Mr. Blyth sat on a blanket near the stream that marked the edge of the Bennetts' land—the sort of blanket meant for picnics and long, drowsy afternoons. Its checkered weave of cream and russet had faded over time, the edges softened into fray by years of sun and grass. It lay flat over the meadow's spring growth, heavy enough to resist the breeze that occasionally stirred the taller blades.
The sun hung low with the gentle insistence of early spring—not yet bold, but present enough to warm the skin and draw out the scent of lilacs from somewhere just beyond sight. Daffodils, bright and self-assured, lined the streambank, their golden faces turned upward in quiet chorus. Overhead, the high branches of a nearby copse filtered the light, scattering soft, shifting shapes across the blanket like a slow-moving mosaic.
It was beautiful—but in that fragile, aching way beauty sometimes is when one is alone with it too long.
The world had arranged itself with quiet precision. The grass beneath him grew thick and green, soft enough to cushion without complaint. The stream slipped by with a steady, unbothered rhythm, its song more felt than heard. Somewhere beyond the fringe of wildflowers came the hum of bees—lazy, contented, unconcerned with anything but the work of the day.
Above, the sky opened wide, an easy, untroubled blue, as though painted by a careful hand with no thought for storm or sorrow.
It was, by every measure, a beautiful spring day. And yet, beauty alone did not seem to know what to do with him.
To his left, Mrs. Blyth and his sisters had arranged themselves upon a second blanket, finer than his—lavender linen with embroidered corners, no doubt selected by his mother for its elegance. Now, it bore the marks of its usefulness: a scattering of crumbs, a small smear of sugared cream, the evidence of pleasure having momentarily outrun decorum.
They sat beneath the shelter of a blooming hawthorn, its branches bowed with white blossoms, casting dappled shade across their bonnets and skirts. Margaret, as ever, was in the thick of some mischief; a dollop of icing adorned the tip of her nose, which Eleanor attempted to point out with the exaggerated solemnity of a governess before collapsing into laughter. Their mother lifted a gloved hand to her mouth in a gesture of restraint, but her eyes betrayed her—bright, unguarded, and full of mirth.
Whatever Margaret had said—a ridiculous musing, no doubt—had set them off in that uncontainable kind of laughter that spills over itself, refusing to be stifled by manners or place. It rose and fell with a rhythm all its own, threading through the hush of the nearby stream and the sudden, fluting trill of a lark overhead.
It was the sort of sound one never thinks to cherish until it becomes a memory—light, bright, and all the more precious for how effortlessly it had come.
His gaze drifted toward the stream—and there, in the glinting light beyond the rushes, was Miss Bennett.
Her hair, unbound and golden, fell in loose waves down her back, catching the sunlight like threads of gilt ribbon. It was rare to see her so—without pins, without the careful arrangement expected of a young lady. Here, in this strange and startlingly perfect moment, it moved with the breeze, wild and soft, a living thing that danced as she did.
She was chasing a small boy—no more than five—through the tall grass that lined the water's edge, her skirts gathered in one hand, the other reaching after him in playful threat. The boy shrieked with delight, his tiny boots scattering petals and pollen as he ran, arms flung wide in that particular chaos that only children manage. Miss Bennett followed close behind, her laughter full and unguarded, rippling outward until it seemed to echo along the stream itself.
They looked remarkably alike—the same golden hair, the same wide, irrepressible smile, the same spark of mischief flickering at the corner of the eye. Their laughter rang out together, bright and unrestrained, rising above the gentle murmur of the stream and the restless whisper of the trees.
Then, with a final burst of determination, she caught him.
The boy shrieked in delight as she swept him into her arms and tumbled with him into the grass, smothering his small neck with a cascade of playful kisses. He kicked and wriggled, his giggles turning breathless, one hand fisted in her sleeve while the other shielded his face—though even in retreat, he pressed closer, unable to help himself.
It was the kind of joy untouched by reason or reserve—the kind that existed wholly between them, as if the world had stepped aside to give them space to be entirely, gloriously themselves.
Mr. Blyth found himself laughing.
It started softly—a breathless sound that slipped from his chest before he quite knew it was there. Then it grew, fuller and warmer, rising without permission. He pressed a hand to his mouth, surprised by the suddenness of it, half-embarrassed by its ease. Still, the smile refused to leave him. It clung, quiet and insistent.
He couldn't recall the last time it had come so naturally. Perhaps not since boyhood—before duty had settled over him like a second skin, before every expression had to be measured, every feeling rehearsed.
But watching her now—her hair tossed by the wind, her cheeks touched with sunlight, her laughter wrapping around the child like ribbon—something within him gave way. Not all at once. Just enough to feel it: that rare, unguarded joy that asked nothing in return, that needed no performance, and yet somehow, impossibly, had reached him.
The ground shifted gently to his right. Mr. Blyth turned—and found Mr. Fitzwilliam beside him.
He had settled there without ceremony, one knee drawn up, the other leg stretched comfortably along the blanket. One arm braced behind him in the grass, his fingers idly toying with a patch of clover as though he'd been there for ages. There was an ease about him—a quiet, deliberate stillness—that made it feel less like he had arrived and more like he had been summoned by something neither of them had named.
He wore no cravat, no collar starched into civility. Instead, a plain green vest lay open across his chest, the fabric sun-softened and creased by wear. Beneath it, a white shirt, loose at the neck, stirred with the breeze. The open front revealed the slope of his collarbone and the pale, unmarked skin just beneath—smooth, unguarded, and brushed faintly with light. It was the kind of detail one was not meant to notice. And yet, once seen, it lingered.
His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, the length of his forearms exposed—relaxed, easy, marked near the wrist with a faint smear of earth, as if some boyish task or careless adventure had come just before. A slight sheen clung to his temple, catching the light—not enough to suggest discomfort, but enough to say he had been outside, among them, not hidden away in some shaded interior. He looked, in that moment, wholly of the world around them—not a guest within it, but a piece of it. As natural as the trees were to the field, as the stream was to the grass.
He said nothing. He didn't need to.
Instead, he turned to Mr. Blyth with a smile that curved just one corner of his mouth—crooked, restrained, the sort of smile born from some private amusement he had no plans to explain. It did not ask for approval. It simply existed, unbothered and certain, as though it had always been meant to appear.
And then his eyes found him.
Those eyes—deep and unflinching, the same eyes that had quietly unsettled half the town with their startling directness—held no challenge now, no chill. They were warm. Unshielded. And fixed entirely on Henry.
There was something in them that unnerved him—not for its intensity, but for its clarity.
Love. And not the lofty, recited sort passed around in drawing rooms and sonnets, but something nearer. Immediate. Alive. And threaded through it—gently, unmistakably—was desire. Not urgent. Not demanding. But steady, unashamed, like sunlight passing through glass and warming everything it touched.
It struck him not with force, but with stillness, as though the world itself had gone hushed and only this remained. He felt it before he understood it: a slow warmth rising across his chest, catching in his throat. Reflexively, he turned his face away—not out of offense, but instinct, as if Fitzwilliam's honesty had pierced some quiet place he had not prepared to offer. His fingers found the blanket, fumbling with a loose thread, as though it might tether him to something solid. And even as he looked away, he knew the truth had already landed between them—he had been seen. And, perhaps more dangerously, he had allowed it.
Mr. Fitzwilliam reached out and placed his left hand gently against Mr. Blyth's right cheek, the warmth of his palm both grounding and electric. His thumb brushed just beneath the eye—a touch so light it felt reverent, not guiding so much as memorizing, as though he meant to carry the shape of Henry's face with him long after this moment passed.
There was no hesitation. No coyness. Only intention.
He leaned in slowly, deliberately, his gaze never wavering, never asking. And when the space between them fell away—quietly, like breath dissolving in the wind—he kissed him.
It was not a tentative kiss, nor one born of idle curiosity, but rather a firm and unambiguous declaration—deep, assured, and quietly ardent. It arrived without spectacle, and yet it altered the very shape of the world around them. The sound of the stream, the rustle of the trees, the distant laughter from the blankets—all seemed to recede, as though nature herself had elected to grant them a moment of perfect privacy.
Mr. Blyth's heart beat with such sudden force it nearly took his breath. And yet he did not pull away. There was no alarm in it, only a dawning certainty—that this was not some half-dreamed notion, not the product of long days and fancies. It was real. And it was happening.
A tremor of something unfamiliar stirred within him, light and undeniable, as though a door—long sealed—had quietly opened.
And so he returned the kiss.
Not out of impulse, but with purpose. With the quiet conviction that this, whatever it was, had stepped beyond the realm of speculation. Every carefully worn manner, every reflex of restraint, seemed momentarily suspended—set aside in favour of something simpler, and far more true.
There was joy in it. Quiet, unmistakable joy.
Mr. Fitzwilliam slowly drew back, his lips lingering for a breath too long, as if reluctant to surrender the moment. His hand remained at Mr. Blyth's cheek, thumb tracing the warmth it had kindled. Their foreheads came together softly—an intimacy quieter, somehow deeper, than the kiss itself. Breath met breath in that stillness, and then, in a voice scarcely more than a sigh, he spoke his name.
"Henry."
It was barely a sound—just air shaped around affection, so gentle it might have been imagined.
"Henry," he said again, even softer this time, as if speaking it into existence, as if claiming it.
He repeated it, again and again, each utterance falling between them like a vow. And with every repetition, the sound grew—not with haste, but with gathering insistence.
"Henry."
A little louder.
"Henry."
Louder still.
"Henry!"
And then—
"Henry Blyth!"
He startled awake, heart racing, lips parted as though the kiss had crossed into the waking world. The warmth vanished at once, replaced by the dim flatness of his bedroom ceiling and the unmistakable staccato of knuckles against his door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"I will not have you sleep the day away after your behaviour last night!" came Mrs. Blyth's voice—muffled by the wood but no less formidable. "You will come down this instant for afternoon tea, or I shall send Margaret in with cold water and no remorse!"
Mr. Blyth sat up abruptly, breath catching in his throat, a hand dragging across his face as the remnants of the dream clung with obstinate vividness.
Fitzwilliam's eyes. His voice. The kiss. He exhaled hard, then stared at the door as though it bore some personal grievance.
"Afternoon tea," he muttered. "God help me."
A sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes, not the dull ache of poor sleep, but something deeper—more punishing. Each throb landed like a hammer's strike against the inside of his skull, rhythmic and unrelenting. And then his stomach turned.
A slow, queasy revolt stirred to life beneath his ribs, and before he could fully register the sensation, he had thrown off the bedcovers and stumbled upright. The room tilted as he moved, his vision swimming at the edges. With a few unsteady strides, he reached the narrow door to the closet in the corner and flung it open.
He dropped to his knees before the chamber pot and retched, his body convulsing in sharp, uncontrollable waves. There was little of substance—only thin, acrid liquid, splashing noisily below as though it might never end. It burned in his throat, left his chest hollow and heaving. His arms shook as he braced himself against the wall, every breath a labor.
When at last it stopped, the pot was nearly full, and still, the pounding in his head did not cease.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve—clumsy, unthinking, more instinct than intent. The sour taste lingered, bitter and acrid, coating his tongue and clinging to the back of his throat like shame.
He steadied himself, bracing for what would surely follow.
From below, the sounds of afternoon tea were already taking shape: the soft clatter of porcelain, the scrape of chairs across the floorboards, the cadence of his mother's voice rising in polished command—conducting the rhythm of the household with the precision of a small but tireless orchestra. Margaret would be waiting, no doubt, with mischief behind her eyes; Eleanor with her silence and subtle judgment, sharp as any spoken word. He could almost hear their remarks, half-formed and waiting, needing only his arrival to spring into full expression.
He did not change.
His nightshirt clung damply to his back, and his hair stood at uneven angles from a night poorly spent. But he lacked the strength to care, and perhaps, more pressingly, the dignity. Whatever judgment awaited him, they would have it from him as he was.
And so he stepped into the hall—barefoot, pale, the faint scent of sickness still about him, unshaven and unready. But he went, because she had called.
He descended the stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last, his hand trailing along the banister more for balance than ceremony. The light pouring through the tall windows burned a little too brightly against his eyes, and the scent of the house—lavender polish mingled with the faint sweetness of preserves—did little to ease the unease still coiled tightly in his stomach.
In the dining room, the table had been laid with its usual care: slices of gammon arranged with quiet precision upon porcelain, a small assortment of breads—some buttered, others plain—set beside a wedge of soft cheese already beginning to yield in the warmth. A bowl of halved fruit gleamed at the centre, positioned beside a platter of cold chicken, its pale skin faintly glazed and glossy.
Mrs. Blyth occupied her usual seat, posture immaculate, hands folded atop her napkin with ceremonial stillness. Margaret and Eleanor flanked her on either side, equally composed, though alert in the way only sisters could be—watching, waiting. Whatever conversation had passed between them before his arrival had evaporated the moment his footsteps reached the landing.
Mr. Blyth crossed the room without a word and lowered himself into the empty chair at the end of the table. The weight of him against the cushion sent a faint shiver through the silverware. No one spoke—not his sisters, not even his mother. They merely regarded him in silence, three pairs of eyes marked by varying degrees of concern, curiosity, and quiet censure, as if each were waiting for him to make the first move.
He cleared his throat, wincing as the rawness caught at the back of it, and called out hoarsely, "Mrs. Redley?"
The name carried just far enough into the hall, and a moment later the soft rustle of skirts, followed by the measured tread of footsteps, signaled her approach. When she appeared in the doorway, he did not lift his head.
"Something for my head, please," he said, rubbing at his temple. "A cloth—or something stronger, if there's any left in the cabinet."
Mrs. Redley gave a slight nod. Her expression remained unreadable but efficient, and she vanished again without a word.
While he waited, Mr. Blyth reached for the platter of cold chicken and, with the tongs, deposited a generous portion onto his plate with a dull thud. A thick slice of bread followed—soft at the centre, crusted at the edge—positioned beside the chicken with no particular care. Then, reaching across the table, he pulled a small bunch of grapes from the fruit bowl and popped two into his mouth before the rest had touched the plate.
At last his eyes settled on the small bowl of gravy, tucked unobtrusively between the butter and the cheese. Without hesitation, he lifted it and poured it liberally over the contents of his plate. The sauce pooled over the bread, soaked into the chicken, and trickled along the rim with the air of a man who had entirely ceased to concern himself with appearances.
He took up his fork, ignored the silence that surrounded him, and began to eat.
"Good Lord, Henry," said Mrs. Blyth, setting down her teacup with a decisive clink. Her tone was sharp but measured—the kind of voice that cut with remarkable precision, requiring no elevation to do its work. "Have you entirely forgotten your manners, or did you leave them in whatever gutter you emerged from this morning?"
She stared at the slathered mess on his plate with restrained horror, as though offended less by the contents themselves than by the manner in which they had been assembled—brutal, indifferent, entirely without refinement.
"You look like a stablehand come in from mucking the stalls, and eat like one too." Her gaze moved with deliberate slowness—from his rumpled nightshirt to his bare feet, then to the disordered thatch of his hair—each feature noted and catalogued with mounting censure. "At the very least, have the decency to put on trousers before you drown your breakfast in gravy."
Mrs. Redley reappeared in the doorway, bearing a small, steaming cup held carefully in both hands. She crossed the room with her usual steady step, the tap of her shoes punctuating the silence still thick with disapproval. Without comment, she placed the cup beside Mr. Blyth's plate.
"A posset," she said plainly. "Wine, nutmeg. Good for the head—and the stomach."
Then, with the unceremonious confidence of someone long past asking permission, she drew an egg from her apron pocket, cracked it against the rim, and let the yolk slip whole into the warm mixture. She stirred it once—slowly—until it vanished beneath the milky froth.
Mr. Blyth watched her with bleary, bloodshot eyes, then managed a hoarse, "Thank you, Mrs. Redley."
She gave a small nod—the closest she ever came to a smile—then crossed the room and took her place in the corner, arms neatly folded, back straight, her gaze fixed somewhere just above the sideboard. Silent. Watchful. As she had done a hundred times before.
Mr. Blyth lifted the posset. Its scent was pungent and oddly sweet. He took a tentative sip—and gagged almost at once.
The warmth of it was oddly comforting, but the texture—thick, clotted, unmistakably eggy—caught him off guard, and the spices did little to conceal the sharp, curdled bite of wine.
"Ew," said Margaret and Eleanor in perfect unison.
Mrs. Blyth pressed a hand to her chest and muttered, "Oh, for heaven's sake."
But Mr. Blyth, face contorted by a mix of disgust and resolve, said nothing. He tilted the cup and drank the remainder in one long, uninterrupted swallow, as though daring any of them to stop him. The last of it went down with a wince. He set the empty cup back on the table with a clack, wiped his mouth again, and returned to his gravy-soaked chicken with grim determination.
"Heavens, Henry," Mrs. Blyth said sharply, her voice slicing cleanly through the renewed clatter of cutlery. She stared down the length of the table, one brow raised with the effortless authority of a woman long accustomed to being obeyed. "If you insist on behaving like that, I shall have you sent to the kitchen to take your meals with the scullery maids—where, I assure you, you shall be quite at home."
The room fell into stillness.
Mr. Blyth did not so much as glance up. He tore a piece of bread from the heel, dragged it through the gravy pooling at the edge of his plate, and popped it into his mouth without the faintest concern for ceremony. Then, between chews and without the slightest attempt to temper his tone, he muttered, "Last I checked, the deed to Greymoor still bears my name—so unless you'd like to eat your tea in the kitchen, Mother…"
He let the sentence drift into silence, the unfinished thought settling heavily over the room. The air grew taut, as though even the walls were holding their breath to see what Mrs. Blyth would do next.
His sisters exchanged a glance. Eleanor's brow twitched—barely—a flicker of something behind her otherwise flawless composure. Margaret's hands folded more tightly in her lap. Neither spoke. There was no laughter. No indulgent sigh.
No one ever spoke to mamma that way. Not unless they were prepared to pay for it.
Mrs. Blyth did not blink.
"I am the lady of this house, Henry," she said, her voice cool and steady, growing colder with every word. "And more importantly, I am your mother."
Her napkin met the table with a soft but deliberate thud.
"If you will not conduct yourself properly at this table—if you insist on carrying on like some tavern rat with no sense of decency—I shall have Mrs. Redley rough you up right where you sit and drag you from this room by the ear like the disobedient child you are."
Mr. Blyth's eyes slid toward the corner, where Mrs. Redley stood as silent and composed as ever. She said nothing. She did not need to. The look she gave him—sharp, unblinking, and wholly unamused—had the unmistakable weight of scripture.
He turned back to his mother with a slow, defeated nod and muttered through a mouthful of gravy-soaked bread, "Yes, mamma. Dreadfully sorry."
He continued to eat, though with marginally more restraint—as if the next bite might, if mishandled, incur further consequence.
Mrs. Blyth let the silence settle between them, heavy and humming with unsaid expectations, as though waiting to see whether he might acknowledge the dream, the posset, or his begrudging apology. But when he remained fixed on his plate—tearing another piece of bread, dragging it through the thinning remnants of gravy—she set her napkin down with deliberate precision and spoke, crisp and cold:
"And what, pray, got into you last night?"
Her voice cut through the room with the unmistakable edge of righteous offense.
"You vanished—vanished—without a word. No goodbyes, no explanations. Your friends were left puzzled and insulted, the Fitzwilliams embarrassed on your behalf, and I—your mother—was forced to smooth over the wreckage like some hired hostess."
She lifted her teacup with trembling fingers, more from restrained fury than fragility, and set it down again with enough force to make the spoon rattle inside.
"And not to mention," she continued, her voice rising with every syllable, "you left your sister and me to return home with one horse. One. Do you have any idea how absurd we must have looked? Like some pair of backwoods tinkers dragging their wares through the hedgerows. And naturally"—she gestured toward him with withering disdain—"you had taken the finer of the two."
Eleanor glanced away. Margaret kept her gaze fixed, unwavering, on the edge of the tablecloth.
"And poor Mr. Calloway," their mother continued, the name shaped with deliberate care, each syllable heavy with disapproval. "You spoke to him with such discourtesy, I was ashamed to admit you were my son. He may be a servant—yes—but he has served this family faithfully for longer than most of your acquaintances have known your Christian name. He is not a stable boy to be barked at and discarded. He is to be treated with dignity, Henry. Like family."
She leaned back in her chair, spine ramrod straight, chin lifted just slightly—a posture not of collapse, but of challenge. She waited, daring him to speak, but Mr. Blyth merely lifted his fork, gave a single, shallow nod that might have been agreement—or surrender—and resumed eating, the gravy now thoroughly soaked into his bread.
"And then," she added, her voice growing colder, more precise with every word, "there is the matter of how we found you."
She paused, allowing the memory to settle like a foul scent in the room.
"Sprawled on the floor. Drunk beyond comprehension. Your cravat undone, your coat half off, babbling nonsense to the baseboards like some hedgerow drunkard dragged in from the village fair. I have seen ploughboys carry themselves with greater dignity after Michaelmas."
She pressed two fingers to her temple and let out a long, exasperated breath, as though the very act of recounting it had exhausted her.
"And after the way you spoke to Mr. Calloway—Calloway, who ought to have been finished with his duties for the evening—he and poor Mrs. Redley were left to drag you up the stairs. Limp as a sack of wet oats."
Her eyes found him across the table, gleaming with restrained fury.
"Do you have the faintest idea how humiliating it is to see your grown son—the master of this house—hauled up the steps by the help? Eleanor had to open doors. Margaret fetched water. And I—" her voice faltered slightly, only to recover with renewed steel, "I stood there, watching, trying to preserve what little dignity this family had left."
The room stilled. Mr. Blyth raised his fork again, pausing only long enough to offer a faint, sheepish shrug. Then he took another bite. And chewed.
His head continued to pound—steady and punishing, like a war drum behind his eyes. He let out a groan, low and weary, and mumbled, "Yes... I'm sorry. Truly."
He pushed back his chair with a dull scrape and rose, lifting his plate in both hands like a flag of truce. Bits of gravy clung to the edge, and a single grape teetered perilously near the rim as he turned away from the table.
Without looking at anyone, he shuffled into the hall, his feet dragging across the floorboards, hair still tangled with sleep and shame. Behind him, the quiet clink of cutlery resumed—hesitant, brittle—as though unsure whether permission had been granted to carry on.
He had just reached the stairs, one foot planted on the bottom step, when—
"We have not finished this conversation!" Mrs. Blyth's voice rang out like a church bell cracked with fury. "And do take a bath, Henry! You reek of alcohol—and not the kind a gentleman drinks. The kind a brewer drowns in!"
He paused at the second step, let out a long sigh, and resumed his climb without turning around, the plate still held limply in his hands.
"Noted," he muttered under his breath. "And not undeserved."