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That thought warmed her. Not the ridicule, of course, but that Harrison was her friend. Somehow it felt less lonely.

Harrison was already in the cavernous drawing room when she entered. A shiver passed through her upon crossing the threshold, for the room possessed an aura not unlike a mausoleum. The somber mahogany and the faded portraits of Reeds past seemed to seep from the walls like cold ash.

“My lady,” Harrison began as he rose, his clothing muted and plain, unlike his flashier brother. “Please forgive my actions, I know what the assembly hall means—” he trailed off as she waved his words away.

“There is n-nothing to forgive. And you may always call me Mariah. You are f-family after all. Please, sit.” She gestured as she rang the bell pull for tea.

Ellis entered with a footman carrying a tea tray. “Master Harrison!” he exclaimed before he could stop himself, then gestured for the footman to exit after the man had set down the tray, as if embarrassed by his momentary loss of decorum.

“Ellis.” Harrison rose and grasped the man by the hand as if an old friend and not a member of the staff. Mariah studied her brother-in-law, acutely aware that she had not known him well before the war. It was likely that interacting with men of a different station than his own had changed him. From his letters, she guessed that he was not only physically altered by the war, but also spiritually.

“I had not seen you since the war, Master Harrison, that is, Captain Reed,” the older man corrected himself.

“You may always call me Harry. You knew me when I wore short pants.”

“Good to see you alive and well, captain.” Ellis said with a nod before exiting the room. At his words, the lines on Harrison’s face tightened. Poor Harrison, Mariah mused silently. He had found new purpose after years of searching for it, but it still seemed he was not at peace.

Mariah had few occasions to act the hostess at Bailey Hall, but she poured the tea for both of them. A small burst of unexpected pride filled her as Harrison sighed after his first sip of her favorite mint tea. While she may be considered common to some, at least she had not faltered in the particular social grace of pouring a good cup of tea.

Harrison surveyed the drawing room, his gaze narrowing on a canvas of the Reed family that sat above the mantel. He abruptly set down his tea, ratting the cup before he turned back to Mariah.

“I was surprised to receive word from my brother. He has returned to London.”

“Yes,” Mariah said evenly, also setting down her tea. She did not wish to betray any wariness about the subject. Despite their connection through James, they did not speak of him often. “I asked him to l-leave and he did.”

Harrison’s brow furrowed, which had the unfortunate result of pinching the rest of what was exposed of his face. “Did he speak to you before he left?”

“He did,” Mariah replied, with the same intentionally measured voice.

Harrison watched her for a moment and Mariah was swamped again by that sense of isolation. That loneliness. Perhaps she could confide in Harrison.

“He apologized, in f-fact.” Harrison’s eyebrow shot up at her words. “He…said that he wished us to s-start over, that he wa—” She almost said falling in love with me but that somehow felt too intimate. She was not sure what to do with that information yet and she did not trust it, so she offered something else. “He said that h-he wished to be a husband to me. A b-better husband.”

“Do you believe him, or do you think he was just attempting to use you to influence your father?”

The idea had occurred to her since James had left. Yet…

“I don’t know. I do not trust his s-sudden change, but …he was so earnest, Harrison. So different. He did not mention my father once.” Harrison opened his mouth to speak. “I am not saying I believe him, but I am also not saying I b-believe the worst of him.”

Harrison sat back in the aged oxblood leather chair across from her. It still struck her as strange that she was playing hostess in the drawing room at his family estate, but these were strange times. The world was changing. But it was far too slow for her liking. “He wrote me something additional,” Harrison began and paused. “James said he owed me an apology and that he would return to Barnsley before Christmas.”

A sharp, uneven breath escaped Mariah at Harrison’s revelation, yet he forged ahead with his explanation before she could summon a word of response. “He also asked if I could recommend a room at the Crown and the Loom, for he would not stay at Bailey Hall if it made you uncomfortable.”

“How s-silly,” Mariah remarked, when it sounded anything but silly. “It is h-his estate, he can do as he likes.”

“I too do not know what to make of it. I’ll believe he has changed when I actually see it.” Harrison’s gaze returned briefly to the family portrait before it skittered back to capture her attention once more. “Come, let us discuss something else.”

They spent the next hour reviewing Harrison’s plans for the tenements. While it did not necessarily give her the same sense of wonder and purpose that writing or envisioning the assembly hall as a theater created in her chest, watching the plans come together still unleashed a deep satisfaction within her. That they had the power and ability to do something about people living in squalor. Moreover, it offered meaningful labor for Harrison and the sappers he had recruited. Men who had been forsaken by a society that failed to accord them the respect they had earned upon their return from the bloodied trenches of the Crimea.

Once Harrison rose to leave, his gaze returned once more to the portrait, only this time, his focus was not on his previously whole face, but the handsome countenance of his older brother, James. Rooted before the image, which bore a strong resemblance to the one of Bedford Grange in the breakfast room, Harrison addressed Mariah without ever averting his eyes from the portrait.

“When he apologized, did you forgive him?”

Mariah drew a labored breath, rising to stand beside Harrison. For a fleeting instant, she allowed herself to linger on her husband. In the painting stood a handsome young man whose entire face was alight. Likely with his dreams of travel at the time. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself an ounce of empathy for that young man.

“I d-did,” she admitted.

“But you did not invite him to stay as your husband. You still asked him to leave?”