Mr. Blyth closed the door behind him with care, guiding the latch into place until it clicked softly into the frame. The sound was deliberate—restrained—intended to seal him from the rest of the house without drawing further notice. He had no wish to summon the full force of his mother's temper, not after the morning he had already given her.
The room was still, bathed in clear daylight. The curtains had been drawn back—likely by Mrs. Redley during her morning rounds—and sunlight poured in without restraint, bright and unapologetic. It touched everything: the scuffed floorboards, the tangled hem of the unmade bed, the papers on the desk he had not filed, not read—had scarcely looked at in weeks. The window remained closed, its panes fogged faintly at the corners, but the air held the clean scent of fresh linen and something faintly green, like the memory of a breeze.
He crossed the room to the far corner, where a modest round table stood tucked between a bookshelf and the wall. It was a plain thing—unadorned, unpolished, worn at the edges. Once, it had belonged to his father, occupying a quiet corner of the downstairs study, until it was deemed "no longer fitting" and quietly relegated to Henry's room.
He set the plate down, lowered himself into the chair, and tried, with limited success, not to think.
Not of the dream. Not of Mr. Fitzwilliam's voice. Not of the kiss—too vivid for fantasy, too tender for invention. He pressed his fingers to the edge of the plate, grounding himself in the ordinary, willing his attention toward the food before him.
The gravy had begun to congeal where it met the air, turning glossy and dark at the edges like oil left too long in a pan. It no longer moved with the easy silkiness it had possessed downstairs; here, on his plate, it had grown slow and sullen, pooling into the grooves of the bread and settling into a quiet sheen. He dragged his fork through it, watching the trail it left behind. It clung to the tines as though unwilling to let go—stretching into fine ribbons before collapsing back into itself.
He took a bite.
The salt came first, sharp and insistent. Then fat—rich, familiar, vaguely comforting. There was something green hidden in it, barely there: rosemary, perhaps—or merely the power of suggestion. He could not remember whether the cook had used it. He could not remember whether he cared. The bread had surrendered entirely beneath the weight of the sauce, swollen and shapeless, yielding at the first touch of his tongue. The chicken was cool now, stripped of warmth but not entirely of substance. It required effort—and effort, at present, was welcome.
He chewed. Slowly. Deliberately. As though the act might anchor him. As though each bite, each measured turn of his jaw, might shield him from memory. From thought. From the quiet pressing in on him—from the sunlight at the window, from the papers on the desk, from the sealed hush of the closed door.
He kept his eyes on the plate, watching as the line of gravy inched toward the rim like an encroaching tide. Crumbs scattered beneath his knife, and he noticed, vaguely, the slight tremor in his hand as he carved another piece. He told himself that this—just this—was all there needed to be: the bread, the chicken, the quiet clatter of silver against porcelain, the warmth of the sunlight on the floor. If he could simply stay here—anchored to the moment, to the tactile simplicity of eating—then he could avoid the far more dangerous act of remembering.
To think of the dream was to invite it back. To recall the sound of his name—Henry—spoken with such aching tenderness it had loosened something deep within him, was to risk coming undone entirely. The voice still lingered somewhere beneath the surface, soft as a prayer, and he could feel its echo even now, threading itself through his breath, his posture, his pulse. He could not afford to indulge it.
So he ate, slowly, methodically, forcing each bite to carry the weight of his discipline. He focused on the taste, the temperature, the motion of his jaw. He stayed within the confines of food and light and silence, refusing to look past them. Because if he allowed his mind to drift—if he so much as glanced in the direction of what he felt, what he wanted, what he had dreamed—he feared he might not be able to return.
He finished the last bite on his plate, scraping up the final smear of gravy with his finger—unapologetically—and bringing it to his mouth. It was cool by now, little more than a shadow of flavor, but he savored it all the same. The salt, the fat, the faint trace of herbs—it settled in his stomach like a cluster of warm stones, grounding him, soothing the last remnants of nausea.
He leaned back in the chair and exhaled slowly through his nose, allowing the silence to return. His head still throbbed, though less sharply now, reduced to a dull, persistent ache that pulsed at the base of his skull like a slow drumbeat behind a closed door. It was, at least, manageable.
Stretching his arms over his head, he let out a low groan—part relief, part surprise at how stiff he had grown in such a short span. The movement stirred the air around him, and with it came an unmistakable intrusion: the sour, stale odor that lifted from his own clothes and skin, released by the simple act of shifting in his seat.
The scent clung to his clothes like old smoke—stale wine, sweat, and the faint, sour tang of sickness still lingering at the collar. His nose wrinkled in quiet dismay. There was nothing romantic about it—no mystery, no drama—only the unmistakable odor of indulgence and humiliation, the residue of a night best left buried.
With a sigh, he rose and shuffled toward the side of the bed. Near the headboard, half-concealed behind a faded curtain, hung a length of tasseled cord—part of the old bell system that ran through the bones of the house and into the servants' hall below. He reached for it lazily and gave a single, purposeful tug.
Somewhere in the depths of the house, a bell chimed.
He did not wait to see who might answer. Releasing the cord, he rubbed at his temple and turned his face toward the window, letting the sunlight fall across him in thick, golden lines.
Lowering himself to the edge of the bed, he allowed the mattress to dip beneath his weight, his hands resting loosely on his knees. The plate sat forgotten on the table, its purpose fulfilled. The throb in his skull had dulled to a low murmur, and his stomach, at last, had settled into something like peace.
Sunlight stretched across the floor in long, bright bars, warming the tips of his fingers where they hung. Dust lingered in the air, motionless, suspended in the hush.
He waited several minutes—long enough to wonder whether the bell had been heard at all—before a soft knock came at the door.
"Enter," Mr. Blyth called, without rising, without moving.
The door creaked open, and a boy—no older than eleven—stepped inside, the light catching the sheen of his hair and the scuff worn into one of his boots. He stood with practiced formality, hands clasped neatly behind his back as though freshly coached, though his eyes flicked about the room with the frank, furtive curiosity of a child.
Mr. Blyth recognized him at once as one of the maids' sons—he had seen him before, ferrying linens, sweeping hearths, hurrying from the kitchen to the main floor with all the earnest solemnity of a boy entrusted with adult errands—but the child's name escaped him entirely.
Still, he inclined his head.
"Could you have a bath drawn for me?" he asked, his voice quiet but assured.
The boy nodded briskly and turned to go, his footsteps light and confident. The door shut behind him without a word.
He lay in bed with the indolence of a man not quite recovered, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting loosely across his stomach. The simple act of eating had left him oddly depleted, as though he had run a mile rather than merely shuffled through a plate of cold food. The sunlight had shifted, climbing higher now, illuminating the uneven weave of the quilt and catching the faint sheen of sweat that still lingered at his collar.
The sound of footsteps returned. He did not stir.
Two manservants entered, bearing between them the copper tub—its edges dulled by years of use, its interior marked with faint greenish stains where age had settled in. It was the same tub they always used for the upstairs rooms, hauled up from the depths of the house and set down with quiet effort in its usual place: near the window, far from the bed. The position, he knew, was chosen for its practicality—sunlight and steam aided in drying—but it also meant the floor would creak later, when he stepped back into his damp clothes.
He heard them speak in hushed tones to the boy, followed by the shuffle of feet coming and going again, each return accompanied by the slosh of water and the dull splash of heat meeting metal. Slowly, the room began to fill with warmth. The chill lifted from the floorboards and was replaced by a soft, humid air, touched faintly by the scent of copper, wood, and whatever floral soap the household had settled on for the season.
Still, Mr. Blyth did not move. Not yet.
He waited until the door had closed fully behind the servants. Only once their footsteps had faded down the corridor—receding into silence, now thickened by rising steam and the soft drip of water from the edge of the tub—did he stir.
With a quiet sigh, he rose and began to unbutton his nightshirt. The fabric clung faintly, damp with sweat and sleep, before sliding to the floor in a loose heap. The air touched his skin like a whisper, cool and bracing; he shivered once, sharply, then stilled.
His body was lean—the kind of thinness born not of neglect, but of restless energy, of a man unaccustomed to stillness. Wiry muscle stretched over a narrow frame, the remnants of a strength once suited to riding or running, though he had done neither in earnest for some years now. His shoulders were defined but lacked breadth; his collarbones cast faint shadows beneath pale skin. At the center of his chest, a patch of black hair curled modestly over the sternum, tapering into a thin trail that disappeared beneath the waistband of his drawers.
He undressed the rest of the way, folding the garments loosely over the chair beside the bed, then stepped toward the tub. The copper had begun to mist with condensation, a dull halo blooming across its surface. He placed one foot into the water and hissed softly at the heat before easing himself in with slow, deliberate care. The water embraced him, warmth unfurling across his limbs, and he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
He leaned back, eyes slipping closed as the warmth seeped into his spine, his knees, his ribs. His fingers moved through the water without urgency, finding the soap at the rim of the tub and drawing it slowly over his arms, his chest, his throat. The lather clung in soft, foaming patches before melting back into the bath. He focused on the motion—on the slick trace of soap against skin, the measured dip of the cloth, the quiet shifting of the water with each breath. Not on the dream. Not on the kiss. Not on the hand at his cheek, or the voice in the grass, or the sound of his name when it had been spoken like something sacred. He clung instead to the bath—the scent of lavender soap, the soft drip of water meeting water, the slow, deliberate cleansing that asked nothing of him but presence.
By the time he had scrubbed himself nearly raw—his shoulders flushed pink, his arms bearing the faint sharpness of too much friction—he let the cloth fall from his fingers and sank deeper into the tub. The water, though no longer steaming, remained warm enough to lull him into stillness. His limbs floated weightlessly, his breath slowed. It was not comfort exactly, but it was something close—a reprieve from the thoughts he had not yet found the strength to name.
The door creaked open once more, and the last of the servants entered without a word, a single bucket in hand that sloshed gently with each step. Mr. Blyth did not look up—he simply tilted his chin in silent permission. The man stepped forward and lifted the pail, pouring its contents in a slow, steady stream. Warm water cascaded over Mr. Blyth's head, down his back, across the slope of his shoulders, washing away the last traces of lather and soap. The heat coaxed his eyes closed, just for a moment. It felt like absolution—brief, imperfect, and not nearly enough. When it was done, the man offered a single, respectful nod and withdrew, closing the door behind him with quiet care.
Mr. Blyth pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms loosely around them, and rested his chin atop the ridge of bone. The water rippled once, then stilled. He sat like that—bare, folded in on himself—not unlike a child adrift in too-large water, his eyes turned toward the window. The afternoon light had mellowed, softened now into amber where it touched the glass. Outside, the world moved without urgency. A bee hovered near the pane. A bird flitted across the sill and disappeared. The high branches of the old elm swayed gently in a wind he could not hear.
He watched the day pass, minute by minute, trying to think of nothing at all. But despite the warmth of the bath, the hush of the room, the gentle play of sunlight across the floor, his mind wandered—slowly, inevitably, back to the thing he was most determined to avoid.
It began with nothing. A flicker of memory. A detail. The way Mr. Fitzwilliam's hand had reached for him at the ball—slow, deliberate, fingers brushing his shoulder. Surely, he told himself, all Mr. Fitzwilliam had meant to do was adjust his cravat. That was all—a loose knot, a friendly gesture, a small act of tidying between gentlemen. He'd had too much to drink. They both had. It was late, the room was warm, and people always said foolish things at the end of a long evening. Didn't they?
Surely the closeness had only been wine.
He had seen men—well-bred, respectable men—slung over one another after too much drink. Laughing too loudly, arms thrown around shoulders, slurred endearments passed off as cheer. Patting backs, even brushing cheeks in the name of brotherhood. It was friendship, camaraderie, nothing more.
Surely it had been nothing more.
But then there was the dream.
The way Mr. Fitzwilliam had looked at him—not with merriment, nor with the looseness of drunken affection, but with something else entirely. Something quiet. Steady. As though he were not simply glancing, but seeing. And then—the kiss.
At the memory, a flush rose to Mr. Blyth's cheeks, hot against the cooling water. That hadn't felt like friendship—not even the muddled, wine-softened kind. It had felt… reverent. Certain. Real.
And yet—surely two men did not—
He couldn't even finish the thought. The words unraveled before they reached coherence. They didn't. They couldn't.
Did they?
His arms tightened around his knees as he pressed his forehead to them, eyes shut tight, as if sheer will might banish the thoughts before they took shape. If shame could drown them, he would have let it.
But the dream returned—not in fragments, but whole. The warmth of the sun, the hush of the stream, the bright edge of laughter on the wind. The kiss—soft, sure, without urgency or fear. It had not felt strange. Not shameful. Not like something forbidden or taken. It had felt—God help him—right.
His brow furrowed where it met his knees.
Was that what Mr. Fitzwilliam wanted? The glance at the ball, the hand at his shoulder, the lingering looks over tea—had those moments meant something? Had he misunderstood them entirely? Or worse, had he understood perfectly and chosen not to see it?
And what of himself?
The question turned in his chest like a key in a long-locked door. Did he want that? Had he not always?
He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, as though that might stop the answer from rising. But it no longer felt like a question. Not really.
Surely he does… doesn't he?
He could still feel it—the imagined weight of Mr. Fitzwilliam's palm against his cheek, the warmth of breath shaping his name like a vow. His chest rose with the memory, breath catching not from shock, but from something quieter. More dangerous.
But not with Mr. Fitzwilliam. Surely not.
That, he told himself, was the line. The ledge on which all good sense stood teetering. Affection—yes. Brotherhood. Admiration, even. Longing, if carefully disguised, could pass for sentimentality. But to want something more—with Mr. Fitzwilliam? With his friend, his neighbor, his…
No.
The word came silently, too small to take shape, but no less present for its silence. It lingered, echoing through the chambers of his mind like a bell struck far off.
No.
It was nonsense. A dream no more substantial than mist. Wine, exhaustion, proximity—all conspiring to turn a touch into meaning, a glance into desire. His mind, softened by illness and sleep, had woven fancy from fact.
It had only been a touch. Nothing more.
And yes, perhaps it had stirred something. But what young man had not felt such stirrings? These were instincts, perfectly natural—meant to nudge him toward the appropriate course: a wife, a home, a family. The shape of a life he had always been expected to want. A life one joined when the time came, like a club or a regiment or a prayer said from memory.
Yes. It was time. Time to cease this drifting, this quiet evasion of life's expectations—no more retreating into books and ledgers, no more solitary walks at dusk to ponder questions that led nowhere good. It was time to step forward. To become the man society presumed him to be—the man it required him to be.
He needed to marry. To begin a family. To assume the posture of respectability with all its attendant rituals: hosting dinners, carrying a cane, casting votes, making polite conversation about the weather and the price of barley. To be the image of a gentleman, upright and untroubled. To be safe.
That, surely, was his path.
And yet, as he repeated the phrases in his mind—like a catechism meant to fortify him against temptation—one phrase kept slipping through the cracks: But with him…
He closed his eyes.
And the dream returned.
Not Mr. Fitzwilliam this time. Not the kiss. Not even the sunlight-dappled blanket by the stream.
But her—Miss Bennett, Adelaide—laughing in the field, her hair tumbling loose behind her, golden in the sun. The child, all flailing limbs and laughter, racing through the grass as she chased after him, scooping him up into her arms with such warmth, such ease, that the world had seemed to hush around them.
Yes. That was what he wanted.
A home. A name. A legacy. Laughter in the corridors. A son, perhaps, to carry the Blyth name. A wife who might admire him for his steadiness. A future that unfolded with a kind of rightness he could believe in—build upon.
That dream was not fantasy. It was real. It was possible. And it was good.
He straightened in the tub, the water sloshing gently against the sides of the copper basin as he gathered himself, spine lifted and shoulders squared with a quiet, almost ceremonial resolve. Yes, he thought, he would become precisely what was expected of him—what his station, his name, and the long chain of quiet social contracts had prepared him to be. A perfect English gentleman, measured in word and action, reliable in character, admirable not for his daring but for his consistency. The sort of man who moved through the world without stirring its dust; who made no scandal, required no explanation, and left no corners of himself exposed to questioning. A husband, a father, a landowner—dutiful, respectable, and secure. The kind of man people trusted, not because they knew him, but because they never had cause to doubt him.