Sholto hurled himself at Margaret’s skirts. “Aunt Margaret, my soldiers are lost!”
Margaret stooped to help him disentangle himself. “Are they indeed? Perhaps Dixon put them away after luncheon.”
“No, no, Margaret, listen—” Edith tried to press the invitation upon her again. “Besides the Willoughbys, the Montagues will be there, and Lady Treves, and oh—Mrs. Armitage asked after you particularly, though why she should, I cannot guess, since she never speaks above a whisper and trembles at everything from drafty windows to over-boiled tea—”
“Edith,” Margaret said gently, “Truly, I cannot go with you.”
“How can you say that, Margaret? I say, the solicitor can very well wait for you on another day. Mrs. Willoughby will think you quite out of sorts, missing two gatherings in a row. You know how she was put out when you did not come to dinner last week. It gives entirely the wrong impression.”
“I am afraid the appointment cannot be changed.” Margaret laid the solicitor’s letter atop the invitation in Edith’s hands.
Edith scanned the letter with widening eyes. Sholto attempted to climb Margaret’s knee; she steadied him absently.
“Two days hence?” Edith gasped. “But that ruins everything! I was only just thinking before I came up that perhaps we might go to Gowing’s for ribbons after tea, and Henry had promised—well, he thought he might manage—to escort you to the Harrowes’ second Christmas luncheon in the afternoon, and…”
Margaret only smiled a little wearily.
“But Margaret, dearest, you cannot possibly go to a solicitor’s office alone. What a notion! What if they try to confuse you? What if they press you to sign things you ought not? Mr. Bell’s affairs were dreadfully tangled, I am sure of it. Henry must go with you.”
“Henry need not trouble himself,” Margaret replied, gathering Sholto and passing him carefully to a waiting nursemaid at the door. “I know what must be done. The will is clear enough. The appointment is merely to settle the last particulars.”
“But you must have a gentleman with you!” Edith cried. “Why, Henry said only last week that if you required any legal advice—”
“I do not.”
Margaret’s voice was soft, but its firmness halted Edith. “Henry has business of his own to manage, and Christmas plans with you and Captain Lennox besides. I shall not pull him away for something I can very well manage myself.”
Edith stared at her for a long moment, her eyes brightening with something between admiration and bewildered concern. “At least allow me to send the carriage with you. And Dixon shall accompany you upstairs. Only think how improper—”
Margaret reached out and squeezed her cousin’s hand. “Thank you, Edith. Truly. But I shall be perfectly safe.”
2
Snow had begun tofall in Milton—thin, wind-driven flakes that clung stubbornly to the soot on rooftops and window ledges. Thornton scarcely felt the cold. He stood outside the mill gates, watching the last of the hands file out for the day, collars turned up, boots slipping on the icy ground.
Their glances told him all he needed to know.
Pity in some. Apprehension in many. And in a few, that unmistakable shadow of fear:What will become of us if Marlborough Mills fails?
A month ago, no one would have asked such a question. A month ago, Marlborough Mills was among the strongest concerns in Milton.
Now whispers clung to its walls like frost.
Orders unfulfilled. Three looms standing idle. A dye-vat cold since Tuesday. Suppliers tightening terms. A bank hinting—politely, but firmly—that an “updated evaluation of risk” would be required.
It was unsustainable; he could not pretend otherwise.
And the worst of it was this: the men knew.
Their wives knew.
Even their children knew.
The snow crunched behind him. Higgins’s broad figure emerged from the gloom, stamping warmth into his boots. “Evenin’, sir.”
Thornton turned. “Higgins.”
The man shoved his hands deeper into his coat. “Wind’s bitter tonight. Makes a body wonder if Christmas’s come early or late.”
