She searched for the right words. “The figures matter, of course. But there are… other things. Practical things. The state of the machinery. How many hands. How much work has been lost. What trades are failing most. What can be done.”
Henry regarded her for a moment, puzzled. “Well, yes, but the accounts will tell us most of that.”
Margaret looked down at the folio. “Not all.”
She had spent the entire night wrestling with her thoughts, and there was only one person who could answer the things she needed most to know.
And he was somewhere in London, waiting for her decision.
6
Thornton did not expectthe room to feel so small.
When he had taken it the night before, the plain plaster walls and narrow bed had seemed adequate—almost welcome. Anything quiet would do. He had told himself he meant to work through the mill’s figures, to set his thoughts in order.
Instead, he found himself sitting at the small table with the book open again.
It lay before him like a confession: the faded cover, the well-worn edges, the slip of ivory tucked inside. He had not meant to read it this morning. He had risen intending to write a second note to Williams and then walk to the post.
But his hand had drifted to the satchel automatically, and there it was—an invitation and a torment in the same instant. He read the stitched passage again. Tried to read the page behind it. He ought to put it away.
He did not.
After a quarter hour of staring at the page without taking in a single word, he closed the book sharply.
What was he doing?
Margaret had told him—kindly, gently, with every soft civility she possessed—that she would not decide today. That she needed time. That he ought not wait in London on her account.
And yet here he was, sitting in a rented room on Christmas Eve, holding a book that had no business giving him hope.
He should have gone back to Milton, put his affairs in order, returned at the end of the week—just as she had all but begged him to do. It would have been sensible. It would have been dignified.
Instead, he sat here like a man waiting for something that would never come.
Disgusted with himself, he grabbed his coat and went out.
The wind cut like knives up the narrow street, but he welcomed it. He walked without direction—past the Strand, past Covent Garden, past the shops bustling with Christmas ribbons and the coachmen calling for fares. He did not look closely at any of it. He walked until his anger dulled into a heavy, familiar ache.
By the time he returned to the lodging house, the afternoon was drawing in. Fog clung to the cobblestones. His fingers were numb.
The landlady intercepted him at the stair. “There’s a message for you, sir,” she said, handing him a folded note. “A boy brought it round an hour ago. Said it was urgent.”
Thornton hesitated. He recognized the solicitor’s seal immediately.
His pulse kicked hard.
He stepped into his room before opening it, not trusting himself to stand still in the hall. He closed the door, leaned back against it, and broke the seal with a thumb that was not as steady as he wished.
Mr. Thornton,
Miss Hale requests the favor of your presence at Harley Street this afternoon. If you are at liberty, a meeting at four o’clock would be acceptable.
Harcourt.
Thornton read the note twice.
A third time.
