Aunt Shaw had clucked in sympathy. Edith had kissed her cheek. Captain Lennox, who suspected very little of anything, had simply wished her a swift recovery.
Only Dixon had lingered too long at the doorway, eyes narrowed, hands set on her hips in that formidable way that spoke louder than words. “Are you certain, Miss Margaret? Church is no place to be missed on Christmas.”
Margaret had mustered a small smile. “I shall rest better here.”
Dixon’s gaze dropped—just briefly—to the study door. Then to the window. Then back to Margaret.
“Hm,” she said only. “I’ll light a fire before I go. In the drawing room, I imagine.”
Margaret swallowed. “The study, I think.”
And Dixon had done so. But the crackling warmth did little to calm Margaret’s nerves. Now, with the family gone and Dixon safely away, the house rang with silence. Her own breathing seemed too loud.
She moved between window and hearth in restless intervals, fussing with the lace at her cuffs, smoothing her hair, even fetching a shawl only to fold and unfold it again.
She should sit. Compose herself. Be the very picture of calm rationality.
Instead, she kept returning to the window.
Each carriage that passed made her breath catch—each one drew her forward—each one made her heart thrum painfully against her ribs.
But none slowed. None stopped.
What if he had not received her message in time? What if he had declined to come—not out of displeasure, but out of weary resignation? What if she had already lost the quiet morning she needed, to say what must be said?
The bells from St. Marylebone drifted faintly through the cold air. The street lay mostly empty. Margaret pressed her fingertips to the frost-edged glass.
Please come.
And that was when a lone figure turned the corner. Her breath froze. Not a carriage. Not a gentleman out for a morning stroll.
Him.
Walking quickly, lightly burdened except for a well-packed satchel in his hand—as though he meant to leave London entirely after seeing her.
He was leaving? If he did not agree with her idea, this would be the last time she saw him.
He looked up, and their eyes met through the window. And whatever hope she had left inside her flared all at once.
She turned from the window and nearly flew to the front hall, fumbling with the latch before the footman could appear. She opened the door herself.
Cold wind rushed in with him.
“Miss Hale,” he said, breath slightly short from his walk. “Forgive me—I did not expect—” His gaze swept the entryway. “Is the house entirely empty?”
“It is. They have all gone to church.” She stepped back to allow him in. “I had… reason to hope you might come.”
Something flickered behind his eyes—surprise, yes, but something else. Something he fought down at once. “I see,” he murmured.
As he crossed the threshold, the mistletoe above the arch caught his eye.
He paused—only half a second—but stepped deliberately around the line of danger, skirting the place where an accidental pause might be misinterpreted.
The sight drew a startled warmth to her throat. She had not thought him cautious in that way. Not superstitious. And never easily rattled.
Perhaps he feared something else—an expectation she might hold, a dread of his own imaginings. She let the moment pass with a soft smile he did not fully see.
“Mr. Thornton,” she said, “will you come into the study? I… I have something to show you.”
