Haverhill was sitting in the steward’s study, balancing accounts. To be perfectly accurate, the study was actually one of his employer’s studies. However, it was on the first floor, and John vastly preferred the studies on the upper floors, and thus Haverhill had appropriated this one for his own use. The bookshelves were now half-empty, and the volumes that were there were account-books for the various aspects of the running of the great town-house. Haverhill was currently poring over the receipts for raw foodstuffs from the last quarter that the housekeeper had turned in to him, a pair of small spectacles perched on his nose to counteract his far-sightedness. He was just getting to the meats section when there was an interruption.

Miss Gantry, the fourth house-maid, tapped on the open door to the room very deferentially, as if she were afraid to disturb him yet at the same time afraid not to. As she was quite young and had only just started, he took care to appear perfectly pacifistic and not at all alarming, modifying his features into an easy expression as soon as he saw whom it was. Lifting the spectacles from his nose and wiping them on a handkerchief, Haverhill looked at her. “Yes, Miss Gantry?”
“Sir, an’ I’m sorry to disturb, but there’s a lady in the drawing-room.”
“Very well, Miss Gantry. I’m sure I don’t need to be informed. You ought to have gone for Lord Wothersham or one of his sisters, whichever she wanted to see.” Inwardly, he frowned. Gantry ought not to have made that mistake, even though she was new. She had seemed to have better sense than that.
“I’m sorry, sir. Only, it was you she asked for, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
Haverhill’s eyebrows rose, but he stood at once. “Then please inform her that I shall be there directly. Have you her name or a card?”
“She said she’d rather not, sir.”
“I see. Very well, then. You may go.”

Gantry left without any reply other than a curtsey, and Haverhill stood by his chair for a moment. A woman who called on him at his place of work, and left no card… it could be anybody, of course, but experience and a particular dread of one specific such visitor led him to conclude at once that it must be Mrs Barrett. Mrs Barrett had been born a Cadding in Haverford, and had been his greatest friend when he had been a young hoodlum and had continued in the capacity until he had been forced to flee to London.

Because he could not give his identity away, they had had no communication over the years, until one day she had shown up out of the blue in Edinburgh, calling on him. He still did not know how she had managed to track him down where the law had failed—except that possibly she had more diligence in the pursuit. However she had done it, she had then become a nuisance in Edinburgh because of a rather singular goal that she pursued with tenacity. He had been forced to be quite blunt, and he had not seen her again since then. That had been nineteen years ago. There was no reason to suspect she had now come back… except that he was sure it was her. He knew no other women that would call on him.

He put down the spectacles with a sigh. There was no use putting off seeing her. He might as well go and find out what she wanted this time. He walked out of the study, down the hall, and to the drawing-room. His prediction was immediately proved accurate: Mrs Barrett rose from her seat and came towards him, extending her hand. He shut the door behind himself as she said, “Mr Haverhill! It is so good to see you!”
Haverhill took her hand, bowing over it without kissing it, and acknowledged her with, “Mrs Barrett.”
She laughed. “Oh, do not be so formal. Are you not glad to see me?”
“Of course I am glad to see you.”
“You will forgive me if I observe that you seem a little disturbed.”
“I would forgive you much more than that, as well you know.”
Mrs Barrett smiled and said, “Well, then, you may as well tell me what is the matter.”
Haverhill, foreseeing a repeat of a scene that had occurred before, and wishing to avoid it, emphasized his words with care. “There is nothing the matter with seeing an old friend.”
Mrs Barrett’s face fell slightly, but she only replied, “If you will not tell me, then I will be forced to guess.”
“Your guess will doubtless be perspicacious.”
“Doubtless. You are upset because I have come to this place on Waverley-street.”
“I am not upset. I am merely troubled by it.”
“I do not see why you should be so.”
Haverhill sighed. “Mrs Barrett, let us not pretend. We are too old for it.”

There was a pregnant pause. Each looked at the other, but finally Mrs Barrett was the one to back down. She glanced at the small purse she held, fiddled for a moment with the buttons on the backs of her gloves, and then looked back at Haverhill. She did not, however, he noted, stop pretending, picking up the conversation where she had left off instead of getting directly to her reason for visiting. She said, “Very well. You are… troubled… because I have come here.”
Haverhill let the pretence go, not wanting to spark an argument. “Quite so. I work here. You should not come here to see me.”
She said irritably, “Indeed! Well, I think it very kind of you to welcome me so, and especially when there is no other place I can see you reliably!”
He said nothing, shifting. It was a valid point. He did not keep any regular schedule anywhere else except inside the Waverley-street house, and sometimes not even there.
Mrs Barrett continued, pointing out just what he had been thinking. “You have no regular schedule where I can see you outside of this place; you keep always to business, or you are here. You have even taken your quarters in this house!”
“I should be interested to know how you know all this.”
“People talk to me. You of all people should know what one person can find out about another simply by asking.”
“Indeed. You still should not have come. Servants have lost their employment for less than a visit from a lady.”
She snorted derisively. “You are hardly a common servant. You are this Wothersham’s steward.”
“I am also his—“
Mrs Barrett joined in his protest, her words overlapping with his. “His butler and his valet.”
Haverhill shut his mouth, watching her silently.
“You do virtually nothing as the latter, and very nearly the same as the former. You have all the authority of the steward and are treated as a respected friend. Do not try and pretend that you will suffer any ill from my visit.”
He winced at her reminder of his former request that they not pretend with each other. “Who have you been talking to?”
“A very nice girl by the name of Mary Doyle.”

Haverhill’s lips thinned, and there was another silence. She had been talking to the guests of his master’s house, accosting them in order to inquire about him. Knowing her, it would be an accidental meeting, and she would have got all the information she needed or wanted out of a single brief conversation, but still, it was intensely aggravating. John’s guests ought not to be bothered with inquires after his steward!
Eventually, Mrs Barrett seemed to realise that he was actually angry. She said softly, “Oh, Haverhill. Why must it always be like this?”
Haverhill replied coldly, “You know why.”
She chose to ignore that and continued on another line of conversation. “You have not seen me in some years.”
He kept his replies just as pointed and cold as before. “Yes.”
“As you see, my situation has improved since I last saw you.”
“I see. Who was he?”
“You never did pretend with me, did you? Sometimes I am thankful.”
Haverhill shrugged.
“And other times I could almost hate you. He was Barrett’s brother, so I am still Mrs Barrett.”
Very unsympathetically, Haverhill asked, “Does he live?”
She replied just as unemotionally, “No.”
Slightly more gently, he said, “You have my condolences.”
She waved a negligent hand. “No need. I did not love him. What you have wrought through effort, I obtained through marriage.”
“It could be said to be just as much effort.”
“Not for me.”

There was yet another silence, and finally Haverhill realised that he would have to prompt her to get to the point. She seemed remarkably reluctant to get the whole business over with, and while he could understand that, he also wished it to be over as soon as possible. So he inquired, “Why have you come?”
Mrs Barrett smiled sardonically. “Now it is my turn to say, ‘You know why.’”
“Mrs Barrett, my position on the matter has not altered.”
“I am no longer married.”
“That never made any difference, as well you know.”
“You have never married. Can I not hope?”
“I cannot stop you, but it would be wrong for me to encourage it.”
“No, you never could stop me doing as I wished, could you?”
“I never wanted to.”
“No, you never did. You always were my best friend.”
“I have always been fond of you.”
“I know. I know. Can it never be more?”
“I would not deceive you.”
“I have been Mrs Kildare, Mrs Godfrey, Mrs Arthur Barrett, and Mrs Henry Barrett, and yet I have only ever wanted to be Mrs Haverhill.”
And this was the part that always ripped at Haverhill, but that he could not relent on. He said stonily, “It cannot happen.”

She just looked at him, but could not keep up her calm façade. Her lip quivered, and she began to cry, tears seeping soundlessly out of her eyes. Yet her voice was still steady as she asked, “Why?”
Haverhill felt guilty, just as he had when they had had this conversation before, nineteen years ago. He said the only thing he could. “I am sorry.”
She started crying in earnest, hugging herself and shivering. He suddenly thought how small she was, and how pitiable her situation, loving a man who did not love her in return, at least not that way. She breathed raggedly, “Why can’t you love me?”
Sadly, guiltily, yet at the same time unapologetic, Haverhill stepped forward and embraced her gently. He remembered the times when he had held her before—when her younger brother died, when she told him she had aborted another man’s baby, when she had been beaten by a rival group for hanging with his crowd—and he felt acutely miserable. He sighed. “Oh, Margaret. I love you as well as I am able. I can love you no better.”
She just cried into his chest for a while, but eventually she began to calm down, and then stepped out of his arms. “You have always been kind to me.”
For once at a loss for words, Haverhill said nothing.
“And I know it was you who sent the money after mum died, before I married.”
He acknowledged it. “It was.”
“It meant a lot. To everyone. But especially to me.”
He again found nothing to say.
“And you have always been honest.”
“To you, yes.”
“To me is what matters to me. I have always appreciated it. Even—” She started to cry again, and continued raggedly, “Even when I don’t seem to. I always appreciate it later.”
Haverhill said helplessly, “I am truly sorry it cannot be as you wish.”
Mrs Barrett sighed. “So am I.”

It seemed that there was nothing else that could be said, and in the thundering quiet, they both heard the front door open. Mrs Barrett took the opportunity to begin excusing herself, bringing the visit to an end. “I should not have done this to you. I had better leave.”
Haverhill nodded, but said, “I am sorry.”
“It is not your fault. You cannot make yourself love me anymore than I can make myself not love you.”
Trying to be reconciliatory and move past the previous discussion, Haverhill opened the drawing-room door and said, “You are welcome to come back any time. You are right that I will not face consequence for it.”
They walked toward the front door together, and she said, “I would like to. I will not speak again on what cannot be.”
“I will always be your friend. Nothing can take that from you.”
She touched his face, the lightest brush of her fingers. “I know.”
Her fingers dropped, and he escorted her to the vestibule. They passed Helen Hardacre on the way, and but she only nodded courteously without speaking, though she looked after them curiously after they had passed.

At the door, Mrs Barrett said formally, “Good day, Mr Haverhill.”
He replied just as formally, “Good day, Mrs Barrett.”
She turned and left, and he shut the door. He stood there meditatively for a moment, before a voice from behind called him to the present. Mrs Hardacre asked, “Haverhill? Who was that?”
He replied, “An old friend, Mrs Hardacre.”
She inquired, “An old friend?”
He did not supply the elaboration she asked for, saying only, “Yes.”
“Oh.” He could see her thinking about that, and supplying her own hypothesis as to his receiving a female visitor, and then she added cheerfully, “Oh! I am happy for you!”
He replied calmly, “I believe you are mistaken. She is merely a friend.”
“Oh.” She gave a bemused smile, and then shrugged. “Well, then I am happy for you anyway. It is always a good thing to meet with old acquaintances.”
Haverhill bowed, and, perhaps sensing that he was not in the most communicative nor joyful of moods, Mrs Hardacre went away, leaving him to his private thoughts.