He buttoned his coat, catching sight of himself in the dressing mirror. His reflection was thinner, his eyes shadowed, but his spine was straight. The man in the mirror looked older. Not just thinner, not just tired, but forged. Like something that had been through fire and returned harder, quieter.
Whatever this is, I’m not broken.
His hand paused briefly on the latch.
This battlefield would demand something else entirely, cleverness, patience, and the kind of courage that didn’t wear medals. And at the center of it all was…
Mary-Ann.
Chapter Eleven
Tuesday afternoon, thehour before Mrs. Bainbridge’s weekly tea, Mary-Ann adjusted her shawl as she stepped up the front path to the Sommer-by-the-Sea Female Seminary. The morning was crisp, with a faint salt breeze drifting in from the sea. She clutched a slim folder of papers, figures from one of Mrs. Bainbridge’s students whom she’d been asked to evaluate. It was a welcome distraction, one she had embraced eagerly. Numbers made sense in a way people no longer did.
Inside, the entry hall smelled of chalk dust and lemon polish. Laughter, the sharp crack of a ruler, the scrape of chairs against the wood, all familiar sounds, drifted from one of the classrooms. The comforting normalcy of it all wrapped around her like a balm.
She paused a moment longer than necessary, letting her hand trail along the wainscoting. She used to run her fingers along these same grooves as a girl, tracing the path to the mathematics room where she’d begged for extra problems just to stay a little longer. Numbers were safer than people then. Predictable. Kind. She remembered walking these halls and the nervous thrill of receiving a corrected paper with high marks, and the way Mrs. Bainbridge would tilt her head just so when offering praise. There had been safety in those early years, in the structure and certainty of numbers and expectations. The world beyond the seminary walls had felt simpler then, more distant.
Mrs. Bainbridge emerged from her office at the end of the corridor, spectacles perched on her nose and a stack of letters in her hand. “Mary-Ann,” she said with a warm smile, “you’re a welcome sight. Come in, come in.”
They stepped into the office, and Mrs. Bainbridge shut the door behind them. The room was lined with shelves of books and student records, the desk piled with notes and the inevitable teacup. A vase of early spring flowers brightened the windowsill.
Mary-Ann set the folder down gently. “I finished reviewing your student’s figures. She’s brilliant. There’s a precision to her work, and she’s clearly testing formulas beyond the lesson. If she continues at this pace, she could qualify for advanced training.”
Mrs. Bainbridge beamed. “I thought you’d say so. She reminded me of someone else who used to spend all their time with numbers.”
Mary-Ann flushed slightly. “You’re far too kind.”
“Only accurate,” Mrs. Bainbridge said firmly. “You had a gift. You still do.”
There was a pause, comfortable and close.
“And how are you?” The headmistress asked, her tone softening. “Truly.”
Mary-Ann hesitated. She looked down at her hands. “I’m… unsettled. Everything I thought was behind me isn’t. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
Bainbridge studied her a moment. “It’s all right not to know.”
Mary-Ann gave a faint, grateful smile. “Thank you.”
Bainbridge sat on the edge of her desk and motioned for Mary-Ann to do the same. “It must be strange. Seeing someone you once loved walk back into your life like that.”
Mary-Ann huffed a laugh, though her expression was sober. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. I’d mourned him. Let him go. And now I feel as though I’m betraying something, someone, no matter what I choose.”
Mrs. Bainbridge leaned forward. “You’re not betraying anyone. Grief and healing are not betrayals. They’re survival. You did what you had to.”
Mary-Ann looked away, her eyes burning. “I don’t know how to look him in the eye and pretend I’m not torn in two.”
“Then don’t pretend,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “But don’t run, either.”
The door opened slightly, and a student peeked in. Mrs. Bainbridge excused herself with a promise of tea and stepped out.
Left alone, Mary-Ann wandered to the windows, grateful for the moment of stillness. A pair of gulls wheeled overhead in the sky. She let her thoughts drift, to Quinton’s voice, to Wilkinson’s visit, to the ledger hidden behind the wainscoting, silent, damning, patient, as if waiting for her courage to match her suspicion. She didn’t know which unsettled her more, the past, the present, or the quiet feeling that the two were about to collide.
Her gaze fell on the playground beyond the hedge. A cluster of students played at sums with chalk and slates, arguing over a solution with the same vigor others might apply to a game of hoops. She smiled faintly. Once, that had been her.
Watching the girls jostle and scribble as if every number held the key to victory, she saw more than sums. Some played by the rules, careful and exact, like Rodney. Others pushed boundaries and dared mistakes as Quinton had always done. She remembered how he once changed the rules of a card game mid-play just to make her laugh. He’d always been unpredictable, infuriating, irresistible. Both approaches had merit. But only one had ever stirred her heart.
But only one had ever stirred her heart.
