Mary-Ann tried not to laugh, but a quiet breath of amusement escaped. “And yet you love him.”
Mrs. Bainbridge dropped her chin to her chest in mock defeat. “Worse. I agreed to marry him.”
Lydia gave a light chuckle. “You’ll find a compromise. Love always does.”
Mrs. Bainbridge gave her a long look. “I sincerely hope you’re right, Miss Finch. Though I’ve found love is much like planning a wedding. It looks lovely on paper, but then it stamps its boots through your best-laid table arrangements.
Mary-Ann offered to help pack away the samples. Lydia lingered for another few minutes, making soft observations and asking a few too many questions about the guest list, before excusing herself to retrieve a shawl.
As her footsteps faded down the hall, Mrs. Bainbridge exhaled and turned toward the window. “I have the oddest urge to scatter her,” she murmured.
Mary-Ann blinked and paused mid-fold. “Scatter her?”
“Like dandelion fluff.”
That earned a laugh. “You’re in fine form today.”
“No one in this house quite remembers how to be themselves when you’re around, my dear,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, adjusting a stack of samples with casual precision. Her voice softened. “You bring out the truth in people. I find it refreshing.”
Mary-Ann didn’t speak at first. She simply smiled, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the table. There were many things she wasn’t certain of these days, but this, she would carry with her.
*
Mrs. Bainbridge left,and Mary-Ann followed shortly after, claiming a headache. It was polite enough to be unassailable, vague enough to buy her time. As she passed through the hallway, she caught sight of Lydia in the mirror above the sideboard, still tidying her sleeve as if rehearsing the next moment of charm. It gave Mary-Ann just enough time. Shewasn’t sure if it was the conversation or the sense that Lydia was always just a step behind her, smiling too sweetly, watching too closely. It left her breathless in a way no headache ever had.
She slipped on her gloves and took the back path out of the house, lifting her skirts slightly to keep them from the morning dew. The spring breeze was mild, the sky a soft, steady blue. A line of gulls danced along the roof of a fishmonger’s shop, their wings flashing white and silver.
Her heart had steadied by the time she turned past the churchyard, but her mind had not. Each step echoed evenings long past. Those shared walks, shoulder to shoulder, when Quinton would match his pace to hers without a word. She didn’t go to the harbor. Not yet. She took the path to the rise as they once had, not because she expected him there but because sometimes hope took the shape of old habits. Instead, she took the narrow path up the rise beyond the churchyard, where the view of the sea made the world feel both wide and still.
He stood there as he had all those years ago.
Quinton stood near the stone wall, coat unbuttoned, hands tucked behind his back. He didn’t turn when she approached, though she saw his shoulders shift.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said softly.
He turned, and the moment their eyes met, something in her chest realigned.
“No,” he said. “Only waiting.”
“For what?”
He didn’t look surprised to see her. As if he’d expected this moment long before it arrived. “I’m not entirely sure.”
She joined him at the wall, silence stretching comfortably between them. The sea churned far below, each wave rising and folding like breath.
“Barrington said theRedwakeleft port yesterday morning,” she said at last.
“I know.”
She hesitated. “There was a shipment manifest I never saw. I’m certain it existed and that I was meant to review the weights.”
“I heard,” he said quietly.
She studied him. “You’re gathering information.”
“So are you.”
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as if he wanted to say more, to confess that seeing her like this, here, searching and brave, made it harder not to tell her everything.
