Mr. Blyth woke at the break of dawn, the pale light slicing softly across the ceiling in long, golden strips. For a moment, he remained still, blinking up at the muted gray of early morning. The house held its breath around him, filled with the kind of silence that settles just before the day begins—before hearths are stoked, kettles clatter, and the world resumes its habitual demands. In that quiet, he could almost believe in the possibility of stillness.
He rose without ceremony. His dressing was quick, unhesitating—not rushed, but deliberate. Rather than reaching for the usual black trousers and somber waistcoat, garments chosen more by routine than preference, he paused. His hand instead found beige—softer, more yielding—and he stepped into them with the kind of ease that comes not from habit, but from intent. Over his shirt he shrugged into a red waistcoat, its burnished buttons catching what little light seeped through the curtains. The faint floral lining, once hidden away and forgotten, now felt oddly fitting. He had not worn it in months—perhaps years. He might never have worn it again, had this morning not invited something different.
There was something humming beneath his skin—not quite exhilaration, but something near to it. A steady, low-throbbing anticipation stirred within him—not born of certainty, for he was not sure of her, nor of himself, nor of how the day might unfold—but because, for once, he had chosen. Chosen to act. Chosen to step forward, even if the path ahead remained obscured by fog. It was a sensation unfamiliar to him, this quiet resolve, unanchored to expectation.
Standing before the mirror set into the door of his wardrobe, he studied the figure staring back. The reflection was recognizably his own, and yet something in it had shifted. Not changed, precisely, but steadied. The difference was subtle—a softening about the mouth, perhaps, or a new stillness in the eyes. A quietness that was not retreat, but readiness. Here stood a man no longer waiting for the day to come to him, but walking into it.
He left his room with quiet haste, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that felt—strangely—like resolve. His boots struck the hallway floor with more speed than grace, a steady thud-thud-thud echoing faintly down the stairwell as he descended two steps at a time, one hand skimming the banister more for rhythm than for balance. His jacket sat askew, his waistcoat still settling across his shoulders from the hurried way he had thrown it on.
The house remained wrapped in its morning hush, suspended delicately between sleep and industry. Light had only just begun to stretch across the polished floors, casting long, golden reflections through the narrow windows of the front hall. As he reached the final step, he nearly collided with Mrs. Redley emerging from the side corridor, a stack of freshly laundered linens balanced in her arms like offerings at an altar.
She halted abruptly, blinking up at him as if he were a ghost. Or worse—a Blyth in high spirits.
Her brows arched. "Mr. Blyth," she said, her voice careful, dipping into a brief curtsy. "You're… early."
"Good morning, Mrs. Redley," he returned, his tone uncharacteristically light—almost cheerful, though the cheer came less from joy than from the fierce momentum of having decided.
He nodded and swept past her without another word. She lingered, glancing after him with a look that hovered somewhere between suspicion and quiet concern.
At the foyer table, he reached for his top hat, sweeping it up with a flick of the wrist so practiced it bordered on thoughtless. His overcoat followed—slung over one shoulder with familiar ease—though the lining caught momentarily on the edge of the hallway mirror, as though reluctant to let him go. He made no effort to fix it.
One hand already upon the front door, he cast a final glance over the hall—not wistful, not theatrical, merely still. As though to take the measure of the moment and quietly commit it to memory. Then he stepped outside, letting the door fall shut behind him with a soft, resolute thud.
The morning air met him like a draught of clarity. Cool and damp with the remnants of dawn, yet already carrying a whisper of warmth—the sort that hinted, gently but insistently, at the turning of the season. Birds stirred in the hedgerows, their calls sharp against the hush. Along the edges of the drive, the grass remained tipped in dew, each blade catching the early light like glass.
He adjusted his hat and, rather than turning down the path toward town—toward letters, markets, and routine—he struck out in the opposite direction, toward the trees, toward the fields, and toward whatever waited beneath the flowering branches.
He walked with purpose, though his pace was unhurried—the sort of stride meant not for haste, but for clarity, as if each step through the morning were drawing him closer not just to a place, but to a decision. The path curved along the edge of Elversford, tracing the gentle rise and fall of the countryside with the kind of familiarity born only of time. Birds stirred softly in the hedgerows, their songs shy and tentative in the pale hush of dawn, while behind him the sun climbed steadily, gilding the thatched roofs and ivy-covered chimneys in light.
In time, he reached the old cobbled bridge at the edge of town, its modest arch spanning a quiet brook that burbled softly beneath, the water clear and slow and lined with rushes. The stones beneath his feet were worn smooth with memory—by hooves, by boots, by wheels and weather. Beyond this point, the village fell away. The trim gardens and whitewashed walls gave over to open fields and distant copses, where fences were often suggestions and the hedges rambled as they pleased. Just before the bridge stood the last of the gaslamps, its iron base rusting in patches where dew had lingered too long, as if uncertain whether it still belonged to the world of civility or had surrendered to the countryside altogether.
Mr. Blyth paused there, one hand resting lightly on the railing where lichen spread in a pattern like a forgotten map, and let his gaze drift forward—not in hesitation, but in acknowledgment. What lay beyond the bridge was no longer part of his daily round of obligations or appearances. What lay beyond was choice. He squared his shoulders, stepped off the stone, and walked on.
On the other side of the bridge, just beyond its moss-darkened lip and to the right where the hedge dipped low, stretched a modest grove of Burlat cherry trees belonging to the Darrow estate. They rose in quiet rows, their trunks twisting with age and grace, each one crowned in a profusion of early blossom. Pale pink and white petals—characteristic of the Early Burlat's spring flourish—fluttered in the morning breeze, some clinging delicately to the branches above, others already surrendered to the earth below. The grass was speckled with their fall, a soft carpet of color resting gently on stone and soil, as though the orchard had sighed in its sleep and exhaled beauty without intending to.
Sunlight filtered down through the canopy, dappled and golden, catching in the shifting lace of flowers and lending the air a hush that felt almost reverent. The scent was sweet and clean, touched faintly with green, and the space between the trees invited movement—not rushed, but quiet, thoughtful, as though the orchard itself demanded a slower pace.
It was beautiful—almost absurdly so—the sort of place one might conjure in a fevered poem or recall only imperfectly in a dream, tinted with longing and never quite real. Yet here it was, solid beneath his boots, catching at his senses like memory.
He stepped off the bridge and into the grass, drawn not by certainty but by scent, by stillness, and by a feeling he had no name for, though it stirred within him with quiet insistence.
Since they were children, Miss Bennett had walked this way in the mornings—a quiet tradition never spoken aloud or marked on any household calendar, yet known to all who paid attention. When the blossoms came, she came with them, as faithfully as the sun followed the dawn; often alone, and occasionally with her brother in reluctant tow, his footsteps heavy with protest and his eyes still full of sleep. She would take the path across the bridge with an air of unhurried grace, her hands folded lightly before her, bonnet ribbons trailing loose in the breeze, and her skirts whispering against the edges of the grass as though not to disturb the dew.
It was her favorite part of the day—those hushed, golden moments before the world had time to summon its expectations, before any demands of conversation or propriety could steal her peace. She had once confessed, with that candid softness that only morning ever seemed to draw from her, that it was the scent she loved most: the perfume of the late blossoms, especially from the Early Burlat cherries, mellowed by the fresh air and made gentler in the pale light, never cloying, never showy, but secretive—like something the orchard shared only with her. The petals would catch on her sleeves, settle along the brim of her bonnet, and she would brush them away with care, not impatience, as though even the tidying of nature required a measure of reverence.
But it was, in truth, the cherries she came for—the Early Burlats, red and gleaming, still young in their ripening, not yet darkened into the sultry indigo of midsummer fruit. Most would pass them by, deeming them too early, too timid in flavor, but Miss Bennett had always insisted otherwise. "They're the sweetest," she had once remarked with the confident certainty of one speaking from experience, plucking a delicate pair from a low branch and biting into one with a quiet, satisfied hum. "Before they forget they're supposed to be fruit, not prideful things."
She would walk slowly among the rows, eating them one by one, her fingers gently stained and her expression softened into something almost meditative—something distant, private, not to be disturbed. Mr. Blyth had once observed her from a respectful distance, many springs ago, when he had been younger and far more hesitant in his affections. He had not spoken—unsure, as he often was, of what words might suit the moment—but had merely watched her as one might a pastoral painting, content to let her remain a figure within her own ritual, lovely and utterly unreachable.
Now, standing at the edge of the orchard, the memory returned to him with startling clarity, not merely as recollection but as something near ceremonial—a rhythm quietly established in childhood, preserved in blossoms and morning hush. It felt, in a strange and tender way, as though he were not entering a grove of cherry trees, but rather stepping into a space consecrated by her presence—her footsteps, her quiet laughter, her regard for things others might overlook.
The grass softened beneath his boots as he moved just beyond the bridge, where the air turned fragrant with the faint sweetness of Early Burlat blossoms, still clinging to the coolness of dawn. Light filtered gently through the canopy, illuminating the drifting petals like fine snow caught in a golden hourglass. Yet even as the scene unfolded with all the beauty of a dream long held, he hesitated.
The confidence that had ushered him from Greymoor, buoyed his steps along the winding lane, and steadied his hand on the railing of the bridge now began to slip from him, as though it had been borrowed from some bolder version of himself and had decided to return to its rightful owner before he could make proper use of it. He glanced down the rows of trees, eyes skimming the sunlit space between trunks in search of a bonnet's flutter, a sleeve brushing against blossom-laden boughs, a hint—any hint—of her presence. But there was nothing. Only stillness, filtered light, and the soft rustle of leaves stirred by wind.
His hands, now idle and unsure, twitched faintly at his sides. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then began to pace in a slow, uncertain circuit near the orchard's edge—first small steps, then longer strides, as though testing the ground for resolve he had misplaced. He felt not unlike a man standing at the shoreline of something vast and cold, wondering if he had mistaken the season for swimming.
Was he early? Had she already come and gone? Or worse—had she chosen, this morning of all mornings, not to come at all?
He had not sent a note, not made any formal arrangement. He had simply come, carried forward by the momentum of a decision made in solitude and now laid bare beneath the early morning light. And standing there, with the scent of cherry blossom thick in the air and the sharp gleam of his red waistcoat catching the sun, the act felt suddenly too forward—too bold, even for a man who had woken determined to take his fate into his own hands.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he cast another glance down the blossom-laced rows, half-expecting her to materialize like some gentle spirit of the orchard and relieve him of the burden of choice. But the path remained empty. The petals stirred only with wind, not footfall, and so he paced again, slow and uncertain, each step sounding slightly more hollow in the hush.
It was then that something caught his eye—a flicker of color low to the ground, barely visible in the grass at the base of one of the nearer cherry trees. A splash of purple, small and easily missed: violets. Just a pair, their soft, veined petals turned slightly toward one another as if in quiet counsel. He stopped. There was something tender in the sight of them, something unassuming yet precise, the sort of detail that only revealed itself to those with reason to notice—or perhaps to those in need of noticing something gentle.
And with that, Miss Bennett bloomed into his thoughts.
Not with fanfare or flourish, but with the same quiet vividness as the violets before him. She, too, was not a flower meant to dazzle from afar. She did not trumpet her presence like the showier blossoms overhead. No, she grew closer to the ground—rooted, self-possessed, subtle in her strength. There was a richness to her spirit, a kind of color that deepened when pressed, and a steadiness that only became more apparent when others faltered. She did not seize attention, but once it was given—truly given—she commanded it with such natural ease that one was left wondering how they could have overlooked her at all.
And there was humour in her—dry, perfectly timed, the sort that came like a breeze in summer: soft at first, then bracing, leaving you laughing long after and unsure whether you'd been complimented or cleverly corrected. She listened as though it were an art, and spoke as though it were a favour. And in this she lingered, like the scent of a violet crushed lightly between fingers—unexpectedly strong, impossible to forget.
She would like violets, he thought. Or rather—she ought to like them.
He bent down and plucked them carefully, one in each hand, taking care not to bruise the slender stems. There was nothing calculated in the gesture, no flourish or grand meaning—only instinct, quiet and certain, as natural as breath. With the two small blooms held lightly between his fingers, he straightened, steadied himself, and stepped forward into the orchard—not pacing now, nor hesitating, but moving with the calm resolve of a man who no longer questioned the path beneath his feet. Whatever doubts had lingered at the edge of the grove had stilled; the decision, it seemed, had already been made.
It was nearly five minutes before he came upon her. The orchard dipped with the lay of the land, its rows curving gently, concealing her from view until he rounded a bend. Above him, the blossoms stirred softly in the breeze, their petals drifting in slow, spiraling descent to the grass below. The morning remained hushed, wrapped in that delicate stillness that belongs only to the earliest hours of the day.
And then—through the branches—he saw her.
She stood near the outer edge of the grove, just beneath one of the more heavily laden trees, her figure turned slightly to the side. She was not hidden, not precisely, but arranged—whether by chance or by some quiet providence—in a way that offered him only her profile, as though the orchard itself had taken care to frame her. One hand rested lightly against the tree's trunk; the other disappeared beneath the edge of a brown shawl draped casually about her shoulders. There were no gloves. No bonnet. Her gown was simple, her bearing unguarded. Her hair, unbound, spilled freely down her back, catching glints of sunlight where it filtered through the leaves—fair and soft, like something remembered rather than seen.
There was a singular beauty in the unadorned way she stood: not posed, not romanticised, but at ease. No artifice touched her expression. She did not appear to be waiting, nor expecting company. She belonged there, as wholly and unpretentiously as the trees themselves.
And he—watching her in that quiet, golden morning—could not bring himself to speak. Not yet.
He lingered for a moment longer, allowing himself the quiet indulgence of simply watching—just one more second before the moment slipped from possibility into memory. There was something wholly unguarded about her in that morning light, something so untouched by performance or expectation that it settled deep within his chest, tightening there in a way he could not yet name.
Then he stepped forward; a twig cracked beneath his boot.
Miss Bennett turned at once, her eyes wide with surprise. She froze, caught in the act, a handful of cherries cradled delicately in one palm and her mouth full of fruit. Her cheeks were round with the effort of not choking, her brows lifted in the unmistakable expression of one interrupted during a cherished—and decidedly private—ritual. With a muffled swallow, she brushed the back of her hand across her mouth, dabbing away the small line of juice that had escaped the corner of her lips.
"Mr. Blyth!" she said, the words half-laughed, half-breathed. "You startled me!"
"I beg your pardon," he replied, lifting one hand in apology. There was a flicker of amusement in his voice, impossible to suppress entirely. "I didn't mean to intrude. Or… sneak."
A brief silence followed, soft and suspended, as though the orchard itself had paused to observe them. She regarded him with a mix of curiosity and warmth, her fingers still curled gently around the fruit. He looked at her, then down, then back again—his hand still clutched around the violets he'd forgotten he was holding. They drooped slightly now, the stems pressed between his fingers, but he made no move to present them.
Instead, he shifted awkwardly, unsure what to do with the flowers, with his hands, or with the sudden weight of his own presence. Something about her quiet surprise—so intimate, so real—had scattered whatever speech he thought he might give.
At last, he found his voice.
"I was hoping," he said, with careful composure, "that I might run into you."
Her lips curved, not quite into a smile, but into something knowing and faintly amused. "Yes," she replied, her tone light and dry, "in the grove I walk in nearly every morning."
He gave a short laugh—quick, involuntary, unpolished. It escaped before he could temper it, as if she had tripped some quiet thread of levity buried deep in him. The sound startled him more than her words had, and he felt it settle warm in his chest like something long misplaced and suddenly recovered.
She watched him with the softest tilt of her head, not teasing exactly, but quietly pleased to have drawn it from him. Her expression lingered there, unspoken amusement playing at the corners of her mouth—gentle, restrained, intimate in its simplicity.
Then, slowly, her smile faded—not vanished, but softened—drawing inward, reflective. Her gaze dropped briefly to the cherries in her hand, her thumb tracing the curve of one with idle precision, and when she looked up again, her expression had quieted. There was stillness in her now. A calmness, yes, but beneath it, something more measured. Something searching.
"Why did you leave without saying goodbye the night of the ball?" she asked, her voice quieter now—devoid of accusation, merely curious in that way she had, as if weighing the truth without judgment.
He stilled. There were any number of excuses he might have offered—fatigue, a headache, the pressing weight of responsibilities awaiting him the next morning. And yet, standing there amid the stillness of the orchard, beneath branches heavy with blossom and before her gaze, which always seemed to perceive more than he intended to reveal, he found that deceit—however gentle—did not suit him.
"I had an uncomfortable conversation," he said at last, choosing each word with care. "With someone I hadn't expected to see. It… unsettled me more than I thought it would."
His gaze drifted to the violets still pinched between his fingers, their fragile stems warmed slightly by his grasp. "I didn't wish to sour the evening. Least of all for you. So I left—sooner than I had planned."
He offered nothing further. There was, in truth, little else to say.
The silence that followed was not an awkward one, but rather the kind that arrives gently after an honest sentiment has been laid between two people. The kind that requires no immediate reply. Above them, the branches swayed in rhythm with the breeze, casting dappled shadows over the grass at their feet. Blossoms continued to drift, unhurried and soundless, while somewhere beyond the orchard's edge, a solitary bird called out—a brief, curious note—before falling still once more.
He drew a steady breath and closed the remaining distance between them, his footsteps muffled by the soft press of morning grass. When he stopped, only a breath's space apart, he extended his hand to her, palm upward. The violets lay there, a little wilted from the warmth of his grasp, their color still clinging on with quiet insistence—small, tender things that seemed somehow braver for having endured the walk.
"I saw these," he said, his voice lower now, more measured, "and thought of you."
Her gaze dropped to the flowers. A smile returned to her lips—gentle, sincere, touched with something unspoken. Her eyes did not widen in surprise, nor did she hesitate as she reached forward to accept them. There was something natural in the gesture, something already understood.
"They're lovely," she said simply, her fingers brushing his as she took them. "I've always liked violets. There's something… warm about them."
She said no more than that, and he did not press her to explain. She needn't. The stillness that followed felt earned—unburdened, companionable. He watched her as she turned the violets lightly in her hand, the petals catching bits of filtered light, the shadows softening the creases in her sleeve. The orchard offered its quiet blessing around them: a stray breeze, a loose blossom tumbling past, the hush of leaves above as if the trees themselves were listening.
Then she looked up at him again. Her smile had faded, though not coldly—rather with a kind of thoughtful consideration, a curious tilt of the head that drew a furrow between her brows. The violets remained cradled in one palm, forgotten for the moment. Her gaze was steady now, clear, and entirely fixed on him.
"Mr. Blyth…" she began, her voice poised yet gentle, with a trace of amusement still tugging at the corners of her mouth, though softened now by something more reflective. "Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but… you've been rather odd this morning."
She paused, studying him—not with suspicion, but with the kind of scrutiny that comes from long acquaintance and a careful eye. "Not unpleasantly so," she added with a quiet laugh, the sound warm and familiar. "Only—I've known you long enough to notice when something shifts. And today, well… you seem changed."
Her words weren't weighted with concern, but with curiosity—curiosity tempered by kindness.
"If I may ask…" she continued, her voice gentler still, "what's on your mind?"
For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze drifted—to the grass at their feet, to the scatter of blossoms, to the branches overhead where sunlight threaded between petals. But he did not retreat into silence. He merely considered.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"Are you—or your family—engaged this evening?" His voice was a shade quieter than usual, yet held no hesitancy. "I wondered if you might be free."
She tilted her head slightly, not in surprise, but in quiet interest. "As far as I'm aware," she replied, a smile blooming once more, "we've nothing pressing planned. Just the usual—my father in his study, Nicholas pretending to be hard at work."
There was a glimmer of mischief in her voice, but her eyes remained steady on him, still gently searching for whatever had prompted the question. He gave a small nod, glancing briefly at his hands—still faintly stained with the memory of violets—before lifting his gaze once more to hers.
"In that case," he said, clearing his throat with quiet formality, "might I extend an invitation? Would you—and your family—be willing to join us for dinner this evening? My mother would be delighted, and I shall of course send a proper note later this morning."
Her brows rose a fraction, but the smile on her lips remained unshaken—light, composed, and touched with amusement.
"Then I shall await the letter with great anticipation," she replied, inclining her head with a small, elegant nod. "And I daresay my father will welcome the opportunity to discuss something other than legal minutiae over supper."
She lingered on the thought a moment, her gaze steady on his.
"It sounds," she added softly, "as though it may be a very pleasant evening indeed."
Mr. Blyth smiled—an earnest, unguarded expression that reached his eyes before it touched his lips. The moment between them held—bright, still, like a breath caught just a second too long.
Then, without fully thinking, he reached for her hand.
Her fingers were cool from the morning air, the violets still loosely cradled in the other. He looked at her—truly looked—and in that brief, suspended moment, their eyes met and held. There was no jest in his expression, no practiced charm. Only quiet resolve.
He bowed his head, never once breaking her gaze, and pressed his lips to her hand. The kiss was light—barely more than a whisper against her skin—but it was deliberate, so gently given that even the orchard seemed to still around them.
Miss Bennett's eyes widened, the breath catching in her throat. A flush of color bloomed across her cheeks, rising swiftly to the tips of her ears in vivid surprise.
Before she could speak—before she could draw even a single word—Mr. Blyth released her hand, turned sharply on his heel, and strode away beneath the flowering trees, his steps soft against the grass.
He did not look back.
A short while later, the road behind him and the orchard now softened into the shimmer of memory, Mr. Blyth made his way once more through the winding lanes that led to Greymoor Hall. The sun had climbed higher by then, casting its warmth over the tops of the hedgerows and brushing gold across the damp stones of the path. Birds chattered more freely, unbothered by his passing, and the air—still touched with the cool of early May—carried the mingled scent of chimney smoke and freshly turned earth.
His pace had slowed, the earlier momentum—the nervous charge that had propelled him out the door—spent somewhere between the violets and the kiss. In its place remained a peculiar stillness. Not quite regret, and not quite satisfaction, but something poised between the two. Like a breath not yet exhaled.
He passed the old millstone sunk into the grass at the edge of the property, its weathered shape familiar as any landmark from childhood. Then came the ivy-covered gatepost, tilting slightly but still marking the formal threshold of the Blyth estate.
As he climbed the short gravel rise toward the steps, the sight of Greymoor's grey stone façade greeted him—not with grandeur, but with a kind of unexpected tenderness. He could not say whether it felt like a return, or something closer to a retreat.
Still, he mounted the steps and opened the door.
Inside, the air was cooler, shadowed—held in that particular hush old houses seem to preserve, as though the walls themselves were listening for familiar footsteps. The orchard's brightness slipped away behind him, caught just beyond the threshold, as the door swung closed and the light narrowed. Within, everything was composed, self-contained, and faintly perfumed with beeswax and lavender polish—a comfort, perhaps, but only in its predictability.
He shut the door with a firm, final sound. The latch clicked into place like punctuation at the end of a thought he had not quite resolved.
Hat and overcoat in hand, he crossed the foyer and laid them gently upon the narrow table beneath the mirror—first one, then the other. He adjusted their placement slightly, more from habit than need, his fingers lingering on the brim of the hat, as if hoping to draw from it some residual trace of warmth—or morning—or orchard.
From deeper in the house—likely the breakfast room, where china clinked and expectations were already being arranged—his mother's voice rang out, sharp and precise:
"Is that you, Henry?"
He straightened and cleared his throat quietly.
"It is," he replied.
Her voice arrived before she did—brisk, cutting, and unmistakably in motion.
"Mrs. Redley says you've been behaving oddly this morning," she called from somewhere down the corridor. "If you've been drinking again, Henry, so help me, I shall have you out of this house before the clock strikes noon."
The sound of footsteps followed—firm, clipped, and resolute—and a moment later, she swept into the foyer. she stopped short.
Her gaze traveled over him in a slow, practiced arc—from the disheveled hair still tousled by wind, to the faint colour in his cheeks, to the red waistcoat that looked, for all the world, like an act of rebellion. She blinked once—deliberately—then folded her hands at her waist as if gathering her composure like a shawl.
"Well," she said, voice level but edged like a knife, "don't you look lively."
There was suspicion in her tone, yes—but also a flicker of something else. Curiosity, perhaps. Or wariness disguised as decorum. She narrowed her eyes, and after a beat, delivered the inevitable:
"And where, precisely, have you been?"
"Just outside of town," Mr. Blyth said, smoothing the front of his waistcoat with a calmness he did not entirely possess. "At the cherry orchard."
His mother's brow lifted—high, sharp, and deliberate. "Doing what, exactly?"
He hesitated, though only for a moment. "Looking for Miss Bennett."
That made her still. She tilted her head, arms folding with slow, deliberate precision, her gaze narrowing the way it always did when she meant to extract fact from fiction. A flicker passed across her face—too quick to name, but there. Surprise, perhaps. Or strategy. Whatever it was, it vanished as swiftly as it came.
"And for what reason?" she asked, her tone clipped, each word placed as if it were being fitted carefully into a ledger.
He paused, and a hint of a smile tried to rise—subtle, controlled, like a thought entertained but not spoken.
"I've invited her," he said evenly, "and the rest of the Bennetts, to dine with us this evening."
He watched her face carefully, almost clinically, as if he were studying the surface of water for the first ripple. She stared at him, her eyes narrowing—just a fraction.
"Henry?"
Just his name. But within it: a question, an accusation, and a demand for explanation, all wrapped neatly into two syllables.
He gave her a smirk—small, restrained, but unmistakably self-satisfied.
For a heartbeat, she was silent. Then, quite suddenly, her entire face lit with something alarmingly close to delight. She spun on her heel, skirts flaring like a banner caught in wind, and called down the corridor with the urgency of a general summoning troops to arms.
"Mrs. Redley! We'll be having guests for dinner tonight!" she barked, already halfway down the hallway. "And I want the good table linens this time!"