The ride back to Greymoor House was uneventful, the steady clatter of the carriage wheels filling the quiet with a familiar rhythm. Mr. Blyth leaned back against the worn leather, arms folded, gaze unfocused as his thoughts drifted—not toward Mr. Fitzwilliam, nor even the quiet stir of curiosity he'd stirred—but instead to that ever-present sense of responsibility that seemed to resettle itself after every social obligation. The kind of weight that grew heavier not with time, but with repetition.
As the carriage turned onto the familiar gravel drive, he caught a flicker of movement behind the front drawing-room windows—a quick glimpse of fluttering curtains and the unmistakable shape of Margaret's silhouette darting past. No doubt his return had been eagerly anticipated. The house, Greymoor, stood as it always had: dignified, weather-worn, its edges softened by ivy and time. And yet, as he stepped down, there was a peculiar sensation in the air, as though the walls themselves held their breath in expectation.
Mrs. Redley greeted him at the door, opening it before his hand had reached the latch. Her nod was prim, her expression unreadable in the way only long-serving housekeepers could manage. "Your mother and sisters are waiting in the drawing room, sir."
Mr. Blyth gave a small nod of thanks, adjusting the fall of his coat as he crossed the threshold. The interior warmth hit him almost at once, tinged with the familiar scent of lavender oil, wood polish, and the faintest remnants of tea. The soft hum of voices led him down the corridor, growing clearer with every step until he reached the parlor door.
Inside, the scene was almost too well-arranged: his mother seated in her usual spot by the fire, a half-finished shawl in her lap; Eleanor poised neatly with a book she clearly had no intention of reading; and Margaret, predictably curled in her favorite armchair, her expression the very portrait of theatrical anticipation.
She was the first to speak, a mischievous gleam in her eye that made him wish he'd turned back when he had the chance.
"Well?" she asked, the word drawn out like a bell toll. "Are we to assume your visit was tragically dull, or will you indulge us with details?"
His mother, ever composed, lifted her teacup with a practiced grace, watching him over the rim with that quiet, assessing gaze she reserved for conversations of greater consequence than she would admit aloud. Beside her, Eleanor gave a long-suffering sigh that failed to conceal her own interest. "You must forgive Margaret, Henry. She has been absolutely unbearable since learning of your visit to Mr. Fitzwilliam."
"I have not!" Margaret protested, though the unrepentant gleam in her eye rendered the denial utterly void. "It's only that nothing of note ever happens here, and now we've a London gentleman with a mysterious past and a charming smile—how could I possibly not be intrigued?"
Mr. Blyth sighed and moved toward the sideboard, choosing the decanter with practiced efficiency. "I fail to see what is so mysterious about a man leasing a house and minding his own affairs."
"And yet," his mother said, setting her teacup down with deliberate care, "you do not deny that he is interesting."
He turned slowly, glass in hand, and fixed her with a look of mild exasperation. "Is that what you'd like to hear, mamma? That he was interesting?"
She met his gaze evenly, a slight, knowing smile curving her lips. "I should like only to know what you thought of him, Henry. That is all."
For a moment, there was only the gentle crackle of the fire and the steady ticking of the mantel clock. Then Mr. Blyth exhaled, easing into the chair opposite his family.
"He is… different than expected," he said at last. "Charming—undeniably so. Perhaps a bit too much."
Margaret gasped, positively alight with delight. "You like him!"
"That is hardly what I said," Mr. Blyth muttered, taking a measured sip of his drink.
"No," she said with a grin, "but it's what you meant."
Eleanor, always the temperate voice, shot her sister a warning glance. "Let him speak, Margaret. Henry, what is it about Mr. Fitzwilliam that struck you as unexpected?"
He hesitated, recalling the way Mr. Fitzwilliam had watched him—not idly, not politely, but with a kind of quiet appraisal. Not as one evaluates a solicitor or a neighbor, but as one studies something—someone—of particular interest.
"He is a man who does not second-guess himself," Mr. Blyth said at last. "He sees everything and reveals very little. There's an ease to him, a charm that never feels unpracticed… and yet, I cannot decide whether it is instinct—or strategy."
His mother set down her teacup with a contemplative hum, her gaze steady. "A rare quality, indeed. And what, I wonder, does he make of you, my dear?"
Mr. Blyth's fingers tightened slightly around his glass, the memory of Mr. Fitzwilliam's unreadable gaze lingering longer than it ought. "I do not believe I've given him much cause to think anything of me," he said, with what he hoped passed for indifference.
Margaret scoffed. "Oh, Henry, you truly are the most frustrating person alive."
Their mother chuckled into her teacup. "Perhaps it would be wise to make up your mind about him sooner rather than later, my dear. If Mr. Fitzwilliam intends to remain at Langmere, you are bound to see a great deal of him."
Mr. Blyth exhaled, setting the glass aside. "He did mention his intention to return the call sometime soon."
Margaret all but squealed, nearly spilling her tea in the process. "Oh! This is absolutely perfect! You must ensure we're all here when he comes. I should like very much to see him for myself."
Their mother brightened. "Yes, we must be ready to receive him properly. It would not do to make a poor impression. Perhaps a small luncheon—or an afternoon tea? Something light, but refined."
Eleanor, however, remained unimpressed, leaning back with a sigh. "I fail to see what all the fuss is about. He's just another gentleman, is he not?"
Margaret turned toward her sister with theatrical disbelief. "Just another gentleman? He is a London gentleman, Eleanor. That is entirely different. And besides, Henry finds him interesting!"
Mr. Blyth sighed, rubbing his temple. "I did not say that. I merely said he was unexpected."
Margaret grinned, wholly undeterred. "Which is precisely why he must come!"
Mr. Blyth inclined his head in mild concession, though he offered no further comment. The truth was, he was not yet certain what to make of Mr. Fitzwilliam—nor of the quiet intrigue that continued to stir, even now.
But as he sat there, surrounded by the comforting familiarity of his family, he could not shake the sense that something had shifted. That the arrival of Mr. Fitzwilliam was not merely an occasion for curiosity and afternoon teas.
It was the beginning of something.
***
It had been two months since Mr. Blyth's visit to Langmere Hall, and in all that time, Mr. Fitzwilliam had not received a single visitor besides him. The town, once positively electrified by the arrival of a London gentleman, now found itself in a state of collective agitation.
At first, there had been the expected excitement—whispers exchanged at the baker's, murmured speculations passed over garden hedges, the occasional pointed remark at Sunday services. But as the weeks slipped by with no dinner invitations, no morning calls, not even a token appearance at the grocer's or draper's, that initial curiosity began to curdle into something else entirely.
Why had he come, only to disappear into seclusion?
Theories multiplied with each passing day. Some insisted Mr. Fitzwilliam must be gravely ill—an invalid, no doubt, suffering from some lingering affliction that rendered society intolerable. Others, more dramatic, were certain he had fled some terrible scandal in London and had taken refuge in the country to escape its consequences. Mrs. Harding, ever the town's most prolific distributor of finely embroidered gossip, was particularly adamant on this point.
"A man does not remove himself from society so entirely unless he has something to hide," she proclaimed to an enraptured audience outside the milliner's shop, her bonnet tilted just so.
Mrs. Clarke, who prided herself on a more pragmatic approach to speculation, shook her head. "Nonsense! If he were hiding, he'd be doing his best to charm us. A man of ill repute knows full well that a pleasant reputation is his best disguise. No, I think he's simply a recluse. Perhaps even a great thinker—a scholar!"
"A scholar?" Mrs. Harding sniffed. "Don't be absurd. Scholars do not have the sort of face that sets every girl in town to sighing over someone they haven't even met."
And that, of course, was the root of the problem.
No one had met him.
And so, in their growing desperation, they turned to the only man who had.
For three full weeks, Mr. Blyth could scarcely step outside without being waylaid by someone in search of answers. It began innocently enough—offhand inquiries at the tailor's, a casual question from Mr. Forsythe in the office—but soon escalated into something perilously close to a coordinated assault.
At the helm of the campaign was Mrs. Harding, who cornered him outside the baker's one morning with a swiftness that defied both her age and decorum. Her lace-gloved hand clamped onto his forearm with startling determination.
"Mr. Blyth!" she gasped, as though she'd only just happened upon him. "Oh, I am so very glad to see you!"
He managed a polite nod. "Mrs. Harding."
Her eyes gleamed like a woman on the verge of a major discovery. "Surely you must know something more. You were the first to call upon him, were you not? What sort of gentleman is he? Does he plan to remain in the country long? Is he"—she lowered her voice dramatically, scanning the street as if Mr. Fitzwilliam might appear from the flour sacks—"married?"
The weight of her expectation was almost physically oppressive.
Mr. Blyth kept his tone neutral. "I can assure you, Mrs. Harding, Mr. Fitzwilliam is more than capable of making his own introductions when the time is right."
It was the same response he had offered countless times before. It never failed to disappoint.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Blyth," Mrs. Clarke interjected smoothly, stepping forward with the confidence of a woman who had rehearsed this moment. "We only ask because we are concerned. One wouldn't want it said that we had neglected a new neighbor. And surely you wouldn't want us to think he is… unwell?"
Behind her, Mrs. Finch crossed her arms, lips pursed. "Or unfriendly."
"Or hiding something," Mrs. Harding added, as if she'd been waiting her entire life to deliver that line.
Mr. Blyth exhaled slowly. "I believe he is simply a private man."
Mrs. Finch scoffed. "For nearly a month?"
Mrs. Clarke's eyes narrowed. "That is very private indeed."
"He might not wish to be gawked at," Mr. Blyth said, his tone pointed in the hope it might shame them into retreat.
It did not.
By the time he managed to extract himself from their collective grasp, he had taken no more than three steps before Miss Partridge, the vicar's daughter, intercepted him like a hound on a scent. She was breathless with urgency.
"Mr. Blyth! Please, I must ask—you have met Mr. Fitzwilliam, haven't you?"
He straightened. "Yes."
She clasped her hands as if in prayer. "And—oh, you must tell me—is it true? Is he handsome?"
Mr. Blyth blinked. "I—"
Miss Partridge barreled on, undeterred. "Mrs. Harding says he is quite striking, but Mrs. Clarke insists he is merely well-dressed, which isn't the same thing at all, and I simply must know the truth. Please, Mr. Blyth, I won't tell anyone what you say!"
"Then why ask at all?" he replied flatly.
She huffed, clearly displeased with his uncooperative nature, and marched off in frustration, her skirts swishing with exaggerated indignation. By the end of the third week, Mr. Blyth's steadfast silence had transformed from mere inconvenience into a point of collective irritation. That he alone had enjoyed an extended audience with Mr. Fitzwilliam—however brief—only sharpened the village's frustration. Speculation, already rampant, now turned its focus toward Mr. Blyth himself, with whispered theories suggesting complicity, secrecy, or worse: indifference.
"If Mr. Blyth refuses to speak," Mrs. Harding had declared at the last gathering, her voice pitched just loudly enough to reach half the room, "then we must assume there is something he does not wish us to know." That sentiment—more dramatic than logical—had nonetheless taken root.
By the time the fourth week arrived, the town's initial frenzy had begun to dull into resigned curiosity. There were other topics to dissect: Mrs. Grafton's misbehaving cook, the tragic state of the vicar's garden, and whether young Miss Bellamy would accept Mr. Russell's attentions despite his unfortunate lisp. Mr. Fitzwilliam, it seemed, had faded back into rumor—a ghost story passed around out of habit more than need.
But if the town had slowly accepted his absence, Mr. Blyth found it more difficult to let the matter go. At first, he had reasoned that some men were simply not inclined to sociability, and Mr. Fitzwilliam had struck him as someone perfectly content to remain at a distance. And yet, as the weeks stretched on with no morning visits, no polite invitations, no appearances at even the smallest of public gatherings, Mr. Blyth's thoughts returned to him with increasing regularity.
There had been something in that first meeting—something layered beneath Mr. Fitzwilliam's polished civility and practiced charm. He had spoken of duty and expectation not as abstract burdens but as things lived and worn, like a coat long outgrown but never quite discarded. He had watched Mr. Blyth with an attention that felt uncomfortably precise, as if trying to read something between the lines. That kind of awareness was not casual, and it was not idle.
Mr. Blyth had assumed a second call would follow swiftly. After all, Mr. Fitzwilliam had hinted as much when they parted. A week, perhaps two. But two months had passed. Not a word. Not a visit. Not even a letter.
Late one evening, with lamplight casting soft gold across the edges of his desk, Mr. Blyth found himself staring at a modest stack of correspondence. A note from a client. An inquiry from Mr. Forsythe. A polite, rambling letter from a cousin in Brighton who never failed to miss the point. But nothing from Langmere. No tidy handwriting. No familiar wax seal.
He told himself it was not important. And yet, the question lingered at the edge of his thoughts like the chill that refused to leave the corners of the house. Why, after all that, had Mr. Fitzwilliam disappeared?