“No, thank you.” She wanted to keep her hands free. Her thoughts sharp.
“Very good. You may go, Alfred.” The clerk withdrew, closing the door softly behind him. “Now, then, Miss Hale. There is adeal with which we may proceed while we wait. Allow me to summarize the principal matters of the estate.”
He seated himself and opened a leather folder with the brisk assurance of a man accustomed to speaking uninterrupted for long stretches of time. Margaret tried to listen—she truly did—but her thoughts wavered with each new revelation.
Bank accounts. Bond holdings. A modest property near Oxford.
Margaret listened, or tried to. Mr. Harcourt’s voice moved steadily through the items, his tone courteous and business-like, but her mind felt curiously distant—like a window clouded by winter condensation.
“And lastly,” Mr. Harcourt said, sliding a heavier folio toward her, “the Milton properties. Chief among them, Marlborough Mills.”
The name dropped into the quiet room like a stone into still water.
Marlborough Mills.
Her breath caught—sharp, soundless. The polished wood of the desk shimmered for an instant, as if it were not quite steady beneath her gaze. She had known this moment must come. She had read it in the will itself, had turned the words over and over in her rooms at Harley Street, trying to make them feel real.
But hearing it aloud…
Hearing another voice speak that name…
It struck her like a sudden blow. Visions rose unbidden—unwelcome—in her mind: The long loom rooms, fierce with motion. The sharp tang of oil and cotton dust that clung to the air. The yard where angry men had once surged like a wave. The iron railings she had clung to when fear had nearly overtaken her.
And over all of it—every memory, every corner of that place—stood one figure.
John Thornton.
His voice in those rooms.
His presence in every line of the mill’s construction.
His pride, his labor, his relentless striving.
She could not think of Marlborough Mills without thinking ofhim; the two were interwoven, inseparable, as though the very bricks bore the imprint of his will.
And she had been trying—so very hard—to forget him.
Her fingers tightened imperceptibly on her gloves. The air in the office felt close. Too warm. She wondered if Mr. Harcourt could hear the sudden unevenness of her breath.
“Marlborough Mills is a cotton mill, a rather fine one as I understand,” he repeated gently, mistaking her silence for simple overwhelm. “You will find the accounts in strong order historically, though the last quarter—nay, the lastyear’sfigures reflect a general downturn. Probably nothing out of line with trade in general.”
Downturn?
Margaret’s pulse hammered. “What… precisely… do you know, sir?”
Harcourt thumbed through some documents. “Well, there are outstanding debts… some lower estimates for sales—Mr. Thornton is very conscientious in his estimates, so they are likely accurate… let me see…”
Debts?That did not sound like the John Thornton she knew. And she could not sit here, listening calmly to the details of a place so bound up withhim—a place she had not dared allow herself to remember, much less imagine in her keeping.
“I…” She gripped the arm of the chair, grounding herself before her head spun too fast for consciousness. “Mr. Harcourt, forgive me. Might we… take a moment for tea after all?”
“Of course, Miss Hale.” He rose at once, smiling with the polite concern of a man who had seen countless heirs overwhelmed bythe burden of inheritance. “A prudent idea. I shall send to the front desk—”
But before he reached the bell-pull, a sharp knock sounded at the door. Mr. Harcourt paused, then crossed the room to open it himself. His figure—tall, solid—blocked Margaret’s view entirely.
She heard the young clerk’s voice in the corridor: “Sir, the gentleman you were expecting has just arrived.”
“Excellent timing,” Mr. Harcourt replied, his tone brightening perceptibly. “Please, do show him in. And send for tea, will you, Alfred?”
