The following day arrived with a pale, wintry clarity, the late morning sky stretched in a brittle wash of blue while a thin veil of mist clung stubbornly to the frostbitten fields, as though unwilling to relinquish its hold to the hesitant light. Mr. Blyth stepped into his waiting carriage with an air of composed purpose—his coat buttoned with meticulous precision, his gloves fitted just so, as if each gesture might offer reassurance for something he would not name.
He was not nervous.
It was, after all, a simple matter of propriety—a formal visit extended to a newly arrived gentleman, one whose presence in the neighborhood had already begun to stir considerable interest. Mr. Fitzwilliam had responded to his letter with notable swiftness, his reply arriving scarcely two hours after the initial delivery: brief, refined, and undeniably gracious in its tone. Noon would suit him perfectly.
Mr. Blyth had not anticipated such punctuality.
Men of Mr. Fitzwilliam's rank and breeding often took their time with such things—letting correspondence sit for a day, perhaps two, as a quiet assertion of their own importance. To respond so promptly was, in its own way, a statement. Whether it revealed a man of uncommon efficiency, unconcerned with the leisurely airs of country formality, or a man driven by his own quiet curiosities, was another matter entirely.
Mr. Blyth, for reasons he could not quite articulate, found himself uncertain which possibility he would find more troubling.
The carriage rattled along the well-kept road leading to Langmere Hall, weaving through rows of towering beech trees that still bore the last embers of autumn. The air had warmed slightly with the approach of midday, and the mist that had clung to the fields earlier had begun to lift, revealing the estate in full. As the house emerged from behind the foliage, Mr. Blyth took in the sight of the stately structure—its dark grey stone exterior sober but elegant, its tall symmetrical windows casting pale reflections in the early afternoon light. The grounds, though neatly trimmed and meticulously maintained, had not yet acquired the softened irregularities that marked a place as truly lived in. Langmere had stood vacant for some time, and its perfection bore the quiet hollowness of a residence still waiting to be claimed.
That, however, was no longer the case.
Mr. Edmund Fitzwilliam.
He stood near the front steps, alone and unmistakable. Taller than Mr. Blyth by perhaps an inch or two, his most striking feature was the warmth of his coloring—hair the hue of polished copper, catching the angled sunlight with an easy gleam. On another man, it might have been overly vivid or theatrical. On him, it lent an air of uncommon presence, distinguished rather than showy.
Even from a distance, Mr. Fitzwilliam conveyed a natural authority. He was well-dressed, but without ostentation; composed, but not rigid. His hands were clasped behind his back, his shoulders square but relaxed, as if he were not merely surveying his new surroundings but already deciding how best to fit within them. There was nothing in his stance that sought attention, and yet it would have been difficult not to notice him.
As the carriage drew to a halt, Mr. Blyth was telling himself it was only the formality of the occasion that required such precision. It was not apprehension that stirred in him—of that he was certain. Curiosity, perhaps. Only that.
Mr. Blyth adjusted his gloves, squared his shoulders, and stepped down onto the gravel drive with practiced composure. Across the distance, Mr. Fitzwilliam turned at once, his expression composed, though unmistakably observant. For the briefest moment, neither man spoke—a pause that hung not with discomfort, but with the quiet weight of assessment.
Then, with a manner that blended ease and precision, Mr. Fitzwilliam stepped forward and extended his hand. "Mr. Blyth, I presume."
His voice was smooth and cultivated, edged with the faintest note of amusement, as though he found the formality of introductions a private source of entertainment.
Mr. Blyth met the gesture with a firm grip. "Mr. Fitzwilliam. A pleasure."
Fitzwilliam's mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but close enough to suggest one. "You are more punctual than I anticipated. I'd scarcely the time to grow impatient."
Mr. Blyth raised a brow. "You are accustomed to tardiness, then?"
"Not in myself, but in others," Fitzwilliam replied easily, releasing his hand and gesturing toward the house. "Come. I've had the sitting room arranged."
They walked together across the threshold of Langmere Hall, and Mr. Blyth took in his surroundings with a measured glance. The entrance hall was impressive, though not ostentatious. Polished marble gleamed beneath their feet, and a tall staircase swept upward in a graceful curve, leading to a gallery lined with portraits that bore no familiar names. Though the home was clearly furnished with care, there remained something provisional in the atmosphere—everything in its proper place, yet untouched by the subtler marks of everyday living. It was, in every way, a house that had been swiftly taken, but not yet inhabited.
And somehow, that seemed fitting.
"You have settled in quickly," Mr. Blyth observed as they stepped into the sitting room—a tasteful space, neither overfilled nor sparse, with tall windows that caught the muted light of early afternoon.
Mr. Fitzwilliam gave a quiet hum of amusement as he gestured for his guest to take a seat. "That is one way of putting it. The house is in excellent order. I suspect the previous tenant was rather meticulous."
"And are you?"
The question, though simply posed, gave Mr. Fitzwilliam pause. He tilted his head, his expression thoughtful, as though giving the matter more serious weight than might be expected. "When it suits me," he said at last, with a half-smile that suggested the answer was both true and incomplete.
At that moment, a servant entered with a silver tray bearing a neat arrangement of tea and brandy. Mr. Fitzwilliam gave a brief wave of dismissal toward the latter. "Tea, I think. It is still early, after all."
Mr. Blyth inclined his head in agreement, watching as Mr. Fitzwilliam poured with the kind of quiet assurance that marked all his movements—unhurried, deliberate, as though he rarely questioned the rightness of his own timing.
For a moment, they allowed silence to settle comfortably between them.
Then, as naturally as if they had known one another far longer, Mr. Fitzwilliam looked over and asked, "Do you reside here alone, Mr. Blyth?"
Mr. Blyth paused only briefly before shaking his head. "No. My mother, Mrs. Blyth, and my sisters—Margaret and Eleanor—live with me at Greymoor House. It is only the four of us now."
Mr. Fitzwilliam nodded, setting down his cup. "And your father?"
"He passed late last year."
There was no great sorrow in the words—only fact. Mr. Blyth had long made his peace with it.
Mr. Fitzwilliam's expression shifted—not to pity, but to something more solemn. "My condolences."
Mr. Blyth nodded once in thanks, appreciating the lack of forced sentiment.
Mr. Fitzwilliam took a sip of tea, then set his cup aside with a satisfied sigh. "Well, Mr. Blyth, you have the look of a man who has lived here all his life."
Mr. Blyth arched a brow. "Do I?"
"Indeed. I should guess you were born here, raised on these country roads, destined never to stray far from them."
Mr. Blyth set his cup down carefully. "I suppose that is not entirely incorrect."
Mr. Fitzwilliam leaned back, regarding him with playful curiosity. "And yet, something tells me you are not entirely satisfied with that fate."
Mr. Blyth exhaled lightly. "You make a great deal of assumptions for a man who has known me less than an hour."
Mr. Fitzwilliam grinned. "A fortunate habit, I assure you."
Mr. Blyth could not help the faint shake of his head. "And where, Mr. Fitzwilliam, do you see yourself? Rooted here in Langmere, or do you expect your stay to be brief?"
Mr. Fitzwilliam tilted his head, considering the question with deliberate ease. "For now, I think I shall let the house decide."
Mr. Blyth raised a brow. "I wasn't aware houses formed opinions."
Mr. Fitzwilliam's smirk deepened, the corner of his mouth lifting with quiet mischief. "Only the good ones. And they tend to be terribly judgmental. They like to see who lingers, who storms out, who walks their halls as if they belong—and who merely tries to impress the furniture."
It was difficult to tell whether he meant it in jest or if he simply took pleasure in making the ordinary sound peculiar. Either way, Mr. Blyth found himself vaguely disarmed. The man was not what he had expected—and more than that, he was not the sort to be easily dismissed.
The smirk had not yet faded from Mr. Fitzwilliam's mouth when footsteps echoed from the hall. A moment later, the sitting room door swung open with an energy that was not quite abrupt, but certainly deliberate, and in swept a woman—tall, poised, and moving with the ease of someone long accustomed to commanding attention.
"Edmund," she said, without so much as a glance at Mr. Blyth, "you did not tell me you were expecting visitors."
Mr. Fitzwilliam did not so much as blink at the interruption, lifting his cup with the same lazy amusement he had carried throughout their conversation. "And yet, here he is, despite my grievous oversight."
The woman—Miss Genevieve Fitzwilliam, presumably—finally turned her gaze toward Mr. Blyth, surveying him with a level of detachment that did not quite amount to rudeness, but certainly did not invite warmth.
Mr. Blyth rose slightly from his seat, offering a polite incline of his head. "Miss Fitzwilliam."
She studied him a moment longer before offering a slight, graceful dip of her chin. "Mr. Blyth, was it?"
Mr. Fitzwilliam leaned back, looking altogether pleased with the exchange. "Indeed. The very same Mr. Blyth who ensures this town does not descend into absolute chaos."
Mr. Blyth arched a brow. "That is a rather grand assessment of my profession."
"Yes, well," Mr. Fitzwilliam said with an airy wave of his hand, "I assume that is what solicitors do—manage disputes over land, ensure widows are not swindled out of their inheritances, that sort of thing. A noble effort, certainly."
Miss Fitzwilliam remained standing, her attention only loosely tethered to the conversation as she wandered toward the tall window. She peered out across the manicured lawns and neatly arranged paths with an expression that suggested faint disapproval rather than admiration. "It is a rather quiet place," she murmured, as if to herself. "Far too quiet."
Mr. Blyth, who had grown used to hearing such pronouncements from those unaccustomed to country life, replied without turning. "That likely depends on one's definition of dull."
At that, she turned fully to face him, her brows slightly lifted, her expression tinged with amusement. "And what, pray, does one do for amusement in this part of the country, Mr. Blyth?"
Mr. Fitzwilliam, still lounging with evident comfort, lifted his teacup and smirked over its rim. "Ah, now we approach the true nature of her distress."
His sister did not so much as glance in his direction.
Mr. Blyth paused, then answered with calm precision, "There are the town assemblies, of course. Bramblewood House often hosts the more elegant sort of gathering. And the countryside offers its own diversions, if one has the patience to look."
Miss Fitzwilliam tilted her head, studying him with renewed interest. "You sound as though you've never wanted anything more than what lies within riding distance."
"I cannot say I have," he replied, tone steady.
A beat of silence passed between them.
Then, from the settee, Mr. Fitzwilliam gave a short, warm laugh—unexpected, but not unkind.
"You see, Genevieve?" Mr. Fitzwilliam drawled, a glint of mischief in his eye. "Not all country gentlemen have been worn down into docility. Some are simply born with a natural steadiness."
Miss Fitzwilliam, though clearly unconvinced, offered Mr. Blyth a smile—polite, inscrutable, and carefully measured. "Then I trust you'll excuse me if I'm not yet ready to embrace such virtues myself."
Mr. Blyth inclined his head. "I would never presume to rush you, Miss Fitzwilliam."
Mr. Fitzwilliam set his teacup down with exaggerated care, his gaze flicking between the two of them with a theatrical sigh. "Well then, Mr. Blyth, I feel it only fair to warn you—my sister will not rest until she has exhausted every possibility this place has to offer her."
Miss Fitzwilliam rolled her eyes. "You are determined to make a spectacle of everything, aren't you?"
"Only when it amuses me," he replied without shame.
Mr. Blyth's mouth twitched, but he managed to maintain a straight face. "In that case, I suspect Langmere is in for a lively season."
Mr. Fitzwilliam raised his cup in mock salute, all charm and irreverence. "Of that, Mr. Blyth, you may be certain."
Then, leaning back with an expression of mock solemnity, he added, "My dear Genevieve, I believe you've just encountered your first true provincial loyalist."
Miss Fitzwilliam arched a brow, though her expression softened slightly, a flicker of dry humor passing between brother and sister. "And here I thought they were mythical."
Mr. Blyth, unbothered, adjusted his gloves more precisely than necessary and replied, "We are few in number, I assure you—but not extinct."
Mr. Fitzwilliam grinned. "Careful, Mr. Blyth. If you continue to impress her, she may actually begin to consider this place tolerable."
Miss Fitzwilliam, still poised near the window, offered the barest smile. "That remains to be seen."
The moment passed with an almost imperceptible shift—something lighter, if not entirely warm, settling over the room. Though nothing explicit had been said, Mr. Blyth had the distinct sense that he had just been assessed, catalogued, and—if not dismissed—filed away for further consideration.
Miss Fitzwilliam, having decided that Langmere Hall was far too quiet for her liking, let out a faint, elegant sigh and turned from the window with the air of someone resigned to a disappointing verdict. "Well," she said, smoothing an invisible crease from her sleeve, "this has been most enlightening."
Mr. Fitzwilliam tilted his head, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. "And what, precisely, have you been enlightened about, Genevieve?"
"That I shall have to find my own amusements here," she replied crisply, casting a brief glance toward Mr. Blyth—assessing, indifferent, as though he were a particularly arid legal document that had not held her attention. With a perfectly measured nod, she offered, "Mr. Blyth."
He rose slightly in acknowledgment. "Miss Fitzwilliam."
And just like that, she swept from the room, the faint rustle of silk trailing behind her like punctuation.
***Mr. Fitzwilliam, still perfectly at ease in his chair, followed her exit with a faint smile before turning back toward Mr. Blyth. "She doesn't mean to be unfriendly, you know."
Mr. Blyth reached for his tea. "She simply excels at it?"
That earned a laugh—genuine, low, and without offense. "You understand her already."
Mr. Blyth leaned back, allowing the quiet to settle. With Miss Fitzwilliam's departure, the atmosphere had shifted—quieter now, but no longer brittle. He glanced once at the contents of his cup before returning his attention to his host. "The town has taken quite an interest in your arrival."
Mr. Fitzwilliam arched a brow, unconcerned. "Curious, are they?"
Mr. Blyth sighed, shaking his head as he reached for his cup. "A bit too curious for their own good, I'd say."
Mr. Fitzwilliam gave a quiet hum, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the arm of his chair. "That is always the way of small towns, isn't it? A new arrival is infinitely more fascinating than anyone who's been here for decades."
"Indeed," Mr. Blyth replied, dry as ever. "I imagine every household within ten miles has spent the last twenty-four hours speculating as to why a London gentleman of means would choose to settle here of all places."
Mr. Fitzwilliam's mouth quirked into a faint smirk. "And what, pray, is the prevailing theory?"
There was a pause as Mr. Blyth considered his words. "Mr. Forsythe mentioned that you had been advised to seek a change of air."
Mr. Fitzwilliam's face remained perfectly composed, though his fingers stilled for the briefest of moments. "Ah. So it is to be assumed that I am an invalid."
"That would be the most generous theory," Mr. Blyth said, setting his cup aside with a soft clink. "The others range from scandal to secret exile."
Mr. Fitzwilliam laughed—sharp, sudden, and without offense—before shaking his head. "I suppose I should be flattered. A dull explanation would never satisfy."
Mr. Blyth lifted his brow. "It never does."
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but it held a new weight. Something unspoken had passed between them—a small acknowledgment of the curiosity they both invited but rarely indulged.
Then, with a faint shift in posture, Mr. Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his tone light but deliberately so. "And what about you, Mr. Blyth? Do you intend to add to the town's speculation?"
Mr. Blyth met his gaze steadily. "No."
Mr. Fitzwilliam studied him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he exhaled and shook his head with a wry smile. "I suppose it would be rather inconvenient if my solicitor were the one to stoke the fire."
Mr. Blyth set down his cup, fingers resting lightly on the porcelain rim. "That depends on who you ask."
Mr. Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Do tell."
Mr. Blyth regarded him evenly, then allowed a slow, knowing smirk to take shape. "Well," he said, his tone dry, "they've had no real answers yet. I suspect your first visitor will set the tone."
A low huff of laughter escaped Mr. Fitzwilliam as he shook his head. "Then I'm afraid you have rather an unfair amount of influence, Mr. Blyth."
Mr. Blyth's brow knit slightly. "What do you mean?"
Mr. Fitzwilliam tilted his head, as though the answer should have been self-evident. "You are my first visitor."
Mr. Blyth blinked. "Am I?"
"You sound surprised," Mr. Fitzwilliam said, clearly amused.
"I assumed you would have had others before me," Mr. Blyth replied. "You are, after all, the town's latest fascination."
Mr. Fitzwilliam sighed in mock exasperation. "A rather tiresome fate, really."
Mr. Blyth cast him a dry look. "One you seem to be enduring with considerable ease."
Mr. Fitzwilliam chuckled. "Well, I take some comfort in the fact that you, at least, seem disinclined to fan the flames."
Mr. Blyth gave a small nod of acknowledgment. "I do try to avoid unnecessary trouble."
Mr. Fitzwilliam studied him for a beat longer, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, before he exhaled and shook his head with a wry smile. "Then I daresay the town's appetite for scandal will go hungry—for now."
Another silence settled over the room—though this one bore a different quality. It was not awkward or expectant, but oddly weighted, as if something unspoken had begun to take shape in the space between them. Mr. Blyth took a measured sip of his tea, willing his thoughts to remain as composed as his posture, only to find himself increasingly aware of Mr. Fitzwilliam's gaze.
It was not the polite attentiveness of a host, nor the cursory assessment of a new acquaintance. It was more deliberate than that—quiet, curious, and entirely unhurried.
Mr. Blyth set his cup down with slow precision. "You are staring, Mr. Fitzwilliam."
Mr. Fitzwilliam blinked, then let out a soft, unrepentant laugh. "I suppose I am."
Mr. Blyth hesitated. There were a number of things he could say in response—clever, dismissive, polite—but none of them seemed quite right. The room felt too still, too sharp with awareness.
He rose, choosing discretion over reply. "I should not keep you longer. I have a client to meet this afternoon."
Mr. Fitzwilliam's lips parted, just slightly, and for the briefest of moments, Mr. Blyth thought he saw something there—something like disappointment, unspoken and unformed. But whatever it was, it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a smile far too easy, far too practiced.
"Of course," Mr. Fitzwilliam said lightly. "One mustn't neglect one's duties."
Mr. Blyth reached for his coat, not entirely certain why he felt such urgency to be gone. Mr. Fitzwilliam followed him to the front door, and they paused together just inside the threshold—neither quite eager to end the exchange, nor willing to name what held them there.
"This has been… enlightening," Mr. Blyth said, the words dry but not unkind.
Mr. Fitzwilliam's mouth curved. "You say that as if you're still trying to decide what to make of it."
Mr. Blyth let out a quiet breath of amusement as he stepped onto the cold stone drive. "Perhaps I am."
Mr. Fitzwilliam lingered in the doorway, one shoulder leaned against the frame, his posture as casual as ever—though there was something distinctly sharp in his gaze. "We shall have to remedy that, then."
Mr. Blyth glanced back, adjusting his gloves with practiced precision. "Are you proposing another meeting so soon, Mr. Fitzwilliam?"
The other man smirked. "Well, you did go to the trouble of calling on me first. It would be terribly rude of me not to return the favor."
Mr. Blyth huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Then I suppose I shall await your very polite inconvenience."
Mr. Fitzwilliam's grin widened, and in the soft light, his copper hair caught fire at the edges. "I do look forward to it."
Mr. Blyth offered one final nod before turning toward the carriage. The door closed behind him with a soft, final click, sealing him once more in the familiar quiet of his own company. Yet, as the wheels began to turn and Langmere Hall slipped slowly from view, he found his thoughts circling something he could not quite place—an impression, a glance, a lingering note in the air that had not yet settled.
And the feeling lingered, persistent and indistinct, long after the house had vanished from sight.