Mr. Blyth stood in the foyer with the sort of stillness that demanded effort, his posture composed but attentive, as though he feared any movement might displace the careful balance he had struck between decorum and nerves. The sconces had been lit, casting a warm, amber glow over the room, their light catching in the gilt frame of the mirror above the side table where he now lingered for what must have been the fifth inspection of the evening. Each glance betrayed the same question—was he presentable, or merely prepared?
His waistcoat, a deep sapphire just shy of indigo, was richer than his usual fare and deliberately chosen. The embroidery—fine, gold-threaded, and just ornate enough to suggest thought—glinted faintly with each breath he took. Over it, he wore a dark, well-tailored coat that sharpened his frame, lending him a figure of purpose. His shirt, white and crisply pressed, had been selected with uncommon care, and the cravat at his throat had required no fewer than three attempts before the knot at last satisfied him. Even now, his fingers crept toward it, giving the edge a final adjustment, as if perfection could be improved by persistence.
He leaned nearer to the glass, tilting his head one way, then the other. His hair, neatly combed and pinned, revealed one stubborn curl at the temple which, despite his best efforts, refused to lie flat. He smoothed it again with the pad of his finger, exhaling softly as he did so.
There was colour in his cheeks—not the ruddy flush of exertion, but the tempered brightness of a man who had made a choice and meant to stand by it. He looked neither theatrical nor vain, but quietly resolved. This, he told himself, was the appearance of a man prepared to host—and perhaps to be seen.
Beyond the polished glass of the front door, the sky had deepened to twilight, and the hush of evening settled like a held breath. The hour approached. The guests would soon arrive.
From where he stood, Mr. Blyth could hear the unmistakable sound of his mother in motion—her voice sharp and brisk as it carried in from the dining room, rising and falling in clipped commands. Footsteps echoed in quick succession as she moved with purpose between rooms, skirts rustling like agitated sails. Every few beats, a reprimand rang out—"Not like that, Pearson!"—followed by the subtle scrape of silverware being adjusted yet again. He didn't need to see her to picture it: her arms in motion, her eyes scanning the table like a battlefield, her expectations laid out as precisely as the dinner forks.
Deeper in the house, near the kitchen, came the lower cadence of Mrs. Redley's voice—measured, calm, though laced with the strain of one forced to absorb the full brunt of another's fury. She issued instructions with her usual efficiency, but even her tone bore a tightness uncommon to her. It wasn't the dinner that troubled her—Mrs. Redley had shepherded far grander evenings with far less staff—but rather the storm that was Mrs. Blyth. When the lady of the house took to flustering, it was never a localized affair. Her agitation spilled into every hallway, settling over the household like the first crackle of approaching thunder.
Mr. Blyth breathed a soft sound of amusement through his nose but made no move to intervene. He knew better. To insert himself now would be to step directly into the path of a well-wound mechanism already set in motion. The wiser course was simply to wait.
He glanced toward the clock mounted above the hall table—its hands inching past the half-hour mark with stubborn deliberation.
Nearly 8:30.
The Bennetts would be arriving at any moment.
He adjusted the set of his shoulders, resisting the impulse to fuss with his cravat again. There was nothing left to fix—nothing left to polish or smooth. Only the waiting remained, the quiet tension before the first knock or the creak of the front door, that strange stillness where the evening hadn't yet begun, but everything was already in motion.
Then came the sound—faint at first, then unmistakable. The soft crunch of gravel beneath carriage wheels, the rhythmic clatter of hooves growing steadily nearer. Mr. Blyth turned toward the hallway, pulse ticking just a touch faster.
"Mamma," he called, his tone measured and clear, not quite raised, but carrying easily through the space, "they've arrived. If you would?"
A flurry of motion answered him. From somewhere deeper in the house came the swift beat of footsteps, the hush of skirts brushing walls, a distant door clicking shut. Within moments, Mrs. Blyth swept into view, tugging once at the cuffs of her sleeves as she entered the foyer. Eleanor followed at a more measured pace, graceful as ever, and just behind her, Margaret appeared with a breathless sort of enthusiasm, her hair ribbons still slightly off-center as though fastened in haste.
They arranged themselves without discussion—Mrs. Blyth taking her place with the poise of a woman well-versed in performance, Eleanor cool and unreadable, and Margaret already blooming with excitement beside her. Mr. Blyth stood at the front, hands clasped lightly behind his back, posture composed.
For a moment, the house seemed to hold its breath. The glow of the sconces, the gleam of polished wood, the faint scent of wax and starch—it all waited with them, suspended at the edge of something just about to begin.
Then came a few brisk knocks at the door—measured, confident, with the practiced rhythm of someone long accustomed to being welcomed. Mr. Blyth stepped forward without hesitation and opened it.
Outside, beneath the warm glow of the entry lamps, stood Mr. Bennett and the rest of the family, gathered in a cheerful, slightly wind-flushed cluster. Mr. Bennett wore his usual affable expression, cheeks ruddy from the evening chill, and greeted Mr. Blyth with an immediate clap to the shoulder and a booming, "Henry, my boy—you're looking positively... decorative this evening." Behind him, Nicholas grinned broadly and began muttering about the cold before his boots had even crossed the threshold. Miss Louisa gave a curtsy paired with a bright, expectant smile, and Miss Bennett herself stood just a pace behind, serene and composed in a simple, elegant gown that caught the light in quiet suggestion rather than flash.
Boisterous greetings followed as the Bennetts stepped inside, shrugging off coats and shaking off the evening air. Mrs. Blyth offered her own practiced warmth, her tone just on the edge of cordiality and genuine pleasure. Eleanor curtsied with polished ease, and Margaret, already flushed with excitement, breathed out an eager "Good evening!" that sent Louisa into a brief, delighted laugh.
Gloves were dropped—twice, by Nicholas—coats collected by the waiting staff, and Mrs. Bennett, not yet three steps into the house, was already offering a flurry of compliments on the entryway, the sconces, the molding above the door—each delivered with the air of a woman who had made an art form of admiring things in other people's homes.
There was an ease to it all. Whatever tension had coiled in the quiet minutes before their arrival dissipated at once, replaced by a gentle, familiar warmth. The formality meant to mark the occasion began to slip away, replaced by the easy cadence of shared memory and laughter. Voices overlapped. Smiles exchanged freely. The night, it seemed, had begun without announcement.
And so, together, the party began to make its way toward the drawing room, the flickering candlelight guiding them forward like a welcome.
They all lounged comfortably in the drawing room, the atmosphere softened by familiarity and the warm flicker of candlelight. The chairs had been arranged more for conversation than ceremony, encouraging a kind of relaxed sprawl across the carpet and upholstery. Before long, the room was alive with overlapping voices and easy laughter, rising and falling with the rhythm of well-worn acquaintance.
Near the fireplace, Mrs. Bennett perched on the edge of an armchair, her saucer balanced somewhat precariously on one knee. She leaned toward Mrs. Blyth, lowering her voice in theatrical dismay. "They're raising the price of lace again—honestly, I told my modiste I'll start stitching it myself before I pay another sixpence."
Mrs. Blyth, without missing a beat, lifted her teacup and replied with a polite, brittle smile. "Perhaps then it might finally be worth what they're charging."
Across the room, Nicholas had draped himself over the edge of a chair, one ankle resting lazily over the other knee, locked in an increasingly animated exchange with Eleanor. The topic—whether poetry or philosophy had done more damage to society—seemed to have already spiraled into teasing.
"You're only defending Plato because you think he's dramatic," Eleanor said, lifting her tea with serene precision.
"And you're only defending Catullus because he is," Nicholas fired back, grinning.
In another corner, Margaret and Louisa had taken up the topic of the upcoming Elversford ball. Margaret, ever fretful, leaned in with an expression of mild horror. "I heard they're trying to host it outdoors—can you imagine? What if it rains?"
Louisa raised a brow and sipped her tea. "It's England," she said plainly. "Of course it will rain."
As for Mr. Bennett, he had claimed the largest chair with the ease of long experience, swirling his brandy and interrupting conversation just frequently enough to remain part of all of them. "The trick to hosting," he declared to no one in particular, "is offering enough food that no one minds the company."
And through it all, Mr. Blyth observed—joining in when called upon, laughing where it was natural—but his attention, however lightly veiled, kept circling back to Miss Adelaide Bennett. She sat not far from him, composed yet relaxed, her laughter soft and sincere, her gaze moving thoughtfully from speaker to speaker. Occasionally, their eyes would meet across the space, fleeting but steady, and in those glances lived something neither of them had named. A shared awareness. An agreement, quiet and unmistakable.
Tonight, it said, we are not pretending.
After about ten minutes of lively chatter and comfortable laughter, the drawing room door eased open with a soft creak, and Mrs. Redley stepped inside. Dressed in her evening best—a deep plum gown that spoke of careful preservation rather than recent purchase, its lace collar freshly pressed—she looked every bit the part of a housekeeper mindful of appearances. The usual firmness in her bearing had softened somewhat, as if the warmth of the evening had settled even in her well-defended corners.
"Dinner is ready," she announced with quiet authority, hands folded neatly before her.
Mr. Blyth rose at once and offered her a small, grateful nod. "Thank you, Mrs. Redley."
She returned the gesture and stepped aside just as Mrs. Blyth stood, smoothing the front of her gown and clapping her hands lightly—not to demand attention, but to gather it.
"Shall we?"
With the ease of a practiced hostess, she led the group out into the hall, the soft golden glow from the dining room ahead beckoning like a hearth. Guests followed in a gentle stream, conversation continuing in low, pleasant murmurings as the scent of warm bread and herbs drifted toward them—a quiet promise of a meal both generous and thoughtfully prepared.
They entered the dining room in a bustle of silk and muted voices. Candlelight flickered across the length of the table, casting a soft shimmer over polished wood and polished silver. The linens were crisp, the place settings precise, and at the center of it all, a modest arrangement of violets and greenery brought a note of freshness and restraint. It was not ostentatious, but it was lovely—just enough to show that care had been taken.
Mr. Blyth gestured with quiet assurance. "Please—take your places."
The group settled without fuss, the soft scrape of chairs muffled by the thick carpet beneath them. Each person moved with the unspoken grace of practiced familiarity, as though the table's arrangement had been gently preordained—nothing rigid, yet intuitively understood.
At the head of the table, Mr. Blyth took his seat, back straight, hands poised, conscious of the subtle theatre now expected of him. Hosting was not merely a role; it was a performance, and tonight, he intended to play it well.
To his right, Miss Adelaide Bennett slipped into the seat he had designated with deliberate care—the place of honor. Her posture was composed yet relaxed, her expression serene, with eyes that drifted once across the table in quiet observance. Beside her, Nicholas settled with his usual blend of charm and casualness, his well-cut coat failing to hide the looseness of his sprawl. Louisa sat next, graceful and humming as she smoothed her skirts, while Eleanor took her place at the far end of that side, hands lightly clasped, her gaze already sharpening to read the room.
To Mr. Blyth's left, Mr. Bennett eased comfortably into his chair, all geniality and rumpled wisdom, the kind that gave the illusion of distraction while catching everything of note. Margaret took the next seat, her shoulders pulled just a touch too high with restrained excitement. Then came Mrs. Bennett, who lowered herself into the chair beside Mrs. Blyth with a pleased sigh and the sort of smile reserved for women who believe, correctly, that they have secured the best seat in the house.
At the far end, opposite her son, Mrs. Blyth unfolded her napkin with precise economy. She said nothing, but the movement spoke volumes. The meal could begin.
There was a brief pause—not tense, but gently suspended—as though the room itself held its breath between arrival and ceremony. A hush lingered, the kind born not of awkwardness but of anticipation, the sort that precedes the raising of a curtain or the first note of a familiar tune. Then, slowly, conversation began to stir again—light, measured, the natural adjustment of voices reacclimating beneath the glitter of crystal and china.
At the far end of the room, the double doors swung open with quiet precision. A procession of servants stepped through in practiced rhythm, each bearing a dish with the kind of effortless poise that only comes from long familiarity. The air shifted at once, warming with the scent of roasted meats, rich sauces, and herbs pulled from some deep, sunlit garden. The table, already striking in its elegance, began its transformation—becoming something theatrical, almost reverent. Each dish was placed with deliberate care, a silent choreography that elevated the moment into something grand.
Around the table, reactions rippled softly. Eyebrows lifted. Breaths drew in. A few whispers passed—"Good heavens," murmured Louisa, her eyes wide with delighted disbelief—as the full spread revealed itself in layers of steam and silver.
First came the white soup—creamy and pale as porcelain—ladled from ornate tureens into delicate bowls, its almond-scented steam curling softly into the candlelit air. Close behind followed the haunch of venison, browned to a lustrous sheen and set at the center of the table like a crown jewel. Its aroma—earthy, spiced, commanding—seemed to anchor everything around it.
Boiled fowl with oyster sauce arrived next, its pale skin softened beneath the velvety richness of the sauce—a gentle, elegant counterpoint to the venison's darker splendor. To its left, a cod's head sat dressed and garnished atop a silver platter, lemon slices fanned with precision around its jaw, parsley tucked beneath its chin like a collar. The eyes, glassy and fixed, caught the chandelier light with eerie elegance.
A golden pigeon pie took its place nearby, the crust puffed high and molded into delicate patterns, a modest triumph of the pastry cook's art. A tureen of fricassee followed, rich with cream and mushrooms, the scent of thyme and tarragon rising from its depths. Further down, small raised pork pies—individually molded and still faintly steaming at the seams—stood like edible sentinels, their crusts thick and glistening.
Roasted potatoes, crisp at the edges and glinting with fat, were arranged in low dishes among silver bowls of stewed cardoons and French beans. Each vegetable was carefully trimmed and placed, glistening with butter, as if they, too, understood their role in the ceremony of the meal.
Altogether, the table gleamed with abundance. Steam rose gently, crystal caught fire in the light, and for a moment, the room fell into a hush—not of discomfort, but reverence. It was the kind of dinner one remembered—not for any single bite, perhaps, but for the collective impression, the theater of it. Even if the conversation faded, even if the guests grew old, the meal itself would remain—warm, golden, and unforgettable.
As conversation stirred again and plates were passed with practiced care, the rhythm of the table settled into something warm and familiar. The gentlemen naturally turned their attention to those beside them, carving and serving with the kind of attentiveness that was expected—but not always performed so well. Mr. Blyth, without hesitation, ladled a generous spoonful of fricassee onto Miss Bennett's plate, his movements precise, his gaze steady. Nicholas, less graceful but no less willing, seized the potatoes with mock solemnity and served his sister and Louisa with a theatrical flourish that drew laughter from them both.
At the far end of the table, where Mrs. Bennett, Mrs. Blyth, and Eleanor sat without male companions nearby, a pair of footmen remained discreetly stationed. They stepped forward as needed with quiet efficiency, filling plates and replenishing dishes without prompt or pause, ensuring the rhythm of the meal continued undisturbed.
Mr. Bennett, carving expertly at the venison, glanced up and declared, "You know, I once encountered a stag this size in the woods beyond Little Werrick. Took one look at me and bolted. Smart creature."
Nicholas, seated between his sisters, raised a brow. "Was that before or after you shouted at your own shadow and fell off your horse?"
"After," Mr. Bennett replied with complete dignity, "but I maintain the shadow was behaving suspiciously."
Laughter rippled across the table.
"I'd wager the stag's still telling the tale to his grandchildren," Eleanor remarked dryly from the far end.
"Oh, undoubtedly," Nicholas agreed, shifting slightly to flash a grin toward Miss Bennett on his left. "The one that got away: Mr. Bennett, Esquire."
On his other side, Louisa leaned toward Margaret and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "Did you see what Miss Penfield wore to church last week? It looked like she had stolen her aunt's parlor curtains."
"She claimed it was imported," Margaret whispered back, scandal blooming in her wide eyes. "From Paris."
Miss Bennett, catching the exchange, tilted her head and murmured just loud enough to carry, "Well, if they were curtains, at least they were properly hemmed."
Mr. Blyth, listening with half a smile, found himself turning instinctively to look at her. She didn't meet his gaze directly—but her eyes flicked up a moment later, catching his with that same flash of dry amusement. No coyness, no pretense. Just that quiet spark, as though they were in on the same joke. A single, unspoken moment passed between them like a thread drawn tight beneath the table.
He leaned slightly toward her as he reached again for the fricassee, offering another small spoonful. She inclined her head in thanks without meeting his eye, but the smile that curved her lips lingered—warm, composed, and quietly pleased.
A seat down, Nicholas was now delivering, with the full gravity of a courtroom address, a scathing indictment of stewed cardoons. "No vegetable," he declared, brandishing his fork like a gavel, "should require explanation before being eaten. If one has to ask, 'What is that?' it ought not to be on the plate."
Mr. Bennett lifted an eyebrow. "Ah, but Socrates would say the unexamined vegetable is not worth eating."
Nicholas, dry as ever, returned, "And I would say he never had to eat cardoons with my mother watching."
The table broke into laughter again, and even Mrs. Blyth allowed herself the faintest, reluctant smile—though it vanished the moment she noticed a silver spoon resting at what she clearly considered a reckless angle. With quiet precision, she reached out and adjusted it, restoring order where disorder had dared to linger.
Mrs. Bennett, meanwhile, was recounting a harrowing tale of how she had once saved a roast goose from complete ruin on Christmas Eve with nothing but a pair of tongs and a prayer. "The oven door had jammed, you see," she explained to Eleanor, her eyes wide with remembered drama, "and everyone was weeping in the drawing room—well, perhaps not weeping, but certainly anxious. I said, 'Stand back, I shall handle this,' and I did."
Eleanor nodded with the serene attentiveness of someone who had mastered the art of letting others shine uninterrupted, her expression composed, her posture just encouraging enough to keep the story going.
And so the dinner unfolded—not with grandeur or the stiffness of formality, but with warmth, color, and an ease that made the courses pass almost too quickly. Conversation circled, doubled back, branched out again. Forks tapped gently against porcelain, glasses clinked, and the scent of roasted meat and sweet herbs lingered like the comforting memory of laughter.
Somewhere between the pigeon pie and a second helping of potatoes, Mr. Blyth found himself aware—quietly, distinctly—that this was one of the most pleasant meals he could recall in recent memory. Not because of the food, though it was excellent, but because of the company—the rhythm of voices that rose and fell like something well-rehearsed, yet unforced.
By the time the majority of the savory dishes had been thoroughly enjoyed—bones picked clean, crusts broken, sauces mopped with the last of the bread—the conversation had softened. Laughter still sparked, but it came more gently now, like candlelight after dusk: warm, flickering, and content.
As forks came to rest and glasses were sipped more slowly, the servants returned to the room. They moved with practiced discretion, clearing dishes with the kind of quiet precision that made their presence feel like part of the evening's rhythm. Platters were lifted, bowls removed, plates exchanged for fresh ones in anticipation of dessert. The venison had vanished, save for a bare joint of bone. The cod's head—once so proud in presentation—had long since lost its garnishes and dignity. The pigeon pie was little more than scattered flakes of pastry and a fond memory.
The tablecloth was brushed—swiftly, discreetly, with the same quiet elegance that had marked the entire evening. Then came the second procession.
One by one, the sweet dishes arrived, each carried with careful hands, each placed with deliberate grace. In minutes, the table transformed—from the satisfied echo of a feast into something whimsical and resplendent. It was no less grand than the first course, but it shimmered rather than steamed—gleaming instead of glowing.
At the center stood the trifle, tall and triumphant in its crystal dish, each layer visible in delicate striations of sponge, fruit, custard, and syllabub. It glistened like sunlight caught in cream, impossibly balanced and yet effortlessly inviting. Around it, fruit jellies in jewel tones caught and scattered the candlelight—some molded like citrus segments, others in ridged domes that quivered slightly with each footfall of the servant who placed them.
A dish of blancmange followed—pale and trembling, perfumed faintly with rosewater. Its surface held just long enough to be admired before the first spoon would break it with the gentleness of admiration rather than hunger. Apple tarts and miniature cheesecakes—neat, golden, exact—lined porcelain platters, nestled between glass cups of syllabub so light they already sagged beneath their own sweetness.
Then came the fruits—fresh and dried—figs, crisp apples, a few polished pears, and at the center of one silver tray, a pineapple so golden and glistening it made Mrs. Bennett gasp with audible delight. "Imported, surely," she whispered to Mrs. Blyth, who did not disagree.
The final touch was a series of sweetmeats and marzipan confections—tiny sculptures of fruit, blossoms, even animals—each delicate enough to pass for ornament. The colors were so bright, the craftsmanship so fine, that Margaret and Louisa leaned in immediately, cooing over them with the reverence of young women inspecting jewelry under gaslight.
There was a near-holy hush of admiration as it all settled into place. The table now gleamed with a lighter sort of abundance—less rustic, more refined. A painter's still life come to life, shimmering with sugar and scent.
Nicholas leaned back with a theatrical sigh, his eyes sweeping over the molded jellies. "Well," he murmured, "I suppose I can find room."
Mr. Bennett gave a solemn nod. "It would be impolite not to."
And with that, dessert began.
Spoons dipped into trifle. Jellies shivered their way onto plates. The atmosphere, softened by sweetness, brightened again with easy conversation—light, companionable, and just a touch indulgent, much like the second course itself.
Nicholas, after proclaiming loudly that the blancmange looked "entirely too innocent to trust," took the largest portion with evident satisfaction.
"I once tried to make a syllabub at university," he announced between bites. "It exploded. In my defense, there were instructions—somewhere—but I'd spilled cider over them."
"Over them?" Adelaide asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or on purpose?"
He grinned. "The truth is delicate. Like blancmange. Best not poked at."
That earned a laugh from Eleanor, who was dissecting an apple tart with the precision of someone settling a personal score. Her fork moved with steady exactitude, as if the tart had once offended her family and this was a long-overdue reckoning.
Mrs. Bennett, in a flutter of lace and enthusiasm, leaned across the table to point out a particularly well-molded marzipan pineapple. "That one's too pretty to eat."
"Oh, I'm sure I'll manage," Margaret replied, already reaching for it.
From further down the table, Louisa held up a marzipan piglet between her fingers. "This one has your nose, Nicholas."
"Then you'd better eat it quickly," he said, "before it insults someone."
Mr. Bennett, lifting his wineglass with studied grace, added, "I'm not entirely sure we haven't all eaten someone's face tonight."
"I'm not entirely sure what I'm eating," Mrs. Blyth muttered, cutting into a cheesecake with the steely precision of someone dissecting a lesser rival. "But I've stopped asking."
Laughter rippled gently around the table. Mr. Blyth remained quieter than most, though not removed. He listened closely, offered the occasional dry reply, and—without comment—served Miss Bennett another spoonful of trifle. She accepted it with a glance that bordered on affectionate, and said nothing.
"And what about the ball in Elversford?" Margaret asked, turning her attention toward the younger women. "Do you think it will actually happen outdoors?"
"If it does," Louisa replied, "I hope they plan on entertaining us with a chorus of wet shoes and complaints."
"Complaints are the only reason some people attend," Eleanor added, raising her glass in mock solemnity.
"And fashion," Nicholas said. "Specifically, the kind that offends both logic and architecture."
Laughter followed—light, easy, unforced. There was no strain, no layered performance. Just the comfortable rhythm of shared food and company, and the rare kind of joy that comes when every guest at the table knows the unspoken truth: this is a night to remember, because it demands nothing more than being entirely ourselves.
When at last the courses had been eaten—entirely, and perhaps a touch more than sensibly—the pace around the table shifted. Forks were set down with soft finality, wineglasses raised for one last appreciative sip. The air had grown heavier in the way that only good food and excellent company could justify—rich with the hush of satisfaction, conversation now softened at the edges.
Mrs. Blyth, ever the quiet mistress of ceremony, gave the subtlest cue: a simple incline of her head and the neat placement of her napkin to the left of her plate. She rose with grace, expecting no words and receiving no resistance.
The ladies followed in practiced order. Chairs drew back in gentle succession as Eleanor, Margaret, Mrs. Bennett, Louisa, and finally Miss Bennett stood, smoothing their skirts and lifting their heads with poise. There were murmured words of parting, soft laughter, and glances exchanged like folded notes between friends.
Miss Bennett lingered a moment longer than the rest. Her eyes found Mr. Blyth's—quiet, deliberate, inquisitive. Not bold, but steady. The sort of look that asked a question without requiring it be spoken aloud.
He held her gaze, gave the faintest nod—not quite a smile, but close enough. And then she turned, and the women made their way out in a rustle of silk and conversation, the door falling gently closed behind them.
Silence settled in their wake—not empty, but grounded. The kind that comes after triumph. The candlelight flickered across silver and glass, catching the gleam of emptied plates and half-finished drinks, the scene before them like the aftermath of a noble campaign, victorious in its own quiet way.
The servants moved swiftly, clearing the table with silent precision. Platters were lifted, cutlery gathered, linens folded, and every trace of the second course vanished with efficient grace. The grand trifle was carried off in two careful hands, and the last of the marzipan figures disappeared into a silver tin, tucked away for later indulgence. Not a crumb remained.
As chairs shifted and the room subtly rearranged itself for the gentlemen's portion of the evening, Nicholas rose and—with the casual entitlement of a cat finding a warmed cushion—slid into the now-vacant seat beside Mr. Blyth. He leaned his elbow against the polished wood, his posture relaxed, his presence immediate.
"Now begins the true portion of the evening," he said in a low, conspiratorial tone, folding his arms and stretching his legs beneath the table with evident satisfaction.
Moments later, a manservant arrived with a gleaming decanter of port, the deep red liquid catching candlelight like a garnet held to the sun. Another followed close behind, bearing a silver tray arranged with cut crystal glasses, a neat stack of lightly spiced water biscuits, and slices of aged cheddar—their edges just beginning to crumble in that perfectly inviting way.
Nicholas wasted no time, plucking a biscuit and topping it with a generous wedge of cheese. "To indulgence," he said, raising his glass, "and to restraint—for tomorrow." He flashed a grin. "Though not necessarily in that order."
The port was poured in slow, steady streams, each glass reflecting the light with a gentle shimmer. There was no formal toast, no declaration—just the shared instinct of men settling in after a fine meal. They raised their glasses in quiet unison, took a sip, and exhaled.
Nicholas set his glass down with care, then leaned in slightly, his voice lowered but edged with amusement. "I must say," he murmured, swirling the remaining port in his glass, "you looked very comfortable with my sister at your side this evening. Almost as if she's been seated there a dozen times before." He paused, one brow lifting. "Shall I have her leave a shawl next time? Make it official?"
Mr. Blyth gave a low chuckle, lifting a brow but offering no verbal reply. The slight, amused shake of his head spoke well enough—and with the kind of restraint that Nicholas no doubt found infuriating.
Across the table, Mr. Bennett narrowed his eyes in mock disapproval. "Nicholas," he intoned, his voice gravel-dry, "if you intend to keep speaking, I suggest you do it with port in your mouth. It may improve your tone."
Nicholas raised his glass with exaggerated solemnity. "To silence, then."
"To better habits," Mr. Bennett replied, his own glass following suit, his smirk sharp beneath the rim.
Mr. Blyth shifted slightly in his seat, his fingers curling loosely around the stem of his glass. The warmth of the port lingered in his throat, rich and smooth—but it did little to steady the flutter beneath his ribs. Nicholas's comment had been light-hearted—predictable, even—but it had brushed just close enough to the truth to unsettle him.
He cleared his throat softly, letting his gaze drift toward the far end of the room, where the drawing room doors remained ajar. From beyond them came the sound of a piano—sweet, lively, and a touch too fast—paired with the unmistakable voice of Miss Louisa singing something vaguely operatic and entirely enthusiastic.
"If I may," Mr. Blyth began, his voice shifting—quieter now, more formal. "I had hoped this evening might serve not only as a pleasant gathering among friends... but also allow for a private word with you, Mr. Bennett. On a more serious matter."
Nicholas, catching the shift in tone, leaned back slightly in his chair, the flicker of curiosity unmistakable behind the trace of his grin.
Mr. Bennett, who had just begun to lift a slice of cheddar toward his plate, paused mid-motion. He turned, studied Blyth for a breath—measuring, but not unkind.
"Well then," he said, placing the knife down with deliberate care, "go on, Mr. Blyth. I'm listening."
From beyond the dining room, Miss Louisa's voice rose again—just a touch off-key—as she reached for a high note. It was followed by her own bright, unfiltered laughter, echoed softly by someone else in the drawing room. The sound spilled faintly into the stillness, light and familiar. It made the moment feel warmer somehow.
Still, Mr. Blyth drew himself a little straighter. The time had come.
He set down his glass with care, the crystal making the faintest, clean note against the linen. Then he folded his hands together loosely, his posture calm, but his expression had changed. The composure remained, but there was gravity now—enough to quiet even Nicholas's habitual smirk.
"In recent months, that closeness has grown into something else. Not merely affection, but a desire to foster a deeper understanding. One that, with time and her willingness, I hope might lead to marriage."
There was no tremor in his voice. No grand flourish. Only sincerity.
"I believe she would make an excellent partner in every sense of the word. And I would hope—genuinely hope—that you and Mrs. Bennett would see the match as a worthy one."
He let the words rest in the air. Not rushed, not repeated. His gaze did not falter.
"I would like your blessing to pursue her more seriously, Mr. Bennett—with the hope that, one day, she may be my wife."
From the drawing room came the faint sound of Miss Louisa attempting a particularly ambitious note, followed by a stifled chorus of giggles. Then, a moment later, the piano resumed—steadier now, its melody softer and more assured. Adelaide had taken her place.
And in that shift—from laughter to harmony—the moment between the men settled. Not broken. Simply paused, like a breath drawn and held just before the answer.
Mr. Bennett didn't respond at first. He merely looked down at his glass, turning it slowly between his fingers, his expression unreadable—neither disapproving nor delighted—just quiet. Thoughtful. He seemed to consider the port more than the proposal, letting the silence stretch, not unkind but deliberate.
Mr. Blyth, pulse drumming beneath the measured stillness of his posture, glanced sideways at Nicholas. The younger man was watching the exchange with wide eyes, his mouth slightly agape and curved into the beginning of a grin—like someone witnessing the early stages of a much-anticipated performance. He said nothing, but his raised brows clearly begged, Well?
Looking back to Mr. Bennett, Mr. Blyth began to wonder whether he had misjudged the moment entirely—when the older man gave a small, involuntary huff that turned, unmistakably, into a chuckle. And that chuckle—despite every attempt at restraint—rolled into a full, hearty laugh that filled the room, warm and rich and wholly genuine.
Leaning back in his chair, Mr. Bennett tipped his head slightly as the laughter moved through him, then reached out and clapped Mr. Blyth firmly on the back—the kind of slap that might have bruised had it come from anyone less familiar.
"Good God, Henry," Mr. Bennett said between breaths, "what took you so long?"
Mr. Blyth blinked, a breath of stunned laughter escaping him as the older man shook his head, still grinning. "We've been waiting for this moment since you two were fighting over cherry stones in the back garden. Mrs. Bennett said you'd never have the nerve."
Nicholas leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "I shall sleep soundly tonight knowing I was right about everything."
"You're rarely right about anything," Mr. Bennett shot back, laughter still bubbling at the edges.
And just like that, the room lightened—relieved of its tension, filled now with the easy warmth of approval that needed no further explanation. Mr. Blyth let out a slow breath, his smile deepening with the quiet realization that the hardest part was over.
Mr. Bennett wiped at his eye with the back of his knuckle, still grinning. "Truly, Henry—I've been hoping for this day for some time. I wouldn't dream of standing in the way of it. You've grown into a man I'd be more than happy to call a son-in-law, one day."
His voice softened, the sincerity cutting through the humor as he added, "Just take your time with her. She deserves that."
"I will," Mr. Blyth said, his voice just as quiet. "Truly."
There was a pause—just long enough to be meaningful—before Nicholas leaned forward, picking up his glass with a theatrical flourish. "Well, this is lovely. But I was hoping someone would ask my permission too, if only for the attention."
Mr. Bennett groaned. "God help her if you ever do marry."
"She'll be well-read, well-fed, and probably a little tired," Nicholas replied, grinning.
The room burst into laughter—Mr. Bennett with a full-bodied shake of the shoulders, Mr. Blyth quieter but no less genuine, and Nicholas, as ever, simply pleased to have landed the line.
Outside the dining room, the piano carried on, the notes of a new melody drifting through the open door like a gentle promise. After a few more quips and the soft clink of empty glasses being set down, the men rose from the table. Their moods had lightened; the warmth of good food, generous port, and easy approval lingered between them like a pleasant aftertaste.
They made their way toward the drawing room, the sound of music growing clearer with each step. Miss Bennett was now seated at the piano, her playing soft and sure, while Louisa stood beside her humming absently, flipping through a stack of well-worn sheet music.
As they entered, the ladies turned to greet them—some with smiles, others with curious glances cast toward the trio of grinning men who had clearly shared something worth smiling about.
Mrs. Blyth, ever watchful, arched a brow and addressed them with a tone more amused than reprimanding. "And what," she asked, folding her hands neatly in her lap, "had the three of you laughing like schoolboys just now?"
Mr. Blyth gave a modest shrug as he moved toward the settee, claiming a seat beside Miss Bennett with the composed ease of someone privately triumphant. "Oh, nothing," he said lightly. "Must've been the port."
She narrowed her eyes. "See that it isn't too much port. I'd rather not have to cart you upstairs again like after the Langmere Ball."
He offered a dry smile. "That was hardly my fault."
"No," she said, with a sniff. "It was the brandy's."
Nicholas, already sprawled in a nearby chair, stretched his legs with a satisfied sigh. "Well, whatever it was, it's made him agreeable. Let's keep it stocked."
Laughter rippled through the room again, soft and contented, and the drawing room returned to its warm, golden rhythm—music drifting from the piano, voices low and familiar, and the ease of an evening drawing gently toward its close.
Margaret drifted closer and perched on the arm of the chair nearest Nicholas, her expression positively expectant. She tilted her head just so, offering a look so sweetly pleading it bordered on impish.
"Nicholas," she said, drawing out his name with theatrical affection, "won't you tell us a story? One of the ones from school. I used to live for your letters—you always made them sound better than anything in our poor library."
Nicholas groaned, slumping deeper into his chair and raising a hand to his brow like a martyr. "Must I be paraded like some wandering bard? I've only just survived the twin trials of pudding and praise."
"You're stalling," Louisa called from across the room. "Which means yes."
Mrs. Bennett clapped her hands. "Oh, do give us one! You always had such an imagination—I never know whether to laugh or report you."
Even Eleanor looked up from her seat with an arched brow. "You seem so fond of your own material. The least you can do is share it."
Mr. Bennett chuckled into his brandy. "Best let him get it out of his system. Otherwise he'll just start muttering dialogue into his dessert again."
With that, the room turned to him—all warmth and encouragement. Nicholas let the moment linger, milking the attention with the practiced flair of someone who enjoyed being begged.
He sighed, sat up straighter, and smoothed the lines of his coat with exaggerated dignity. "Fine," he said, as if bestowing a gift. "But only because I suspect Margaret will pout until spring."
"Correct," Margaret said, beaming.
He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders, and cast a solemn look around the room. Then—with a flourish of his hands and a gleam in his eye—he began.
Nicholas sat upright, hands folded over his knee with the air of a scholar preparing to enlighten a most fortunate audience. The candlelight caught the curve of his cheek, casting just enough shadow to lend his profile something faintly mythic—though the glint in his eye quickly undid any such illusion.
"This story," he began, his voice steady and just loud enough to reach every corner of the room, "was written by a man named Ovid—back in the time of the Romans, thousands of years ago."
He let that settle for a beat before continuing, his tone slipping into a cadence both fluid and inviting.
"It is the tale of Cupid and Psyche. A story of love, and loss, and the cost of curiosity."
And then he told it.
Psyche, he explained, was a mortal of such surpassing beauty that mortals began to neglect Venus herself. Altars stood bare. Prayers went unspoken. The goddess of love, slighted and furious, sent her son Cupid to ruin the girl. She ordered him to strike Psyche with one of his arrows, to make her fall hopelessly in love with something monstrous—a beast that would humble her.
But when Cupid saw Psyche, something unexpected happened.
He faltered. He stumbled. And he pricked himself with his own arrow.
From that moment, he was lost.
Rather than destroy her, he stole her away to a hidden palace—lavish, invisible, unreal. There, she lived in comfort, served by unseen hands, fed from golden plates. But Cupid came only in darkness, only at night. She never saw his face. He forbade her to know him.
And for a time, she obeyed. They fell in love without names, without sight. But curiosity—natural, human—took root. One night, while he slept beside her, she lit a lamp.
What the light revealed was no monster, no cruel god—but a figure of breathtaking beauty. Her heart caught—and in that instant, a single drop of oil slipped from the lamp and burned his shoulder, waking him.
Betrayed, he fled.
What followed were trials. Tasks cruel and impossible, set by a vengeful Venus: separating barley from millet in a single night, retrieving golden wool from deadly sheep, journeying into the underworld to claim a box said to hold divine beauty.
Psyche endured them all. Mortal. Alone. Undaunted.
In the end, even the gods were moved. Jupiter himself intervened. Psyche was granted immortality, lifted to Olympus, and wed to Cupid at last—not in darkness, not in secret, but openly. As an equal.
Venus made peace.
And the soul—Psyche, whose very name means just that—was finally joined with love. Not as a reward. But as a partner.
Afterward—nearly an hour after he had begun—the room burst into applause. It was not the polite variety offered from social obligation, but something brighter and more sincere. Smiles bloomed across every face; laughter spilled between words of praise. The air felt lighter, threaded with admiration.
Mrs. Bennett, dabbing the corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief—though she would never admit to tears—declared it "more moving than anything I've seen at the theatre. And that includes Cleopatra performed entirely in French."
Louisa clapped with both hands, her eyes wide and shining. "It was terribly romantic," she sighed. "A god and a mortal? Secret love? A palace filled with invisible servants? It's everything."
Margaret, who had leaned forward through most of the tale, collapsed back into her chair with theatrical flair. "I shall never look at my mirror the same way again. Every time I so much as brush my hair, I'll wonder if I've just doomed a love affair."
"Be thankful you don't own an oil lamp," Eleanor muttered, though even she wore the ghost of a smile. She gave Nicholas a rare nod of approval. "Well chosen. And well told."
Mr. Bennett raised his glass. "If the law doesn't suit you, Nicholas, the stage might. Though I fear you'd demand your own chorus."
Nicholas gave a sweeping bow from his seat, one arm extended as if to acknowledge a roaring crowd. "I'll consider it—provided there's port in the green room, and an audience half as generous as this one."
Mr. Blyth chuckled, lifting his own glass. "You'd have them eating out of your hand by the second act."
"And drinking by the third," Nicholas replied, topping off his port with the ease of a man accepting his encore.
Laughter followed—light, unforced, real.
As the laughter dwindled into scattered chuckles and conversation resumed in softened tones, Eleanor—who had been quietly nursing the last of her cordial—set down her glass with a soft clink and spoke just loud enough to carry.
"Well, unless Nicholas plans to deliver another tragedy disguised as a romance," she said, arching a brow, "perhaps we ought to shift to something a little lighter."
Her gaze turned toward the corner of the room, where the pianoforte sat bathed in the gentle glow of a nearby lamp. "Louisa, you were rather animated earlier—might we convince you to play something before the night is completely gone?"
Louisa, never one to resist an invitation that resembled applause, perked up instantly. "Oh, I couldn't possibly refuse a request made so politely."
She stood with a theatrical flourish—mimicking her brother's earlier bow—and made her way to the instrument with a slight bounce in her step. "But I warn you," she called over her shoulder, grinning, "I only know three pieces by memory, and I intend to make all of them sound like five."
Laughter followed her to the bench, where she flexed her fingers in an exaggerated warm-up before placing them with deliberate drama on the keys.
Mr. Blyth leaned toward Miss Bennett, just enough to murmur, "And now we enter the more dangerous portion of the evening."
She glanced at him, folding her hands in her lap with a flicker of amusement. "At least we know she'll enjoy herself."
As chairs shifted and the others gathered near the pianoforte—Louisa already testing the keys with a few lively scales—Mr. Blyth and Miss Bennett remained by the hearth, just beyond the circle of music and motion. The melodies filled the edges of the room, light and bright, yet the space between them felt gently apart, cocooned in quiet.
Miss Bennett leaned slightly toward him, graceful and at ease, the firelight casting a warm glow along her cheek.
"You were all laughing rather freely a few minutes ago in the dining room," she said, her tone light but edged with quiet curiosity. "Nicholas seemed pleased with himself, which is always dangerous. I take it something amusing followed the port?"
There was a glint in her eyes—not pressing, not demanding—just curious, and perhaps already halfway to guessing. Mr. Blyth turned to look at her fully now, his expression a touch more serious, though not without warmth. The flickering firelight danced along the edges of his features, softening the lines of hesitation that briefly crossed his brow. He held her gaze for a beat—long enough for the hum of the room to recede around them, as though the space they occupied had momentarily drawn inward.
"I know," he said quietly, "that we spoke about taking things slowly… letting it unfold naturally."
She didn't respond right away, only watched him, her smile dimming just slightly into something more measured.
"But I thought you should know—your father gave me his blessing this evening," he continued, careful but certain. "To be more… intentional. To pursue this—us—with the understanding that it might lead to something more lasting."
There was no pressure in his voice, no grand gesture. Just a truth, laid gently between them. She held his gaze for a moment longer, the smile forming slowly—genuine, touched with something soft and almost bashful. A faint blush rose to her cheeks, and she dipped her head, but not before he saw it.
"I would like that too," she said, then added with a quiet smirk, "though I reserve the right to be terribly difficult and change my mind whenever I like."
Mr. Blyth let out a breath of laughter, one that slipped easily through the warmth blooming in his chest. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
Her smile widened, eyes bright with mischief and something gentler beneath it. Then she turned back toward the fire, her hands folding neatly in her lap, letting the moment settle like a stone finding its place. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
They sat together in silence, the kind that needed no filling. Around them, the drawing room bustled softly—music, light conversation, Louisa tripping over a flourish at the pianoforte and laughing at her own mistake. But near the hearth, time slowed. Not waiting. Not questioning. Only existing—in quiet, mutual happiness. A beginning, wrapped in stillness.