Saturday morning dawned gray and miserable, as though the weather had decided to match Margaret's mood.
She dressed mechanically, Beatrice chattering about something that Margaret couldn't focus on. Her parents were leaving. Edward was leaving. The house would be empty again, and she would have a week alone with her thoughts.
A week to drive herself mad with uncertainty.
The Thorntons' trunks were already being loaded when Margaret descended for breakfast. Edward was there, dressed for travel himself, deep in conversation with her father. He glanced up when she entered, and something flickered in his expression before the pleasant mask settled back into place.
Performance. They were performing again.
"Ah, there's my daughter," William said warmly. "Edward was just telling me about his trip to London. Business matters to settle."
"How dutiful," Margaret said, taking her seat.
Her mother studied her over the rim of her teacup. "You'll miss him, I imagine. A week is quite a long time."
"I'm sure I'll manage to occupy myself."
"I'm sure you will." Eleanor's tone suggested she knew exactly what Margaret would be doing: torturing herself with doubt and fear and want.
Breakfast was an exercise in carefully maintained civility. Edward passed Margaret the marmalade without being asked. She poured his coffee exactly as he preferred it, even though she'd never consciously noted how he took it. Their fingers brushed when he handed her the cream, and the contact sent electricity up her arm.
She pulled back too quickly, nearly knocking over her cup.
After the meal, they all assembled in the entrance hall for goodbyes. William embraced Edward with genuine warmth, something Margaret had never witnessed before.
"You've done well here, son. Very well indeed. I'm proud to have you in the family."
Edward's expression revealed something raw for just a moment before he controlled it. "Thank you, sir. That means more than you know."
Eleanor hugged Margaret tightly. "Listen to your heart, darling," she whispered. "Not your fear."
Then, because an audience demanded it, Edward turned to Margaret. He took her hand, his bandaged fingers awkward but gentle, and raised it to his lips. The gesture was perfectly proper, exactly what a devoted husband would do before a journey.
The brush of his lips against her knuckles burned.
"I'll write," he said, loud enough for her parents to hear.
"Safe travels," she managed.
His thumb stroked across the back of her hand once, hidden from view. A secret message only for her. Then he released her and stepped back.
The Thorntons' carriage rolled away first. Margaret stood on the steps watching it disappear down the drive, aware of Edward beside her, aware that they were finally, properly alone.
"I should go as well," he said quietly. "I want to reach London before dark."
"Of course."
They stood in awkward silence. A week ago they would have filled it with barbs and sarcasm. Now they had too much to say and no idea how to say it.
"Margaret—"
"Don't." She cut him off, unable to bear another goodbye. "Just go. Please."
He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded. "As you wish."
She went inside before his carriage pulled away, unable to watch him leave. From her chambers, she heard the rattle of wheels on gravel, the sound fading into distance.
And then silence.
Blackwood Manor felt cavernous without the bustle of guests, without Edward's presence filling the spaces between rooms. Margaret stood at her window and stared at nothing, already counting the hours until his return.
She was pathetic.
***
Three days passed in a fog of routine. Margaret reviewed household accounts. She walked the gardens. She read the same page of her novel seven times without retaining a single word.
No letter came from Edward.
She told herself she hadn't expected one. He'd said he would write in front of her parents, but that was performance. He was probably too busy closing up the townhouse to think about correspondence.
She told herself it didn't hurt.
On Wednesday afternoon, Margaret was in the library when Mrs. Dawson appeared with a peculiar expression.
"My lady, you have a visitor."
"I'm not receiving today, Mrs. Dawson. Send them away."
"I think you'll want to receive this one, my lady." The housekeeper's tone was odd. "It's Lady Ashford."
Margaret's blood turned to ice. "Tell her I'm not at home."
"I did, my lady. She said she'd wait. She's been sitting in her carriage outside the gates for the past hour. The footman says she's quite determined."
Of course she was. Caroline Ashford didn't take rejection well, and Edward had rejected her. Now she'd come to... what? Gloat? Cause trouble? Stake some sort of claim?
"Fine." Margaret set down her book with deliberate care. "Show her to the drawing room. And Mrs. Dawson? Have two footmen remain within earshot."
If Caroline intended drama, Margaret would be prepared.
Lady Ashford swept into the drawing room like a golden storm, all careful curls and fashionable silk. She was beautiful in the way expensive things were beautiful, cold and perfect and untouchable.
"Lady Blackwood. How kind of you to receive me after all."
"You gave me little choice, camping outside my gates like a brigand." Margaret remained standing, refusing the pretense of hospitality. "What do you want, Lady Ashford?"
"Such hostility. And here I came in friendship." Caroline arranged herself on the sofa with practiced grace. "I thought you should know that Edward was in London yesterday."
"I'm aware. He has business there."
"Business." Caroline's laugh was crystalline and cruel. "Is that what he told you? How sweet."
Margaret's jaw tightened. "Say what you came to say and leave."
"Very well. I saw Edward yesterday evening. At the Ashford townhouse. We dined together. Quite intimately." She paused, letting the words sink in. "He stayed until nearly midnight."
The room tilted slightly. Margaret gripped the back of a chair to steady herself.
"You're lying."
"Am I? He wore a dark blue jacket, gray waistcoat. His hands are still bandaged, though less heavily than before. He favored the left when lifting his wine glass. We discussed the fire, the estate, his plans." Caroline's smile was poison. "We discussed you, actually. At length."
The details were too specific to be fabricated. Margaret felt something crack in her chest.
"What did he say about me?"
"That you'd asked for time. That you needed space to consider your marriage. That he was giving you a week to decide whether you wanted him." Caroline leaned forward. "And that while you were deciding, he saw no reason not to enjoy the company of someone who actually appreciated him."
"No." But the word came out weak, uncertain.
"Oh yes. I'm afraid your husband isn't quite as reformed as he'd like you to believe. He came back to me, Margaret. Just as I knew he would. Men like Edward don't change. They simply get better at pretending."
Margaret's mind raced. Edward had promised. He'd stood in his chambers and told her he'd ended things with Caroline. He'd touched her face and said he wanted to discover her, to start over.
He'd kissed her forehead and said he'd miss her.
Had it all been lies?
"Get out," Margaret said quietly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Get. Out." She moved to the door and yanked it open. "Leave my home immediately, or I'll have you thrown out."
Caroline rose gracefully, unruffled. "I'm simply being honest with you, my dear. Edward and I have history. We understand each other. You're his wife in name and legal necessity, but I'm the one he comes to when he wants real companionship. The sooner you accept that, the easier your life will be."
"If you're so confident in your position, why come here? Why tell me any of this?" Margaret's voice shook with fury and fear. "Unless you're not confident at all. Unless Edward really did end things with you, and this is your desperate attempt to sabotage whatever he and I might build."
Something flickered in Caroline's eyes. Uncertainty, perhaps. Or rage.
"Believe what you like. But he was with me last night. That's fact, not fiction." She swept past Margaret. "I'll show myself out."
After Caroline left, Margaret stood in the empty drawing room, her entire body trembling. The reasonable part of her brain insisted that Caroline was lying, manipulating, trying to poison what was growing between her and Edward.
But the part of her that had lived three years in a marriage built on resentment whispered that perhaps Caroline was telling the truth. That perhaps Edward had gone to London and realized he didn't want to give up his old life after all. That perhaps the week apart had given him clarity, just not the kind Margaret had hoped for.
She thought about his distance after her parents arrived. About how he'd kept away from her the past few days, never seeking her out, never pushing.
What if he'd already been pulling away? Already regretting his pretty speeches about starting over?
What if she'd been fool enough to hope, and he'd been planning his retreat all along?
That evening, Margaret sat alone at the long dining table, too upset to eat. She'd sent word to Cook that she had no appetite, but Mrs. Dawson had insisted on at least soup and bread.
She was pushing food around her bowl when Beatrice appeared with a silver salver.
"A letter arrived for you, my lady. Messenger just brought it from London."
Margaret's heart lurched. She took the letter with trembling fingers, recognizing Edward's handwriting on the envelope.
After Beatrice left, she stared at the sealed paper for a long time. Whatever was inside would either ease her fears or confirm them. Once she opened it, she would know.
She broke the seal.
My dear Margaret,
I'm writing this by candlelight in what used to be my study at the townhouse. Most of my belongings have been packed and sent to Blackwood Manor. Tomorrow I close this chapter of my life permanently.
I've been thinking about what you said before I left. About needing certainty. About being afraid I would change my mind. I want to address those fears now, in writing, so you have something concrete to hold onto.
I won't change my mind. These days in London have only confirmed what I already knew. This city feels empty to me now. The clubs I used to frequent seem hollow and pointless. The friends I thought I had reveal themselves as mere acquaintances, interested in drinking and gambling and gossip but knowing nothing of substance about me.
I don't belong here anymore, Margaret. I belong with you.
Margaret's hands shook. She read on.
Tomorrow I'm dining with my solicitor to finalize the sale of this house. I know you worry about my connections to London, so I want you to know that after tomorrow, I'll have no reason to return to town except for business so brief I could accomplish it in an afternoon.
I'm coming home to you. To Blackwood Manor. To the life we could build together if you'll let me try.
I miss you. More than I imagined possible. I miss your sharp wit, your careful composure that cracks at unexpected moments. I miss the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching, equal parts suspicion and something that might be hope.
Three more days, and I'll be home. I'll court you properly. I'll earn your trust. I'll prove that what's growing between us is real and worth protecting.
Wait for me.
Yours,
Edward
Margaret read the letter three times, tears streaming down her face.
He'd dined with his solicitor. Not Caroline. His solicitor.
Caroline had lied. Or twisted the truth. Or seen Edward somewhere in London and fabricated the rest to drive a wedge between them.
Relief flooded through her, so intense it was almost painful.
He was coming home. He'd chosen her. He was—
Wait.
Margaret's mind caught on a detail. Edward had written that he was dining with his solicitor tomorrow. This letter was dated yesterday. Which meant the dinner with his solicitor would have been last night.
Last night, when Caroline claimed to have seen him.
Caroline could have seen Edward in London. Could have watched him arrive at what she assumed was her townhouse. Could have constructed her story around a kernel of truth, knowing Margaret would have no way to verify the details.
Or Edward could be lying. The letter could be one more performance, carefully crafted to keep Margaret hoping while he lived his actual life in London.
Margaret pressed her hands to her temples. This was madness. She was driving herself mad with suspicion and doubt.
But that was the problem with broken trust. Once shattered, it didn't just repair itself. Every word became suspect. Every gesture required examination.
She thought about Edward's face when he'd touched her cheek in his chambers. The exhaustion in his eyes. The vulnerability when he'd admitted to being afraid.
Had that been real? Or had she seen what she wanted to see?
Margaret folded the letter carefully and carried it up to her chambers. She placed it in her bedside drawer, next to the scandalous novel she kept hidden there, the one Edward had somehow known about without ever being told.
Three more days until he returned.
Three more days to decide whether to believe in him or protect herself.
She lay in bed that night, staring at the canopy, replaying every conversation, every touch, every promise. Looking for proof. For certainty.
For some sign that would tell her whether to open her heart or guard it more carefully than ever.
But certainty, she was learning, was an illusion.
All she had was choice.
And she had three more days to make it.