Behind her, the door opened again. Mrs. Bainbridge returned with a folded paper in one hand.
“The London Gazette,” she said, offering it to Mary-Ann. “Barrington insisted I see it, and now I’m inflicting it on you.”
Mary-Ann unfolded it and read the notice aloud. “Commander Barrington and Mrs. Honoria Bainbridge are pleased to announce their engagement.” She looked up, grinning. “It’s real now.”
Mrs. Bainbridge rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell him, but I kept a second copy for framing.”
“You must be very happy.”
“I am,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, then added wryly, “in between cake tastings and interrogations about the guest list.”
Mary-Ann laughed, and for the first time in days, it felt genuine.
“Have you begun choosing your gown?” she teased.
“I’ve narrowed it down to two. Which is to say, I’m precisely where I was a week ago.”
“Perhaps I should help. I seem to be excelling at stalling decisions lately.”
Mrs. Bainbridge gave her a look that was more motherly than amused. “Some decisions need time. Others need courage.”
A footman arrived with a small tray of tea. As Bainbridge reached for the teapot, she paused and opened the drawer of her desk. From it, she withdrew a pale cream envelope.
“I received this at the house this morning,” she said, offering it to Mary-Ann, who read it quickly. “It’s an invitation to the charity dinner next week. Half the town will be there. I expect Quinton will be there as well.”
Mary-Ann reached inside her reticule. “I received one as well,” she said softly, withdrawing a similar envelope from her reticule. Her name was written in a familiar copperplate hand. She hadn’t meant to feel it, the flutter low in her belly at the thought of Quinton, but there it was. Unexpected. And utterly real.
She hadn’t opened it, not because she feared the contents, but because it was easier not to name what she wasn’t ready to face.
Mrs. Bainbridge poured the tea without comment, though her eyes flicked once to Mary-Ann’s.
“Rodney will be there, too,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, watching her carefully.
Mary-Ann didn’t answer.
Mrs. Bainbridge softened her voice. “You don’t have to decide anything now. But sometimes showing up is the first step to knowing where you stand.”
Mary-Ann nodded slowly. She held the invite as she glanced out the window again, her heart still heavy, but not quite so numb. She didn’t know what choice, not yet, but she was beginning to admit the question had to be faced. But she was no longer pretending she didn’t have one.
She sat for a few moments longer, turning the card over in her hand. The smooth surface of the paper was a strange weight. It was more than parchment and ink. It held expectations. Her name seemed to taunt her with what she hadn’t yet faced.
She pictured Rodney greeting her with that practiced charm, perfectly pleasant and entirely composed. She imagined Quinton, quiet but watchful, standing somewhere near the edge of the room as if unsure whether he belonged. It would be easy to slip into a routine with Rodney. Easy to wear the smile expected of her. But the thought made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with grief.
She slipped the invitation carefully into her reticule as if hiding it might buy her more time.
Mrs. Bainbridge poured the tea and handed her a cup. “I suppose next week will be interesting.”
Mary-Ann allowed herself a small laugh. “In this village, everything is interesting.”
They sipped in silence for a while.
Finally, Mrs. Bainbridge said, “If you come to dinner, I suspect you’ll know more by the end of it than you do now.”
Mary-Ann met her gaze and nodded slowly. “And if I don’t?”
Mrs. Bainbridge smiled gently. “Then you’ll still be exactly where you are. And that’s fine, for now.”
Mary-Ann held the teacup in both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “One step at a time.”
