“I may…” she hesitated. “I may seek some advice, but I cannot ask him to stand in for me. I must return to Mr. Harcourt’s office soon to finalize certain matters.”
“Soon?” Edith blinked. “Surely, after Twelfth Night?”
“Before the end of the week. Tomorrow, if I can have an answer for him that soon.”
Aunt Shaw fluttered her vinaigrette again. “Really, Margaret, I do think it quite improper for a solicitor to demand your presence the day before Christmas. Could this business not wait? Henry would be happy to sort it all out for you.”
Margaret swallowed, throat tight. “It cannot, Aunt. Others must wait on me, and I cannot permit them to wait long.”
Edith sighed heavily. “Well, if Mr. Harcourt insists… but truly, Margaret, how dreadfully inconsiderate. Christmas week! And after all our plans!”
Margaret demurred, her gaze drifting instead to the window—to the street where he had held her hand only moments ago.
How different John Thornton had looked that morning. His shoulders — once so straight, so unshakeable — had borne a weariness she had never seen in him. The lines around his eyeswere deeper. His composure more brittle. Even his bow had seemed carved from restraint.
Yet for one fleeting instant—one she doubted anyone else would have noticed—his eyes had lit when he saw her.
A rare flash of warmth.
Almost… gladness.
It had pierced her to the very core. Could he still care? She dared not believe it.
He had every reason to despise her. Everything in their past… every misunderstanding… every sharp, painful word exchanged… Surely he had lost all respect for her long ago. Had he not told her as much?
And for a man like Mr. Thornton, respect was all there was.
She excused herself quietly, slipping past Edith’s flurry of ribbon complaints and Aunt Shaw’s hovering anxiety. She climbed the stairs to her room, the noise fading behind her, her heartbeat still loud in her ears.
When she reached the quiet of her chamber, she closed the door and pressed a hand to her mouth, willing the tremor inside her to still.
She could not forget the look of him. Nor the steadiness in his voice as he insisted she not consider his comfort. Nor the way he had promised to remain in London — alone, away from his mother — until she was ready to decide the fate of his mill.
He had stood before her like a man stripped of every defense except dignity.
And her heart… oh, her foolish heart… ached to know whether there was still something in his own that answered hers.
But that was a question she could not permit herself to ask.
5
Thornton dismissed the hansom—whatneed had he for such an expense?— and walked until the fog burned his throat.
It was not the shortest route to Cleveland Street, nor the most direct. He simply walked—past shopfronts spilling with holly, past errand boys and hansoms and bell-ringers—until the pressure in his chest eased enough that he could draw breath again.
Only then did he begin to look for lodgings.
He found a small inn on a quiet side-street—respectable, unassuming, a place meant for clerks and travelers. A fire burned low in the grate. The landlady gave him a room without fuss. He paid the week’s rent in advance, not trusting himself to return if he went back out again.
Once the door closed behind him, the silence fell like a blow. He set his satchel carefully on the narrow bed, then sat at the small writing desk.
Mother first.
He cut the paper squarely, dipped his pen, and forced the words into form. His mother would never tolerate a short, perfunctory note — not at Christmas, and certainly not when he was away on business she had not sanctioned.
He began, stopped, tried again.
Mother,
