Page 17

"A letter for me?" Meredith asked as the footman presented a small stack of papers on a silver salver. A quick glance showed her mother's handwriting, and Meredith composed her features, careful not to reveal her true feelings to those gathered around the breakfast table.

It was the second morning of her stay at Jasper's father's estate, and she had slept surprisingly well in the comfortable room assigned to her.

She hadn't expected such rest in an unfamiliar place, but the rigors of travel and the stimulation of so much company, not to mention her argument with Lord Sutcliffe at the inn en route, had left her ready for a deep sleep.

Now, as she sat before the most delicious breakfast she had enjoyed in years, her appetite dulled as she wondered what her mother could have written about so soon after her departure. She had only left Oxford a few days before; surely, there couldn't be an emergency already—could there?

The urge to slip from the room and read the letter in private tugged at her, but she forced herself to remain seated until the others were ready to leave. Around her, the guests were discussing the morning's plans.

"What have we got planned today?" someone asked.

"I believe Faith hoped for a quieter day," Jasper replied from near the head of the table. "Many of us travelled yesterday, and there'll be more activities in the coming days once everyone's settled in."

Meredith noticed how carefully Jasper avoided taking a place that might seem to usurp his brother or father's role at the table.

What an unusual family dynamic , she thought.

As an only child, she could only guess at the complications involved in being the third son.

Her gaze drifted to Lord Beaverbrook, who held his title only because his uncle had no male heirs.

What a strange world we live in , she mused, and all the more reason to educate young girls.

Meredith's fingers fidgeted with the folded edges of her mother's letter as the breakfast conversation continued around her.

Guests mentioned exploring the gardens, writing letters, or indulging in needlework, while a few of the gentlemen considered going riding.

It sounded as though the day would be a casual one.

As soon as Faith stood, signalling that guests were free to depart, Meredith slipped from the table and headed in search of a private spot to read her mother's letter.

Thinking to find solitude, she made her way to the library, where the scent of leather bindings and beeswax polish welcomed her like an old friend.

The massive room was lined floor-to-ceiling with books, their gilt-embossed spines gleaming in the morning light that filtered through tall windows.

A fire crackled in the marble fireplace, warding off the autumn chill that permeated even the grandest houses at this time of year.

Meredith took a deep breath that trembled in her throat as she looked out at the gathering clouds beyond the library window. The Linford Park library was a magnificent room; she could happily spend all day in it.

After browsing the shelves, Meredith placed a stack of books on the table in front of her.

They weren't hers, of course—she had only brought her father's journals with her—but books grounded her, made her feel safe, and reaffirmed her purpose.

She felt as though they symbolized what she intended to do, so she kept them there, using them almost as a shield to protect herself from the judgment and censure that she anticipated should someone find her in the room.

Restlessly, Meredith moved away from the table – she had a letter to read.

She settled into a window seat upholstered in crimson velvet, the heavy damask curtains providing a sense of privacy.

The letter felt heavier than its physical weight as she broke the seal, her mother's familiar scrawl spilling across the page.

My dearest Meredith, her mother's words began in her usual overly flowery way, I am writing to remind you once more that you ought to take advantage of this opportunity.

It is your first entry into High Society, and you must make the most of it.

Your silly little school can wait—you ought to find a husband, and this is your perfect chance.

Don't waste it like you waste your time on books and such.

I know your father encouraged that, but it was foolish on both your parts.

Meredith's fingers tightened on the paper, crinkling its edges. Her mother's words stung, as they always did, with their casual dismissal of everything she held dear.

You should have let me ensure you had proper gowns for this occasion, but I suppose your friend can help if you neglected to pack appropriately. If it doesn't work out, you know you're always welcome here.

The letter was signed with a flourish, Your ever-loving mother.

Meredith rolled her eyes as she folded up the letter, torn between irritation and amusement. Her gaze roamed over the library again, settling on book after book. If only things were as straightforward as this room , she thought wistfully.

She pulled out one of her father's journals, the familiar sensation of worn leather against her fingertips bringing a measure of comfort.

This particular volume contained his notes on the education of women throughout history—a subject that had fascinated him despite the disdain of many of his colleagues.

Meredith ran her fingers over his precise handwriting, the ink faded to sepia with age.

" The cultivation of a female mind is not merely a frivolous indulgence, but a necessity for the advancement of Society as a whole, " her father had written. " For how can a nation progress when half its population is denied the light of knowledge? "

A tear slipped unbidden down her cheek before she could stop it. She missed him—missed his unwavering support, his belief in her potential despite the limitations Society placed upon her gender.

"Is everything all right?"

The voice startled her, and Meredith looked up to see Lord Sutcliffe standing in the doorway, his tall figure silhouetted against the light from the hall. She hadn't heard him approach, absorbed as she was in her father's words and her mother's admonishments.

"I'm perfectly fine," she managed to say, though her tone betrayed her. She forced a smile, but Lord Sutcliffe’s sceptical look told her he didn't believe a word of it.

"The others are strolling in the gardens," he said. "Would you care to join me?"

Meredith nearly laughed. His invitation aligned so neatly with her mother's instructions to "take every opportunity" in Society. But despite herself, she accepted, thinking that perhaps she could sway him to understand her own perspective.

Lord Sutcliffe approached her carefully, his movements measured as though approaching a skittish fawn and Meredith nearly laughed again. Was the man nervous of her?

He was dressed for the day in a well-tailored coat of forest green superfine, the colour highlighting the amber flecks in his hazel eyes. His cravat was tied in a simple yet elegant fashion, displaying both good taste and restraint—qualities Meredith had observed in many aspects of his character.

"You seem troubled," he said, his voice gentler than she had expected. "I hope I'm not intruding."

"Not at all," Meredith replied, hastily tucking her father's journal back into her reticule. "I was merely... reminiscing."

Sutcliffe's gaze fell to the letter still clutched in her hand. "From home?"

"From my mother," Meredith admitted, uncertain why she was sharing even this much with him. "She has... expectations."

"Ah," the baron said, understanding lighting his features. "Don't we all labour under those? Family expectations can be the heaviest burden, I find."

There was something in his tone that caught Meredith's attention—a note of genuine feeling that seemed at odds with the easy charm he typically displayed. For a moment, she glimpsed something beneath the polished surface of the baron, something vulnerable that resonated with her own struggles.

"My mother believes my purpose in attending this wedding is to secure a suitable match," Meredith said, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "As though my friendship with Faith and my joy in her happiness were secondary considerations."

"And that troubles you?" Sutcliffe asked, settling into a nearby chair. The morning light caught the planes of his face, highlighting a seriousness she rarely saw there.

"It troubles me that she sees my worth only in relation to a potential husband," Meredith replied, smoothing the crumpled letter on her lap. "Not in my mind, my abilities, or my purpose."

"Your school," Sutcliffe said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes." Meredith met his gaze directly. "My mother calls it my 'silly little school.' As though educating children who would otherwise have no opportunity is a whimsical fancy rather than essential work."

A shadow passed over the gentleman's face. "I confess, I may have been guilty of similar thinking."

Meredith raised an eyebrow, surprised by his candour. "Indeed? And what do you think now?"

Sutcliffe seemed to choose his words carefully. "I think... that I may not have fully appreciated the depth of your conviction. Though I still harbour concerns about the practicalities."

"Practicalities," Meredith echoed, unable to keep a hint of disappointment from her voice. "Always the cry of those who resist change."

"Or those responsible for the welfare of many," Sutcliffe countered, though his tone remained conversational rather than confrontational. "An estate is a complex system, Miss Martin. Changes to one element affect the whole."

"And education would disrupt this delicate balance?" Meredith challenged.

"It could," Lord Sutcliffe admitted. "If implemented without consideration for existing structures."

Meredith was about to respond when the library door opened, admitting Lord Jasper's elder brother, Lord Edward Linford. His shrewd gaze took in the scene—Meredith with the letter in her lap, the baron seated nearby in apparent earnest conversation—and his lips thinned to a disapproving line.

"Sutcliffe," he said, his voice carrying the casual authority of the heir to a marquessate. "My father has been asking after you. Something about the hunting prospects for tomorrow."

The easy openness that had begun to develop between them vanished as Sutcliffe straightened, the baron's mask sliding back into place.

"Of course," he said, rising to his feet. "Miss Martin, if you'll excuse me?"

Meredith nodded, disappointed by the interruption yet also grateful for the reminder of the realities that separated them. No matter how pleasant their conversation, she must not forget that Lord Sutcliffe was, first and foremost, a product of his class and privilege.

"I believe the ladies are gathering in the drawing room, Miss Martin," Lord Edward added with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Miss Somerton mentioned needlework. Surely a more suitable occupation for a young woman than hiding away with books."

With that parting shot the two gentlemen left her to her thoughts and her father’s journal she had brought with her to the window seat.

She could imagine the ladies at their aristocratic leisure, such a far cry from the cramped bustling streets of Oxford where the children she wished to educate played in their dirt as their chances for opportunities withered.

"Suitable occupation indeed," she murmured, opening her father's journal once more.

The contrast between her mother's letter and her father's writings could not have been more stark—one pushing her toward convention, the other urging her to challenge it.

And somewhere between these opposing forces stood Lord Sutcliffe, a man clearly bound by tradition yet perhaps not entirely closed to new ideas. For a moment, their conversation had felt like the beginning of understanding, a bridge forming across the chasm of their different worlds.

But Lord Edward's appearance had been a timely reminder of the forces aligned against such understanding. The weight of tradition, of family expectations, of societal norms—these were not easily overcome, especially by a woman with limited resources and influence.

Yet as she traced her finger along her father's passionate argument for female education, Meredith felt her resolve strengthen. She would not abandon her purpose for a "suitable match," no matter what her mother wished. The children of Oxford needed her far more than she needed Society's approval.

A small voice in the back of her mind—one that sounded suspiciously like Sasha's practical tones—reminded her that the path she had chosen would be difficult without influential allies.

"If that baron truly showed interest in your ideas, even a little," Sasha would say, "you'd be a fool not to cultivate it.

Allies with titles get heard, Meredith."

Meredith smiled at the imagined advice. What would Sasha make of this grand house, these aristocratic guests?

She would likely be both impressed and dismissive in the same breath, commenting on the wastefulness while admiring the craftsmanship.

Her practical nature had always been a valuable counterweight to Meredith's idealism.

As for Lord Sutcliffe...

Meredith closed the journal with a decisive snap. He was an intriguing puzzle, showing glimpses of depth beneath his privileged exterior. But she could not afford to be distracted by hazel eyes and moments of connection, not when so much important work awaited her return to Oxford.

Still, as she prepared to join the others, Meredith found herself hoping for another chance to continue their conversation —to see if the bridge they had begun to build might bear the weight of their differences, or if it would crumble beneath them, leaving them stranded on opposite shores.

Perhaps the practical and the idealistic could find common ground after all.