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L ater that afternoon, the morning room at Linford Park was quiet, with only a few guests lingering over books and correspondence while the majority had joined walking parties in the gardens.

Once again, Meredith was sitting in a comfortable window seat, her father's journal of educational theories open on her lap.

She had been reviewing his notes on teaching methods for children from disadvantaged backgrounds, searching for insights that might benefit her Oxford school.

A burst of masculine laughter from the gardens drew her attention momentarily to the window, where she could see several gentlemen engaged in some sporting wager involving hoops and mallets.

Lord Sutcliffe was not among them—a small observation that shouldn't have registered with her, yet somehow did.

She returned to her father's journal, tracing her fingers along his precise handwriting.

" The greatest obstacle to educational progress ," he had written, " is not a lack of resources, but a lack of vision—the inability to imagine a world where knowledge is accessible to all minds regardless of birth or circumstance. "

The words resonated deeply, particularly after her recent discussions with Lord Sutcliffe.

His belief in the "natural order" of Society, with its carefully defined roles and limitations, stood in direct opposition to everything her father had taught her about human potential.

And yet, she had glimpsed moments of thoughtfulness beneath his aristocratic certainty, hints that his perspective might not be as rigid as it first appeared.

"Still pursuing your educational theories, Miss Martin?"

The voice startled her, and Meredith looked up to see Lord Sutcliffe standing in the doorway. Had she conjured him with her thoughts? She was once more startled by his handsome appearance. She hadn't heard him approach, absorbed as she was in her father's writings.

"Always," she replied with a smile, closing the journal but keeping her place marked with her finger. "My father believed education to be a lifelong pursuit, not merely a phase of childhood."

"A progressive view," Lord Sutcliffe observed, moving into the room with his characteristic grace. "Though I imagine it depends greatly on what one hopes to achieve through such education."

"And what does one hope to achieve through breathing?" Meredith countered, warming to their familiar debate. "Education is not merely a means to an end, but essential to fully experiencing the world around us."

Sutcliffe's lips quirked in a half-smile. "A philosophical position, certainly. Though most would argue that practical application matters more than abstract appreciation."

"It could," Meredith admitted, but before they could continue, the room was suddenly filled with excited exclamations as a footman announced the arrival of Lady Caroline Hurst.

Meredith watched with curiosity as Lord Sutcliffe's expression transformed in an instant.

All traces of the open, contemplative man she'd been conversing with vanished, replaced by a mask of aristocratic reserve. His shoulders stiffened, and something like dread flickered across his features before he assumed a perfectly composed countenance.

The woman who swept into the room carried herself with the absolute confidence of one who expected deference.

Though her face bore subtle resemblance to Chilton's, her features were arranged in an expression of perpetual assessment, as though everyone and everything must be measured against some internal standard she alone possessed.

"Chilton, my darling," she cooed, offering her cheek for a kiss. "What a delightful surprise to find you here in the library. I would have expected you in the hunting party."

"Caroline," Chilton replied, his voice carefully modulated. "I wasn't aware you would be joining the house party."

Meredith noted the tension in his stance, the careful neutrality in his tone. This, then, was the formidable Lady Hurst, Chilton's elder sister, whose correspondence she'd heard mentioned during the previous days.

"I simply couldn't resist the opportunity to see my brother," Lady Hurst replied, her gaze shifting to take in Meredith with an assessment so swift and thorough it felt as though she had been catalogued. "And you must be Miss Martin. Faith's friend from Oxford, I believe? The professor's daughter."

The slight emphasis on "professor" carried unmistakable meaning. Meredith rose and curtseyed with perfect composure.

"Yes, Lady Hurst. How kind of you to remember."

"I make it a point to be well-informed," Caroline replied with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Particularly about those who capture my brother's attention."

Chilton cleared his throat. "Caroline, Miss Martin and I were discussing educational philosophy. She has a special interest in the education of children."

"How… extraordinary," Lady Hurst observed, her tone making it clear she considered such work beneath a gentlewoman's dignity. "Though I imagine it leaves little time for more appropriate social pursuits."

"I find education to be the most appropriate pursuit possible," Meredith replied, maintaining her composure despite the deliberate provocation. "As my father often said, knowledge is the only true inheritance that can never be taken from you."

"Indeed?" Lady Hurst's eyebrows rose fractionally. "How fortunate, then, that some of us possess more conventional inheritances as well. A title, for instance, carries responsibilities that might make academic pursuits seem rather... indulgent."

The barb was aimed at Meredith but clearly meant for Chilton, whose face had tightened into a carefully neutral mask. Meredith watched as something flickered in his eyes—a momentary rebellion quickly suppressed.

Before the conversation could grow more strained, a servant appeared to announce that refreshments had been laid out in the drawing room. Lady Hurst smiled with perfect social grace.

"Shall we join the others, Chilton? I'm sure Miss Martin has books to attend to."

"Actually," Meredith said, gathering her courage, "I was about to join the walking party in the gardens. Perhaps you would care to accompany us, Lady Hurst?"

Caroline's smile grew slightly fixed. "How kind. But I find myself rather fatigued from my journey. Perhaps another time."

As they departed the library, Meredith noticed Lady Hurst's hand closing possessively around Chilton's arm, steering him away with subtle but unmistakable authority.

The glance he cast back toward Meredith held a complexity she couldn't quite decipher—apology, resignation, and perhaps something like guilt.

Later that afternoon, as the house party guests gathered in the drawing room before dinner, Meredith found herself unexpectedly at the centre of an educational debate. It began innocuously enough when Dr. Welby, one of the scholars, mentioned having read an article on female education.

"The scientific evidence is quite conclusive," Dr. Welby was saying, his hands gesturing emphatically. "The female brain, while perfectly adequate for domestic concerns, lacks the structural capacity for higher mathematical reasoning."

"I must concur," added Mr. Whitmore, the most conservative of the scholars. "It is simply a matter of natural design. Attempting to force a female mind into male patterns of thought is not only futile but potentially harmful."

"Like attempting to train a canary to pull a plough," another gentleman added, prompting appreciative chuckles from his companions.

Jasper Linford frowned fiercely. “Gentlemen, I must say, I take exception to your metaphor. From the experience we’ve had with our technical institute in Oxford, our experience begs to differ with your conclusions.”

“You’re just addled by love, young man,” Mr. Whitmore countered with a jovial chuckle.

Faith, who had been passing nearby with a tea tray, paused, her expression troubled.

She glanced toward Meredith with a look that conveyed both apology for her guests’ rudeness and encouragement to do something about it.

Meredith was certain Faith wouldn’t wish to cause a scene in the Marchioness’ drawing room, but Meredith wasn’t under such constraints.

So, Meredith closed her book with deliberate calm and approached the group, her heart pounding but her face composed. "Forgive my interruption, gentlemen, but I couldn't help overhearing your discussion. I wonder if you might elaborate on this 'scientific evidence' you mention, Dr. Welby?"

The scholars turned as one, their expressions ranging from surprise to amusement at her boldness. Dr. Welby adjusted his spectacles, seemingly discomfited by the direct challenge.

"Miss Martin," he acknowledged with a slight bow. "This is hardly a suitable topic for mixed company. Scientific discussions can become rather technical."

"Indeed, they can," Meredith agreed pleasantly. "Though I've found that technical details are precisely where truth often resides. You mentioned structural differences in the female brain—I'd be most interested to learn which studies you're referencing."

A hushed tension fell over the nearby conversations.

Lady Beaverbrook, who had been conversing with Lady Thornfield, turned to observe the exchange with keen interest. Across the room, Meredith was vaguely aware of Lord Sutcliffe looking up from his conversation with Lord Edward, his attention caught by the shift in atmosphere.

Dr. Welby cleared his throat. "Well, the research of Dr. Fordham at Edinburgh clearly demonstrates cranial capacity differences between the sexes, and Professor Rittenhall's observations on comparative reasoning abilities—"

"Ah, Rittenhall," Meredith interrupted, her tone still perfectly pleasant.

"I'm familiar with his work. Did you happen to read Professor Daniels' critique in the Cambridge Scientific Journal?

He identified significant methodological flaws in Rittenhall's study, particularly the selection bias in his test subjects. "