment. "Where my treats?"

"Who do you think I am, Father? Come to bring you…" John stopped. Of course, Mr. Thornton always brought home little trinkets and sweets for his daughter.

"Papa?" Her eyes lit up. "Papa bring treats!"

John shook his head, slowly letting Fanny to the ground. She was too young to understand what had happened, that her papa was never coming back. There was no sorrow in her face, no worry for what the future would bring. She was oblivious to the fact that her brother was now man of the family, and to what a heavy responsibility now rested on his shoulders.