The door had barely shut when she heard his voice, firm and cutting:
“You will never speak to my daughter that way again. Do you understand me? I built this company with my hands before you were old enough to sign your name. Mary-Ann has earned her place here. If you cannot respect that, you have no business in this office.” He paused for a long heartbeat. “Or in her future. If you ever presume to belittle her again, you’ll find yourself dismissed from more than polite company. Do I make myself clear?”
There was silence. Then the faint creak of a chair, and Rodney’s voice, tight, forced into civility.
“Of course, sir.”
But there was a crack in it. A strain that hadn’t been there before.
Mr. Seaton didn’t answer. The silence he left behind was far heavier than any further warning.
Outside the door, Mary-Ann paused. She hadn’t meant to linger, but something in her father’s tone rooted her to the floor. Her fingers curled against her skirts. For the first time in days, she felt something shift. It wasn’t a victory, but the smallest tilt in the balance.
Back at the house, Mrs. Aldridge entered Mary-Ann’s room with fresh linens only to find Lydia standing near the writing desk, rifling through the drawers.
“Is there something I can help you find?” she asked, her tone clipped but pleasant.
Lydia started. “Oh, I—I was just tidying.”
Mrs. Aldridge arched a brow. “In the mistress’s private desk?”
Before Lydia could reply, Mr. Hollis appeared in the corridor. “Miss Lydia, you’ve been assigned to accompany Miss Seaton in public. Not to inspect her rooms. We do not enter without invitation.”
Lydia’s mouth snapped shut.
Mrs. Aldridge continued about her task, stripping the bed with methodical efficiency, but her eyes never left Lydia’s form entirely. When Lydia finally retreated, spine stiff with annoyance, Mrs. Aldridge gave it another minute before moving. Then, casually, she moved to the far wall, lifted a loose panel in the wainscoting, and reached into the small recess.
She withdrew the cloth-bound booklet, her expression unreadable, and slid it between the folds of the laundry.The motion was smooth, practiced. There was no panic, only certainty. She buttoned up the bundle.
Later, once the room was quiet, Lydia slipped back inside. It took her a while, but after her diligent search, she found the loose wood. She knelt at the wall, pried open the panel, and reached inside.
Her fingers brushed a small tin box.
She pulled it free, opened the lid, and found nothing but a child’s keepsakes. A button. A ribbon. A smooth stone.
Lydia’s mouth pressed into a tight line. Her hand hovered over the stone as if she expected it to transform. Then she stood abruptly, brushing imaginary dust from her skirts, her movements clipped. Whatever she’d hoped to find was gone, and her failure would not go unnoticed.
Her brows drew together.
The hiding place had been used. But what she was looking for… was gone, if it was ever there. Or did someone get there first?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Thursday evening, themoon high and the house asleep, Mary-Ann shut the door to her bedroom and leaned against it, the weight of the morning pressing against her ribs. Her gloves were still on, though she hadn’t noticed. The leather was warm now, stretched and creased at the fingers.
She peeled them off slowly, crossing to the vanity. A pitcher of fresh water stood waiting, and beside it, a folded linen bundle with a faint scent of lavender.
A knock at the door startled her.
“Come in,” she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
Mrs. Aldridge stepped in, her hands tucked into the apron she always wore during morning rounds. “Thought you might need fresh towels, miss. And perhaps a moment to breathe.”
Mary-Ann managed a tired smile. “You always know.”
Mrs. Aldridge moved with quiet purpose, setting the bundle on the chair near the hearth. She hesitated just a moment longer than usual.
“There’s more going on in this house than there ought to be,” she said softly. “And some of us have eyes to see it.”
