Slowly, he reached for the satchel, undoing the buckle with a care that felt almost reverent. The book lay inside, exactly where he had tucked it that morning. Her stitching. Her ribbon. The faintest trace of rosewater.
He ran a thumb along the worn spine.
He had imagined—just for one foolish instant—that he might… well, since he had to come to London, that he might have some cause to stop near Harley Street.
As if he would be invited there!
But it would be the closest he had been to her in months, and through Mr. Bell’s solicitor… well some wild fantasy had stoked a reckless desire to show it to her.
And that it might mean something. That she might take it back or smile or say…
No.
No, that was madness.
She had looked cornered. Overwhelmed. Burdened by decisions that were now hers, not his.
But there had been something in her eyes—something unguarded when she saw him step into the solicitor’s doorway—
He shut the book quickly, before he let himself imagine too much.
He blew out the candle and lay back on the narrow bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling as the city bells rang the hour.
Margaret scarcely slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again — the sudden stillness when he stepped into Harcourt’s office, the weary lines across his brow, the brief, startled warmth that had flickered in his eyes when he saw her. And afterward, the carriage ride… his courtesy… his restraint… the terrible honesty in his voice.
By morning, she felt as though she had been stitched together with trembling thread.
Dixon brought up her breakfast tray with a look that made protest impossible, and Margaret forced herself to eat enough to satisfy her. She was still coaxing down tea when the bell rang downstairs.
Moments later, the house came alive with footsteps and voices.
“A folio has arrived from Mr. Harcourt, Margaret!” Edith called from the hall, as though announcing the arrival of visitingroyalty. “It is enormous, you must come see—it nearly broke the servant’s arms!”
Margaret descended to find a thick leather-bound folio on the hall table, its buckles still strapped, its spine marked simply withBell Estate.
It looked heavy enough to crush her.
Perhaps in a way, it already had.
Aunt Shaw sighed nearby. “My dear, must you handle all this today? Christmas Eve is a dreadful time for work.”
“Indeed! Margaret, you might have told me this would be delivered today,” Edith said, glancing at the buckles and seals. “You cannot possibly go through all of that alone.”
“I wasn’t intending to do it all at once,” Margaret said.
“You neverintendto,” Edith replied, not unkindly. “That is half the difficulty.”
Margaret let that pass. Her head still felt heavy from the night before. “I might as well make a beginning. Perhaps after breakfast.”
Edith lingered in the doorway. “Well, no matter. Henry will be here shortly.”
Margaret turned. “Henry?”
“Yes. I sent him a note yesterday evening, after you went upstairs looking as though you had battled ghosts. He said he would come this morning to help you sort through everything.”
Margaret’s pulse jumped. “Edith! Why would you do that without asking me?”
