Tuesday morning brought weak sunshine and William Thornton's determination to inspect every inch of his investment.
"Show me the tenant cottages," he announced over breakfast. "I want to see the drainage improvements you mentioned in your correspondence, Edward."
Margaret watched her husband carefully butter his toast, his expression pleasant and accommodating. No one watching would guess that last night, after her parents had retired, he'd drunk half a bottle of brandy in his study and she'd heard him pacing until well past midnight.
"Of course, sir. I've had the estate manager prepare a full report on the improvements and their impact on crop yields." Edward set down his knife with precision. "Margaret, you'll join us?"
It wasn't quite a question. She heard the subtle command beneath the pleasant tone—we're still performing, don't forget your role.
"I wouldn't miss it," she said, matching his artificial warmth. Under the table, she dug her nails into her palm. Another day of this charade. Another day of pretending touches didn't linger too long, that careful smiles didn't sometimes feel almost real.
Her mother waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, you men and your drainage systems. Margaret, you'll stay with me. I want to review the household accounts, and we need to discuss the arrangements for your father's birthday celebration next month."
"Mama, I really should—"
"Nonsense. You see the estate every day. Indulge your mother." Eleanor's smile was steel wrapped in silk.
Margaret glanced at Edward and caught something in his expression—was that disappointment? But he merely nodded and rose from the table.
"We'll return by luncheon," he said, pausing by Margaret's chair. His hand came to rest on her shoulder, a gesture they'd practiced, meaningless in its precision. Except his fingers tightened slightly, and she felt the pressure through the layers of fabric like a question she didn't know how to answer. "I'll give your father the full tour."
After the men departed, Eleanor practically vibrated with barely suppressed excitement as they settled in the morning room with tea and ledgers.
"Well?" her mother demanded the moment the door closed. "Tell me everything. Are you happy? Is he attentive? Have you—" she lowered her voice conspiratorially "—have there been any signs? You know what I mean."
Margaret's stomach tightened. "Signs of what, Mama?"
"Don't be coy, darling. An heir, of course. You've been married three years. Surely by now..."
"These things take time." Margaret focused intently on the household accounts, as though the cost of candles required her full attention.
"Time? Margaret, you're not getting any younger. And a man needs heirs, especially a man like Lord Blackwood. The title must continue." Eleanor leaned forward, her expression softening. "Is everything... all right? Between you and Edward? In the marital sense?"
Heat crept up Margaret's neck. "Mama, really—"
"I'm your mother. I have a right to know if my daughter is fulfilled in her marriage." Eleanor's voice dropped to a whisper. "Your father and I, we may have married for practical reasons initially, but we found genuine affection. Love, even. I want that for you, my darling."
Margaret's throat constricted. Her parents' marriage was a fairy tale she'd heard all her life. The dashing merchant and the farmer's daughter who'd risen together, built an empire together, grown to love each other through shared struggle and triumph. It was the story that had made her believe, briefly, that perhaps an arranged marriage might bloom into something real.
Three years had thoroughly disabused her of that notion.
"Edward and I are... finding our way," she said carefully. "These things can't be rushed."
"He seems devoted to you. The way he looks at you, touches you." Eleanor smiled. "I saw it yesterday. A mother notices these things."
Margaret thought about Edward's hand at her back, the brush of his thumb across her knuckles, his comment about her soft hands. Performance. All performance. Wasn't it?
"He's very... attentive," she managed.
They spent the rest of the morning reviewing accounts and discussing menus, but Margaret's mind wandered. She imagined Edward walking the estate with her father, pointing out improvements, discussing crop rotations and drainage ditches. He'd been up until all hours studying those reports, preparing for this moment.
Why did he care so much? Pride, surely. He didn't want to appear incompetent before her father. But there had been something almost desperate in the way he'd pored over those ledgers, making notes, calculating yields. As though proving his worth mattered more than simple pride demanded.
When the men returned for luncheon, her father was beaming.
"Excellent work, my boy. Truly excellent. The improvements to the cottages, the new equipment—you've been wise with the resources provided." William clapped Edward on the shoulder. "I confess, I had my doubts at first. But you've proven yourself a capable steward."
Something crossed in Edward's eyes—relief? vindication?—before his pleasant mask settled back into place. "I'm grateful for your confidence, sir. And for your continued support."
During the meal, Margaret watched her husband navigate her father's questions with practiced ease. But she saw things she'd never noticed before. The way his shoulders finally relaxed when William praised his management, the genuine engagement when discussing estate business, the careful pride in his voice when he mentioned tenant families by name.
He knew their names. When had he learned their names?
"Margaret's been invaluable in managing the household side," Edward said, and she startled at the mention of her name. "She reorganized the entire system for purchasing and storage. We've cut waste by nearly twenty percent."
Her father turned to her with approval. "Have you now? That's my girl."
But it was the look on Edward's face that caught her, something that might have been respect, or perhaps just excellent acting. He raised his wine glass slightly, a private toast visible only to her across the table.
She found herself raising her own glass in return, their eyes meeting over the crystal rim.
After lunch, her mother insisted on a walk through the gardens. Edward, trapped in another conversation with her father about proposed improvements to the stables, sent Margaret a look that might have been apologetic.
Or she might be imagining things. Reading meaning into glances the way a drowning person grasps at driftwood.
Eleanor linked her arm through Margaret's as they strolled the gravel paths. "He's very proud of you, you know."
"Who? Papa?"
"Edward, darling. The way he speaks of you." Her mother smiled. "I was worried, I'll admit. Arranged marriages can be difficult. But I see something real between you."
Margaret's laugh came out brittle. "Do you?"
"Yes. Even when you think no one's watching, he watches you. And you watch him." Eleanor squeezed her arm. "That's how it starts, you know. Awareness. Then curiosity. Then, if you're lucky, something deeper."
"Mama, you're being romantic."
"I'm being observant." They paused by the rose garden, where late blooms clung stubbornly to life despite the autumn chill. "Your father and I didn't start out in love. I've told you that story. But we chose each other every day. That's what marriage is, Margaret. Not a single choice, but a thousand small choices."
Margaret thought about Edward's hand on her back, his thumb across her knuckles, his soft acknowledgment of her contributions. Small choices. Were those small choices?
"What if those choices lead nowhere?" she asked quietly. "What if you choose and choose and choose, and the other person never chooses you back?"
Eleanor turned to study her daughter with a mother's penetrating gaze. "Has he not chosen you back? Or have you both been so busy protecting yourselves that neither of you has truly tried?"
The question lodged in Margaret's chest like a splinter.
That evening, they played cards after dinner—whist, her father's favorite. Margaret partnered with Edward, and they fell into an unexpected rhythm. He bid conservatively; she bid aggressively. He followed her lead without question. When they won the second rubber, his hand found hers under the table and squeezed briefly.
"Well played, partner," he murmured, and there was something warm in his voice that made her pulse stutter.
Later, in the corridor outside her chambers again, they lingered in that strange liminal space between performance and privacy.
"Your father's impressed," Edward said. "That's good."
"You worked hard for it."
"I had motivation." He leaned against the wall, and for once, his careful mask slipped. He looked tired. "Your father's approval means continued funding. Continued funding means keeping this estate—my family's estate—intact. Simple mathematics."
"Is that the only reason?" She didn't know why she asked. Didn't know what answer she wanted.
Edward's eyes met hers, and something complicated moved behind them. "What other reason would there be?"
Because you care. Because this place matters to you beyond money and obligation. Because maybe, just maybe, proving yourself has become about more than pride.
But she didn't say any of that. Instead: "No reason. I was simply curious."
"Curiosity," he repeated softly. "Dangerous thing, curiosity."
"Is it?"
"It leads to questions. Questions lead to answers. And sometimes answers are more complicated than the questions deserve."
They stood in the shadowed corridor, the space between them humming with unspoken things. Margaret thought about her mother's words—a thousand small choices. Was this one? This moment, this conversation that wasn't quite an argument but wasn't quite anything else either?
"Goodnight, Margaret."
"Goodnight, Edward."
He walked away, but she noticed he looked back once before turning the corner. And she noticed that she'd waited to see if he would.
In her room, Beatrice helped her undress in silence. Margaret caught her own reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, too-bright eyes, the look of someone balanced on the edge of something dangerous.
She thought about Edward studying ledgers until midnight. About him learning tenant names and defending her organizational skills. About his hand squeezing hers under the table, about the way exhaustion had cracked his perfect performance.
About the fact that she'd started noticing these things. Started caring about them.
Her mother's words echoed: That's how it starts. Awareness. Then curiosity.
Margaret climbed into bed and pulled the covers up, trying to ignore the uncomfortable truth settling in her chest.
It had already started. She just didn't know where it would end.