As spring yielded to summer and the days lengthened with a gentle, sunlit ease, Mr. Blyth found himself increasingly absent from home. The familiar rituals of his daily life—the quiet hours spent at his writing desk, the orderly suppers shared with his mother, the idle rounds of cards with Eleanor, and Margaret's tireless speculations—gradually gave way to a new cadence, one centered almost entirely around the name Bennett.
When not tending to clients or reviewing casework, he was often found in Mr. Bennett's study, parsing the finer points of reform over strong tea, or seated beside Mrs. Bennett as she catalogued, with unflagging precision, the cost of flannel across no fewer than eight parishes. More often than not, however, he could be found in the company of Miss Bennett herself—her presence, steady and bright, had begun to feel less like an intrusion and more like a habit of the heart.
Their shared time was genteel and well-paced, almost ritualistic in its respectability. They took long walks through the countryside when the weather allowed, their paths winding through hedgerows and over green hills that bloomed beneath their feet. But propriety, ever the watchful chaperone, was not neglected. Eleanor was nearly always present, her composed silhouette trailing just behind or forging slightly ahead, depending on the terrain or the topic of conversation.
Sometimes Margaret would accompany them as well, flitting from wildflower to hedgerow with the restless energy of a girl still deciding whether romance was a thing to chase or to tease. She would run ahead to inspect a moss-covered stump or a particularly promising toadstool, then pause just long enough to allow Mr. Blyth and Miss Bennett a few private words—though never so long as to provoke suspicion or scandal.
There was something delicate about these outings, like a vase carried between them that neither dared grip too tightly. Conversation was easy, laughter frequent, and though no declarations had been made beyond that evening in the drawing room, an understanding had taken root. It grew with every shared glance, every polite brush of the sleeve, every moment of quiet that did not demand filling.
And still, each day concluded with the same quiet rhythm: Mr. Blyth would see Miss Bennett to her door, offer a soft word and a parting smile, then return home beside his sisters, saying little. Whatever warmth the day had gathered between them, he carried it back in silence.
It was on a particularly warm afternoon in late spring that they encountered Mr. Joseph Thorne.
They had been strolling along the orchard path just outside Elversford proper—a familiar circuit that had, over time, become something of a quiet tradition. Mr. Blyth, though he never confessed it aloud, had begun to think of this patch of trees as Adelaide's orchard. There was no legal claim, no inherited tie, but the way she moved through it—pausing now and then to admire a branch or brush a petal from her sleeve—lent the place a quiet intimacy. And so, in his thoughts at least, the name had settled.
They had just crested the rise near the far gate, Eleanor a pace or two behind adjusting her parasol, when a figure appeared at the bend. His coat was modest but well-cut, dust clinging faintly to the hems of his trousers. His hat sat tipped back on his head, as if he hadn't meant to be caught in the sun quite so long.
"Miss Bennett," he called out with polite warmth, "Mr. Blyth. Miss Eleanor."
His bow was practiced but sincere. When he fell into step beside them, it was with the ease of someone accustomed to being welcomed. Mr. Thorne—son of a respected judge and a woman renowned for her steady good sense—carried an inherited sort of respectability, the kind that prompted neither gossip nor objection. Mr. Blyth had nodded his assent without hesitation.
When Mr. Thorne asked to accompany them for the remainder of the walk, there was no reason to refuse. He matched their pace with unstudied confidence, spoke only when addressed at first, and treated Eleanor with a polite deference that struck neither as forced nor overly familiar.
Adelaide offered no protest. Nor did Eleanor, who met his tone with easy conversation—and, to Mr. Blyth's quiet surprise, even a faint touch of amusement.
It might have ended there. A single, pleasant encounter on a spring afternoon, quickly folded into the season's passing routines, but Mr. Thorne began to reappear.
At first, it was only now and then—a meeting at a crossroads, a polite nod from a shaded lane. Yet gradually, his presence took on a quiet regularity. He always seemed to know when they'd be passing through the orchard, or along the old chapel trail, or over the ridge behind the Bennetts' property. Each time, he arrived with just enough breathlessness to suggest coincidence, his face flushed from the walk, his manner casual, as though the meeting were a happy accident.
Mr. Blyth noticed. He was not blind to patterns. But what gave him pause was not Mr. Thorne's persistence—it was Eleanor's silence.
She never objected. On the contrary, she seemed quietly pleased. She laughed—genuinely—at one of his remarks about the muddy footpaths, and once offered her hand when he reached to help her over a low stone stile. It was not flirtation, precisely, but something gentler. A mutual ease. A rhythm forming between them, subtle but steady—built word by word, step by step.
Miss Bennett remained her usual composed self—pleasant, untroubled, gracious. And if Mr. Blyth began to sense that the rhythm of their walks had shifted—that what had once felt companionable now carried the faint suggestion of being observed—he kept the thought to himself. After all, the path was public. And Mr. Thorne, by every outward measure, was only being polite.
It did not take long before Mr. Blyth and Miss Bennett became the subject of quiet speculation—and increasingly loud certainty—among the social circles of Elversford and its neighboring towns. What began as gentle curiosity among the ladies at the market soon spread to drawing rooms, garden parties, and morning teas. By June, it was impossible for Mr. Blyth to enter a room without feeling the flutter of eyes settling on him, accompanied by the subtle choreography of fans snapping open and gloved hands shielding delighted whispers.
They rarely said much—not aloud—but the smiles said enough. A tilt of the head here, a shared glance there. Giggles carefully disguised as coughs, or remarks about the weather delivered with suspicious enthusiasm. Even Mrs. Withers—the very same who had once described Miss Bennett's hem stitching as "ambitiously provincial"—had begun to refer to her as "such a grounded young woman," with a tone that suggested she'd personally arranged the match.
Mr. Blyth noticed, of course. He was not immune to such things. But he did not particularly care. His thoughts—his time—were increasingly occupied by Miss Bennett herself. Not by what others thought of her, not by what others imagined about the two of them, but by who she was in the quiet moments when no one else was watching. They had always been close—nearly lifelong friends, raised in one another's company, with shared memories of summer games and winter visits—but something had shifted. Their conversations, once shaped by habit and proximity, had taken on a new tone. A softness. A weight.
He found himself looking forward to the things she said—not because they were always profound, though they sometimes were, but because they were hers. A passing comment on the shape of a tree. A quiet observation about how Eleanor furrowed her brow when she was thinking. The way she described a half-read novel with such clarity that he felt as though he'd already finished it himself. He had known her for years, but somehow, now, he was learning her all over again.
And somewhere along the way, he realized—with a faint, surprised sort of relief—that he hadn't thought about Mr. Fitzwilliam in weeks.
After the ball, Mr. Fitzwilliam had disappeared again—this time for nearly a month. According to Miss Fitzwilliam, who had taken to relaying such updates with cool precision, he had fallen ill once more. No details were offered, only the vague assurance that he was "resting as he ought." It was, she maintained, nothing serious, though it was equally clear he would not be seen for some time.
In his absence, Miss Fitzwilliam had taken to town life with a quiet kind of flourish. Now formally introduced to the community, she was seen often about Elversford—her posture always perfect, her hat always immaculate, and her maid, Miss Dockins, always two steps behind. The latter, a cheerful girl no older than seventeen, smiled at anyone who so much as glanced her way. There was something almost charming in their contrast: Miss Fitzwilliam, all composure and lace-edged detachment; Miss Dockins, effusive and uncontainably bright, as though simply delighted to have been brought along for the ride.
To everyone's surprise—and perhaps mild suspicion at first—Miss Fitzwilliam became something of a fixture in local society. She attended luncheons, visited milliners, made appointments with the apothecary that may or may not have been necessary, and, most notably, struck up a swift and steady friendship with Eleanor.
The two women—so different in bearing, yet oddly well matched—soon became a familiar pair whenever circumstances allowed. If Eleanor was not at home or accompanying her brother and Miss Bennett on their walks, she was with Miss Fitzwilliam at Mrs. Callender's Tea Garden, a newly opened establishment with aspirations of refinement and just enough local charm to pass as inevitable. Most afternoons found them tucked into a shaded corner of the courtyard, Eleanor with a book always within reach, Miss Fitzwilliam with her gloved hands wrapped neatly around a porcelain cup—each holding court in their own quiet fashion.
It was good to see Eleanor so engaged, and Miss Fitzwilliam, for all her poise and polish, seemed—dare one say—content. Or at least, as content as one might be while explaining away the prolonged absence of Mr. Fitzwilliam.
Life, in its quiet and deliberate way, went on.
The weather warmed. The roads dried. Letters came and went. The garden at Greymoor grew wilder than usual—Eleanor's schedule having little patience for pruning—and Mr. Blyth, for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, felt... content. There was a rhythm to things now. A shape to his days that did not feel dictated by guilt or longing. He worked. He walked. He supped with the Bennetts. He spent his evenings in comfortable conversation—sometimes with his mother, sometimes with Eleanor or Margaret, and sometimes with no one at all. His thoughts felt clearer. His chest lighter. Whatever had stirred so violently in him during the spring had softened, like a fever breaking quietly in the night, leaving only damp linens and the hush that follows something spent.
And then—after a couple of months—Mr. Fitzwilliam returned.
There was no grand announcement. No formal invitation or note of reentry. Just the sudden, unmistakable sight of him riding through town on horseback, posture straight, coat immaculate, his blue eyes scanning the street with the dispassion of a man long accustomed to being observed. He looked as he always had: elegant, inscrutable, composed almost to the point of cruelty.
He did not call. He did not write. And for a time, he and Mr. Blyth did not speak. They saw each other, certainly—passing glimpses at a distance. Once, near the grocer's; another time, outside the post. Always with someone else nearby—Genevieve, most often, or a footman, or one of the Langmere men come to town on business. Never alone. Never within reach. And Mr. Blyth found, to his quiet astonishment, that he did not mind. In truth, he was relieved.
There had been a time when even the shadow of Mr. Fitzwilliam's name had made his hands shake. When the sound of hoofbeats on gravel would send a pulse of heat up his spine. When longing had felt like something bright and desperate and alive.
Now, it only stirred something faint—a ripple beneath still water, a memory of emotion rather than the emotion itself. He didn't know whether that meant he had healed, or merely learned to bury it well.
But with others always nearby, there was no danger. No confrontation. No moment alone for things to resurface or spill out again, unbidden and raw. And if some quiet part of him still wondered what might happen should they ever speak alone again—what might be said, or left unsaid—that part remained mercifully silent.
For now.
It was during his walks with Miss Bennett that Mr. Blyth most often encountered Mr. Fitzwilliam. Always by chance, always brief—a polite halt along the lane or a passing on horseback. Sometimes Mr. Fitzwilliam would dismount, drawn to conversation by what seemed like an old and idle instinct, brushing dust from his gloves with a familiar flick of the wrist.
He greeted Mr. Blyth with the same gentlemanly calm as always. Warm, even. Friendly. But occasionally—just occasionally—it felt too friendly. Not in tone, necessarily, nor in expression, but in its precision. His phrasing was too careful, his attention too measured. There was a sweetness to it that felt—oddly—performed, as though the courtesy was meant to be witnessed, not experienced.
And yet, it was not those moments that gave Mr. Blyth pause. It was the way Mr. Fitzwilliam spoke to Miss Bennett. Not often. Not extensively. But enough.
When conversation turned to her—when she offered a casual remark about the weather, or responded to a light observation about the trees—his tone shifted. Not cold, not curt, but altered. Too polished. Too careful. A kind of brittle charm coated his words, as though he were playing the role of the gentleman too precisely, each syllable rehearsed to prove how unaffected he was.
His compliments, when they came, felt wrong-footed—too smooth, too loud, delivered with the timing of someone trying to beat back silence rather than contribute to conversation. They were generous to the point of awkwardness, and sweet in a way that cloyed. Like sugar dropped into a drink already finished.
Miss Bennett, for her part, remained composed. She met his remarks with the same poise she offered everyone—smiling when required, demurring with grace. She did not flinch. She did not lean in. And when the conversation passed, she let it, unremarked and unremembered. She never mentioned it afterward. And so, neither did Mr. Blyth.
He told himself that if Mr. Fitzwilliam had truly offended her, she would have said so. Miss Bennett was not the sort of woman to swallow discourtesy—not when it mattered. And he respected her enough to trust that silence, when it came from her, was never passive.
Still, the uncertainty sat poorly with him. There was something in Mr. Fitzwilliam's presence that felt askew—this new tone, this odd precision. Mr. Blyth could not tell whether it was meant to provoke, to prove something, or simply to unsettle. Whatever the intention, it had begun to press at the edges of his calm like a draft beneath a closed door.
He, who had only just begun to feel steady again—heart quiet, mind clear—now found himself caught in a disquiet he could not name and could not quite ignore. But until Miss Bennett spoke of it, he would say nothing. He would wait.
Outside of those fleeting encounters on the road, Mr. Fitzwilliam began making appearances at Mr. Blyth's office—always under the guise of business, and never alone. Sometimes he arrived with his sister, sometimes with a manservant in tow. There were documents to review, contracts to clarify, deeds that required notarization. The visits were never entirely unexpected, but they were never quite welcome either. Not because he was impolite—on the contrary, he was relentlessly courteous—but because he was too much of something Mr. Blyth couldn't name.
He was always smiling. Always cheerful. His tone warm, his posture easy, his manners impeccable. He sat across the desk like a man returning to a familiar place, like nothing between them had ever shifted.
But there were moments—quiet, specific moments—that disturbed Mr. Blyth more than he cared to admit.
The handshake at the end of each visit lingered a breath too long. Not enough to draw comment, not enough to be called out—but enough to be felt. And afterward, once the door had shut and Mr. Fitzwilliam's boots had faded down the corridor, Mr. Blyth would catch himself curling his fingers inward without thinking, as if to shake off the shape of having been held.
Then there were the glances.
At first, Mr. Blyth thought he was imagining them. A trick of the light. A flicker of attention mistaken for something else. But they happened too often. Mr. Fitzwilliam would glance up when Mr. Blyth was reviewing a document, then look away too quickly when caught. He stared when he thought no one would notice. Sometimes his gaze was soft. Sometimes unreadable. But it was always there—watching.
It made Mr. Blyth feel strange. Not afraid. Not angry. Just... hot. And tight. As if the air itself shifted the moment Mr. Fitzwilliam entered. His collar sat higher. His coat heavier. His pen harder to hold. And worst of all, he didn't understand why.
Or rather—he feared he did. And that fear, quiet and persistent, lived just beneath his skin like a coal that would neither cool nor catch. So he did what he always did when emotion threatened to unravel order.
He pressed it down. He focused on the documents. The signatures. The dates and margins. He gave polite answers. Made measured gestures. Stood only when required and spoke only what protocol demanded.
And each time the door finally closed behind Mr. Fitzwilliam, Mr. Blyth let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding—and returned, with practiced ease, to pretending he hadn't noticed a thing.