Chapter 5
Thornton dismissed the hansom—what need had he for such an expense?— and walked until the fog burned his throat.
It was not the shortest route to Cleveland Street, nor the most direct. He simply walked—past shopfronts spilling with holly, past errand boys and hansoms and bell-ringers—until the pressure in his chest eased enough that he could draw breath again.
Only then did he begin to look for lodgings.
He found a small inn on a quiet side-street—respectable, unassuming, a place meant for clerks and travelers. A fire burned low in the grate. The landlady gave him a room without fuss. He paid the week’s rent in advance, not trusting himself to return if he went back out again.
Once the door closed behind him, the silence fell like a blow. He set his satchel carefully on the narrow bed, then sat at the small writing desk.
Mother first.
He cut the paper squarely, dipped his pen, and forced the words into form. His mother would never tolerate a short, perfunctory note — not at Christmas, and certainly not when he was away on business she had not sanctioned.
He began, stopped, tried again.
Mother,
Circumstances connected with Mr. Bell’s estate require my presence in London for several days longer than anticipated. I regret that this will keep me from returning for Christmas Day, though I trust you will understand that the matter is not one I may set aside.
He paused, frowning. She would want more than that — she would want assurance, detail, proof that he had not been careless.
You may be certain that I am well lodged and that the business at hand is, while pressing, not cause for alarm. I have written to Williams with the necessary instructions for the week. The mill should proceed as usual in my absence, and I expect to have matters resolved shortly after the holiday.
He could picture her now: chin rising, eyes narrowing, questioning every vague turn of phrase.
She would not be pleased. No—she would demand to know why he had accepted such obligations from a man so recently deceased, why the mill required his absence at such a time, and why she had not been informed sooner. He pressed the nib to the page again.
I am sorry to disappoint you at such a season.
I know how much care you have given to our preparations, and I hope the day will yet be a cheerful one for you.
Please extend my regards to Fanny and her husband if you see them, and do not trouble yourself with undue concern.
I will return as soon as the business is concluded.
Your affectionate son,
John
He sanded the letter and sealed it before he could falter.
It would not satisfy her entirely — nothing short of his physical presence at her table could — but it was the best he could offer without inviting questions he could not yet answer.
And speaking of taking lodgings over Christmas Eve… He pulled out a sheet to scrawl a short note for Harcourt, with his direction. Just in case the solicitor should ask to see him sooner rather than later.
Next, he reached for a sheet for his overseer.
Williams,
Proceed with the usual week’s work. Delay the dye shipment if possible. No new orders unless absolutely required. Keep an eye on supplies; do not overspend. I will return as soon as circumstances allow.
J. Thornton.
He paused, then added a line:
Do not alarm the hands.
He signed it before he could think better of it.
One more. He hesitated before taking the third sheet. Since he was stuck here for a while, he might as well make use of his time and write to Higgins. He stared at the blank page for a long moment, pen hovering.
This letter was harder.
Not because Higgins would judge him—Higgins did not flinch from truth—but because the act of writing it admitted something Thornton could scarcely bear: that he might not be able to hold the mill together much longer.
At last, he wrote:
Higgins,
I am from home for several days on business. Should anything arise among the men, keep matters calm. Tell them I will see to wages the moment I return.
I settled the account for the mill kitchen before I left. It should be well stocked until the end of the year. Look to the needs of any family who wants for coal or bread. I will reimburse it myself when I come back.
J.T.
He sealed that one too, before the ache in his throat could climb any higher. Only when all three letters lay in a neat stack did he finally let himself look toward the satchel on the bed.
He should leave it closed.
He should sleep.
He should force himself to think only of the figures and the looming decision of Miss Hale—
Margaret.
Slowly, he reached for the satchel, undoing the buckle with a care that felt almost reverent. The book lay inside, exactly where he had tucked it that morning. Her stitching. Her ribbon. The faintest trace of rosewater.
He ran a thumb along the worn spine.
He had imagined—just for one foolish instant—that he might… well, since he had to come to London, that he might have some cause to stop near Harley Street.
As if he would be invited there!
But it would be the closest he had been to her in months, and through Mr. Bell’s solicitor… well some wild fantasy had stoked a reckless desire to show it to her.
And that it might mean something. That she might take it back or smile or say…
No.
No, that was madness.
She had looked cornered. Overwhelmed. Burdened by decisions that were now hers, not his.
But there had been something in her eyes—something unguarded when she saw him step into the solicitor’s doorway—
He shut the book quickly, before he let himself imagine too much.
He blew out the candle and lay back on the narrow bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling as the city bells rang the hour.
Margaret scarcely slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again — the sudden stillness when he stepped into Harcourt’s office, the weary lines across his brow, the brief, startled warmth that had flickered in his eyes when he saw her.
And afterward, the carriage ride… his courtesy…
his restraint… the terrible honesty in his voice.
By morning, she felt as though she had been stitched together with trembling thread.
Dixon brought up her breakfast tray with a look that made protest impossible, and Margaret forced herself to eat enough to satisfy her. She was still coaxing down tea when the bell rang downstairs.
Moments later, the house came alive with footsteps and voices.
“A folio has arrived from Mr. Harcourt, Margaret!” Edith called from the hall, as though announcing the arrival of visiting royalty. “It is enormous, you must come see—it nearly broke the servant’s arms!”
Margaret descended to find a thick leather-bound folio on the hall table, its buckles still strapped, its spine marked simply with Bell Estate.
It looked heavy enough to crush her.
Perhaps in a way, it already had.
Aunt Shaw sighed nearby. “My dear, must you handle all this today? Christmas Eve is a dreadful time for work.”
“Indeed! Margaret, you might have told me this would be delivered today,” Edith said, glancing at the buckles and seals. “You cannot possibly go through all of that alone.”
“I wasn’t intending to do it all at once,” Margaret said.
“You never intend to,” Edith replied, not unkindly. “That is half the difficulty.”
Margaret let that pass. Her head still felt heavy from the night before. “I might as well make a beginning. Perhaps after breakfast.”
Edith lingered in the doorway. “Well, no matter. Henry will be here shortly.”
Margaret turned. “Henry?”
“Yes. I sent him a note yesterday evening, after you went upstairs looking as though you had battled ghosts. He said he would come this morning to help you sort through everything.”
Margaret’s pulse jumped. “Edith! Why would you do that without asking me?”
Edith blinked at her, surprised. “Because you looked exhausted, and Henry knows these things. He offered at once.” She hesitated. “You… don’t mind, do you?”
Margaret opened her mouth—and stopped. She did mind, but saying so would only make matters worse. Henry had always been thoughtful toward her, and refusing him now would seem pointed.
“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t mind.”
Edith seemed relieved. “Good. He said he’d come as soon as he was free.”
A short while later, the bell sounded downstairs. Voices. Footsteps. Edith’s unmistakable welcome.
Margaret stayed where she was until the door opened and Henry appeared. He carried himself as though he thought she had been expecting him.
“Margaret!” He smiled warmly. “I received Edith’s note. Thought it best to come straightaway. Now — where is this infamous folio?”
Margaret gestured to the table. “It’s there.”
Henry lifted it as though accustomed to such matters. “Shall we take it to the study? The light is better.”
There was no graceful way to refuse that, either. Margaret followed him into the study. Edith remained in the hall, whispering something to Dixon, who pretended not to listen but certainly did.
In the study, Henry unfastened the buckles and opened the folio. He began turning pages at once, scanning the first few entries.
Margaret sat beside him.
He continued reading, pausing now and then to tap a line with his finger. “Bell kept excellent records,” he said. “I suppose you expected that. It all seems quite clear, but it will take some time. But once we have the essentials in place, the rest can be managed easily enough.”
He was saying something about Oxford properties—rental income, something about a minor lease near Summertown—but the words drifted past her. The details meant little yet. They were numbers and paragraphs without faces, without lives attached.
But the mill… That mattered.
She leaned in slightly. “Have you reached the Milton section yet?”
Henry moved on to the next document. Property listings.
A set of accounts from Oxford. Several bond certificates.
“Not yet. They should be here somewhere.” He turned a page, but it was nothing of interest to her.
Margaret tried to read over his arm, but the numbers seemed distant, flattened, like the tide retreating from the shore.
None of what Henry explained felt real.
Not compared to the sight of John Thornton in the sanctuary of the carriage.
Not compared to the tremor in his voice when he told her the mill was failing.
Not compared to the knowledge that dozens of families depended on that place—and on whoever commanded it next.
Henry turned another page. “We’ll find it, never fear. Edith said you had some decision to make soon?”
She swallowed. “I have to decide whether to sell or keep the property.”
Henry’s brows jumped. “Indeed! You cannot simply make the decision after a year, or after some time—”
“Within seven days. Those are the terms of the will. After that, the property enters a sort of joint stewardship with the lessee.”
Henry pursed his lips. “Interesting. Not altogether strange, I suppose, as the Milton properties are of such a nature that their disposition affects a number of other people. Perhaps Bell did not want them to be left in any uncertain state.”
“Yes, exactly,” she agreed. “And I think I would like very much to keep the mill, if such a thing is manageable.”
“Hmm.” He flipped through until he found a page clearly labelled 'Marlborough Mills' at the top. “These figures should be able to answer that for you.”
Margaret pressed her hands together. “I don’t think it’s the only thing I need.”
Henry glanced at her. “What do you mean?”
She searched for the right words. “The figures matter, of course. But there are… other things. Practical things. The state of the machinery. How many hands. How much work has been lost. What trades are failing most. What can be done.”
Henry regarded her for a moment, puzzled. “Well, yes, but the accounts will tell us most of that.”
Margaret looked down at the folio. “Not all.”
She had spent the entire night wrestling with her thoughts, and there was only one person who could answer the things she needed most to know.
And he was somewhere in London, waiting for her decision.