It was a cold, unsettled afternoon, the sort that hinted at spring but still bore the bite of winter. The wind, persistent and sharp, pressed against the windows of Mr. Blyth's office, stirring the faint scent of wet stone and fading frost through the narrow cracks in the frame. A muted, silvery light seeped through the tall panes, softening the edges of the room and casting a subdued glow over the neatly arranged stacks of legal documents and ledgers that lined his desk. Outside, the cobbled streets bore the residue of an earlier hail shower, leaving the air damp and the town unusually subdued. Even the sounds of passing carts and the occasional voices from the marketplace came through as if wrapped in wool, distant and indistinct.
Within, the atmosphere was warmer, though not quite cozy. Mr. Blyth sat hunched slightly over his work, the steady rhythm of his pen moving across parchment the only sound to break the stillness. He had been at it since morning—sorting through estate matters, reviewing land transfers, drafting a particularly delicate contract involving a longstanding boundary dispute—and though the work required precision, it offered little in the way of distraction. The routine comforted him, as it always did, but there was something in the air today, some unspoken tension that made even the most familiar tasks feel vaguely hollow.
Then, something shifted. It was subtle at first—a slight uptick in the pace of foot traffic beyond the window, a voice raised more sharply than usual, nothing that might immediately draw concern. But the change deepened, gained shape. The murmurs outside began to swell, no longer idle chatter but layered bursts of speculation, half-heard questions tumbling over one another in rising tones of excitement. Footsteps quickened along the cobblestones, first a pair, then several more, urgent and purposeful.
Mr. Blyth set down his pen, his brow furrowing as he looked up from the page. Beyond the tall glass, figures moved past in hasty succession—neighbors, shopkeepers, errand boys—each pausing just long enough to speak to someone before pressing onward, their expressions lit with something near exhilaration. Heads turned mid-conversation, arms gestured animatedly toward the far end of the street, and the usual rhythm of the town had given way to something almost electric in its energy.
Another surge of movement followed—more purposeful now, as if some unspoken signal had spread through the town. A group of women, bundled in stylish pelisses and trimmed bonnets, swept past with purpose, their layered skirts rustling sharply as they leaned into one another in hushed, breathless discussion. The muted tones of their outerwear—deep blues, moss greens, and warm browns—contrasted with the liveliness of their expressions. Their voices, though too muffled to decipher, carried the breathless cadence of fresh gossip. A young boy tore down the street not far behind them, shouting something over his shoulder to a friend—his laughter sharp and clear above the rising hum of energy outside.
Mr. Blyth's frown deepened as he rose slightly from his seat, one hand braced against the desk. He had seen this sort of collective stir before—once when a traveling militia passed through town, years ago. That day, the streets had flooded with curious eyes and craning necks, drawn as if by instinct toward whatever disruption promised to momentarily lift the veil of predictability from village life.
This felt the same.
He pushed his chair back, preparing to step toward the window—when the door to his office flew open with a force that startled him from his thoughts.
Mrs. Blyth swept into the room first, her bonnet askew and cheeks flushed, the unmistakable look of a woman who had left the house in great haste. In one hand she clutched a letter, slightly crumpled at the edges, and her eyes gleamed with the kind of delight that usually preceded something dramatic.
Margaret and Eleanor followed close behind—Margaret practically vibrating with excitement as she made straight for the edge of his desk, while Eleanor trailed with more restraint, though even she bore the telltale flush of exertion.
Mrs. Blyth did not speak at once. Instead, she pressed a hand to her chest, still catching her breath, then—without so much as a word—broke the seal and unfolded the letter with swift, deliberate precision.
Mr. Blyth's brow shot up. "Mamma, was that letter addressed to me?"
Mrs. Blyth dismissed the question with a wave of her hand, her eyes already scanning the page as though she hadn't heard him.
A pause—then a sharp gasp.
Her fingers tightened around the paper, and her entire face lit up, as though the contents of the letter had single-handedly restored her faith in the world.
Margaret leaned forward, breathless. "What is it?"
Mrs. Blyth pressed her hand to her lips, visibly trying to contain herself. Then, without preamble, she thrust the letter into Blyth's hands.
"Read it," she insisted, voice high with anticipation.
Mr. Blyth took the envelope, noting at once the fine quality of the paper. The dark blue wax seal, bearing the distinct crest of Langmere Hall, caught the light.
Mr. Fitzwilliam. A flicker of curiosity stirred within him. He carefully unfolded the letter and scanned the contents:
Mr. Henry Blyth, Mrs. Blyth, Miss Eleanor Blyth, and Miss Margaret Blyth
Mr. Edmund Fitzwilliam and Miss Fitzwilliam request the pleasure of your company at a Ball at Langmere Hall on the evening of the 14th of May, 1813, in celebration of their arrival in town and in honor of the esteemed company of Elversford.
Dancing and refreshments shall commence at nine o'clock in the evening.
It would give them the greatest pleasure to welcome you as special guests.
Yours most sincerely,
Fitzwilliam
Mr. Blyth's grip tightened slightly. Then, beneath the formal invitation, an additional note, penned in a precise hand:
Mr. Blyth
I would be most obliged if you and your family might arrive somewhat earlier than the other guests. As you are well-acquainted with the town, I would greatly appreciate your assistance in making the necessary introductions as guests arrive. It would be of a great service to me.
—E. Fitzwilliam
Mr. Blyth read the letter twice. Then once more, slower this time, as if the shape of the words might somehow change their meaning. Margaret, who had been pacing behind him like an overexcited hound, could bear it no longer.
"Henry!" she cried, hands flying to her hips. "What does it say? You are moving at the pace of a man twice your age!"
He exhaled through his nose and set the letter down with deliberate care. "It is an invitation."
Mrs. Blyth gasped, her hands flying to her chest. "A ball!"
Eleanor, seated at the far end of the room with her usual poise, lifted her brows. "At Langmere?"
Before Mr. Blyth could answer, Margaret let out a squeal of delight, all but hopping in place. "I knew it! I said from the beginning he was not some brooding hermit come to hide from society."
Still massaging his temple, Mr. Blyth gave a weary sigh. "It appears Mr. Fitzwilliam intends to introduce himself to the town in proper fashion."
His mother gave a sharp nod, practically glowing with satisfaction. "And he has chosen us as special guests. You must see what this means, Henry."
"It means," Mr. Blyth muttered, "he is hosting a ball."
"It means," Mrs. Blyth corrected, "he holds your acquaintance in the highest regard and has entrusted you with a most particular role. That is not nothing."
Margaret's eyes sparkled. "And we shall be the very first to see Langmere Hall in all its grandeur! And—oh!—I shall need new gloves, at the very least. And perhaps a new gown. Two gowns. Eleanor, we must go into town at once."
Eleanor, who had remained silent through the commotion, now looked to Mr. Blyth with calm deliberation. "Then we are attending?"
All eyes turned to Mr. Blyth. His mother and Margaret leaned forward with breathless anticipation, and even Eleanor—reserved though she was—watched him with unmistakable interest, her calm expression giving way to something more expectant. He hesitated, feeling the weight of their stares settle around him, then released a slow breath and gave a single, measured nod. "We shall attend."
Margaret's delighted cheer filled the room, her hands clasped together in giddy triumph, while Mrs. Blyth beamed with unmistakable satisfaction, already sitting taller, as though their social standing had risen several degrees in an instant. "Oh, my dear," she declared, voice warm and eager, "this will be the event of the season!"
But Mr. Blyth did not echo their enthusiasm. Though he offered no protest, a shadow of uncertainty flickered across his face—subtle but unmistakable. He knew, even then, that this would be no ordinary affair. Whether he wished it or not, he would be at the center of it. Mr. Fitzwilliam had seen to that. The invitation itself was formal enough, expected. But the note that followed—that was something else entirely. He set the letter down with careful precision, smoothing the edge of the parchment with his fingertips as the conversation around him swelled into animated speculation. Margaret was already musing aloud about silks and satins, Eleanor offering gentle, pragmatic suggestions, and their mother listing potential acquaintances who would be simply overcome with envy when they learned of the family's inclusion.
And yet, for all the noise, Mr. Blyth remained quiet, his attention returning to that final line—neat, exact, and wholly unambiguous.
I would be most obliged if you and your family might arrive somewhat earlier than the other guests.
There was no question. No room for refusal. Only a decision, already made.
Mr. Blyth's fingers curled slightly against the desk. Mr. Fitzwilliam had not asked if he was available, nor extended a request laced with humility or inquiry. There had been no deference, no pause for consideration—only the assumption that he would comply. That Mr. Blyth, by virtue of proximity or familiarity, would serve as the proper guide through Elversford society. The presumption, subtle as it was on paper, struck deeper than it should have.
He had spent much of his adult life stepping into roles as needed—solicitor, confidant, intermediary. It was the nature of his work, after all, to resolve problems before they took shape, to lend stability where others faltered. And he did so without complaint. Yet this was something altogether different. This was not law, nor obligation, nor duty owed to friend or family. This was an imposition—a stranger's expectation framed as certainty.
A man whom he had spoken to only once, who had spent months declining every opportunity for social contact, had now reemerged with perfect timing and perfect confidence—selecting Mr. Blyth as if the matter had already been settled. It was not the arrogance that unsettled him so much as the ease of it. Blyth could not help but wonder why. Why now? Why him?
His fingers tapped once against the polished wood, slow and deliberate. Who, truly, was Mr. Fitzwilliam? A man of charm, undoubtedly. Of poise. Of entitlement, perhaps. A man who did not ask, but expected. A man who had studied Mr. Blyth for a single afternoon and determined—without hesitation—that he would suit the purpose.
The irritation lingered, sharper now, but joined by another feeling entirely—one he did not care to define. Not yet. It sat low in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome, stirring beneath the calm surface of his thoughts. His gaze dropped once more to the open letter before him, to the elegant lines of script and the unmistakable air of invitation cloaked in command.
A ball at Langmere. A spectacle, certainly. A performance. And if Mr. Fitzwilliam had his way, Mr. Blyth would be at its center—not as a guest, but as something altogether more strategic.
He exhaled slowly, the breath long and steady, then steepled his fingers, gaze distant and unreadable. The voices around him had faded into background noise, distant and unimportant, until—
A sharp tap against the desk broke the stillness.
Mrs. Blyth stood before him, one gloved hand outstretched, her expression expectant and entirely unbothered by the storm of thoughts within her son.
"Henry, dear," Mrs. Blyth said lightly, as though the matter were of no real consequence, "I didn't bring quite enough with me to town."
Mr. Blyth blinked. "Pardon?"
She smiled with practiced sweetness. "For the dressmaker. And a few other things. You understand."
He glanced toward Margaret, who immediately turned her gaze elsewhere, the picture of innocence—far too studied to be believed. Eleanor, seated nearby, raised one unimpressed brow, offering no defense on their behalf.
Mr. Blyth sighed and reached for his coin purse. "Do try not to spend everything before the ball even begins."
Mrs. Blyth beamed, plucking the purse from his hand with the air of someone claiming what was already rightfully hers. "Oh, nonsense, Henry. This is a perfectly reasonable amount."
He did not bother to ask what she considered reasonable.
By the time he looked up, she and Margaret were already halfway to the door—Mrs. Blyth issuing brisk instructions about acceptable fabrics, Margaret chattering about the necessity of accessories and hair ornaments.
Only Eleanor lingered, watching him for a moment with something between pity and dry amusement before rising and following the others.
Mr. Blyth rubbed his temple. He had a sinking suspicion he would need more patience than that coin purse could ever hold.