The words did not change. They only pressed deeper.
She had asked to see him.
In person.
Today.
A breath escaped him—something sharp, almost a laugh, quickly stifled. He gripped the paper until it creased.
It was humiliating, of course. She would ask again about the mill’s accounts. She would want every sorry detail laid bare. He would have to confirm everything he had tried to ignore or put off: the debts, the stalled orders, the wages he could scarcely guarantee.
There was no dignity in that.
And yet…
She wished to see him.
Not Mr. Harcourt.
Not a clerk or an advisor.
Him.
The knowledge struck through him like light—painful, startling, and altogether impossible to master.
He closed his eyes for a moment, barricading himself against the surge of feeling. When he opened them again, the note was still in his hand, proof that he had not imagined it. At four o’clock she would expect him on Harley Street.
He smoothed the creases from the paper with a care that betrayed him. A fool’s hope, perhaps.
But it was hope, all the same.
“You should not dothis,” Dixon murmured, closing the door firmly behind them. “Not without the house knowing. Not on a day like this.”
“Dixon, please—”
“I’ve eyes, Miss Margaret.” Dixon stepped closer and smoothed a fold near Margaret’s sleeve—a small, habitual gesture that felt more like a warning than a kindness. “And I know when something sits wrong with you. That man has always—”
“Do not,” Margaret whispered.
Dixon stopped. She did not step back, but she stilled, the same way she always had when Margaret’s voice struck a boundary she rarely used. Her hands closed together in front of her.
“Then at least have someone in the hall,” Dixon said. “The house is in an uproar with this dinner, and your aunt has no notion you’ve asked him here. It isn’t fitting, and you know it.”
Margaret held her ground. “This will be brief. And it is business. Nothing inappropriate at all, I assure you. And it is Mr. Thornton, not some stranger off the street. You remember how kind he was to Mama.”
Dixon’s gaze searched her face—too keen, too loyal. Margaret felt every inch of that scrutiny.
At last, Dixon nodded once. “Business or not, I’ll be just outside,” she said. “I won’t leave you entirely alone.”
“No,” Margaret said quickly. “You mustn’t draw attention. If Edith or Henry discovers I’ve asked Mr. Thornton here before the evening—”
“Then they’ll know,” Dixon returned, unwavering. “Perhaps they ought to.”
Margaret closed her eyes, fighting the prick of feeling at the back of her throat. “I need privacy.”
“You need protection,” Dixon said. “But I’ll do as you ask. Just—don’t be long, child.”
The endearment broke something in her. She nodded once, and Dixon left her with a soft click of the door.
