He curled his fingers away from the satchel strap. No. He would not burden her with that. All there was now was the world narrowing—contracting to the space between himself and Margaret Hale.
The sudden quiet feltalmost physical—an invisible cloud settling over the room. Margaret sat very still, hands folded tightly in her lap, aware of every inch separating her from John Thornton.
He sat where he was, rigid as a man awaiting judgment, his eyes fixed on the floorboards rather than on her.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
At last, she found her voice. “Mr. Thornton… I had no expectation that Mr. Bell would bind the mill to such a provision. I did not know—I had no notion—”
“You need not soften it,” he interrupted, his tone low, controlled. “It is an imposition. An unreasonable one. Bell was a fool to put this on you.”
She flinched. His voice was not harsh, but something in it—some strain, some wounded pride—cut through her more sharply than anger would have done.
He went on. “Miss Hale, you must—must—sell Marlborough Mills. There is no sense delaying the matter. It is no longer asound concern. To remain bound to me—bound to my failure—for even a week would be grossly unfair to you.”
She stared at him. “Yourfailure?”
He did not move. “Call it what it is.”
“I will not,” she said quietly.
A muscle tightened along his jaw. “Then allow me. The mill has been collapsing for months. My accounts are precarious. My creditors impatient. The hands—” He stopped, drew a breath. “You would be far wiser to divest yourself at once.”
Wise.
Practical.
Unemotional.
The words stung more than they should have.
“Mr. Bell trusted me with every other part of his estate,” she said slowly. “The accounts, the properties, the investments, the house in Oxford… all of it. And yet for this single concern—the mill—he tied me to another person’s concurrence.” She lifted her eyes to his. “Yourconcurrence.”
He stiffened. “I assure you, it was not of my seeking.”
“I know that.” Her voice softened. “Of course, I know that. But why would he do it? Why bind this one property so tightly? Why… why you?”
An emotion flickered in his expression—pain, perhaps, or something like apology. “Because,” he said, “Bell understood that Marlborough Mills was not merely land with brick on it. It is a machine with a thousand lives tied to its wheels. Any choice you make—whether to sell, to hold, to close its doors—will have consequences far beyond the accounts ledger.”
Margaret looked down at her gloves. The stitches blurred. “You think he doubted my ability.”
“No.” His answer was immediate, startling. “Never that.”
She looked up. His gaze met hers fully for the first time since entering the room.
“Bell respected you,” he said. “He admired your principles—your conscience. If he questioned anything, it was not your judgment. It was the weight of the burden.”
“And so he placed another burden atop it?” she asked faintly.
His expression tightened. “He gave you a way out. A week’s right of rescission. If you wish to be rid of the mill, you may be free of it within days. If you choose otherwise…” He hesitated. “Then you must deal with me. And I would spare you that.”
A flush of something—hurt, indignation, or perhaps something alarmingly close to longing—rose in her chest. The blunt honesty of that struck her with an almost physical force. It was not pride. It was not resentment.
It was sorrow.
She drew a breath to steady herself. “The mill is not only your concern.”
“It is my responsibility,” he returned.
