“I did not realize you had company,” she said.
“It was brief,” he replied. “They have left now.”
“She, you mean,” she corrected as she stepped inside. “Who was she?”
He did not hesitate.
“Arabella Whitcombe.”
“I see.”
She did not look away. She did not pretend ignorance. That steadiness unsettled him more than accusation would have.
“She called without warning,” he said. “It was overdue, in fairness.”
Margaret folded her hands in front of her.
“Overdue?”
“There were matters left unresolved,” he said. “They are resolved now.”
A quiet pause followed.
“And I am not to worry about it,” Margaret said. “Is that it?”
“Precisely,” he met her eyes. “You are not.”
Her gaze searched his face, not for guilt, but for clarity.
“She did not appear pleased when she left.”
“She was not pleased,” he said. “But she understood.”
“And what did she understand?”
“That whatever existed before has ended.”
Margaret absorbed that in silence. The fire shifted behind him, casting uneven light across the floor.
“You speak very calmly,” she said at last.
“It is a calm matter.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
She took a slow breath.
“People will talk.”
“They already do.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “They will adjust the story.”
He stepped closer, not enough to crowd her, but enough to narrow the space between them.
“Let them.”
