For a clergyman's daughter, Margaret was judicious in attributing things to Providence rather than coincidence. Yet when Hannah announced at breakfast one morning that Fanny was expecting, she was pleasantly certain that God was at work.
Despite their recently brokered accord, she was admittedly relieved when her mother-in-law left quickly for the Watsons'. It was a rare Saturday that John did not go to the mill, and Margaret wanted to savor each moment with him, however quiet.
She had set him up in the parlor to read her father's copy of the Symposium while she finished invitations for the annual dinner at her writing box. So seldom anymore did he get the chance to read for pleasure and the sake of learning itself. Her father, she thought wistfully, would have approved of today's selection.
It was only after ten minutes that she realized not a single page had turned. Looking askance, she caught him red-handed.
"If you peer at that clock again, Mr. Thornton, I shall remove it from the wall myself."
"Point taken." The book closed with a clap as John leaned forward, elbows to his knees. "Though I think the patch on the wallpaper would send Mother to apoplexy." He smiled with such unexpected rakishness that Margaret couldn't suppress a giggle.
"No, I suppose neither of us wants that." She smoothed her finger over the top of the stationery Edith had sent, its upper margin bursting with some exotic florid scape Fanny would love.
"I remember Aunt Shaw when Sholto was born. I can only imagine how overjoyed your mother must be."
"—Good for nothing. Not even prepared the silver for tea!"
Dixon's portly figure strode past the parlor entryway, wiping streaks of flour on her apron.
"Wherever are you going, Dixon?"
The servant poked her head into the room. "Seems we've a visitor, Mrs. Margaret." She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling before looking down at her round figure. "If that lot would stop their giggling, perhaps I'd not have to greet them in such a state."
"But I'd not heard the bell." Margaret held the feathered end of her quill to her lips, stifling a grin. This was one of Dixon's favorite, and often exaggerated, complaints.
"Seems it's broken. Could not get a look proper look, neither. From the way upstairs were set aflutter, Mrs. Margaret, I'd not be surprised if it was the Queen herself."
"More likely just a courier," John muttered. "They'd be equally astir for the Queen's servant's scullery maid at our doorstep, if gossip might come of it."
His lips curved as half a book of pages opened with a thud. Leave it to the threat of idle gossip to set John back to his reading, Margaret thought with amusement.
As Dixon clomped down the hall and descended the steps to answer the door, Margaret returned to her writing box. She eyed the invitation list wanly. It was tempting to make a game of it, dotting the names of Miltoners who seemed so eager to disgrace her. Judging from a glance, every line would be marked. Some things, she thought wryly, had changed little since the last Thornton dinner.
Her quill had only touched upon the Carters when Dixon reentered the parlor. The old woman's usually proud head was so downturned the top of her white cap entirely visible.
The list floated to the floor as Margaret put the desk aside, leaping to her feet. The fear she had buried deep beneath paragraphs and conversations and numbers and lists tore through all of it. Her hopes and prayers had gone unanswered: still, there had been no word.
Cadiz. Fred.
"It's that Mr. Everhart to see you."
Blood and common sense rushed back to Margaret's limbs. There was, after all, no letter in Dixon's hands. Only in that moment did the words sink in.
Everhart. Here.
Leather binding slapped closed.
"Did he state what he wants with me?"
Dixon eyed her master with unprecedented hesitation. His eyes were already hungry for confrontation.
"It's the missus he wants to see, sir."
"That is not possible." Margaret shook her head, as if she did not believe herself. "I did not invite him. Could not have."
"Didn't stop him last time, did it? Could not even stand the look of the man. I just knew that vagabond would—"
A glare from John was thankfully all it took to silence Dixon's rant.
"You are right, Dixon, it did not stop him," Margaret said, her senses and reason now returned after the false alarm. She stood tall, clasping her hands with resolute defiance. She was now mistress of this house. There was no obligation to Everhart, legally or otherwise.
There was no need to entertain even the idea of him.
"We shall turn him away. We shall say that I am indisposed."
"No. We cannot."
Both women turned toward John as he finally towered to his feet. Margaret's mouth slackened, staring at him incredulously.
"But why? He—he came to our wedding celebration uninvited! As you yourself said, he has no business here."
"He does not, but I would rather admit him now than have him slithering about. I know him, and he will keep trying for an audience until he gets one."
John folded his arms, tucking his elbows close to his chest. "He is also still a gentleman by reputation—what's left of it."
A gentleman who Mrs. Slickson might start rumors about at any moment, Margaret thought fretfully. If she were at Helstone, she'd not admit him. In Milton, there was always someone watching. The longer he stood out of doors, the longer the servants would chatter.
With a small shiver, she recollected that horrid conversation at the draper's. It was only sensible to get him inside and then out again as soon as possible, if the damage had not already been done.
"Send him in, please, Dixon," asked Margaret.
As the servant turned back to retrieve their unwanted guest, she quickly moved the writing desk to a far table, covering it with a cloth. She scurried back to the chaise, stationing herself next to John as she heard shuffling in the foyer.
Already, he had steeled himself silent. She wanted to ask again if this was truly a good idea. She knew better.
Then the shadow in front of her, cast blue on the carpet, bid her look forward.
"Thank you for indulging me on this fine day, Mrs. Thornton and Mr. Thornton." Everhart's laugh echoed like a bell, so abrupt it almost startled Margaret backward into the cushion. "You regard me, Mrs. Thornton, as though you do not recognize me."
Indeed, she scarcely did. He was now attired in the height of fashion, his suit slim and not an article out of place. While his hair was still an untenable length, there was something regal in the way it waved outward from the long line of his neck. Feral, too—like some strange jungle cat from the Great Exhibition. Yet he looked every bit the Londoner.
Still, she reminded herself, there was nothing about him she should not despise. Never mind that she had never liked London gentlemen at all.
"I do indeed recognize you, sir." She braced her elbows with her hands, as though the room were as cold as her voice. "Though again it seems you visit us uninvited."
"Quite right. How magnanimous you are, Mrs. Thornton, to admit me nonetheless. Might I say that you look every bit the angel you did at our first meeting."
"And as I mentioned at our first meeting, Mr. Everhart, you use appellations which I have not earned."
A cajoling grin lit his face, of which Margaret took little notice. She was too busy wanting to shelter under the sofa to evade that relentless stare. It made her feel as thin as stained glass; one that he both admired and saw right through.
It took her several moments, too long, to catch John's murderous expression from the corner of her eye.
"I am sure," he grated, finally speaking, "you did not travel all this way for compliments, Everhart."
"No, indeed I did not." The man smiled, his eyes never leaving Margaret.
"Forgive me, Mrs. Thornton, for both of my intrusions and for my impertinence on your wedding day."
She silently weathered a cold cramp of nausea, recalling the circumstances of his 'impertinence.' What would he dare say about it in John's presence?
"You see," he continued, "I had not known it is you I should be dealing with."
Margaret's brow furrowed with confusion. "With me? I do not understand."
"Why, yes! Though I'd had no intentions of discussing business on a wedding day, I did mention that I was last in Milton on business. Well, here I am again." Everhart winked as Margaret's mouth popped open. "I have since come to understand that you are the owner of Marlborough Mills."
"I fear you are mistaken, sir," she said tersely. "If you would know the law at all."
"Ah, Mrs. Thornton. Law is regrettably one of the few areas in which I do not dabble."
Closing her lips, Margaret prayed for restraint. Even schoolchildren knew the marriage laws. His facetiousness was infuriating.
Everhart clucked his tongue at John. "Really, though, Thornton. All in your name, no less? Why, I thought you a more progressive chap!"
"There was no way round it, not that it is your business," John rasped. "To my mind, Marlborough Mills is as much hers as mine, materially and otherwise." His brief but encouraging smile did little to restore the color to Margaret's cheeks.
"That said," he continued, turning back to his unwanted guest, "I'll not ask you again what you want."
"A few minutes of your time—both of your times, I should say—and I will be off your hands."
"You have said that before. A thorn in my side, if ever there was one."
"Ah, how poetic! Delighted that you have pursued a more classical education, old chap."
"We—the tea shan't be ready for some time," Margaret interrupted, grasping John's arm urgently. He looked almost ready to lunge.
"No trouble, no trouble," Everhart said, waving his hand. "I insist, in fact, upon not having tea."
Margaret nodded toward the green chair opposite the chaise. Her eyebrows knitted with wariness when he made no move to sit.
"First order of business."
Before John could utter an admonition, Everhart made a great show of rifling through his frock coat. He pulled forth a coal-black velvet box with an ornate silver latch. Prying it open with a snap, his nimble fingers curled. Something flashed in the light before disappearing into his palm.
"As restitution for my many wrongs, Mrs. Thornton."
Margaret's shoulder blades drew back reflexively when he strode toward her. The box clapped shut as he put it on the table to her right.
With a smooth motion, he placed something cool and metallic into her palm. His hand lingered on hers, momentarily brushing the same freckle he had kissed at their prior meeting.
Warding off a blush, she assessed the object in her hand. If she were a woman with an affinity for jewelry, she might have been struck breathless. As she had little interest in trinkets, she only stared with utter bewilderment. Hundreds of sun-colored stones—exotic diamonds perhaps—were sectioned off by filigreed silver. Vibrant emeralds formed a triangular cluster of leaves that fanned out to frame petal-like shapes. With the slight trembling of her hand, every jewel sparkled in turn.
Her heartbeat quickened as she traced the distinctive shape of the uppermost petal. It was ostentatious, and she would never wear it.
It was also unmistakably fashioned in the likeness of a rose from Helstone.
"Mr. Everhart..."
The forwardness, the awkwardness of such a gesture made in front of her husband, was dizzying. She extended the brooch back to him without further deliberation.
"I am humbled by your thoughtfulness, sir. But it is far too fine for me to accept."
He was silent for a long moment. "So you would refuse it?" He smiled hopefully. "On account of your sympathy for the poor, no doubt?"
"I—it is simply too much."
She reddened at her own bluntness as doubt, the first she had truly seen, dimmed his eyes. Their moss colored flecks were greener—brighter—at this distance than she remembered.
"It is the custom of my people to give the bride a token of her home to remember."
"Custom or not, one might wonder at the intentions of such an intimate gift." John eyed the trinket with disdain as a beam of midday light taunted the stones to life again.
"Intimate? Everhart smiled knowingly. "I daresay there is nothing intimate about using simple deduction to ascertain a woman's desires, John, even one as extraordinary as our Mrs. Thornton."
"Do not pretend to know what our Mrs. Thornton desires. Never mind that Milton is now her home."
"Forgive me then." Everhart's voice was hollow and detached, his expression dunning again as he bowed. "The gesture was kindly meant."
Her head felt barely attached, tethered to her body only by guilt. What in the world were this man's intentions?
"I believe," she said finally and firmly, "that it would be best to discuss whatever you propose, Mr. Everhart."
She needed to hasten the conversation for John's sake. Her husband had only ever envied Henry Knox and what turned out to be a shadowy rumor. Mr. Everhart was well within striking distance.
To her relief, Everhart nodded with appreciation, taking his seat. "I quite agree, Mrs. Thornton."
Margaret and John sat in kind. Their guest leaned back, crossing his legs with such leisure as though he intended on settling in for life. He threaded his fingers through each other with methodical purpose.
"You see, there was an uncle of mine—"
"I am sure I care little about your uncle."
"Patience, my good man," said Everhart, clearly amused both at himself and his unhinging host. "About six months ago, poor old fellow willed me a property in Levickham, just north of here. A mill to be exact."
John's eyes narrowed. "Talbot's, you mean. Abandoned these last three years?"
"The very one! He was a successful master, indeed someone you would respect as much as any of your esteemed Milton men. Alas, it was one of the older mills—outfitted before the spinning mules, as I believe you call them." Everhart threw his hands up with a shrug of his shoulders and a grin to match. "I'd no sooner know a loom from a lamp shade, myself."
"Another starry-eyed Londoner," John muttered.
"Guilty as charged," Everhart agreed airily. "So, I said to myself, 'why not ask one of these fine Miltoners of their interest?' The equipment all needs replacing, and it would require oversight of one who knows cotton and what it takes to build a mill from nothing. Someone who can be trusted with significant margins."
"Trust." John sneered, his sarcasm cutting the air. "What do you know of it?"
"I know, Thornton, that you cannot refuse a business proposition."
"Yes, a fair proposition. This is just some scheme."
"But if you would just listen—"
"No need." John's shoulders squared imperiously. "I know your tricks. You will propose I waste my time and energy to run a mill for you while you sit idly as you ever have."
Everhart chuckled outright. "Always such dramatic conclusions with you, Thornton. I've no intention of taking you to such a task." He angled his body closer to the Thorntons. "Though, I have heard on good authority that your enterprise has grown a bit beyond your scope."
"Your authority is wrong," John snapped. "We are managing quite well."
A familiar panic clenched Margaret's lungs, the same as during that dreadful interrogation by the policeman years ago. She could only hope that Everhart would not unravel the thread of doubt in her husband's voice.
"Now, I understand it would be some expense for operating capital. Considering the significant investment required, I would be willing to supply the equipment and all maintenance if you supply the—"
"Do not insult my intelligence."
"—Or," Everhart drawled with mild exasperation, "I would be more than happy to sell outright for a good price."
"That is," he added, turning slyly to Margaret, "if Mrs. Thornton will agree."
Margaret pulled her shawl closer, sensing John's earnest look in her direction. By law, it was his decision. In his heart, it was hers also.
"And we are ready," she said, taking her husband's hand, "to listen to what it is you propose."
Everhart beamed with confidence as he withdrew a sealed document from his coat. It was as though he carried his entire life in its pockets.
When he proffered it, she took it quickly, ensuring her fingers were a safe distance from his this time.
"I think that once you have read it in full, you will see that this is the far more...lucrative offer."
Margaret parted the seal, the fresh wax opening easily. With two pairs of eyes again upon her, she read as quickly and carefully as her pride would allow before handing it to John without a word.
For something so surprising, there were none to be found.
John's eyes skimmed the parchment with barely controlled curiosity. Margaret watched fervidly, her stomach roiling as his stubbornness paled to downright incredulity.
"You swear this is in his own hand?"
Everhart examined his fingernail with exaggerated boredom. "Despite your low approximation of me, Thornton, I am not one for committing forgeries."
"You see," he elaborated, looking at the couple with a grin, "Slickson and I have become quite well acquainted recently. He meant to purchase it outright from me, poor fellow—though we all know he is not doing so well as you, of course."
Margaret swore John flinched. It was true that of the workers who had defected from the other mills, more had come from Slickson's than any other. Still, she reflected with a frown, no one in town had spoken of any hardship at the competing mills. If anything had come of the masters' dinner last week, her husband had said nothing.
Eyes still flitting from line to line as he folded the paper, John's lips drew taut as he put the document on the table. "We'll sign nothing without seeing the place, let alone before reviewing our figures. And you'll thank us for doing that much."
"Bravo, Thornton," Everhart crowed, patently relishing in John's doubt. "I knew you'd come 'round."
"We said we would review the figures and see. And that is likely all we'll be doing."
Everhart held a long forefinger to his lips. "Is he still always this woefully pensive, Mrs. Thornton?"
"No, Mr. Everhart." Margaret's eyes again darted to and from each man, both now staring at each other, one grinning and one digging his fist into his thigh. "Perhaps it is just you who brings about such moods."
"My, Thornton," he purred, lazily uncrossing his thigh. "Intelligent, spirited, and stunning. I believe her only flaw is condemning herself to life in the North, with such want for gaiety and good company."
"...And I believe," grated John, propelled to his feet, "that your few minutes are quite spent."
Flicking open his timepiece, Everhart smirked incorrigibly as he stood. "Actually it has been precisely seven and a half, John. I am heartened that our friendship is progressing at last."
"Good day," John grumbled, his hand to his side.
Margaret's fingers tightened pleadingly about her husband's forearm, but he made no motion to shake Everhart's hand. As once before, she bobbed her head in a curt goodbye, feeling those emerald eyes on her as he exited the room.
It was not until she heard Dixon bid Everhart a perfunctory "Good day, sir" from the corridor that she expelled a shuddering breath.
As she came back to herself, she sensed the emptiness beside her; the lack of pressure on her crinoline. John was already subjecting the floorboards to a merciless pacing.
She did not need to ask him what he was thinking. The proposal scrawled back in her mind, that which Everhart had already gotten Slickson to sign. Fifty-thirty-twenty: Thornton, Slickson, Everhart—hands and labor; equipment and property. It was a simple proposition, on the surface.
As John had mentioned—the point she was about to make herself—they would need to proceed with caution. The terrible incident with the O'Neill and Jennings boys affirmed that prudence should be the only approach. They could not do anything until all of the equipment was installed, let alone inspected. It could take months; perhaps a year.
At the same time, Margaret could not ignore the memory of the crowded warehouse floor, workers shuffling about for purchase. If things continued like this, Marlborough Mills would burst at the seams. The proposal was a solution.
"The air would be cleaner, no doubt," she said, having summoned some bravery.
John stopped in his tracks, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'll not deny it. I'll also not deny that it's as good a space as any." He withdrew one hand to brace his neck, as though it ached. "But do not forget the matter of transport. It is six miles beyond Milton."
"There is the outbound trolley, is there not?"
"Yes. And it will no doubt be a sizeable expense for everyone, two-way."
Her breath stuttered at the bitterness of his answer and the sour expression with which it was offered. He sighed heavily.
"We cannot close the kitchen; that we shall still have to provide as well. Two-fold."
"Surely, we can make some economies." She stared up at the brocade golden drapes Mrs. Thornton had bought—one of her earlier battles lost. "We can live more simply."
"As we have before? Do not pretend it was easy in Crampton, any more than I'll not pretend it was easy in the poorhouse."
"I said nothing of such extremes," Margaret snapped, a frisson of defensiveness surging through her. "And are you to mean that the hands are less deserving? Of even half of what I had then?" Her father's memory blazed in her heart as she stepped backward. "I'll not hear this from you, John Thornton."
Suddenly, but with unexpected gentleness, he grasped her shoulders before she could walk away.
"Please, listen to me, Margaret. We have the cushion. It is what keeps what happened after the strike from happening again."
His voice was tremulous in a way she'd not heard for a long time—two years, in fact.
"I'd not told you this, but Watson has lost thousands."
"No." She put a cold hand, damp with nerves, to her cheek.
"How many?"
He shrugged. "He could not bring himself to say."
The thought came clearly as a nightmare, almost sending Margaret to her knees. She saw, in the dirt of Princeton, the same tattered shawl Mrs. Boucher wore wrapped round Fanny and her baby. It was not unheard of for a family to fall so low under terrible circumstances. It would not happen to her own.
"We shall give them whatever they need, of course."
"Of course; it is not a question of that," John argued, his tone thick with frustration. "It is—the entanglements Watson has gotten himself into," he said much more softly.
"I do not understand."
"Nor I, but I intend to."
"How?"
John clasped his hands behind his back, a sign that there would be no debate. "There is a convention, next week in London. On free trade, as they call it. I'll be the first to admit that I know little to nothing."
"So you think that you can help Watson?"
His stance softened. "If I can understand at least some of it, then perhaps."
"And," she broached tentatively, "how long will you be gone?"
"Three days. Four perhaps."
Margaret nodded bleakly. The constant work at the mill had left her craving his intimacy, and one night apart was trial enough. She dismissed the thought, realizing with shame how selfish it was.
Her eyes jolted wide open as another pressing problem took hold.
"And what of the mill? Who shall run it?"
John smiled warmly. "It goes without saying that I leave it in your hands."
"Mine?" she breathed.
In that moment, she couldn't begin to recall a tenth of what she'd learnt. Though she had watched him complete nearly every task he might have, the amalgamation of those responsibilities seemed overwhelming.
His hand on her arm was warm and comforting. "You know most everything there is to know already. Besides you will have Nicholas—and Mother, if needed."
"Yes." Margaret stood erect, though she was sure she still looked like a frightened rabbit. "I suppose that is comfort enough."
"I trust you with everything, Margaret."
She waited for him to say more. Her hopeful look faded as he shook his head. Something had flashed in his eyes that was darker, rawer than his affirming words.
"But there is something you wish to tell me."
"Yes."
Her heart thudded and thundered. Intensity clouded his eyes like dye in water.
"I would prefer it if I dealt with Everhart directly from here on out."
It took moments for her to process, to understand what he was saying. She'd expected him to finally chastise her for Princeton, for Mrs. Slickson, if he had heard.
It was satisfactory for her to participate in day-to-day operations of the mill, apparently. It was less so for her to make the decisions that mattered. It was a blow to the head far worse than any stone.
"Excuse me? I understood that we were to participate equally in all matters of business."
"I meant every word of what I said, my esteem for all that you've learnt." The angles of his face were sharp with perseverance and assurance. "But I do not trust him."
Margaret frowned with disbelief as he turned, thus giving himself the final word.
No. He would not run from this.
"I do not see why I should not be present—"
A breath caught in her lungs as he stretched his arm to swipe the box from the table, only to place it down again with a resonant click.
"I should think that is proof enough."
"Proof of what, exactly? That I am too weak to manage such important affairs?" Her voice faltered as she looked at the table. "And I have every intention of returning it."
"I care not what you do with it...and only a fool would think you weak." His expression shuttered, his teeth clenching together.
"Do you think I did not see the way he looked at you, Margaret—today and before?"
Her ears, her face—everything was on fire with chagrin and with panic. "I'd not told him where to look."
"Still, I daresay you found his attentions flattering."
He stormed toward the fireplace. Kneading the stone beneath anxious fingers, John bent downward, his head framed between his arms. His words drifted into the flue, but Margaret heard them all the same.
"You would not be the first."
Margaret clutched at her stomach; another blow landed. For him to think her so easily swayed; so fickle and free with her affections. It was the same implication that had once cut her to her soul.
'You must imagine what I must think.'
Yes, she thought in a fog of red, she very well could imagine. And it was so crudely, despicably beneath him.
"I may not be the first," she hissed, "but I've no intention of being the next."
She marched up to the table, to that horrid black box that sat like Pandora's sin. The glimmering memory of what was inside made her want to hurl it through the window.
"As for the gift, you heard me refuse it. What more could I have done to your satisfaction? Was I not silent enough whilst you spoke—barely letting me have a word?"
With a huff, she walked toward the window, satisfied that she'd had the final word, this time. Her fingers tapped the window frame, unable to accomplish anything else. Any words she said now she would regret.
At length, he spoke first. He so often did in such situations, she realized with a pang.
"It was not right. Was not what I ever meant to say, Margaret."
She turned until the sun no longer warmed her cheek, but not fully to face him. Always, he offered apologies; too soon would she forgive him. She would be the better person for her silence; to make him understand the weight of it.
"I saw the flower in your hair."
Her bones fused with dread and shame. Oh, do not speak it aloud!
I saw it on our wedding day. I was lost again as when I thought you loved another."
"And have you so soon lost faith in me again?" She spun round, his eyes widening with surprise and anger before they dulled again. She had not heard his footsteps stalling behind her. The faint scent of parchment and sandalwood clung to his collar.
"I have every faith in you. And none in him, which is why I would avoid you being in his presence as much as possible."
His sentence, meant to assure, was yet another punch. He was doing what he thought was right. Yet it was ridiculous to think that she could not withstand conversing with a man of dubious character. He had little faith in her, though he did not realize it. To him, it was honor: to her it was foolishness.
"You are not my white knight, John," Margaret said coldly. "To be rescued and to be guarded are the last things I ever wanted."
He said nothing, perhaps because he could not, she thought miserably. Would they never fully understand each other?
And then, unexpectedly, he laughed. It hummed on her cheek as his head dipped down toward hers.
"I forget sometimes that it is why I love you."
His words, warm and bright, radiated from the nape of her neck to her fingertips. When she closed her eyes, blinking back a tear of frustration, the glimmering jewels were gone. It was only the yellow blossom in John's hand, extended to her in both love and in truce. He had never meant it as a decoration. It was, simply and beautifully, a declaration that he understood what struck and stirred her, the littlest things that moved her to such great feeling.
"Last time I refused a scheme, I nearly lost everything," he murmured, his palm outturned. "If Marlborough Mills burnt down tomorrow, I could not live with myself for the workers' sake—for you and for Mother." He clasped his hands again, running one thumb over the other absently.
"I will not bury workers again."
She did not know how she had gone from standing, a hand to her hip with rage, to her head feeling his heartbeat. She sighed, already fearing that his next words would make her regret relenting to the man she would always love.
"It is what I have been trying to say these past weeks, John. Marlborough Mills cannot go on as it is."
"We both know," he said at a near whisper, "that you are right."
She was about let herself become lost in his warmth when she stilled. If they did move forward on this deal, her rashness may have cost them already. She'd no right to his trust without giving her honesty.
"There is a complication." With a nervous swallow, she forced herself to look up at him. "With Slickson. I have said something to his wife."
"As I have heard."
She flushed violently at his knowing smirk. "Are you very angry with me for it?"
"I am sure that it was not without provocation. She should stick to her own business, the public folly that it is."
He kissed her forehead, making her all the more eager to lay her head upon him again. "How ever shall we deal with such horrid people?" she murmured into his chest.
"They are not the first difficult people I've encountered in business." His finger smoothed a curl from her forehead. "To quote one of my best hands, 'better the devil you know, and best to know they are the devil.'"
Margaret's mouth formed a tired crescent at the classic Higginsism. She sighed, part contented and part exhausted.
"I suppose I do understand your reasons for keeping me from him—from Everhart."
John took a sharp breath, but she did not stop. "He frightens me—all that you have said he is capable of."
He spoke after a moment's silence. "As he should."
She closed her eyes, reveling in the tender, placid way his fingers ran through her hair.
"But he was right about one thing."
Margaret looked up, glimpsing a smile over the triangle of his chin above her.
"I have no business commanding anything of you. On my honor."
Her jaw trembled ever so slightly, the weight of emotion tightening her chest. This soft tone was his truth, unclouded by doubt or jealousy or anger. When those things were stripped away, there was always steadiness and balance. For so long, Margaret had been teetering on the edge of one tragedy or another. Her world and his had been both separate and the same.
She had admitted some time ago that there were truths she was too proud to face. She was unsure of how to manage the mill for four days, let alone make one of the most important decisions in Marlborough Mills' history on her own. To do so would be to undermine every effort her husband had made. If she made a poor decision in the venture, the nights sleepless John had spent of late would be for nothing.
Her heart had long been with the mill. She'd yet to master its mind—and his.
"I admit, I did not think of the kitchen when I spoke of transport," she confessed shyly. "I am still unaccustomed to thinking in pounds and pence, I am afraid."
"Thank God you do not." John smiled in that lazy way that lightened her whole being. "We might not be able to do it, but I might have never thought of the trolley, myself."
She gasped as he pulled her upward, fully enveloping her in his arms.
His eyes. No jewels or gems.
"Just know that I will always need you, Margaret."
Her weary body awakened as he brought his lips to hers. Margaret knew from experience, from the way his desire was pressing against her, that he would leave her lips bruised enough for her to see in the glass. She did not care. For now, she would surrender to it, forgiving and forgetting and waiting for their bed. For now, it was enough.