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And that is what I wish to give to you, my dearest, most brilliant, Mariah. Harrison and I will take care of all the plans you have made to get the tenements built. You are to take the time and space to write as much or as little as you wish. You have borne the burden of caring for this town and this estate for so long, which I know you do not see as a burden, but let us carry it with you.

Thank you for reading my testament, I know no greater honor than being your husband, and I am proud to call you my wife. It is my privilege to help you achieve your dreams. I hope someday you will believe me.

As Mariah finished reading, her legs gave out beneath her, and she was caught by the leather wingback chair behind her.

I hope someday you will believe me.

With the back of her eyes burning, she took in the warm, cozy room around her, the view of Bailey Hall at its best, and sighed from the depths of her soul.

At last, she might be starting to believe him.

10

Every day a letter arrived from her husband with a new present even more wonderful than the apricot jam: marzipan one day and French truffles the next. One day it was a new notebook, oxblood red and bound in leather. Mariah had held it to her nose, relishing the smell of crisp paper and leather.

Never had she been the recipient of such bespoke gifts, curated treasures that reflected small delights she had noted in passing. While her father was far from a penurious or cold-hearted man, his mind remained consumed by the demands of the mills, leaving little room for sentimental indulgences.

Each letter told more of the story beyond Lord St. George. Some described his experience building the tenements, noting Harrison’s inherent gift for command, while others remarked upon the surprising humor of Sergeant Humphries, whose spirit remained unbowed by the horrors he had witnessed during the war.

Each day, the gifts and the letters chipped away at the walls she had erected around her heart, like the bird who sharpened its beak on the mountain in the children’s story. When the mountain turned to dust, one second of eternity passed.

When Mariah could not contain that bird within her chest, she wrote. Some days, having unlimited time and space to write was overwhelming, and she found herself of all things, napping. Or reading the beautiful collected Shakespeare that James had gifted her.

But some days she did write. She was finally able to traverse beyond Grace O’Malley’s childhood, into her marriages, and her fraught meeting with Queen Elizabeth. Writing without distraction or worry over the town was liberating beyond words.

Inevitably, there were moments when a shadow of concern clouded her mind. That afternoon, instead of a lengthy letter, she received a succinct note from James, wherein he sought both an audience and a favor, remarking that the delicate nature of his request necessitated a personal explanation.

She sent a quick word that he could visit that day, then immediately raced toward her chambers.

Mariah had never been the type of woman to worry over her looking glass, having never had the time. She was aware that she needed to project a certain image as the wife of a baron, so she had always chosen her clothing carefully. She went to a modiste in Sheffield, and occasionally one in Manchester. She ought to have a lady’s maid, but she scoffed at the thought of someone waiting on her hand and foot, so she had Mrs. Applewhite or a maid help her with her hair or a grand dress on rare occasions when needed.

Gazing at the woman in the looking glass, she ran her hands down her forest green morning gown. She was not wearing the pagoda sleeves that were en vogue these days, because she had difficulty using her hands to write when she wore them. Similarly, she dismissed the impracticality of the sprawling hoops popular in London. Such opulent fashions were entirely ill-suited for the close confines of the mill, where layers of crinoline might easily invite disaster.

She huffed at the mirror, her breath momentarily fogging the glass, annoyed at herself over the possibility that she might care what James thought when he saw her.

Abandoning her reflection, she ensured she was deeply immersed in writing at her escritoire the moment James arrived, maintaining a mask of studied indifference.

Her composure rattled quite a bit when she finally looked up from her writing to find her husband’s eyes intensely locked on her. Unbidden gooseflesh arose across her body at the fierceness of his gaze.

This was how I wished he’d looked at me when we first were wed. Too bad that it’s too late for that.

But was it?

“My lord,” she said, rising. A tic in his jaw revealed he might have issue with her use of his title yet he said nothing.

“I had been m-meaning to thank you⁠—”

“There is no need. It is my pleasure and privilege to send you something every day. It does not bother you?”

Mariah shook her head, unable to speak. She rolled her lips together to make sure they were not hanging open in surprise at his concern.

“I know you asked me to leave, but I needed to speak with you today and Harrison could not be spared.” Gone was the impeccably groomed aristocrat she had previously encountered. While his clothing was still fine and well-made, she noted the wool and linen were local, causing a pang in the region of her chest.

“You n-need not use your brother as a messenger, James.” A sharp, uneven breath escaped him at the sound of his Christian name, and Mariah was forced to cross her legs beneath the rosewood escritoire as a traitorous pulse of awareness crested within her at his visible response. “This is your h-home. You are always welcome here.”

“Am I?” The crack in his voice was another chip at that wall of eternity inside of her.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “You n-need not stay at the Crown and the Loom, as this will always be your home.”