Chapter Nine
The following morning broke under grey skies. Mary-Ann awoke with the uneasy awareness that she hadn’t truly slept. The morning light pressed against the curtains, cool and flat. Her head ached, not from illness but from too many thoughts packed too tightly into too few hours of rest.
She dressed quietly and glanced at her locked wardrobe, where she had hidden the cloth-bound ledger, tucked into the back beneath a folded shawl.
She didn’t know yet what the ledger meant or why it had been hidden in the first place, but that fact alone told her it was worth protecting.
If someone had gone to the trouble of concealing it, then she needed to keep it safe until she understood why.
She tested the lock twice before stepping away.
Downstairs, the house stirred to life. Mrs. Aldridge had already ordered tea and toast in the breakfast room, and the air smelled faintly of jam and firewood. It should have felt like any other morning. But it didn’t.
Her father had already left for the docks. She was grateful. She needed time to think.
She took her tea standing at the window, the porcelain warm in her hand, though she barely tasted it. Her thoughts kept circling around the ships named in the hidden book, Carrabelle, Redwake, Winsome Tide, and the strange symbols etched beside the entries.
She considered asking her father about the ships directly, but every instinct warned her against it.
She didn’t have enough information. Not yet.
If she raised the alarm without cause, she risked more than embarrassment.
She could lose his confidence in her, and she had worked far too hard for that.
There was someone else she wanted to speak to. Someone who would listen, not dismiss her. The name came before she could stop it, Quinton. She exhaled softly, the thought far too tempting. Too dangerous.
She sipped her tea instead.
A knock at the door interrupted her musing.
“Miss Mary-Ann.” Mrs. Aldridge stepped in with a note card in her hand. “Mr. Wilkinson is here.”
Mary-Ann set the teacup down with care. “Show him in.”
Rodney entered moments later, gloved and smiling, impeccably dressed as always. “You’re up early,” he said. I was passing by and thought I’d bring you these.
He held out a bouquet of blush-pink roses, delicate and full. The scent reached her first, heady and sweet, the kind that lingered. His gloved hand brushed against hers as he handed them to her, the leather cool and too smooth, too polished.
“They’re lovely,” Mary-Ann said, accepting them with a polite smile.
He studied her face. “You look tired. I hope you haven’t been unwell?
“Only restless,” she said lightly. “A great many things are on my mind.”
“That’s understandable. The wedding, the household, and all the arrangements. It’s a great deal.”
She nodded.
“It won’t always be such a burden,” he added. “You’ve carried more than your share. Balancing books and responsibilities when you ought to be enjoying the season.”
He reached for her hand, holding it lightly between his gloved fingers. “When we’re married, I’d like you to have that chance.”
That chance. It was thoughtful. Generous. But it felt like a door softly closing.
Of course, life would change. That was what marriage meant, sharing everything. But for the first time, she wasn’t certain whether that sharing meant becoming more…or becoming less.
She withdrew her hand gently and masked her unease with a sip of tea.
She stiffened slightly, hoping it wasn’t visible. She had never considered her responsibilities a burden, not when they gave her purpose, not when they rooted her to the life she understood.
“I don’t find it a burden.”
He chuckled. “You’ve always been fond of your books and figures. But you’ll see. Once we’re settled, you won’t need to worry over ledgers.”
Her gaze sharpened, but she said nothing.
Rodney reached for her hand. “I worry for you, Mary-Ann. You’re too fine to be tucked away behind numbers.”
She eased her hand back gently. “And yet the numbers are how my father built this house. How he built everything we have.”
He faltered, just a flicker. “Of course. I didn’t mean—only that I want you to have a life of comfort and freedom from worry.
A life without purpose, a life she had fought hard for.
Mary-Ann nodded slowly. “That’s kind of you.”
There was a silence that stretched between them. Rodney broke it with a gentler tone.
“You know, when we’re married, I’d like to take you to the coast. Somewhere quiet. Just the two of us. No schedules. No accounts.”
For a moment, the idea didn’t seem terrible. She imagined wind on her cheeks, salt in the air, a day without figures or decisions pressing at her. His voice was gentle now, touched by something almost wistful.
She glanced at him. He looked…hopeful. Maybe even sincere.
It was a lovely thought. A simple kind of happiness. But somehow it didn’t feel like hers.
She smiled politely. “That sounds… peaceful.”
He kissed her knuckles and glanced toward the hallway. “I mustn’t stay long. I only wanted to see you.”
His gaze lingered too long not quite on her, but past her, toward the writing folio on the side table, the one she used for everyday notes. She resisted the urge to move it, to shield it. Instead, she smiled and said nothing, even as something in her chest went very still.
“You’ve always been clever that way.”
She rose politely as Mr. Hollis appeared to see him out. Rodney paused in the entryway before stepping outside.
“You know,” he said, adjusting his collar, “you always look too deeply, my dear. Not everything in the world needs to be solved.”
She held his gaze, her face unreadable. “Doesn’t it?”
He smiled faintly. “Sometimes a thing is just what it seems. And sometimes it isn’t worth the trouble to find out which.”
He bowed and left.
Mary-Ann closed the door slowly and turned the lock with deliberate care.
The scent of roses clung to the air, soft and floral, but it lingered too long, too insistently, like something meant to distract. She stood motionless, listening to the silence that followed in Wilkinson’s wake.
*
For so long, his charm had made sense. He had been the practical choice, steady, well-spoken, admired in town. He had been thoughtful, always knowing what to say. Even when he hadn’t stirred her the way Quinton once had, she had told herself love could grow where kindness lived.
And maybe it still could.
She crossed slowly to the window and parted the curtain with one hand to peer out into the street. Rodney had always spoken gently. Always with care. For a time, she had believed that was enough.
Perhaps it still could be.
But Quinton had never needed polished words. His presence alone had carried meaning.
Now, standing at the window, she saw the difference clearly for the first time.
How had she not noticed it before?
Was this just nerves? The natural unease before a marriage? Or had something deeper shifted without her realizing it?
Very well, Mary-Ann. That’s enough. This isn’t the time to be chasing ghosts or second-guessing what has already been decided.
The feeling would pass. It had to.
But even as she tried to move past it, something remained unsettled. Like a breeze through a cracked window, the awareness stirred now and then, promising to return when least expected. She focused on the street. Rodney was already gone. She hadn’t expected him to look back.
But part of her had hoped.
His words echoed in her mind. Perhaps they were nothing more than concern. Or perhaps she was letting her restless thoughts cloud what had always been steady ground.
Still, something sat misaligned in her thoughts, like a portrait hung a little askew. She pressed her hand to the glass. The coolness steadied her.
Her mind wandered to Quinton, not just his sudden return but the quiet strength beneath his silence. He had come back different, subdued. But he was back. That meant something.
Rodney had been here all along. Present. Dependable. Generous.
And yet… something in her heart shifted when she saw Quinton in the foyer. It hadn’t been fear. It had been recognition.
She didn’t know what to make of it. Not yet.
She stepped away from the window, her hand drifting across the bouquet still resting on the table.
The petals were soft and lovely, but the perfume clung too tightly now as if overstaying its welcome.
Whatever she felt, whatever she feared, it would not be solved today.
She didn’t need answers now; she only needed the patience to wait for them.
She turned from the window and climbed the stairs slowly, the bouquet in hand. The scent followed her like a memory, faint but unshakable. She entered her bedchamber and found Mrs. Aldridge was already inside, placing folded garments onto the wardrobe shelves.
Mary-Ann set the flowers down on the corner of her writing table.
“Morning, miss,” the housekeeper said gently. “I was just seeing to the linens.”
“Of course,” Mary-Ann replied, calm on the surface, but her pulse had quickened. The wardrobe wasn’t safe. Not anymore.
Mrs. Aldridge closed the wardrobe drawer and reached for the flowers. “I’ll put them into a vase and bring them back.”
“Thank you,” Mary-Ann said as she waited for Mrs. Alridge to leave. Once the door closed, she turned the ley in the lock, then opened the wardrobe and retrieved the ledger still tucked safely in her folio beneath the shawls.
She crossed to the far corner of the room, beside her writing desk, where the wainscoting ran low along the outer wall.
Kneeling beside it, just behind the low armchair, where few ever bothered to clean or dust, she found the narrow panel with its familiar warped edge. She had discovered it as a child, a loose seam in the wood where an extra length of trim concealed a shallow cavity.
It had once hidden marbles and pressed flowers. Now, it would serve a greater purpose.
She had found it when she was ten, hiding from a game of chase with the maids. A knothole caught her skirt, and the loose panel shifted under her fingers. Back then, it had held secrets like feathers, ribbons, and stone marbles. Now, it would hold something far more important.
She opened the wardrobe and pulled the booklet from behind the stack of shawls, clutching it tightly as she knelt beside the wainscoting.
She pried the panel open with care and found a long-forgotten tin box.
Curious, she opened it and found a button, ribbon, and smooth stones.
She slid the folio inside, its cloth cover brushing against the splintered interior, and put the tin box on top.
It all fit snugly. She replaced the panel and pressed until the edge caught.
She sat back on her heels and exhaled, a slow, steady breath that grounded her.
She hadn’t yet decided what to do with the booklet, not fully. She trusted Quinton. She had always trusted him, even when it had cost her. Rodney… she had trusted him, too. Still did. But something in her, something she couldn’t name, had begun to shift.
Maybe it was the wedding.
Maybe it was Quinton’s return.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was her.