Mr. Blyth let the afternoon pass without urgency, the way one lets water run in a basin—aware, but unbothered. The window remained open, the same soft breeze brushing across his collar and cheekbones with the light insistence of a cat nosing at a resting hand. Outside, the light had mellowed but not dimmed, ripening into the gold-tinged clarity that long summer days carried into evening. He watched without much focus, letting the slow movement of townsfolk and drifting clouds lull him into a quiet rhythm that asked nothing of him.
He tried—truly tried—to enjoy it. To savor the rare pause, the long exhale of a day not dictated by appointments or obligations. To pretend he hadn't spent the better part of an hour not thinking of Mr. Fitzwilliam.
But even the sky felt like a reminder. That particular shade of late-day brightness—how often had it caught in the man's hair? How many times had it traced the edge of his cheek, turned the dark in his eyes a shade warmer?
Mr. Blyth shifted on the bench and glanced lazily toward the clock hanging above the doorframe. It was already five minutes past five.
A soft breath escaped him—not quite a sigh, more a note of resignation. He had let nearly the entire workday slip by without accomplishing anything of substance. His inkwell remained untouched. The papers on his desk, some sealed and ribboned, had not moved. He had made not one notation, had reviewed not a single figure.
His father would have chastised him.
The thought rose automatically, shaped in that same firm tone he'd spent most of his life obeying. It didn't matter that the man was gone—his judgments lingered like dust in the corners of Greymoor Hall. Wasting the day is wasting the man you might become, he would have said. You're not a boy anymore. The name on that door comes with responsibility.
Mr. Blyth leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. He knew every syllable of that legacy. It lived in him, coiled beneath every choice.
But today?
Today he was too tired to feel chastened. Too wrung out to argue with the voice in his head or appease it. For once, he let the weight of his failure sit beside him like a companion rather than a judge.
With a quiet grunt, Mr. Blyth pushed himself up from the bench and stretched, rolling his shoulders until the stiffness eased from his frame. The breeze, still curling in through the open window, ruffled his hair as if to chide him gently for sitting so long.
He turned toward his desk and reached for his coat, shaking it out before slipping his arms into the sleeves. The familiar weight settled over his shoulders like punctuation—a final period at the end of a long, unsorted sentence.
His gaze lingered on the papers still arranged with dutiful precision across the desk.
The thought surfaced briefly: Take something home. Skim a few reports. Make a dent, at least.
But he didn't move toward them.
Instead, he stood there for a moment, one hand resting on the back of his chair, and simply... considered. The day had already been spoken for—not by diligence or duty, but by feeling. By the weight of memory and the pull of interruption. By that peculiar strain of emotion he'd tried all afternoon to navigate, dodge, contain.
There was nothing to gain by dragging it into his evening.
So, with a soft exhale and a faint shake of his head, he left the papers untouched.
Just this once, he told himself. A small indulgence. A quiet rebellion.
He gathered his things, tucked Mr. Fitzwilliam's invitations into his coat pocket, straightened his cuffs, and stepped out of the office with his hands empty.
And for a man so often measured by how full his hands were, it felt—oddly—like a kind of freedom.
The room outside his office was still bright, the tall windows catching the sunlight now slanting at a gentler angle, gilding the floor in long, warm rectangles. As Mr. Blyth stepped into the front room, he found Mr. Shepard still seated at his desk, hunched slightly forward, scribbling notes with his usual deliberate precision. A single lamp sat unlit beside him—no need yet to draw upon it.
The sight drew a faint smile to Mr. Blyth's face. There was something deeply reassuring in the constancy of it—the rhythm of ink and paper, the quiet hum of routine.
He paused beside the desk.
"I'm heading out for the evening," he said gently. "No need for you to stay too late, Mr. Shepard."
Mr. Shepard didn't look up right away, but nodded as he finished the line he was writing. "Just making one last note, sir," he replied, calm and even. "Won't be much longer."
"Good," Mr. Blyth said with a soft nod. "Be sure to head home before the light fades too far."
With that, he turned toward the door.
The bell above it gave a polite little chime as it opened, and the warm air of the outside world—rich now with the scent of blooming hedgerows and sun-warmed stone—rushed up to meet him. The street glowed with clear golden light, long shadows stretching but not yet falling.
And then, with quiet steps and empty hands, Mr. Blyth stepped into the amber calm of a countryside evening still far from its end.
Mr. Blyth lingered just outside the doorway, the familiar chime of the bell fading into the hush of late afternoon. He stood still for a moment, letting the sunlight wash over him. It was warm but not oppressive—the kind of gentle heat that clung to the air in late spring, brushing across his face like a second breeze. The scent of lilac and loamy soil drifted in from a nearby garden, mingling faintly with the distant tang of chimney smoke—someone, somewhere, already thinking of supper.
He drew the air in slowly. Let it settle.
The street around him moved with its usual, unhurried rhythm. A boy chased a hoop past the bakery. A woman clipped herbs by her front step. Two dogs lay sun-dazed beneath a cart. The world, it seemed, did not mind that he had accomplished nothing today. It simply went on—bright, indifferent, and full of small, persistent life.
After a moment, he turned to his right and began the walk home.
His steps were unhurried, almost idle. There was no need to rush. The sun still had hours left to give—and for once, so did he.
Halfway to Greymoor, just where the hedgerow dipped low and the footpath widened enough for three to walk abreast, Mr. Blyth caught the sound of laughter. Not the polite sort offered out of courtesy, but the bright, bubbling kind that slips free before one can stop it.
He looked up and saw Eleanor and Miss Bennett approaching from the opposite direction, their parasols tilted delicately against the sun, skirts brushing through the grass along the path's edge. Miss Bennett must have said something clever—or just plain absurd—because Eleanor was laughing with such abandon she had to press a hand to her middle.
The sight made Mr. Blyth smile before they'd even reached him.
They met at the center of the path like players crossing a stage, sunlight caught in the embroidery of Miss Bennett's hem and Eleanor's braid swinging lazily behind her.
"Brother!" Eleanor called, her cheeks still flushed with amusement. "We were just on our way to accompany you home."
"Were you now?" he asked, his voice soft with something close to fondness. "How very convenient."
Miss Bennett gave a graceful curtsy, her smile warm. "We suspected you might leave a bit early today. It's too fine an evening to spend alone."
Mr. Blyth offered them both a grateful nod, already feeling the tension of the day begin to ease. "Then I'm glad to be found."
They turned together, retracing the ladies' earlier steps. The path sloped gently uphill in this direction, framed by tall grass and the occasional spray of wildflowers reaching for the sun.
As they walked, Eleanor lingered quietly a few paces behind, crouching to gather a small bundle of blossoms that had crept through the hedgerow. She didn't speak—just hummed to herself as she plucked them one by one, her fingers gentle, careful not to crush the stems.
Mr. Blyth didn't rush her. In truth, he was grateful for the pause. It gave him a moment to watch the soft sway of Miss Bennett's skirt as she walked ahead, her posture easy, her head tilted slightly to catch the breeze. It gave him space to breathe.
And though he didn't turn, he could hear Eleanor behind him—her quiet presence, the hush of her humming, the unbothered joy of someone content with simple things. It was, he realized, one of the only moments all day when he felt entirely at ease.
When they resumed their pace, the gravel crunching softly beneath their shoes, Miss Bennett turned toward him with a curious tilt of her head.
"And how was your day, Mr. Blyth?" she asked. Her tone was playful, almost teasing—but her eyes were sincere.
He hesitated, just for a moment.
"Oh, quiet," he said finally, waving a hand in a vague little arc, as if brushing the whole day aside. "I hardly got any work done, I'm afraid. Spent most of the afternoon letting the hours slip by."
Miss Bennett raised a brow, amused. "A lazy day, then?"
He smiled. "Regrettably so. But I suppose even the most industrious man is allowed one."
He left it at that. Made no mention of the open window or the sudden dimming of the light. Not a word about the startled breath or the way Mr. Fitzwilliam had leaned in so close. That was not a story for this walk—and certainly not for her. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew two neatly folded envelopes, their edges still crisp, the wax seal unbroken.
"Ah," he said, as though the thought had only just returned to him. "Before I forget—Mr. Fitzwilliam stopped by the office earlier and asked me to pass these along. He's invited both our families to dinner next week."
He held them out, and Miss Bennett accepted them with her usual care, her gloved fingers brushing lightly against his. Without a word, she slid one open and unfolded the heavy parchment with a measured grace, as though it were something fragile. Her eyes moved slowly over the page, absorbing each line with quiet deliberation. Then they stopped.
She didn't flinch. Didn't change her stance. But something in her face shifted—just slightly. A stillness settled into her expression, subtle and unreadable, as if her thoughts had stepped away for a moment, drifting somewhere beyond the hedgerow and the path and the gold-streaked light. It wasn't displeasure, exactly, but it wasn't quite neutral either. Whatever emotion passed across her features came and went too quickly to name, and what remained was something calm, careful, and decidedly apart.
Mr. Blyth watched her closely, the moment stretching between them. He could sense something unsaid forming in the quiet, but it didn't surface. And he didn't ask.
"Is everything alright?" he asked, his voice gentle but edged with quiet concern.
Her gaze flickered upward, and she seemed to blink herself back into the present. "Yes," she said, steady, though the reply came a heartbeat too late to feel entirely unburdened. "Yes, of course. It's nothing." She folded the invitation with care and slipped it into her reticule, the gesture practiced, deliberate.
"My father and Nicholas will be away that day—business in Exeter, I believe—but my mother, sister, and I have no prior engagements. We would be glad to join."
Mr. Blyth gave a small nod, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. "I'm sure Mr. Fitzwilliam will be pleased to hear it."
She didn't respond right away. The path stretched on ahead, quiet and sunlit, the breeze tugging softly at the edge of her shawl. Whatever had unsettled her a moment before had vanished now—folded away as neatly and intentionally as the invitation itself.
Mr. Blyth glanced back over his shoulder to check on Eleanor. She was still a few yards behind, crouched at the edge of the path where the hedgerow spilled into a little tangle of wildflowers. But she was no longer alone. Mr. Joseph Thorne had appeared—seemingly from nowhere, as was fast becoming his custom—and now stood beside her, the brim of his hat angled just enough to catch her expression as she spoke. Eleanor was laughing, animated and unguarded, her hands sketching small arcs in the air as she shared some observation or story that clearly delighted her. Her voice, carried lightly on the breeze, was bright and familiar, the sound of someone utterly herself.
Mr. Thorne, for his part, said nothing at all. He simply watched her, his face open in a way Mr. Blyth had not seen before—soft, almost awestruck, the look of someone entirely absorbed. There was no pretense in it, no performance. Just a young man caught in the quiet realization that the world had momentarily shrunk to the girl beside him, to the curve of her smile and the sun tangled in her braid.
Mr. Blyth let his gaze rest there a moment longer, then turned back to the path ahead without comment. But something in his chest softened—some guarded part of him quietly loosening, not with resignation, but with recognition. He said nothing. He didn't need to.
Mr. Blyth turned forward again, the corner of his mouth twitching with the suggestion of a smile. He leaned slightly toward Miss Bennett, lowering his voice just enough to suggest a shared confidence. "It appears," he said dryly, "we've picked up another follower."
He nodded subtly toward the rear of their little procession. Miss Bennett glanced back with practiced ease, her eyes landing on Eleanor—still laughing, her hands a flurry of animation—and Mr. Thorne, who looked for all the world like a man on the verge of carving her name into every tree between here and Elversford.
When she turned forward again, there was a flicker of mischief in her expression. "Oh dear," she said, "do you think we ought to warn her she's being wooed in broad daylight? Or let her believe she's simply inspired another devoted gardener?"
Mr. Blyth gave a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "I'm not sure she knows the difference."
Miss Bennett shot him a sideways glance, her smile curving with conspiratorial delight. "You'd best be careful, Mr. Blyth. Keep turning a blind eye like that and you'll have a brother-in-law before the season's out."
Mr. Blyth gave a soft huff of laughter, though his gaze drifted back—just for a moment—toward Eleanor and Mr. Thorne. "She does look uncommonly happy around him," he said, his tone edging toward thoughtful. "And I'll give him credit—he's been nothing if not attentive."
He paused, then added with quiet sincerity, "I wouldn't mind the addition. Not if he keeps making her laugh like that."
Miss Bennett's smile softened, touched now by something gentler than amusement. "Nor would I," she said. "She deserves someone who looks at her the way he does."
They continued on without speaking, but the silence between them held no discomfort. The road stretched ahead in a soft curve, framed by hedgerows and steeped in the mellowing light of late afternoon. Their footsteps fell into rhythm—unhurried, familiar. The quiet wasn't empty. It was the kind of silence that came only with understanding, worn smooth by time and presence, like a well-loved coat pulled snug against a passing breeze.
Soon, they reached the familiar crossroad. One path veered left toward the Bennetts' home, the other curved right toward Greymoor. Mr. Blyth slowed instinctively, glancing toward Miss Bennett.
She came to a gentle stop and offered a small smile. "I believe this is where we must part."
Mr. Blyth tilted his head slightly. "Are you certain? I don't mind walking you the rest of the way."
But Miss Bennett shook her head, already beginning to turn down the left-hand path. "Thank you, but I'm hoping to catch Mrs. Forsythe before she reaches the hill. She always forgets her sunhat this time of year and insists she doesn't need one."
Mr. Blyth chuckled softly. "Still no convincing her?"
"None whatsoever," Miss Bennett said, feigning exasperation. "But if I reach her in time, I can at least walk with her and shield her from the worst of her stubbornness."
They shared a brief, fond look—the kind that passed easily between old friends and companions who understood the small rituals of a shared town.
"Very well," he said with a nod. "Give her my regards."
"I will," she replied. "Good evening, Mr. Blyth."
"And to you, Miss Bennett."
With that, she turned down the path, her stride confident and composed. Mr. Blyth remained where he stood, watching as Miss Bennett walked away, her figure framed by the late-afternoon light and the gentle curve of the road. There was a grace to her movement—unhurried, sure—as though she carried her own weather with her: steady, composed, familiar.
He lingered a moment longer in the quiet she left behind, then turned toward the road to Greymoor and began his own slow walk home.
He had taken no more than a few steps when a voice called out behind him.
"Mr. Blyth!"
He turned, slightly startled.
Eleanor was waving from up the path, her steps quick and buoyant. Mr. Thorne walked beside her, just a pace behind, wearing the determined look of someone who had made up his mind about something—and intended to say it before the sun went down.
Mr. Thorne raised a hand as he approached, just a touch breathless. "Mr. Blyth—might I speak with you for a moment?"
Mr. Blyth tilted his head, already suspecting the nature of the request, though he made a point of appearing to consider it. Then, with the well-practiced ease of an older brother, he nodded. "Of course. Eleanor, you go on ahead—no need to wait on us."
Eleanor stopped short, blinking in clear offense.
She turned to Mr. Thorne with poised civility. "Good evening, Mr. Thorne," she said, her tone demure but her eyes lingering on him just a beat longer than decorum required.
Then she pivoted and swept past her brother without another word.
As she passed, she shot him a look. Not theatrical, not exaggerated—but sharp enough to carve marble.
It was the kind of look that said, without the need for breath or syllable: I know exactly what you're doing. And I will remember this.
Mr. Blyth, entirely unrepentant, smiled to himself. Few pleasures were as enduring—or as satisfying—as annoying one's sister just enough to make her bristle, but not enough to earn a true scolding.
They stood in companionable silence for a few beats, both watching as Eleanor's figure grew smaller along the path. Only once she had reached a respectable distance—far enough not to hear, though still visible—did Mr. Blyth turn back to Mr. Thorne, hands loosely clasped behind his back.
"Well then," he said, amusement still flickering faintly in his voice, "what can I do for you, Mr. Thorne?"
The younger man stood stiffly before him, clearly summoned by some brave inner resolve—only to find himself betrayed by it at the last possible moment. He was perhaps half a head shorter than Mr. Blyth, but made up for the difference in the sturdy breadth of his shoulders, the sort that suggested a childhood spent being roped into local cricket matches whether he enjoyed them or not. His hair—pale, sun-dusted, and clearly resistant to discipline—stood askew in a soft, wind-mussed halo, as though he'd run a hand through it half a dozen times on the walk over.
His cheeks, meanwhile, had gone an uneven pink. Not the healthy flush of exercise, but the blotchy, unmistakable hue of a man at war with his own nerves. And for all his effort in arriving, he could not seem to meet Mr. Blyth's eyes.
Instead, he stared fixedly at the gloves in his hands—once a tidy pair of dark leather, now being wrung with such intensity one might think he was attempting to extract water from them.
"I—well," he began, then faltered. His mouth opened, then closed again, jaw working around words that refused to take shape. "That is, I was wondering—when you and Miss—Eleanor, that is—I mean if a person—well—"
Mr. Blyth, who had only ever known Mr. Thorne as cordial, reserved, and occasionally too eager to agree with everyone in the room, found himself watching this unraveling with mild astonishment. The young man sputtered forward, each attempt at clarity crumbling beneath the weight of its own construction.
"Mr. Thorne," Mr. Blyth interjected gently, his tone polite but edged with amusement he could no longer quite conceal. "Are you quite alright?"
The question only seemed to make things worse. Mr. Thorne drew in his shoulders as if bracing for a blow, his eyes darting nervously in the direction Eleanor had gone. Still, no answer came. Just another frantic attempt to smooth the mangled gloves, as if perfect creases might somehow coax coherence into existence.
Mr. Blyth waited patiently, watching this charming unraveling with the detached compassion of a man who had once been young, and stupid, and completely undone by admiration himself. Finally—after what felt like a full minute of verbal agony—Mr. Thorne straightened his spine with sudden resolve. His hands stilled, gloves half-crumpled in his grasp, and he drew a breath deep enough to steady a ship in rough waters. When he looked up, it was squarely, directly—right into Mr. Blyth's eyes.
"Thank you," he said.
Just that. Two words, firm and heartfelt. And before Mr. Blyth could muster even a syllable in response, Mr. Thorne pivoted on his heel and strode off—briskly, deliberately, and in entirely the wrong direction, away from Eleanor, away from Greymoor, as though mere proximity to the situation might cause him to combust.
Mr. Blyth stood rooted to the spot, utterly dumbfounded. For a moment, he could do nothing but blink after the young man's retreating figure, his coattails catching the wind like a banner raised in some noble, flustered surrender.
And then—once he was certain Mr. Thorne was well out of earshot—he laughed. Not a genteel chuckle or a polite murmur, but a full-bodied, bent-at-the-waist sort of laugh that startled a bird from a nearby hedge. He had no idea what had just happened. None. But it was, without question, the most delightful mystery he'd encountered all day.
Still chuckling to himself, Mr. Blyth gave his head a small shake, turned, and resumed his walk toward Greymoor. The sun had shifted lower in the sky now, casting longer shadows across the path and gilding the tops of hedges and stone walls in amber light. The town behind him was quieting with the hour, but Greymoor, it seemed, was quite the opposite.
As he neared the house, the unmistakable sound of raised voices—or rather, one very animated voice—carried through the open windows. It was coming from the direction of the parlour, each syllable too muffled to make out but brimming with youthful indignation. Mr. Blyth arched an eyebrow.
By the time he reached the front step, the door flew open and out came Mrs. Redly in a rush, her apron slightly askew and her expression balanced precariously between scandalized and amused. She stopped short at the sight of him, folded her arms, and fixed him with a look—a look that was technically stern but entirely undone by the twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"Well," she said, hands on her hips. "I do hope you're happy with yourself, sir."
Mr. Blyth blinked. "I—pardon?"
"Your sister," Mrs. Redly replied, tipping her head toward the parlour with theatrical weight, "has been in a state these last ten minutes. All flutter and fluster, muttering about you and him and 'I cannot believe he did that.' I had to remove the good teacups just in case she threw one."
Mr. Blyth, despite himself, smiled. He had no doubt who "he" was.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin lingered. "I assure you, Mrs. Redly, I've done nothing that an older brother wouldn't do."
She gave a knowing chuckle and turned toward the side path that led to the kitchen garden. "Oh, I'm quite sure of it," she called over her shoulder. "And I'd expect nothing less."
With a small, theatrical curtsy—equal parts affection and exasperation—she vanished around the corner, leaving him alone on the step. He let out a breath, shook his head once more, and stepped inside.
The familiar scent of lavender polish and old books wrapped around him like a coat. He moved with practiced ease into the foyer, removing his jacket, gloves, and hat without thought. Each gesture was automatic, a rhythm worn smooth by years of repetition.
From just beyond the threshold came the unmistakable sounds of movement in the parlour. The storm, it seemed, had not yet passed.
Eleanor's voice rose and fell in sharp, agitated bursts—her cadence unmistakable, laced with equal parts indignation and wounded pride. The words were muffled, but the tone was clear. She was no doubt recounting in elaborate detail how she had been dismissed, how she had missed everything, how her presence had been tactically denied at a moment of obvious consequence.
Mr. Blyth sighed—not with frustration, but with the weary affection of someone long familiar with such tempests.
Straightening his cuffs—more out of habit than necessity—he turned right from the foyer and made his way toward the parlour, each step measured, each breath bracing for the weather inside.
The parlour was small and sun-warmed, its late spring light pooling in soft, angled slants through two windows—one set into the far wall opposite the door, the other perched above the narrow sofa along the right. A modest fireplace stood unused to the left, more ornamental in the warmer months than functional, its grate swept clean, the mantle carefully kept.
Mrs. Blyth sat composedly in one of the armchairs by the far window, her embroidery hoop resting lightly in her lap. Her posture was impeccable, her gaze fixed on the needlework, and every so often she offered a placid "Mm-hmm" or an airy "Ah?" in reply to Eleanor's impassioned monologue, which had clearly been underway for some time.
Eleanor was pacing—not wildly, but with the pointed, deliberate energy of someone carrying an argument in motion. Her cheeks were flushed with righteous offense, her hands conducting each new point with fluttering precision. Whether or not her mother was truly listening seemed beside the point. She needed an audience, and Mrs. Blyth's presence was enough.
Mr. Blyth stepped inside without fanfare, closing the door softly behind him as the scent of tea and fresh air lingered in the stillness. He lowered himself into the nearest chair—positioned by the hearth—and crossed one leg over the other, the cushion exhaling beneath him with a gentle sigh.
At once, Eleanor turned. Her voice halted midsentence, her eyes snapping to him.
"Oh. You," she said, spinning on her heel. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I should have known you'd appear—once you'd finished ruining my afternoon."
Her cheeks were flushed, more with indignation than exertion, and a few loose strands of hair had slipped free of her tidy arrangement, catching the light as they framed her face in a rather theatrical halo. Her hands flew to her hips with the kind of practiced precision that only siblings—and seasoned dramatists—ever truly master.
"I cannot believe you told me to walk home," she said, barely waiting for him to settle. "You knew exactly what you were doing. You didn't even bother with an excuse. You just dismissed me—as if I were some silly little girl in the way of important matters."
She paced a half-step, gesturing sharply. "Do you have any idea how absurd that must have looked? He asks to speak with you, and you wave me off like I've been sent to bed without supper."
Her voice pitched upward with theatrical disbelief. "And for what? So you could stand there like a magistrate, interrogating him as though you're the gatekeeper of my future? I have never been so mortified."
Mr. Blyth, for his part, did not rise to meet her theatrics. Instead, he leaned further into the arm of his chair, posture relaxed to the point of indifference, and recrossed his legs with deliberate ease.
"I am your elder brother," he said mildly, lifting a brow. "Which affords me some measure of say, I should think—especially when it comes to young gentlemen who seem to materialize at every bend in the road."
Eleanor gasped, faintly scandalized—though it had the air of something performed rather than felt.
Undeterred, she pressed on. "Well? What did he say, then? What was so earth-shatteringly important that I had to be sent off like a stray cat?"
From the window seat, Mrs. Blyth gave a long-suffering sigh as she threaded her needle with maddening serenity. "Honestly, Eleanor, you're making such a fuss. I daresay it was nothing at all—some tedious thing about crops or inheritance or whether green or blue is the more fashionable waistcoat this month."
"It was not nothing," Eleanor fired back, spinning toward her mother before returning her full attention to her brother. "He was nervous. I saw it. He's never nervous. His ears were pink. And he kept wringing his gloves like he thought they might come to life and escape. Something happened, and I want to know what."
She fixed Mr. Blyth with a hard stare. "So? Are you going to tell me, or do I have to make an absolute fool of myself trying to pry it out of Mr. Thorne the next time I see him? Because I will. Don't think I won't."
Mr. Blyth gave her a long-suffering look—somewhere between fondness and surrender—then raised both hands in mock defeat. "Alright, alright," he said, sighing as he sank further into his chair. "No need to go full theatre on me."
He folded his arms, still visibly entertained. "He came up to me—already red as a beet—and could barely string two words together. Just stumbling and stammering like his tongue had turned traitor. I asked if he was well, and it only made things worse."
Mr. Blyth shook his head, the grin tugging at his mouth. "Then, just like that, he looked me square in the eye—only for a second—and blurted out, 'thank you.' No context. No explanation. Just—'thank you.' And before I could so much as blink, he turned on his heel and bolted. Like a man being chased by the devil himself."
That set him off.
The laughter began as a quiet chuckle but quickly bloomed into something fuller—rich and irrepressible, a belly-deep laugh that shook his shoulders and brought unexpected tears to his eyes. He bent forward slightly, wiping at the corners of his eyes as he tried—and failed—to catch his breath.
From the corner of his vision, he caught sight of their mother. Mrs. Blyth had gently set her embroidery aside and now sat serenely, one hand raised to cover her mouth—ladylike, dignified, and entirely failing to suppress the twitch of amusement betraying her composure.
Eleanor, however, stood with her arms crossed, mouth slightly parted in disbelief. She said nothing—yet. And that silence, more than anything, told Mr. Blyth she wasn't quite finished.
He was still wiping a tear away when he caught the look on her face.
The rage was there—oh, it was there—bubbling just beneath the surface like a kettle seconds from boiling over. Her mouth was drawn in a taut line, her nostrils flared, and the color in her cheeks had darkened from rose to near-crimson.
But then—alarmingly—it vanished.
Just… vanished.
Her expression smoothed into something unsettlingly serene. Composed. Like a storm cloud retreating not because it had passed, but because it had gone elsewhere to gather strength.
Mr. Blyth's smile faltered. That particular stillness never boded well.
Eleanor took a slow, measured breath, smoothed the front of her skirt with eerie grace, and lifted her chin. Then, leaning forward ever so slightly—just enough to meet his eyes—she spoke in a voice so calm it made the hair on the back of his neck rise.
"I don't know who this new Henry is," she said, every syllable clipped with terrifying precision, "but I don't like him."
She let the words hang there, crisp and still.
Then her voice shifted—syrupy sweet, laced with menace.
"And just remember," she said, with a smile that should have come with a warning label, "you may think you are clever, but a clever man is no match for an even more determined woman."
With that, she straightened, turned on her heel with an elegance that was almost theatrical, and swept from the parlour in a swish of skirts that sounded, unmistakably, like a gauntlet hitting the floor.
Mr. Blyth sat in stunned silence, blinking after her.
"…Good Lord," he muttered.
The door had barely finished clicking shut when a soft sigh broke the quiet.
"Really, Henry," came their mother's voice—gentle, but unmistakably reproachful.
She hadn't looked up from her embroidery. The silver needle continued slipping through linen with practiced ease. Her tone carried no true scolding—only the quiet, tired cadence of a woman who had lived long enough to recognize the rhythms of the heart.
"You've no idea what love feels like to a young woman," she said softly. "It strikes like a fever and settles like a song. And if you're not careful, it stays with her her whole life."
Mr. Blyth shifted in his chair, the laughter now fully faded from his expression.
"I know," he murmured, offering a sheepish smile. "You're right. That wasn't kind of me."
Mrs. Blyth gave no reply, save the steady, rhythmic sound of thread drawn through fabric. It was forgiveness enough.
For a few moments, nothing moved but the needle, and the only sounds were the soft pull of thread and the hush of wind against the windowpanes.
Then Mrs. Blyth spoke again—still calmly, still without looking up.
"Do you have any idea what Mr. Joseph Thorne wanted?"
Mr. Blyth let out a thoughtful hum and leaned back in his chair. "If I had to guess…" he said, pausing to scratch lightly at his chin, "I suspect he may have been trying to ask permission to court Eleanor. Possibly even… propose."
That earned a glance—quick, sharp, interested.
"But as it stands," he continued, "he only managed to mumble and stammer and wring his gloves to death. So I can't say for certain."
Mrs. Blyth's brows lifted just slightly. Then her lips curved into the faintest smile.
"Well, wouldn't that be something," she murmured, giving a small, satisfied nod—as if she could already see the embroidery on Eleanor's wedding linens and the guest list forming in her mind. "A match like that—so soon, and so sound."
She adjusted her thread, fingers deft and unhurried, though a glint of quiet excitement had begun to gather in her eyes.
"The Thorne family is exceptionally well-regarded. Upright, respectable. His father's name still carries weight in every courtroom from here to York, and his mother—well, there's no one in Elversford who wouldn't trust her to organize a charity fair or mend a broken heart."
She gave the fabric a final, approving tug, and added, with a glance that was far too pointed to be idle, "To think—I might not have to wait until another one of my children is nearly thirty before settling down."
Her gaze drifted over the embroidery hoop, slow and deliberate, until it settled on Henry's face. The smile that followed was light—sweet, even—but unmistakably laced with meaning. The kind of smile that, for twenty-nine years, had managed to say far more than any lecture ever could.
Henry raised his brows with mock innocence and folded his arms. "Truly subtle, Mamma."
"I try," she replied, without missing a single stitch.
Mr. Blyth let out a soft sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "Before I forget," he said, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat, "Mr. Fitzwilliam stopped by the office this afternoon. He's invited us—and the Bennetts—for dinner next week."
Rising from his chair, he crossed the room and offered the envelope to his mother. Mrs. Blyth looked up from her embroidery, her eyes instantly brightening with interest. She set the hoop carefully in her lap and accepted the invitation with both hands, as though it were something sacred.
"Oh, how lovely!" she exclaimed, her voice lifting in delight. "What a thoughtful young man."
She broke the wax seal with delicate precision and unfolded the paper as if it were a royal summons. Her eyes scanned the writing with something close to reverence, lips moving slightly as she read each line.
"Well," she declared, pressing the invitation lightly to her chest, "I shall write a response at once and send it along. We mustn't appear ungracious."
Mr. Blyth smiled—half amused, half relieved. "I was hoping you'd say that," he said, leaning down to press a quick, affectionate kiss to the crown of her head. "Thank you."
Mrs. Blyth gave a contented little hum in reply, already reaching for her writing desk.
He had turned to leave the room, one hand already on the door handle, when his mother's voice caught softly behind him.
"Henry."
He turned.
She was still seated by the window, the letter now resting in her lap, her embroidery forgotten entirely. Her expression had changed—no longer amused or arch, but gentler, steadier. Something like quiet pride.
"You've turned into a fine gentleman," she said.
The words landed with more weight than he expected. They should have settled easily—after all, he had spent most of his adult life becoming exactly that. In name, in habit, in every gesture and measured reply. It was the role he had trained for. And yet, somewhere beneath the posture and polish, beneath the years of doing what was right and expected, the compliment touched something quieter. Something that didn't quite believe it.
A fine gentleman, yes.
But also a man still reckoning with parts of himself he hadn't dared to name.
He pushed the thought aside.
"Thank you," he said, nodding once. "That means a great deal."
And then he stepped through the doorway and let the parlour door fall gently shut behind him.