Margaret Hale. She was as unreachable as the stars to him. Gone from Milton—no doubt happily!—and gone from him forever.
And now Bell gone too. The final thread to those sweet, terrible months cut.
He closed his eyes. A man could grow soft with such thoughts. Weak.
Thornton slammed the book, too sharply, and dropped it back in his drawer. He would not indulge in fantasies. Not when the mill stood on the edge of ruin and he must consider how many families depended on him for survival.
But the solicitor’s letter lay there, stark upon his desk. Bell’s affairs. The property was to change hands.
A new landlord taking stock before the year was out.
Thornton dragged a hand across his jaw.
As if the winter were not already cruel enough, he must now prepare to answer to a fresh master—one who would know nothing of Milton’s trials, nor of the years it had taken Thornton to build Marlborough Mills into a concern worth trusting. Bell had been patient, willing to weather fluctuations in the trade… but who could say what manner of man would follow him?
He looked again at the drawer. At the book. At the faint edge of ivory ribbon peeking from its place. He shut the drawer carefully, as if the slightest sound might disturb the fragile thing inside.
Enough. There was work to be done.
Thornton stood, squared his shoulders, and reached for his coat. The mill awaited him—its debts, its doubts, its weary men—and he would meet them all head-on.
Whatever upheavals London might hold, it surely had nothing to do with him.
One Month Later
The letter had beenlying on her desk for nearly an hour before Margaret found the will to break the seal.
Sholto’s shrill demands for his wooden soldiers had very nearly drowned out Edith’s gentle urging that she “ought really to sit down and read her correspondence,” but Margaret had managed at last to slip into her room, draw a breath, and unfold the thick sheet of cream paper.
The solicitor’s hand was crisp and businesslike:
“Madam,
You are requested to attend our offices on the twenty-third instant at half past eleven, that we may conclude certain matters pertaining to the late Mr. Bell’s estate…”
She read no further.
So, it was to be done. A formality, nothing more.
She already knew the substance of the will—had known it for nearly a month, ever since the first shock had faded into the dull ache of comprehension. Mr. Bell had left her everything. His Oxford rooms, his modest investments, and, impossibly, Marlborough Mills.
A mill she did not want. A legacy she did not understand. A responsibility she had no idea how to bear.
She folded the letter carefully, set it atop her writing case, and pressed a hand to her forehead. She had scarcely risen when Edith burst through the half-open door, cheeks pink from exertion and indignation in equal measure, Sholto at her heels bellowing something about mislaid artillery.
“Margaret!” Edith swept into the room in a rustle of silk and agitation, Sholto scampering behind her with a wooden horse held aloft like a banner of war. “Mrs. Willoughby has altered the time of her Christmas tea! It is to be held on Wednesday instead of Christmas Eve. Truly, I think she does it only to torment me. And if we arrive even five minutes past the hour, she will assume the most dreadful slights. Entire friendships have cooled on less — I promise you they have!”
Margaret blinked. “Wednesday… the twenty-third?”
“Yes! Can you imagine?” Edith thrust the calling card into her hand as if the date itself were an insult. “I had thought we might spend the morning in Bond Street, and then perhaps take Sholto to the Serpentine. But now everything must be rearranged. Do you still have your ice skates? Oh, dear,, who shall escort us? I wish the captain had not promised to join his friend at boxing that day, for surely—”
“Edith,” Margaret said gently, “I am afraid I shall not be able to attend.”
Her cousin stopped, eyes widening. “Not attend? Margaret, whatever do you mean? Mrs. Willoughby will think you have taken mortal offense at her change of plans.”
Margaret held out the solicitor’s letter. “I have been summoned to settle matters of Mr. Bell’s estate. The appointment is for the twenty-third at half past eleven.”
Edith gasped. “On the very morning of the tea? The solicitor must be made to change it at once! You cannot possibly go alone—and certainly not when Mrs. Willoughby is expecting us.”
