Chapter Twenty-Five
Wednesday afternoon, the wind tugged at her cloak as she stepped through Barrington’s door unannounced. Mary-Ann had barely arrived at Barrington’s townhouse when she was ushered into the drawing room and into the chaos that was Mrs. Bainbridge.
Barrington had been called away on urgent business, leaving the drawing room to suffer the full force of Mrs. Bainbridge’s wedding preparations.
The room looked as though it had been swept up in a paper storm.
Swatches of fabric, invitation samples, and half-filled teacups littered every available surface.
A small pile of folded letters teetered on the edge of the pianoforte bench, and a lace-trimmed veil was draped unceremoniously over a bust of Cicero.
She had expected quiet. A moment to gather her thoughts. Instead, she was greeted by a tempest of lace, letters, and Latin indignation, Mrs. Bainbridge’s dramatic fury over having to recite her vows in a language she neither spoke nor trusted.
Kenworth, predictably unruffled, stood by the fireplace inspecting a parchment scroll as if he were reviewing troop deployments.
She barely had time to cross the threshold before Mrs. Bainbridge descended upon her like a flurry of ribbon and distress.
“He suggested a bishop who only speaks Latin! Latin, Mary-Ann! I am not reciting vows in a language I don’t even understand. What if I accidentally promise to become a hermit or a goose keeper?”
Mary-Ann blinked, stepping out of her walking boots as the woman pressed a sheaf of papers into her hands.
“And don’t get me started on the menu. Her ladyship believes aspic is elegant. Aspic, Mary-Ann. Jellied vegetables pretending to be refined. If we serve it, I may simply perish before the vows are exchanged.”
Sketches, guest lists, and what looked suspiciously like a diagram of the church’s seating arrangement were among the papers in her hand. A tiny ink blot marked a prominent X labeled: Duchess of Carrimere—DO NOT OFFEND.
“I don’t know why I bother planning anything when Barrington’s mother undoes it all before I’ve finished my tea,” Mrs. Bainbridge huffed, pulling off her gloves with dramatic flair.
“And now she wants to move the ceremony to their London townhouse. I told her it would be easier to marry in the Tower of London. I think she thought I was serious.”
Mary-Ann stifled a smile. The whirlwind of frustration and absurdity was almost comforting.
From the doorway, Kenworth cleared his throat. “If I may, madam, one rarely needs to raise one’s voice in the Tower.”
Mrs. Bainbridge narrowed her eyes. “You’re enjoying this. And don’t say only mildly. You have that particular look about you. It’s the same one you had when I discovered you had swapped out Lord Pevensey’s wine with claret vinegar at the summer ball.”
“Only mildly.”
“Mary-Ann, I’m going to need you to elope on my behalf. Take Quinton, take a carriage, and disappear to Gretna Green. Barrington and I will follow your example shortly.”
Mary-Ann laughed, unable to help herself. “You could always suggest holding it at Rosalynde Bay,” she teased. “It would certainly keep the duchesses guessing.”
Mrs. Bainbridge paused. “Don’t tempt me.”
Kenworth arched a brow. “Scenic. Windblown. Remote. I dare say the guest list would shrink accordingly.”
Mary-Ann handed the seating chart back.
“You’re not going to Gretna Green. You’re going to marry Lord Barrington with every duchess in England watching, and they’re going to weep into their lace gloves at how magnificent you look.”
Mrs. Bainbridge’s expression softened. “That is a very appealing image.”
Then let’s start by ensuring they all have chairs.
Kenworth murmured, “Preferably with name cards. Perhaps in English.”
Mrs. Bainbridge let out a sigh and flopped into the nearest chair. “I shall write to that bishop myself and inform him that the ceremony will be conducted in one language only, and that language will not be Latin.”
Mary-Ann grinned and turned toward the stairs, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. Mrs. Bainbridge had stepped out a few moments earlier to speak with a potential new student, leaving the room and a rare patch of quiet behind.
*
She was still smiling when a quiet knock came at the corridor door.
The light from the afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, gilding the edge of the carpet and the shimmer of the discarded invitation papers.
Her fingers stilled as she turned, smoothing her skirt as though the knock had reached deeper than sound.
It had a familiarity that warmed and unsettled all at once.
Not firm or urgent, just enough to be polite, and unmistakably familiar. Quinton stood there, looking as if he might have debated whether to knock a second time.
“I wasn’t sure if this was a poor time,” he said. “You were clearly under siege earlier.”
“Only from bishops and lace,” she replied, stepping back to let him in. “I’ve survived worse.”
Quinton stepped inside, his gaze brushing over the folded sketches and guest lists still scattered across the table near the hearth. “I take it the Duchess of Carrimere remains unseated?”
“She’s been moved seven times in two days. Kenworth believes her a greater tactical challenge than Napoleon.”
That earned a quiet laugh. “He’s not wrong.”
There was a pause, not an awkward one, but a thoughtful one. The kind that came after something had changed. She laced her fingers together, uncertain.
“I didn’t expect you,” she said.
“No,” Quinton replied. “But I thought perhaps you’d like this back.” He held up a folded page, the Sommer Sentinel. “You left it behind.”
She accepted it, the memory of the cave and the tide-laced wind flickering behind her eyes.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Quinton hesitated. “I know I have no right to ask, but… are you all right?”
Mary-Ann nodded. “I’ve learned to tread carefully. Not just in caves.”
That pulled a smile from him. It was gentle but touched with something more. The kind of smile that belonged to late summer walks and quiet conversations in fading light, to moments so familiar they had become part of who she was.
“I used to walk with you nearly every evening,” he said suddenly. “I don’t think I appreciated what it meant at the time. Matching your pace. Letting you speak first. Listening.”
Her throat tightened. “I remember.”
She used to count the stars as they walked. His hand always hovered near but never quite touched hers. That restraint had meant something then. It still did.
He took a half-step closer. His voice dropped softer than she’d ever heard it. “I don’t want to lose that again.”
Her breath caught. She hadn’t expected those words not spoken aloud. Not yet. The moment hung between them. Not a kiss, but as good as one, threaded with memory and promise.
Mary-Ann’s voice was soft, but steady. “Then walk with me again. Not in memory, Quinton. In truth. When it’s time.”
His jaw shifted slightly, as if that one invitation steadied him more than he’d admit.
He nodded once. “I’ll be there.”
*
Later that afternoon, as Mary-Ann gathered her things to leave, a messenger from her father’s office arrived with a letter.
“It was delivered to Seaton Shipping, miss. Mr. Jessop thought it might be important,” he said. “Your butler, Mr. Hollis, said you were expected here.”
She accepted the envelope, her name in a flowing script. “Thank you, Lewis.” Her fingers stilled when she saw the seal, a deep, glossy black, stamped with the faint impression of a raven. No address, no signature.
She hesitated. The seal was too perfect, the color too dark. She’d seen wax like that once before. It was on a ledger she hadn’t been meant to read.
She broke the wax and unfolded the note. It contained only one line:
“Some things wash in with the tide. Others are best left to drift away.”
Her chest tightened.
To anyone else, it might seem like nothing. A scrap of philosophical nonsense. But to her, it was a warning.
She had seen that raven before. In the margins of the cloth-bound booklet, inked beside names and symbols that didn’t belong in any respectable ledger. She felt a flicker of cold recognition, and with it, the slow coil of fear tightening low in her belly.
They know I saw it.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she refolded the message. She couldn’t let anyone see her reaction. Not yet.
She folded the note and slipped it into her reticule. The words lived there now tucked against her side, whispering between each breath.
With practiced calm, she drew out a coin and glanced up at the footman, offering a faint smile. “Thank you.” She handed the coin over without hesitation.
The air outside felt colder as if the message had followed her into the light. She was no longer smiling.