Joint concurrence. Both your consents.
A flicker of mortification ignited in him — bright and painful. She would have to sign off on him. On his failures. On what remained of a mill that was now held together with fraying rope and desperate determination.
Harcourt went on, gentler now. “Of course, if Miss Hale determines that a continuance of the present management is inadvisable, she is free to proceed with the sale. The will grants Miss Hale a seven-day decision period before entering into a joint arrangement—rather unusual, I grant, but those were Mr. Bell’s wishes. Given the downturn in Milton and Mr. Thornton’s present circumstances—”
“Mr. Harcourt, I am certain all is in good order,” Margaret interrupted, her cheeks flaming as she cast him yet another guilty glance. “I would prefer not to discuss certain… details.”
Thornton cut in. “There need be no delicacy on my account. Miss Hale ought not be saddled with a failing concern. The millis not—could not—be considered a sound investment. Not at present.”
He did not look at her. He could not. The admission scoured him from the inside. To confess such weakness in front of Margaret Hale—of all women! —felt like standing bare in a winter storm.
But he would not allow her, of all people, to be burdened by his ruin.
“If Miss Hale wishes to divest herself of the property,” he said tightly, “I shall not oppose it.”
There was a silence—a long one—during which he felt Margaret’s gaze settle on him. He did not lift his eyes, but he felt it. Felther.As unmistakable as the heat from the fire behind him.
Mr. Harcourt closed the folio with a soft, decisive click and folded his hands atop it.
“Mr. Thornton. Miss Hale.” His tone had altered—quieter now, almost deferential. “You must understand that this particular clause of Mr. Bell’s will places you both in a position requiring… mutual judgment. It would not be appropriate for me to remain while you confer.”
Thornton’s head came up slightly.
Harcourt offered a polite half-bow. “Mr. Bell was explicit: the decision concerning Marlborough Mills was to be made without external pressure or legal counsel present. Thus, I am bound to withdraw and afford you privacy.”
Thornton felt a jolt of dread.
Privacy.
With Margaret Hale.
At a moment like this.
The solicitor continued, oblivious to the turmoil raging in Thornton’s heart. The horror sparking in Margaret’s eyes. “Should either of you need clarification on the exact wordingafter you have spoken together, I will be at hand. But until you have reached an understanding—however provisional—I must not intrude.”
He rose, smoothing his waistcoat with professional calm. Thornton, even in his distress, noted the propriety of it: No hint of immodesty in Harcourt’s manner. No suggestion that a lady ought not be left alone with a gentleman. The gravity of the decision outweighed all else.
“Take the time you require,” Harcourt said gently. “Mr. Bell intended you to have it.” And with that, he moved toward the door.
And he was left alone with her.
To discuss his shortcomings.
To expose all that he could not repair.
He felt as though he were being asked to walk bare into fire.
Instinctively, his fingers brushed the worn leather strap of his satchel—the one he’d carried out of habit, a foolish sentimental indulgence he would never confess to. The book lay inside. Her ribbon bookmark pressed still between its pages.
For the briefest instant, a reckless thought seized him: he could offer it—return it—break this dreadful, frozen silence with something tangible, something that might bridge the chasm between them. It would explain why he’d brought the thing like a lovesick fool across half of England. It might soften the humiliation of what must now be admitted.
But the idea died as swiftly as it flared.
How could he lay such sentiment at her feet, when in the next breath he would be forced to confess the full extent of his ruin? How was he to speak of failure—hisfailure—before the one woman whose esteem he had once allowed himself to value above any other?
What was left to be said between them?
What words could mend the wreckage of his pride, her past refusal, and now this wretched inheritance binding their names together?
