Emma's heart hammered. Does he know about this? Not yet. I only confirmed it last night. I'm telling you first because, Thornhill hesitated. Because I need to know if you're willing to fight for him. What? If I give Charles hope, if I show him a way out, he'll take it. He'll break the engagement. He'll fight for you. But Miss Ashford, his voice turned serious. Society will crucify him for it. Beatrice and her family won't go quietly. There will be scandal, gossip, years of rebuilding his reputation.
I know. And he'll do it anyway. For you. Because he loves you more than he fears their judgment. Thornhill stepped closer. But I need to know if you love him enough to stand beside him through that. Through the whispers and the closed doors and the long slow climb back to respectability. Because if you're going to leave anyway, if you're planning to take Beatrice's money and disappear, then I won't tell him. I'll let him marry her and at least have the cold comfort of duty fulfilled.
Emma stared at him. At the document on the table. At the possibility laid out before her like a gift and a test. She told you, Emma said quietly. About the money. She told Charles yesterday. Bragged about it, actually. Said she'd solved his little problem for him. Thornhill's expression turned disgusted. He nearly destroyed his study when he heard. I've never seen him that angry.
Emma's breath caught. He knows I met with her. He knows she offered you money to leave. He doesn't know if you took it. I didn't. Then why is he convinced you're gone? The question hung in the air, accusatory and desperate. Because I was considering it, Emma admitted, her voice breaking. Because she was right about one thing. I'm making everything harder for him. Every day I stay, every moment we steal, it just makes the inevitable goodbye more painful.
Or, Thornhill said gently, it makes the fight worth fighting. Emma closed her eyes, felt tears slip down her cheeks. I don't know if I'm strong enough for this. Neither does he. But maybe, just maybe, you're strong enough together. Thornhill picked up the document, folding it carefully. I'm going to Charles tonight. I'm going to show him this. Give him hope. And then he's going to come to you. Tomorrow, probably. Maybe tonight if he can't wait.
What do I tell him? The truth. Whatever that is for you. Thornhill moved toward the door, then paused. But Miss Ashford, Emma, before you decide, ask yourself one question. What question? What would 7-year-old Emma want you to do? He left before she could answer.
Emma stood alone in the drawing room, her reflection ghostly in the window glass. Outside, London moved on, carriages and pedestrians and the endless machinery of society. She thought of that little girl in the garden. The one who'd taken a sad boy's hand and promised to marry him. The one who'd believed in impossible things. What would she want? Emma already knew the answer. She'd want Emma to fight.
Night fell. Emma couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't do anything but pace her room and wait. Thornhill said Charles would come tomorrow. Or maybe tonight. She needed to be ready. Needed to know what she'd say when he appeared at her door. Hope and desperation written across his face. Stay or go. Fight or flee. Love or duty. The same choice she'd been circling for weeks.
Except now there was a third option. A narrow, dangerous path between the two extremes. Stay and fight together. Emma moved to her drawer, pulled out Beatrice's envelope, the seal still unbroken. For a moment she held it, felt the weight of the easy choice. Then she walked to the fireplace and threw it in. The envelope caught immediately, flames devouring Beatrice's bribe, turning her certainty to ash.