Margaret rested her hands on the edge of the desk, steadying herself. The folio waited like a sealed verdict. Outside, the household clattered toward evening—the clink of dishes, Edith’s voice rising and falling, a distant scrape of chairs.
She had chosen this moment precisely because no one was watching. Every room upstairs demanded someone’s attention; the kitchen roared; Aunt Shaw was occupied with her correspondence. Sholto would be down for his nap and Edith busy with preparations. For once, Margaret might speak to Thornton without interruption.
A knock sounded.
Her pulse hammered, bright and seething in her veins. Dixon’s voice murmured in the hall, and then the door opened.
And Mr. Thornton stepped inside.
He filled the doorwayfor a moment, the light behind him catching in the sharp lines of his coat. He removed his hat, bowed, and held himself with the same careful formality he had shown the day before, but she saw it even more clearly now—the weariness beneath it. The restraint. The way he scanned the room, as if committing every shape to memory before he allowed himself to proceed.
“Miss Hale.”
“Mr. Thornton. Thank you for coming.”
He crossed the room and stood beside the desk, waiting for her lead. They were close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of him, though he kept an inch more distance than needed. Always careful. Always braced against himself.
She opened the folio and turned it toward him. “I hoped you might help me understand certain accounts. Henry—that is, Mr. Lennox—does not know the practical side of the trade.”
His head came up. “And Mr. Lennox is?”
She cleared her throat. “Forgive me. He is Edith’s brother-in-law. An attorney.” She gestured awkwardly to the folio. “My cousin was thoughtful enough to ask him to come advise me this morning, but there was much he did not comprehend.”
Thornton inclined his head. “I expected as much.”
The words were simple, but something in his voice struck deep—an almost imperceptible edge, not unkind, but honest in a way that reached her before she could defend herself.
He sat beside her, closer than she expected, though he left a dutiful inch of air between them. The folio lay open on the desk, the pages wide enough that they both leaned in without quite meaning to. Margaret tried to ask her first question twice before any sound came out.
“Mr. Thornton, this page here—” She touched the margin, careful not to brush his hand. “Is this the quarter’s full return?”
He cleared his throat once before answering. “It should be. If Harcourt received everything I sent.” A pause. “Which I doubt.”
She glanced up. His eyes flicked away at once, as though the moment startled him.
He turned the page. “Those orders are late. Spain delayed again.”
Spain.
She looked down quickly, pretending to read the columns, but she saw the small tightening at the edge of his mouth—the flicker of something unsaid. She tried not to feel the words that gathered in her own chest, pushing upward in a sudden, painful surge. Spain must hold a very different meaning for him than it did for her.
She forced herself to speak evenly. “Are all the overseas contracts in danger?”
He tapped the line with a finger that tried to be steady. “Not all. Enough.” He stopped. Then, lower: “Too many.”
“How long has this been happening?”
“Longer than I’d like to admit.” He gave a faint, almost frustrated huff. “There were signs months ago, but I thought—” He stopped abruptly and looked away again. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”
She felt the recoil in him. Pride knocked sideways. She searched for words that wouldn’t embarrass him further. “You have always been careful,” she said softly. “No one could have foreseen—”
“Yes,” he said, too quickly. “Someone could have.”
She flinched before she could hide it. He saw. She knew he saw. His tone gentled in an instant. “I did not mean to sound bitter,” he said. “Miss Hale—I never meant—” He faltered, caught in his own correction.
“No,” she said, finishing it for him. “I understand. You expected more of yourself than many finance ministers are capable of foreseeing.”
He shook his head, as though the understanding did nothing to ease him. He turned another page. His sleeve brushed hers. Neither moved away this time.
