Chapter 8 #2
Captain Lennox leaned forward, curiosity piqued. “Is it true, Mr. Thornton, that one miscalculation in the machinery can delay an entire shipment?”
Thornton set down his fork with composed patience, as if truly warming to his subject. “Quite true. A single broken spindle can halt ten looms. A late merchant can stop the whole mill.”
Henry, from down the table, added with mild interest, “And I imagine you’ve kept ahead of such catastrophes better than most.”
Margaret’s hand curled under the tablecloth. She knew the truth of it—knew more than anyone else here—but saw the slight twitch at Thornton’s jaw. Not irritation. Endurance.
He answered without flinching.
“No man keeps ahead of everything, Mr. Lennox. Not even myself.”
The statement landed like a stone in a still pond.
Mrs. Forsythe blinked. “But surely a man of your standing—”
“Standing does not insulate me from the market,” he said evenly. “Nor from the consequences when the market collapses. Like others, I am left to question certain decisions.”
The blunt honesty startled the table.
Margaret’s pulse leapt. Oh, this would not do! She must shift the topic at once. “Mrs. Forsythe, I noticed you had a cotton chemise rather than linen. Is it not superior warmth—”
But Mrs. Forsythe’s husband overrode her, leaning toward Thornton. “Are matters truly so precarious in the North? I was under the impression the mills thrived.”
Thornton’s posture remained perfectly straight. “Some do. Marlborough Mills has in the past, but not at present.”
Margaret felt the heat rise behind her eyes. She willed the conversation away from him. “Edith,” she said quickly, “you promised to tell the story of your first Christmas on the Continent—your disaster with the plum pudding.”
Edith seized the lifeline gratefully. “Oh! Well—yes, indeed; the pudding nearly caught fire, and the colonel’s wife never forgave me—”
Captain Lennox, forced into the memory, chuckled and offered a teasing correction. Conversation softened into laughter. And for a moment, Marlborough Mills was forgotten.
Margaret exhaled slowly, but her pulse would not settle.
Through the next course, the table engaged in blithe chatter—Christmas weather, family traditions, the excessive quantity of greens that the housekeeper had hung over the balustrades.
Thornton answered a polite inquiry or two, then fell quiet, as was his habit when the matter did not directly concern him.
Which left Margaret acutely, painfully aware of him.
When she lifted her wineglass, she sensed his gaze shift, tracking the movement.
When Captain Lennox commented on the ice carving, Thornton murmured something at her side, and the low rumble of it brushed her ear.
When another guest made a slighting remark about the harshness of northern towns, he answered calmly—but her own hands tightened at the tone directed his way.
He did not seem wounded, but she felt wounded for him.
He looked better than she had ever seen him—handsome, yes, but more than that. Clear. Steady. Commanding in a room where half the men had no idea how much truth he carried in a single sentence.
And every time someone addressed him, she felt a small, irrational prick of resentment.
It was ridiculous. She knew it. And yet…
She wanted to keep his attention near her. Selfish. Unreasonable. But true.
When dessert arrived—a warm plum tart with brandy sauce—the table turned to chatter again. Sholto, upstairs squealed through the floorboards. Mrs. Shaw declared her gratitude that the child had been put to bed before dessert, lest he overturn the entire dish.
Margaret allowed herself a glance at Thornton. He sat with his hands folded loosely before him, listening with a faint, polite interest that did little to hide how weary he must be.
She leaned slightly toward him. “I hope,” she murmured, “that you did not find the questions too intrusive.”
His gaze shifted to hers—direct, searching, unexpectedly gentle. “They were nothing I have not answered before.”
“But tonight…” She swallowed. “Tonight, it felt more pointed.”
A hint of a smile—barely there—touched his mouth. “It is Christmas Eve, Miss Hale. People feel bold.” His tone softened. “I am not troubled by plain questions.”
Heat raced up her neck. She looked down too quickly. “Forgive me,” she whispered.
“For what?” His voice dropped—quiet, roughened with something she could not yet name. “You did nothing amiss.”
She wished she could believe that. It was her selfishness earlier, he desire to ask him, and then ask him again, that had kept him until his presence was discovered.
Her fault that he was now forced to sit here defending himself before strangers who had not the slightest concept of the authority of the man who spoke.
“You spoke very openly,” she said. “About the mill. About everything.”
“I told the truth.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “That is what unsettled them, I think.”
He looked away with a faint, humorless breath. “Truth has a way of doing that.”
She wanted—impossibly—to take his hand. To tell him she had never admired him more than she did in this moment, surrounded by people who did not know half his worth.
Instead, she said, too carefully, “You spoke well.”
His breath hitched—barely perceptible, but she felt it. “Did I?” he murmured.
“Indeed.”
He nodded once, as if trying to convince himself.
Then dessert plates were cleared, glasses refilled, laughter lifting again. It was Christmas Eve, after all. A time of merriment, joy, and peace. It should have been comfortable.
It was, instead, the most exquisitely uncomfortable meal of her life.
And the most thrilling.