Whatever feeling lay beneath that ribbon would be severed soon. She would tell him her decision—no doubt with kindness, but decisiveness all the same—and he would return to Milton. Alone. As was right.
At least, before it ended, they had managed to speak without bitterness. He had that to carry with him.
A sharp rap sounded at the door.
Thornton set the book aside and rose. “Yes?”
A boy of perhaps twelve stood in the hall, breath puffing in the cold, cap in hand. “Message for Mr. Thornton, sir. Delivered urgent from Harley Street.”
Thornton’s pulse stumbled.
“Thank you.” He pressed a coin into the boy’s hand—more than was needed, judging by the widening of the boy’s eyes—and shut the door before he had fully turned the key.
He broke the seal. The paper unfolded with a soft crackle.
Mr. Thornton,
If it is not an inconvenience, might I speak with you this morning? As early as possible would be best. I would be grateful for a few moments of your time.
—M. Hale
He stared at the words, each one striking in its plainness.
She wanted to see him.
Today.
His heart soared, then sank.
Of course. She wished to be done with it quickly, and she likely meant to release him from any expectation of remaining in London. Thoughtful of her. Merciful, even.
She was kind to the very last.
He folded the note carefully and slid it into his coat.
He washed. Shaved. Dressed with the care of a man steeling himself for a final disappointment. Before he left, he looked again at the book lying on the bed—the ribbon glinting faintly where it peeked from the page. It lived in the space between them—half accident, half longing, wholly impossible.
He would return it today.
Better to give it back, close whatever misunderstanding had lingered, and part from her with dignity.
He packed his things—every article he’d brought—and carried his satchel downstairs. At the desk, he asked to close out what remained of his bill.
“You’ll not be staying the week, sir?” the mistress asked.
“No,” he said. “I leave today.”
He stepped out into the cold morning air, the bells still tolling in the distance. Book in hand. Ribbon tucked between its pages.
Heart already half broken.
The house felt hollowwithout them.
Aunt Shaw had insisted they all attend Christmas services—Mrs. Shaw, Edith, Captain Lennox, even little Sholto bundled in his thick blue coat. Dixon, after grumbling over the cold andthe long walk, had finally conceded that it would do her mistress good to sit quietly in church after such a harried week.
But Margaret had pled a headache. A mild one. A small one.
The sort that required her to remain home and recover in a dark room.
