Dixon hovered in the doorway behind her, silent as a sentinel, eyes flicking between them.
Margaret stood at once. “Edith—this is Mr. Thornton, from Milton. He—he was my father’s friend.”
Thornton bowed slightly, the motion crisp and almost too formal. “Mrs. Lennox.”
Edith, still startled, dropped a quick curtsy. “Mr. Thornton.”
Before Margaret could gather herself, another voice filled the doorway.
“There you are, Margaret! Still at it? I—” Henry stopped short. His eyes swept the room, narrowing as they landed on Thornton. Surprise sharpened to something harder. “I beg your pardon. I was not aware you were receiving visitors.”
Margaret felt the heat rise under her collar. “Henry—this is Mr. Thornton, the master of Marlborough Mills. I asked him here to discuss certain matters of Mr. Bell’s estate.”
Thornton straightened fully, every line in him tightening. “Miss Hale, I have taken too much of your time already.” He stepped back from the desk as though the very sight of Henry confirmed he had no business remaining. “Thank you for seeing me today.”
Margaret’s breath caught. She moved a step toward him before she could stop herself. “Please—you need not rush away on my account.”
But Henry was already extending a hand, his expression too smooth to be anything but forced courtesy. “Thornton?TheJohn Thornton of Milton? As it happens, I am rather curious about business in Milton, and I have heard your name more often than I can say. Besides, if you have business with Miss Hale, we can go over it together this evening. We are expecting guests, but I am certain we can make room.”
Thornton looked as though the floor had shifted beneath him. “I would not intrude.”
“You wouldn’t,” Henry said, stepping forward with the authority of a man accustomed to arranging the scene around him. “How could we send you away on Christmas Eve? Edith, we can make room, surely? Come, Thornton, I must insist. You see, my dear sister-in-law has no objections.”
Margaret’s breath tangled. She opened her mouth—she did not even know whether she meant to urge him to stay or give him escape—but Thornton bowed slightly, his eyes flicking to hers for a fleeting, searing instant.
“I must decline,” he said.
Edith, still flustered, tugged Margaret toward the door. “You must dress, Margaret. The guests will be here within the hour. Henry, do help Mr. Thornton to the hall. He must not be kept standing.”
“Please,” Thornton protested, “do not trouble yourselves.”
Henry smiled as though the entire scene amused him. “This way, Mr. Thornton. I will pour you a glass of something in the drawing room while the ladies make ready.”
Margaret watched him as he set aside the folio, his gaze hardening on the floor for an instant, before he gave a quick jerk of his head. “Thank you.”
Her gaze followed after him as he disappeared down the hall, her pulse still a riot. Then she followed Dixon upstairs to dress—her thoughts a tangle of fear, longing, and the dangerous, unspoken hope that refused to be stilled.
8
Thornton had never beenin a drawing room like this one.
Not for pleasure, at least.
He had stepped into drawing rooms finer than this—his own at Marlborough Mills was handsomely kept, if austere—but something about the Lennoxes’ parlor unsettled him. The drawing room glowed with lamplight and Christmas greenery. Pale cushions crowded the sofas; garlands looped over the mantel in artful swags; someone had arranged roses in a porcelain bowl that cost more than a week’s wages for a Milton weaver. Every detail whispered the same gentle, unthinking ease of London wealth.
Margaret’s cousin and Captain Lennox stood near the hearth, speaking in low tones about the evening’s table arrangements. Mrs. Shaw—he remembered meeting her in Milton once—sat by the window, adjusting a fold in her shawl while keeping half an eye on her grandson, who toddled unsteadily from chair to chair. A nurse hovered in the doorway, waiting for the moment she could carry the child upstairs before the first guests arrived.
It was domestic. Refined.
A world arranged by people who had never needed to speak above a murmur to be heard, or to raise their hands to labor.
Not like Milton.
Not like anything Margaret Hale had known there.
Her presence had warmed cramped rooms and sparse furnishings, had filled humble spaces with brightness he had never before dreamt of. But here—here everything gleamed already, as though designed to impress a visitor the moment he crossed the threshold.
He stood on the edge of the carpet, hands clasped at his sides, aware of every rough thread of his coat, every hour of worry worn into his face.
