“But if they did?”
He shook his head. “You ask for a fantasy.”
“I ask for the truth.”
He glanced down at the closed folio, as if the answer might be written there instead of inside him. When he spoke again, the words came slowly, pulled from him rather than offered.
“If every supplier agreed to new terms… if the merchants kept faith… if I found a way to meet wages without incurring more debt…” His voice thinned. “Then yes. Marlborough Mills might stand.”
She absorbed each clause. “Is that not worth fighting for? All those livelihoods, the work of your own life, a hearty share of the economy of Milton itself?”
Something flickered behind his eyes—resentment, perhaps, or exhaustion, or something more fragile than either. “It is not a fight you should inherit.”
“I did not ask if I should fight for it,” she said quietly. “I asked if the mill is worth fighting for.”
He tried to answer, but the words failed him. His mouth closed; his jaw worked once in silence, the tiniest pulse rising beneath his collar.
She pressed gently. “Would these difficulties vanish under another master?”
“No.” The word broke from him before he could stop it. “Not unless he wielded considerable authority, but even then, the renegotiation of the land lease… he would be crippled before he began.”
“Would the workers be any safer?”
He looked at her through squinted eyes. “How could they?”
“Would another owner care more deeply?”
He looked away.
“Mr. Thornton.”
He did not move.
She lowered her voice. “If the mill is to fall, it will fall no matter who holds the ledger. But if it is to stand—surely it should stand under the one man who knows its burdens best.”
He turned to her, and in that moment, the whole of his pride, his weariness, and something far softer passed through his expression like a shadow crossing sunlit ground. He had no defense against her argument—she saw that. And he had no words to hide behind.
“Miss Hale,” he began, low, unsteady, “I—”
A sharp rap at the door.
Margaret jerked back, every nerve alight.
“Margaret?” Edith’s voice carried through the panel—bright, harried, and entirely oblivious. “Are you in there? Dixon, have you seen her? I warrant she is poring over those silly ledgers still. I thought Henry would have satisfied her.”
Thornton straightened at once, the mask sliding back into place so cleanly that the shift left her breathless. “I should go,” he said softly. “It is rather later than I realized.”
She looked up swiftly. “Is it? Oh! Past six already.”
Edith rattled the knob. “Margaret? Is that your voice I hear?”
So much for privacy…Margaret closed her eyes and forced herself to stand. “I am coming.”
Thornton rose as well, but the moment before he stepped away—just the briefest hesitation—told her everything. He had been about to say something he had not planned to say.
And she had been ready to hear it.
A hurried footfall crossed the hall, and before Margaret could call out, the door swung wide. “Margaret! You cannot still be in your mor—” Edith stopped as if struck. Her gaze took in the folio, the two chairs drawn close, and the tall man rising from his seat beside her cousin. “Oh! Forgive me, I… I did not know you had—company.”
