“Miss Margaret,” she said slowly, “is everything… all right?”
Margaret opened her mouth—but John spoke first, sober as any magistrate. “Perfectly all right, Mrs. Dixon.”
Dixon’s gaze snapped to him. Her eyes grew round. Then sharp. Margaret had seen that look many times in childhood—rarely directed at anyone but her.
It softened. Instantly.
“Oh,” Dixon said, drawing out the syllable with suspicious gentleness. “Oh, I see. Well then.” She nodded once—decisively. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
Margaret blushed fiercely. John nearly choked.
Before either could answer, the rest of the family arrived in a flurry of voices and snow-flecked coats. Edith’s laugh died the instant she saw them.
Aunt Shaw froze with her gloves half-drawn from her fingers. “Margaret,” she said sharply, “what is the meaning of—”
Henry Lennox, trailing behind, froze as though he had walked into the wrong house entirely. “Margaret,? he said faintly. “Is there… something we should know?”
She squeezed John’s fingers and lifted her chin. “Yes. Mr. Thornton and I are engaged.”
Silence crashed down over everything. She had spoken with utter finality, no equivocation, no pleading. John was hers now, and she meant to let it be known.
Edith recovered first, eyes wide. “Margaret… no. Surely—surely this is not—”
Aunt Shaw pressed a hand to her temple. “My dear child, at least tell me you have not done anything rash.”
Henry’s jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle jump. “Is this your decision,” he asked quietly, “or has Mr. Thornton pressed something upon you in your distress?”
John stiffened beside her — but Margaret stepped forward before he could speak. “It is my decision,” she said. “Entirely mine. And I found him quite amenable, much to my pleasure.”
Henry turned his face away.
Dixon cleared her throat, the sound breaking the tension just enough for everyone to breathe again. “Well,” she said briskly, “Miss Margaret has always known her own mind.”
Aunt Shaw bristled. “I am not saying she does not, Dixon, but this is irregular — shockingly so!”
Margaret smiled. “It is also settled.”
Aunt Shaw, flustered, sank into a chair with a sigh. “Well,” she murmured faintly, “I suppose… if the thing must happen… there will be arrangements to consider.”
Captain Lennox, unsure but well-intentioned, offered John a curt nod. Henry slipped away toward the corridor in brittle silence.
And as the room rearranged itself around the shock, Margaret felt John exhale beside her — a breath quiet enough that only she heard it.
The fire in thedrawing room had sunk to embers. Edith and her husband retired early, shaken but polite. Aunt Shaw withdrew in a state of fluttering unease. Even Henry disappeared without a word, and the hush that followed his absence seemed only to deepen the glow of the fire.
Dixon remained long enough to set fresh coal on the grate, giving Margaret a single, measured look that held both worry and fierce approval. Then she, too, slipped away.
And in the quiet that followed, Margaret felt her own breath ease.
John stood beside her, near the mantel, the firelight turning his profile warm and strong.
They had not touched since the family entered the house, yet something in the space between them still hummed with the certainty of that kiss — bright, steady, and impossibly new.
She drew a little nearer. “We must call on Mr. Harcourt tomorrow,” she said softly. “Early. Before the street grows busy.”
He nodded. “Yes. There are documents he must amend. And the land papers. And Liverpool’s contract — that will require explanation.”
She smiled faintly. “He will object that it is irregular.”
