A lie. Probably, for he had no true destination yet.
But a harmless one.
She hesitated, visibly torn. Something in her expression softened. “If… if you are certain,” she said quietly, “then I would be glad of your company.”
Glad?When had she ever said something like that?
Thornton stepped to the street’s edge and signaled a cab. A small hansom rattled toward them, wheels splashing through thin slush. He opened the door, tried to calm the raging tumult of his heart, and offered his hand.
She set her gloved fingers in his—so lightly he could scarcely feel them—yet the contact shot through him like a fire in the middle of winter, sharp and unlooked-for. For one unguarded instant, something dangerously close to exultation rose in him. Foolish, unbidden, impossible—but there all the same.
She climbed in, trembling only slightly, and he followed, shutting the door.
The carriage jolted forward.
Silence enveloped them.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed through the narrow street; the sway of the cab brought them nearer than he could bear. Margaret kept her gaze fixed on the window, cheeks pale, hands folded tightly in her lap.
He ought to speak. He ought to preserve simple civility. He ought to be content — or at least resigned.
But instead there was that old, helpless truth rising in him again: that her mere nearness unraveled every defense. That simply to sit in the same small space with her was a kind of bliss, even when it came sharpened with pain.
He forced his hands to remain still, clasped tightly before him, as if holding himself in check. And stumbling for something intelligent, something interesting, something to say that might turn her mind towards him once more.
Instead he found himself saying, “I saw Higgins before I left Milton.”
Her head turned at once—too quickly—and she tried to school her features into calm interest. “You did? I am glad of it. How… how does he fare?”
Thornton exhaled. “He manages. As well as any man can in such times. He looks to the other hands when he can.” His voice hardened with a frustration he could not restrain. “But even he cannot mend everything that is coming.”
Her brow furrowed. “Can you be so certain? You truly believe the mill—”
“I know it,” he said quietly.
She looked down. The lamplight from passing shops flickered across her face, catching in her eyes with a fragile glow. He had never realized until this moment—achingly—how much he had missed the sight of her listening to him.
How he had starved for it.
How even the smallest sign of her attention could undo him.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
Sorry.
For him.
For the mill.
For pain he wished she had never needed to witness.
He forced himself to look away. Her sympathy was worse than her silence. It reached into places he had no defenses left to guard.
The carriage rattled on, past windows trimmed in Christmas greens, past doorways where families clustered close to firelight and warmth. Thornton felt the ache of it—sharp, intimate—the knowledge that his mother waited in Milton, expecting his return, her preparations already in motion… and that he would not be there.
Margaret must have sensed the shift in him. She spoke very softly. “Mr. Thornton… this journey to London. The timing must have been… terribly inconvenient for you.”
He did not trust himself to answer. Not immediately. The truth pressed at him like a locked door.
