“Oh, of course, sir,” Lydia said quickly. “I only meant to ease things in the meantime.”
“I find things rather orderly already,” Mary-Ann murmured, rising from her seat. “But you’re very kind.”
She crossed the room to retrieve a folded sheet from the sideboard, yesterday’s cargo schedule. “Father, may I speak to you a moment before you head into town?”
He blinked. “Certainly, my girl.”
Lydia rose as well, but Mary-Ann’s glance over her shoulder was polite steel. “Alone, if you please.”
Something in her voice, cool, clipped, certain, made even Lydia pause.
Lydia hesitated, then offered a thin smile. “Of course.”
Mary-Ann led her father into the study and closed the door behind them. The ledger she’d left on the desk the night before was undisturbed. She laid the cargo schedule beside it.
“I noticed a conflict between the inventory log and the dock reports,” she said. “TheMaribelwas offloaded two days ago, but the manifest says she hasn’t made port.”
Her father frowned, adjusting his spectacles. “That can’t be right. We would’ve received confirmation.”
“We didn’t. But she’s on the books at the harbor office.”
He scratched his chin. “Wilkinson told me theMaribelwas delayed in the north.”
Mary-Ann met his gaze. “Then either the harbor’s lying, or Wilkinson is.”
A silence hung between them, one that said more than words. For the first time, she wasn’t seeking his approval. She was offering him the truth.
He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he folded the schedule in half. “Leave this with me. I’ll look into it personally.”
Mary-Ann nodded. “Thank you.”
And for the first time, she saw something flicker behind her father’s eyes. Not fatigue. Not confusion. Resolve.
*
Later that morning,Mary-Ann slipped away from the front rooms under the pretense of inspecting a fresh delivery of linens. Lydia, still discussing drapery options with the upstairs maid, scarcely noticed.
She took the long corridor toward the rear of the house, where the morning sun filtered through narrow windows and the scent of lemon oil lingered faintly in the air. Mrs. Aldridge was just finishing with the silver chest when she looked up.
“Miss,” she said quietly, straightening. “Might I have a word?”
Mary-Ann nodded, stepping into the butler’s pantry. It was dim and narrow, tucked between service rooms, and a place of quiet and secrets.
Mrs. Aldridge reached into her apron and pulled out a folded envelope. “I found this yesterday. Behind the small table in the front hall. It was meant for you.”
Mary-Ann opened it. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the contents were clear: a merchant’s note, confirming a delivery she had never received. Dated nearly three weeks prior. Her name was on the front. Her father’s seal was beneath.
Mrs. Aldridge had quietly handed her a folded slip of paper with Mr. Hollis’s neat script listing the merchant’s response. A pearl-handled dressing case, monogrammed combs included, ordered in Mr. Seaton’s name and delivered not to their home, but to a lodging house off Cavendish Street. Lydia had signed for it.
Mary-Ann read it twice more, then folded it again and tucked it into her glove.
“Thank you,” she said. “You did exactly right.”
She turned to leave but paused. “Mrs. Aldridge… has anyone else been asking about me? Among the staff?”
The housekeeper’s mouth tightened. “Only Miss Lydia. She often asks about your schedule. And once, about the lock on your writing desk.”
Mary-Ann absorbed that in silence.
