Perhaps it still could be.
But Quinton had never needed polished words. His presence alone had carried meaning.
Now, standing at the window, she saw the difference clearly for the first time.
How had she not noticed it before?
Was this just nerves? The natural unease before a marriage? Or had something deeper shifted without her realizing it?
Very well, Mary-Ann. That’s enough. This isn’t the time to be chasing ghosts or second-guessing what has already been decided.
The feeling would pass. It had to.
But even as she tried to move past it, something remained unsettled. Like a breeze through a cracked window, the awareness stirred now and then, promising to return when least expected. She focused on the street. Rodney was already gone. She hadn’t expected him to look back.
But part of her had hoped.
His words echoed in her mind. Perhaps they were nothing more than concern. Or perhaps she was letting her restless thoughts cloud what had always been steady ground.
Still, something sat misaligned in her thoughts, like a portrait hung a little askew. She pressed her hand to the glass. The coolness steadied her.
Her mind wandered to Quinton, not just his sudden return but the quiet strength beneath his silence. He had come back different, subdued. But he was back. That meant something.
Rodney had been here all along. Present. Dependable. Generous.
And yet… something in her heart shifted when she saw Quinton in the foyer. It hadn’t been fear. It had been recognition.
She didn’t know what to make of it. Not yet. She stepped away from the window, her hand drifting across the bouquet still resting on the table. The petals were soft and lovely, but the perfume clung too tightly now as if overstaying its welcome. Whatever she felt, whatever she feared, it would not be solved today. She didn’t need answers now; she only needed the patience to wait for them.
She turned from the window and climbed the stairs slowly, the bouquet in hand. The scent followed her like a memory, faint but unshakable. She entered her bedchamber and found Mrs. Aldridge was already inside, placing folded garments onto the wardrobe shelves.
Mary-Ann set the flowers down on the corner of her writing table.
“Morning, miss,” the housekeeper said gently. “I was just seeing to the linens.”
“Of course,” Mary-Ann replied, calm on the surface, but her pulse had quickened. The wardrobe wasn’t safe. Not anymore.
Mrs. Aldridge closed the wardrobe drawer and reached for the flowers. “I’ll put them into a vase and bring them back.”
“Thank you,” Mary-Ann said as she waited for Mrs. Alridge to leave. Once the door closed, she turned the ley in the lock,then opened the wardrobe and retrieved the ledger still tucked safely in her folio beneath the shawls.
She crossed to the far corner of the room, beside her writing desk, where the wainscoting ran low along the outer wall.
Kneeling beside it, just behind the low armchair, where few ever bothered to clean or dust, she found the narrow panel with its familiar warped edge. She had discovered it as a child, a loose seam in the wood where an extra length of trim concealed a shallow cavity.
It had once hidden marbles and pressed flowers. Now, it would serve a greater purpose.
She had found it when she was ten, hiding from a game of chase with the maids. A knothole caught her skirt, and the loose panel shifted under her fingers. Back then, it had held secrets like feathers, ribbons, and stone marbles. Now, it would hold something far more important.
She opened the wardrobe and pulled the booklet from behind the stack of shawls, clutching it tightly as she knelt beside the wainscoting. She pried the panel open with care and found a long-forgotten tin box. Curious, she opened it and found a button, ribbon, and smooth stones. She slid the folio inside, its cloth cover brushing against the splintered interior, and put the tin box on top. It all fit snugly. She replaced the panel and pressed until the edge caught.
She sat back on her heels and exhaled, a slow, steady breath that grounded her.
She hadn’t yet decided what to do with the booklet, not fully. She trusted Quinton. She had always trusted him, even when it had cost her. Rodney… she had trusted him, too. Still did. But something in her, something she couldn’t name, had begun to shift.
Maybe it was the wedding.
Maybe it was Quinton’s return.
