Chapter Eleven
Tuesday afternoon, the hour before Mrs. Bainbridge’s weekly tea, Mary-Ann adjusted her shawl as she stepped up the front path to the Sommer-by-the-Sea Female Seminary.
The morning was crisp, with a faint salt breeze drifting in from the sea.
She clutched a slim folder of papers, figures from one of Mrs. Bainbridge’s students whom she’d been asked to evaluate.
It was a welcome distraction, one she had embraced eagerly.
Numbers made sense in a way people no longer did.
Inside, the entry hall smelled of chalk dust and lemon polish. Laughter, the sharp crack of a ruler, the scrape of chairs against the wood, all familiar sounds, drifted from one of the classrooms. The comforting normalcy of it all wrapped around her like a balm.
She paused a moment longer than necessary, letting her hand trail along the wainscoting.
She used to run her fingers along these same grooves as a girl, tracing the path to the mathematics room where she’d begged for extra problems just to stay a little longer.
Numbers were safer than people then. Predictable.
Kind. She remembered walking these halls and the nervous thrill of receiving a corrected paper with high marks, and the way Mrs. Bainbridge would tilt her head just so when offering praise.
There had been safety in those early years, in the structure and certainty of numbers and expectations.
The world beyond the seminary walls had felt simpler then, more distant.
Mrs. Bainbridge emerged from her office at the end of the corridor, spectacles perched on her nose and a stack of letters in her hand. “Mary-Ann,” she said with a warm smile, “you’re a welcome sight. Come in, come in.”
They stepped into the office, and Mrs. Bainbridge shut the door behind them. The room was lined with shelves of books and student records, the desk piled with notes and the inevitable teacup. A vase of early spring flowers brightened the windowsill.
Mary-Ann set the folder down gently. “I finished reviewing your student’s figures. She’s brilliant. There’s a precision to her work, and she’s clearly testing formulas beyond the lesson. If she continues at this pace, she could qualify for advanced training.”
Mrs. Bainbridge beamed. “I thought you’d say so. She reminded me of someone else who used to spend all their time with numbers.”
Mary-Ann flushed slightly. “You’re far too kind.”
“Only accurate,” Mrs. Bainbridge said firmly. “You had a gift. You still do.”
There was a pause, comfortable and close.
“And how are you?” The headmistress asked, her tone softening. “Truly.”
Mary-Ann hesitated. She looked down at her hands. “I’m… unsettled. Everything I thought was behind me isn’t. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
Bainbridge studied her a moment. “It’s all right not to know.”
Mary-Ann gave a faint, grateful smile. “Thank you.”
Bainbridge sat on the edge of her desk and motioned for Mary-Ann to do the same. “It must be strange. Seeing someone you once loved walk back into your life like that.”
Mary-Ann huffed a laugh, though her expression was sober. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. I’d mourned him. Let him go. And now I feel as though I’m betraying something, someone, no matter what I choose.”
Mrs. Bainbridge leaned forward. “You’re not betraying anyone. Grief and healing are not betrayals. They’re survival. You did what you had to.”
Mary-Ann looked away, her eyes burning. “I don’t know how to look him in the eye and pretend I’m not torn in two.”
“Then don’t pretend,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “But don’t run, either.”
The door opened slightly, and a student peeked in. Mrs. Bainbridge excused herself with a promise of tea and stepped out.
Left alone, Mary-Ann wandered to the windows, grateful for the moment of stillness.
A pair of gulls wheeled overhead in the sky.
She let her thoughts drift, to Quinton’s voice, to Wilkinson’s visit, to the ledger hidden behind the wainscoting, silent, damning, patient, as if waiting for her courage to match her suspicion.
She didn’t know which unsettled her more, the past, the present, or the quiet feeling that the two were about to collide.
Her gaze fell on the playground beyond the hedge. A cluster of students played at sums with chalk and slates, arguing over a solution with the same vigor others might apply to a game of hoops. She smiled faintly. Once, that had been her.
Watching the girls jostle and scribble as if every number held the key to victory, she saw more than sums. Some played by the rules, careful and exact, like Rodney.
Others pushed boundaries and dared mistakes as Quinton had always done.
She remembered how he once changed the rules of a card game mid-play just to make her laugh.
He’d always been unpredictable, infuriating, irresistible.
Both approaches had merit. But only one had ever stirred her heart.
But only one had ever stirred her heart.
Behind her, the door opened again. Mrs. Bainbridge returned with a folded paper in one hand.
“The London Gazette,” she said, offering it to Mary-Ann. “Barrington insisted I see it, and now I’m inflicting it on you.”
Mary-Ann unfolded it and read the notice aloud. “Commander Barrington and Mrs. Honoria Bainbridge are pleased to announce their engagement.” She looked up, grinning. “It’s real now.”
Mrs. Bainbridge rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell him, but I kept a second copy for framing.”
“You must be very happy.”
“I am,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, then added wryly, “in between cake tastings and interrogations about the guest list.”
Mary-Ann laughed, and for the first time in days, it felt genuine.
“Have you begun choosing your gown?” she teased.
“I’ve narrowed it down to two. Which is to say, I’m precisely where I was a week ago.”
“Perhaps I should help. I seem to be excelling at stalling decisions lately.”
Mrs. Bainbridge gave her a look that was more motherly than amused. “Some decisions need time. Others need courage.”
A footman arrived with a small tray of tea. As Bainbridge reached for the teapot, she paused and opened the drawer of her desk. From it, she withdrew a pale cream envelope.
“I received this at the house this morning,” she said, offering it to Mary-Ann, who read it quickly. “It’s an invitation to the charity dinner next week. Half the town will be there. I expect Quinton will be there as well.”
Mary-Ann reached inside her reticule. “I received one as well,” she said softly, withdrawing a similar envelope from her reticule.
Her name was written in a familiar copperplate hand.
She hadn’t meant to feel it, the flutter low in her belly at the thought of Quinton, but there it was. Unexpected. And utterly real.
She hadn’t opened it, not because she feared the contents, but because it was easier not to name what she wasn’t ready to face.
Mrs. Bainbridge poured the tea without comment, though her eyes flicked once to Mary-Ann’s.
“Rodney will be there, too,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, watching her carefully.
Mary-Ann didn’t answer.
Mrs. Bainbridge softened her voice. “You don’t have to decide anything now. But sometimes showing up is the first step to knowing where you stand.”
Mary-Ann nodded slowly. She held the invite as she glanced out the window again, her heart still heavy, but not quite so numb. She didn’t know what choice, not yet, but she was beginning to admit the question had to be faced. But she was no longer pretending she didn’t have one.
She sat for a few moments longer, turning the card over in her hand. The smooth surface of the paper was a strange weight. It was more than parchment and ink. It held expectations. Her name seemed to taunt her with what she hadn’t yet faced.
She pictured Rodney greeting her with that practiced charm, perfectly pleasant and entirely composed.
She imagined Quinton, quiet but watchful, standing somewhere near the edge of the room as if unsure whether he belonged.
It would be easy to slip into a routine with Rodney.
Easy to wear the smile expected of her. But the thought made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with grief.
She slipped the invitation carefully into her reticule as if hiding it might buy her more time.
Mrs. Bainbridge poured the tea and handed her a cup. “I suppose next week will be interesting.”
Mary-Ann allowed herself a small laugh. “In this village, everything is interesting.”
They sipped in silence for a while.
Finally, Mrs. Bainbridge said, “If you come to dinner, I suspect you’ll know more by the end of it than you do now.”
Mary-Ann met her gaze and nodded slowly. “And if I don’t?”
Mrs. Bainbridge smiled gently. “Then you’ll still be exactly where you are. And that’s fine, for now.”
Mary-Ann held the teacup in both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “One step at a time.”
“Exactly.”
The breeze had picked up outside, tugging gently at the curtains. She stood after a few more quiet minutes and gathered her things. “Thank you for tea.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Bainbridge said as she walked her to the door, “for looking over the paper and giving me your evaluation.”
Outside, the air was brisk, the kind that carried both salt and promise. The future wasn’t clear, not yet, but it waited with open arms.
She paused on the step, letting the wind tug at her shawl, her gaze lifting to the distant line of the sea. Somewhere beyond the rooftops, waves rolled in without hesitation. She wasn’t ready to be swept away, but perhaps she was ready to stop standing still.
She took a breath and stepped forward.