Chapter 3 #2
An emotion flickered in his expression—pain, perhaps, or something like apology.
“Because,” he said, “Bell understood that Marlborough Mills was not merely land with brick on it. It is a machine with a thousand lives tied to its wheels. Any choice you make—whether to sell, to hold, to close its doors—will have consequences far beyond the accounts ledger.”
Margaret looked down at her gloves. The stitches blurred. “You think he doubted my ability.”
“No.” His answer was immediate, startling. “Never that.”
She looked up. His gaze met hers fully for the first time since entering the room.
“Bell respected you,” he said. “He admired your principles—your conscience. If he questioned anything, it was not your judgment. It was the weight of the burden.”
“And so he placed another burden atop it?” she asked faintly.
His expression tightened. “He gave you a way out. A week’s right of rescission. If you wish to be rid of the mill, you may be free of it within days. If you choose otherwise…” He hesitated. “Then you must deal with me. And I would spare you that.”
A flush of something—hurt, indignation, or perhaps something alarmingly close to longing—rose in her chest. The blunt honesty of that struck her with an almost physical force. It was not pride. It was not resentment.
It was sorrow.
She drew a breath to steady herself. “The mill is not only your concern.”
“It is my responsibility,” he returned.
“And mine,” she said softly, “if I choose it.”
He looked at her sharply. “Then choose wisely.”
“Do you imagine I would not?” Her hands tightened. “Do you believe me so frivolous that I would treat the lives dependent on the mill with indifference?”
His lips parted, then closed again. Silence pooled between them, heavy and unsteady. At last, he spoke. “No. You would never be indifferent.”
She swallowed. “Then understand this, Mr. Thornton—whatever choice I make, it will not be made lightly.”
He closed his eyes briefly, as if something in her words cost him more than he wished her to see.
His hand drifted, almost unconsciously, toward the satchel at his feet. Then he froze. Let it fall back to his side.
She noticed. She did not understand it.
He turned slightly away. “If you require time—as you must—I shall remain in London until your decision is made. Harcourt says the deadline is seven days. I will make myself available whenever you are… ready.”
Her heart thudded once, painfully.
Ready?
She could not remember when she had last felt ready for anything.
But then another thought struck her—a sharper one. “Mr. Thornton,” she said, breath catching on the realization, “that means you would be obliged to remain in London through Christmas.”
He did not answer immediately. His jaw shifted—a fleeting tell—and something in his eyes darkened.
“Williams will manage in my place,” he said at last, brusque, too casual to be convincing. “I cannot leave until the matter is resolved.”
“No,” she protested softly. “I will not impose such an obligation upon you. This—this summons—it is an error in the will’s structure, nothing more.
And poor timing on the part of the solicitors, if I may say.
Mr. Bell has been deceased nearly a month already, has he not?
Certainly, this need not have happened now.
I will make my decision quickly. You need not—”
“Miss Hale.” His voice cut across hers, soft but unyielding.
She fell silent.
He drew a breath, steady but strained. “You must not make your decision based on my personal convenience. Certainly not for the sake of a single week’s comfort. I am of no consequence here.”
Her hands tightened in her lap. “You are of consequence to many. To the mill. To the men. To—”
He shook his head before she could continue. “It changes nothing. The wise course is still to sell at once. Do not let sentiment mislead you.”
A flush rose in her cheeks—hurt, frustrated tenderness. “It is not sentiment to hesitate before disposing of a place upon which so many livelihoods depend.”
“I have already told you,” he replied, lower now, as though it pained him to speak it aloud, “Marlborough Mills cannot be sustained. You should not be burdened with its ruin.”
She closed her eyes a moment, fighting the impulse to seize his hand, to compel him to see that his assessment of himself—of his worth—was not only harsh but undeserved.
“Mr. Thornton,” she said, breath unsteady, “please do not urge me to choose so quickly. I have only just heard the full terms. I cannot—cannot—decide within minutes.”
He swallowed—she saw the tight movement of his throat—and looked away, as though her reluctance wounded him more than her refusal.
“I would spare you every discomfort,” he said quietly. “And if you keep the mill—for reasons that are not my concern—you will be tied to a failing master. That is the truth of it.”
She winced. “You should not speak of yourself so.”
“It is better that you hear plain speech than empty reassurance.”
She pressed her lips together, striving for composure. “Then hear me plainly as well: I will not put the mill up for sale today.”
His head snapped slightly toward her, surprise flickering in his features.
She continued before he could object. “I require time, Mr. Thornton. To consider the accounts. To understand the responsibilities Mr. Bell has placed upon me. And to determine—as wisely as I may—whether selling it is, in fact, the right course.”
He regarded her for a long moment, the conflicting forces within him almost visible: pride, despair, restraint, something perilously close to longing.
At last, he bowed his head. “As you wish.”
The simple words carried an ache she could not fully decipher.
She drew a slow breath. “And your mother—she will expect you home for Christmas. There is no sense in you lingering. Perhaps you could return at the end of the week?”
“My mother… will make her feelings known, I am certain. But she is accustomed to disappointment.” It was said lightly, but the flicker of pain beneath it pierced her.
“Then I cannot be the cause of it.”
“You are not the cause,” he said. “I am.”
She looked at him helplessly—torn between the need to reassure and the fear of revealing more than she dared.
He lifted his satchel slightly. “I will secure lodgings nearby,” he said, recovering his “Master” tone. “Mr. Harcourt shall have my address before the day is out. When you are prepared to deliver your decision, I will attend.”
Prepared.
Decision.
Attend.
Such formal words. And yet something inside her felt anything but formal.
He drew in a quiet breath. “In fact, I will look forward to it… Miss Hale.”
Margaret’s pulse leapt.
He looked away instantly, as though the words had escaped him unguarded, and braced his hands on the back of the empty chair before him. Then, without warning, he went to the door and opened it, telling the clerk they would speak to Mr. Harcourt again.
Before she could speak—before she could steady her heart, much less her thoughts—Mr. Harcourt re-entered, brisk, apologetic, and entirely unaware of the storm that had passed through the room in his absence.