Chapter Twenty-Six
Thursday morning, the sun had barely crested the rooftops when Lydia knocked on Mary-Ann’s door with a list in hand and wearing a too-bright smile.
“Good morning, Miss Seaton. Mr. Wilkinson has asked that I accompany you today. He thought a walk through Bond Street might lift your spirits, followed by a visit to Madame Duclaire’s for glove fittings and then tea at Lady Wrexley’s. He’s taken the liberty of arranging the entire afternoon.”
Mary-Ann folded her hands calmly on the vanity table. “Has he?”
“Yes, miss.” Lydia gave a practiced smile. “He was most insistent that today be restful. No appointments at the office.”
A chill ran beneath Mary-Ann’s skin. Her pulse flickered, calm, composed.
This was how they meant to manage her, with gloves and teas and careful distractions.
She looked at her reflection, at the composed woman she was meant to be.
She remembered days when she had walked the docks without permission, tall and certain.
Now even her footsteps were charted. “How thoughtful,” she said lightly, rising to retrieve her shawl.
“Still, I believe I’ll stop at Seaton Shipping first.”
She remembered Hamish’s steady presence at the docks, and the way he taught her to read the tide as easily as a page. It was Hamish who told her that ink never lied, but the people behind it sometimes did. Those ledgers were her map now. And she would not be turned away from them.
Lydia hesitated. “But—”
“I’m sure Madame Duclaire won’t mind a slight delay.”
As they reached the foot of the stairs, the sharp knock at the front door halted them both. Mr. Hollis appeared from the corridor and opened it. A young runner in Seaton Shipping’s livery stood panting on the step.
“For Miss Seaton,” he said breathlessly, holding out a folded note. “Urgent. From the docks.”
Mary-Ann read the message quickly. Her spine straightened. “I must go to the office. At once.”
“Miss—” Lydia began.
Mary-Ann’s voice was polite, but immovable. “Kindly let Mr. Wilkinson know I’ve chosen to go alone. I trust he will understand.”
The carriage ride was quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the rustle of paper as Mary-Ann unfolded the note once more.
Lydia had remained behind, her protests cut short by Mary-Ann’s unflinching composure and Mr. Hollis’s firm suggestion that the young woman might be more useful tending to tasks at home.
Alone at last, Mary-Ann stared out the window, jaw tight, gloves folded in her lap.
He would have understood. Not Rodney, not Lydia, but Quinton. She could almost hear his voice, that maddening calm, asking what she meant to do about it.
This wasn’t just a day of distraction. It was a day of disappearance, her from the office, her influence, her authority.
She’d seen this tactic before, used against other women in finer homes with softer voices.
But Mary-Ann had learned to read absence like a map: what they meant to erase revealed more than what they left in place.
The front office of Seaton Shipping was hushed when she entered. Clerks looked up, startled by her arrival.
She moved with purpose past the outer desks.
A few clerks hastily stood, nodding in greeting, but their expressions were strained.
One dropped his pen. Another bent quickly over his ledger, refusing to meet her eye.
Their silence wasn’t reverent, it was wary, as if they feared being caught in a shifting tide.
Mary-Ann’s steps slowed slightly. Had Rodney spoken to them? Warned them? Or simply acted with such confidence that no one thought to question his presence? Her hand brushed the curve of her hip, steadying herself. If there were rules being rewritten, she intended to see the ink.
Her boots struck the floor harder than she intended. They echoed through the front office as she headed toward her corner office, only to halt in the doorway.
Rodney Wilkinson stood behind her desk, sleeves rolled, ledger open. He looked perfectly at ease, as though the room belonged to him. He didn’t look up.
“Reviewing figures?” she asked, stepping just inside the doorway.
Rodney didn’t glance up. “Someone must. The ledgers are in disarray.”
“I wasn’t aware they required your attention.”
He closed the book with an audible snap. “Your father invited me to take a more active role.”
Mary-Ann kept her voice light. “In overseeing operations?”
“In correcting them.” He straightened, gazing and assessing. “It’s no secret the numbers have faltered. You’ve done your best, I’m sure, but certain matters are better handled with experience.”
A thread of tension wound tight in her spine. “I’ve managed them for years.”
“And I’ve tolerated that longer than most men would.” He rounded the desk slowly. “Once we’re married, you’ll be free of such burdens. You may focus on your proper duties.”
She tilted her head slightly. “And what might those be?”
He smiled thinly. “Dressing well. Hosting teas. Bearing my name without embarrassing it. You’ve had your little interlude, Mary-Ann. It’s time to behave like a wife.”
She didn’t reply, but her fingers moved toward the desk, eyes scanning the open ledger. A note in the margin caught her eye. The ink. The shape of the g. The same slant she’d seen before.
She reached for a scrap of paper nearby, folding it in half with unhurried precision and tucking it into her glove.
His gaze flicked to her hands, and his jaw tightened. Perhaps he sensed the movement. Perhaps he only saw that she had taken something and not asked. But he said nothing, just narrowed his eyes, as if recalculating.
Rodney’s smile faltered. “Is there something else?”
Her voice was calm, almost pleasant. “No. Thank you.”
Something in her chest lurched, unexpected, unsteady.
At that moment, the door behind her opened. Her father stepped inside, his gaze flicking from one to the other. “Is everything in order?”
Mary-Ann turned toward him, schooling her features. “Quite. I’ve finished what I came to see.”
“Excellent. Rodney, a word, privately, if you don’t mind.”
She gave a polite nod and stepped past her father.
The door had barely shut when she heard his voice, firm and cutting:
“You will never speak to my daughter that way again. Do you understand me? I built this company with my hands before you were old enough to sign your name. Mary-Ann has earned her place here. If you cannot respect that, you have no business in this office.” He paused for a long heartbeat.
“Or in her future. If you ever presume to belittle her again, you’ll find yourself dismissed from more than polite company. Do I make myself clear?”
There was silence. Then the faint creak of a chair, and Rodney’s voice, tight, forced into civility.
“Of course, sir.”
But there was a crack in it. A strain that hadn’t been there before.
Mr. Seaton didn’t answer. The silence he left behind was far heavier than any further warning.
Outside the door, Mary-Ann paused. She hadn’t meant to linger, but something in her father’s tone rooted her to the floor. Her fingers curled against her skirts. For the first time in days, she felt something shift. It wasn’t a victory, but the smallest tilt in the balance.
Back at the house, Mrs. Aldridge entered Mary-Ann’s room with fresh linens only to find Lydia standing near the writing desk, rifling through the drawers.
“Is there something I can help you find?” she asked, her tone clipped but pleasant.
Lydia started. “Oh, I—I was just tidying.”
Mrs. Aldridge arched a brow. “In the mistress’s private desk?”
Before Lydia could reply, Mr. Hollis appeared in the corridor. “Miss Lydia, you’ve been assigned to accompany Miss Seaton in public. Not to inspect her rooms. We do not enter without invitation.”
Lydia’s mouth snapped shut.
Mrs. Aldridge continued about her task, stripping the bed with methodical efficiency, but her eyes never left Lydia’s form entirely.
When Lydia finally retreated, spine stiff with annoyance, Mrs. Aldridge gave it another minute before moving.
Then, casually, she moved to the far wall, lifted a loose panel in the wainscoting, and reached into the small recess.
She withdrew the cloth-bound booklet, her expression unreadable, and slid it between the folds of the laundry. The motion was smooth, practiced. There was no panic, only certainty. She buttoned up the bundle.
Later, once the room was quiet, Lydia slipped back inside. It took her a while, but after her diligent search, she found the loose wood. She knelt at the wall, pried open the panel, and reached inside.
Her fingers brushed a small tin box.
She pulled it free, opened the lid, and found nothing but a child’s keepsakes. A button. A ribbon. A smooth stone.
Lydia’s mouth pressed into a tight line. Her hand hovered over the stone as if she expected it to transform. Then she stood abruptly, brushing imaginary dust from her skirts, her movements clipped. Whatever she’d hoped to find was gone, and her failure would not go unnoticed.
Her brows drew together.
The hiding place had been used. But what she was looking for… was gone, if it was ever there. Or did someone get there first?