The steady scratch of Mr. Blyth's pen was the only sound in the office, its rhythm precise and unhurried, the ink gliding across parchment with the confidence of habit. Beyond the frost-laced windows, a pale, colourless light pressed against the glass, dimmed by the persistent gloom of a late February morning. The streets outside were washed in slush, a muddy tapestry of thawed snow and carriage tracks, while a sullen wind worried the shutters, slipping through even the narrowest seams with an icy whisper.
Within, the fire had burned low—more embers than flame now—but Mr. Blyth scarcely noticed. The morning had unfolded without interruption, filled with letters to answer, ledgers to balance, and property matters that demanded little of him beyond his signature and seal. It was the kind of work that filled the hours efficiently, occupying his hands while leaving his mind dangerously unguarded. That, he had learned, was something to be avoided.
It had been nearly two months since the dinner at Bramblewood House, and in that time, Mr. Blyth had kept to his word. He had not called upon Miss Bennett, nor sought her company by design or accident. Their agreement—to let matters unfold without force or expectation—had suited him perfectly in principle. And yet, her words had not left him.
They lingered still, quiet and persistent, not in the way of obsession but in the way that certain questions remain—ones not easily dismissed, not quite urgent, but present nonetheless. There was something in the memory of her voice, the calm certainty in her gaze, that returned to him in unguarded moments, as if part of the conversation had never truly ended.
Mr. Blyth's thoughts returned to the task at hand as he reached for another document, but before his pen could touch the page, a familiar rap at the door interrupted the quiet. Mr. Shepard entered first, composed as always, bearing a stack of documents—leases, by the look of them—before stepping neatly aside to admit Mr. Forsythe.
The land agent crossed the threshold with the same practiced authority he brought everywhere, removing his hat with a flourish and carrying himself as though the matter he bore ought to command immediate attention. He greeted Mr. Blyth with an easy nod, his voice light but confident. "Mr. Blyth. I have a matter that requires your attention. It will not take long."
Setting aside his pen, Mr. Blyth gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Then let us see to it."
Mr. Forsythe took his time arranging his coat and settling into the seat before placing a sheaf of papers neatly between them. He smoothed the topmost page with his hand, as if presenting something of note. "A lease," he said. "Finalized as of this morning."
Mr. Blyth inclined his head and drew the papers toward him, eyes scanning the terms with practiced ease. The agreement was straightforward: a modest sum, reasonable conditions, nothing out of order. His attention moved fluidly down the page, noting the expected formalities—until it arrived at the signature.
Mr. Edmund Fitzwilliam.
He read the name once, and then again, not because he doubted what he had seen, but because something in it demanded a second look. There was no change in his expression, no falter in his manner, but his grip on the page shifted—subtle, firm, restrained—revealing just enough to betray the stir of recognition the name had brought.
Mr. Forsythe, either unaware or entirely unconcerned with Mr. Blyth's subtle shift in posture, pressed on with the ease of a man confident in the value of his own work. "Langmere Hall, of course," he said, tapping one finger against the top sheet. "One of my finest properties. I was quite pleased with the arrangement—Mr. Fitzwilliam proved remarkably decisive in his affairs."
Mr. Blyth lifted his gaze from the lease, his tone even. "Decisive?"
"Indeed. A man who knows what he wants," Mr. Forsythe replied, his voice tinged with satisfaction. "The negotiations were swift. I had assumed he might take his time—view other properties, consult with someone perhaps—but no. He had made up his mind before we'd even sat down to sign. He intends to take up residence within the week."
Leaning back slightly in his chair, Mr. Blyth allowed the information to settle. Langmere Hall, while not the grandest estate in the county, had a reputation for comfort and tasteful reserve. Its position was enviable—far enough from the town to offer a gentleman privacy, yet near enough to remain connected to its social pulse. And, of course, near enough to Bramblewood House to warrant notice.
A coincidence, perhaps. Though the timing gave him pause.
Mr. Forsythe, still riding the crest of his own contentment, gave a little hum of approval. "And I do believe the town shall have much to discuss. He does not arrive alone."
Mr. Blyth's eyes flicked upward again. "Oh?"
"He brings his sister. Miss Genevieve Fitzwilliam. Quite the refined lady, by all accounts. Raised between London and Paris, she's moved in only the most exclusive circles. Knows all the right people, so I'm told." He offered a knowing smirk. "No doubt she'll find our little corner of England rather dull."
Mr. Blyth said nothing. But the thought, for reasons he could not fully explain, did not sit entirely well with him.
"Will they be entertaining guests, then?" Mr. Blyth asked, his tone carefully neutral.
"I expect they shall, in time," Mr. Forsythe replied with a shrug. "But for now, it seems they wish to settle in before making their presence fully known. Sensible, really. There's much to be said for a quiet start."
Mr. Blyth nodded faintly, his expression unreadable. "And what is your impression of Mr. Fitzwilliam himself?"
Mr. Forsythe exhaled, as though reflecting with brief sincerity. "Confident. Self-assured. The sort of man who doesn't second-guess his own decisions. He's polite—one must be, if one's to move in the circles he does—but not a man given to empty pleasantries. He speaks only when he has something to say."
Mr. Blyth absorbed the description in silence. There was, strictly speaking, no reason for the matter to trouble him. A man of means had leased a country estate and arrived with his sister in tow. The facts were plain. It was a simple arrangement of property and paper—nothing more.
And yet, a sense of foreboding settled at the edges of his thoughts, quiet but persistent. He could not shake the feeling that this was merely the beginning of something larger.
Mr. Forsythe stood, returning his hat to his head with an air of finality. "Well then, Mr. Blyth, I shall leave you to your work. I only thought it best you hear it from me first."
Mr. Blyth inclined his head, the words automatic. "My thanks."
When the door clicked shut behind Mr. Forsythe, Mr. Blyth did not move. The silence returned, but it was different now—heavier somehow, threaded with the name that still lingered in his mind.
Edmund Fitzwilliam.
And Miss Genevieve Fitzwilliam.
He glanced once more at the lease, his gaze settling on the bold, assertive signature at the bottom of the page. It was not his concern. It ought not to be his concern.
And yet, even as he reached for another document, he knew—quietly, instinctively—that it would be.
***
The moment the door closed with a decisive click behind Mr. Forsythe, Mr. Blyth allowed himself a moment of stillness. His fingers lingered atop the lease, tracing the edge of the parchment absentmindedly, though his attention remained fixed on the name scrawled at the bottom—Edmund Fitzwilliam. It echoed in his thoughts without context or justification, unsettling only in its persistence. But before he could restore his focus to the morning's tasks, the calm was shattered by a sudden flurry of footsteps in the hallway—light, quick, and unmistakably feminine—accompanied by the swish of skirts and the breathless, barely suppressed murmurs of voices that had clearly failed at discretion.
Then, without ceremony, the office door flew open.
"Oh, Henry!"
The voice of his mother rang out with its usual, unfiltered cheer, her energy preceding her like a gust of wind as she swept into the room, her bonnet askew from haste. Behind her trailed Margaret and Eleanor, both wide-eyed with excitement, their cheeks flushed from what had clearly been a brisk and purposeful walk into town.
Mr. Blyth leaned back in his chair with the air of a man who had weathered such an entrance before and suspected he would again. "Good morning, mamma."
"You have heard, have you not?" Mrs. Blyth all but vibrated with anticipation, her eyes sparkling as she stepped fully into the office, undeterred by its usual air of somber business and quiet efficiency.
Mr. Blyth cast a glance toward his sisters, who stood just behind her, similarly animated, and then gave a sigh as he set his pen aside. "I assume you are referring to the Fitzwilliams."
Mrs. Blyth let out an exuberant sigh, pressing one gloved hand theatrically to her chest as though the news had left her faint with delight. "Oh, Henry, you cannot possibly imagine what excellent news this is! A gentleman of fortune, taking residence at Langmere! And his sister—a lady of refinement, no less. How could it be more perfect?"
Mr. Blyth arched a brow in dry skepticism. "Perfect for whom, precisely?"
His mother scoffed, brushing aside his tone with a flick of her wrist. "Why, for the entire town, of course! You must admit, dear, we are in desperate need of fresh society. Think of the gatherings, the conversation, the possibility of musical evenings—and, naturally, the potential for an advantageous match—"
"Mother," Mr. Blyth interjected with a weary sigh, "you have not even met the man, and yet you have already married him off."
At this, Margaret giggled, clearly entertained by the exchange, while Eleanor merely folded her arms, her expression bordering on unimpressed.
"It is entirely reasonable, Henry," Mrs. Blyth insisted, forging ahead without so much as a pause. "He is unmarried. She is unmarried. He is respectable. She is respectable. The conclusion is obvious."
"And yet, somehow, I remain unconvinced," Mr. Blyth replied, though there was little heat in the remark.
Margaret plopped herself into the chair opposite his desk, her eyes shining with curiosity. "Do you think he is handsome?"
"Margaret," Eleanor sighed, though the faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips betrayed her amusement.
Mr. Blyth let out a long-suffering breath, placing his hands flat on the desk as if bracing himself. "If I were to begin appraising the handsomeness of strange men simply because they've leased a house nearby, I should never have a moment's peace again. Heaven help me if he turns out to be dashing—our mother might take to composing poetry."
Margaret laughed outright, clapping her hands in delight. "Well, I should hope not! But you must have some sense of what kind of man he is. Mr. Forsythe came straight here, did he not? What did he say?"
Mr. Blyth cast a glance at his mother, who was still circling the office with an energy that made the space feel far smaller than it was. She surveyed the room as though arranging guests for a soiree, wholly undeterred by his tone. Resigned, he folded his hands and replied, "He seems a man of swift decision—with no hesitation in securing his place at Langmere. He comes from London and has brought his sister with him, though it remains to be seen what his intentions are."
Mrs. Blyth clasped her hands together, her delight practically effervescent. "Oh, Henry, you must invite Mr. Fitzwilliam to call! We should be among the first to welcome them—it's only proper!"
Mr. Blyth arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching in the faintest shadow of disbelief. "And risk seeming over-eager?"
"Nonsense!" she said, waving him off as if decorum were merely an obstacle to be dismissed. "It is the polite thing to do. And besides, it would be terribly rude to allow another family the first introduction. Think of what that would say about us—we must make ourselves acquainted before anyone else."
Leaning back against his chair, Mr. Blyth rubbed his temple, already regretting the direction the morning had taken. "I fail to see why it should concern us so deeply whether the Fitzwilliams are introduced by us or by someone else. The man has leased a house, not taken possession of the entire county."
Mrs. Blyth gasped—a delicate, practiced sound that nevertheless conveyed deep maternal disapproval. "Henry, you do not seem to grasp the significance of these things! A gentleman of fortune does not simply arrive in town without expectations. It will alter the entire rhythm of society—the invitations, the seating arrangements, the dances. Everything!"
Margaret, seated comfortably in the chair opposite him, grinned with no such concern. "If nothing else," she said, eyes sparkling, "it will make the next assembly far more interesting."
Mr. Blyth shook his head and stood, brushing an invisible crease from his waistcoat with the kind of pointed finality that often marked his exits. "If this conversation has reached the subject of assemblies, then I believe I am finished with it."
Mrs. Blyth sighed with theatrical flair, though the amusement in her eyes betrayed her enjoyment of the exchange. "You may pretend indifference all you like, my dear, but even you must admit it is something of an event."
Mr. Blyth paused, not because he agreed, but because—unfortunately—he wasn't entirely certain that he didn't. The arrival of a London gentleman, even one with a respectable name and fortune, was hardly the sort of thing that ought to disrupt his day. And yet, something about it clung to him with quiet insistence. Perhaps it was the name signed boldly on the lease. Perhaps it was the decisiveness with which Langmere had been claimed—swift, deliberate, unhesitating. Or perhaps—and this he was loath to admit even to himself—it was simply a feeling. A vague but persistent sense that something had already shifted, long before anything had truly begun.
He pushed the thought aside, unwilling to give it more weight than it deserved. "If you are quite finished declaring this man a figure of great consequence before he has even set foot in the house," he said, returning to his desk with measured calm, "I do have work to attend to."
His mother sighed but relented, allowing herself to be gently herded toward the door by her daughters. Margaret, ever eager for amusement, glanced over her shoulder with a grin as she linked arms with Eleanor. "Oh, I cannot wait to see him. Perhaps he is terribly serious—just like you, Henry."
Mr. Blyth arched a brow in her direction. "Then I imagine you would find him quite insufferable."
She laughed, unbothered, and swept out with her sister in tow, the two of them already murmuring over what little they knew and what they could imagine.
***Mrs. Blyth lingered a moment longer, smoothing the edge of her bonnet before casting her son a knowing look. "You may feign indifference, my dear, but soon enough, you shall form your own opinion of Mr. Fitzwilliam. And when you do, I daresay you shall not find it so easy to dismiss the matter."
She departed with a rustle of skirts and the faint scent of lavender trailing behind her, leaving Mr. Blyth once again in the quiet of his office.
He returned to his desk with a sigh, setting his hands back to the familiar weight of work. He had no intention of forming any opinion at all.
And yet, as he adjusted the pages before him, the image of Langmere Hall drifted into his mind—its empty windows, its new lease, its future occupants. No matter how he tried to push it aside, the thought remained. Settled. Waiting. Refusing to be dismissed.
***
The moment his family had at last departed—leaving behind the faint scent of lavender and an intolerable cloud of speculation—Mr. Blyth let out a long, controlled breath and leaned back in his chair. The office had returned, at last, to its customary state of order. No eager whispers hung in the air, no laughter trailed at his expense, and there were no dramatic pronouncements about Mr. Edmund Fitzwilliam and the presumed social upheaval his arrival would bring.
And yet, the silence did not settle as easily as it should have.
His gaze drifted to the stack of papers waiting atop his desk, the lease for Langmere Hall still positioned neatly on top. One finger tapped against the polished surface—measured, thoughtful, but undeniably restless. It was not his concern. It ought not to be his concern. And yet, even as he told himself so, he could not quite bring himself to believe it.
With a sigh, Mr. Blyth reached for his pen. If nothing else, there was the matter of propriety to consider. A gentleman of means did not arrive in the countryside without some polite acknowledgment from his neighbors. It was not curiosity. It was courtesy. Etiquette. Obligation, perhaps—but not interest.
At least, that was what he told himself as he dipped the pen into the inkwell and allowed the excess to fall before beginning to write.
Mr. Blyth's Letter to Mr. Fitzwilliam
Mr. Edmund Fitzwilliam,
Permit me to extend my welcome to you upon your recent arrival to Langmere Hall. As it is always a matter of courtesy that new residents be made acquainted with those of long-standing presence, I should be glad to call upon you at your convenience. If the matter is agreeable to you, I shall present myself tomorrow at noon.
Yours, etc.,
Henry Blyth
Once the final stroke of ink had dried, Mr. Blyth reviewed the letter twice to ensure it was appropriately polite, properly distant, and without any hint of overfamiliarity. It struck the tone he intended—no warmer than necessary, no colder than civility allowed. With precision, he folded the thick parchment, sealed it with his plain wax stamp, and reached for the small silver bell at the corner of his desk. One crisp chime was all it took.
Mr. Shepard appeared swiftly, his expression one of composed expectation, as always.
Mr. Blyth extended the letter. "See that this is delivered to Langmere Hall before the afternoon is out."
Mr. Shepard took it without hesitation, glancing briefly at the address before giving a succinct nod. "Very good, sir."
Mr. Blyth paused, then added with a touch more weight, "Ensure it reaches Mr. Fitzwilliam directly."
A single brow lifted. "As opposed to?"
Mr. Blyth gave a faint exhale, sharp and deliberate. "As opposed to becoming fodder for the entire town before it ever touches his hands."
A dry flicker of amusement passed across Mr. Shepard's face. "A sound precaution, sir."
Mr. Blyth offered a curt nod, watching as the letter was carried from the room. Tomorrow, he would call upon Mr. Fitzwilliam—not out of interest, not out of curiosity, but simply because it was expected.
Or so he insisted.