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The small kitchen was warm, the scent of baking bread mingling with the earthy aroma of fresh milk as John poured them each a glass.

Through the small, leaded windows, Chilton could see Mrs. Williams in the garden, harvesting the last of the summer vegetables while three children of varying ages helped or hindered, depending on the moment.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with these children," John said with a weary sigh as his youngest, a girl of perhaps five, dropped a basket of beans, scattering them across the garden path.

"Neither my wife nor I have time to see to teaching them anything.

We're too busy trying to keep them fed. But they really do need to learn something, my lord, or they'll be of no use to anyone. "

Chilton hesitated. He had not been expecting this.

Every one of his insecurities reared its head, staring at him as he tried not to stare at his tenant. Education was a conversation for scholars and schoolmasters, not for a landowner over a glass of milk. And yet, he could not deny the truth in John's words.

"Educating your children, you say?" Chilton repeated, fully aware that he sounded like a simpleton.

The milk left a creamy film on his upper lip, which he wiped away with a monogrammed handkerchief, embarrassed at his own ineptitude in these simple surroundings.

He could almost hear Meredith Martin's voice in his head, explaining with barely concealed impatience how vital education was to lifting people from poverty.

At the time, he had smiled and made some flippant remark about life being meant for enjoyment rather than endless study. The memory reminded him that he had, in fact, met Meredith more than once. Now, faced with John's earnest concern, that response seemed not only inadequate but shameful.

"Yes, I can see how important that might be," he added, even though a part of him really didn't.

Of course, the man wasn't asking for his children to be taught anything extravagant, but they did need to learn their letters and numbers, if nothing else.

Even Chilton could see the practical benefit of that.

A man who could read contracts, tally his earnings, and sign his name held a greater advantage in life than one who could not.

Selfishly too, if Chilton thought the man's children could be of any use to the barony one day, they needed at least a certain level of education.

"My youngest, Mary," John continued, nodding toward the window where the little girl now sat, carefully picking up each spilled bean, "she's clever, that one.

Always asking questions about how things work, why the sky is blue, where the stars go in daytime.

Reminds me of my brother who went into service with a natural philosopher in London.

He can read and write now, sends us letters sometimes. "

The pride in his voice was unmistakable.

Chilton watched the child, her small face pinched in concentration as she counted each bean aloud. "She does seem bright," he agreed.

"Aye, but what good is brightness when there's no one to nurture it?" John shook his head. "My wife knows her letters, but she's no time for teaching with all the work to be done. And the parson's too busy with his three parishes to do more than Sunday school."

Had Jasper's invitation made him obsessed with education this week? He found himself picturing Miss Martin again. Faith Somerton had spoken of starting a school for the underprivileged in Oxford. He was reasonably sure she had intended to do so with her friend.

Had anything come of that plan? It was a question worth asking. And suddenly, the idea of attending the wedding felt less like a burden and more like an opportunity.

Outside, the afternoon shadows lengthened across the Williams' small garden.

Mary had finished retrieving her spilled beans and now sat on a rough wooden bench, carefully arranging them in patterns only she understood.

Something about her intense concentration reminded Chilton of the scholars he had both admired and avoided at Oxford.

The decision settled in his chest with unexpected rightness. He had intended to send his regrets, but instead he found himself leaning forward, his voice firm with newfound purpose.

"We'll figure something out, John. Have no fear," Chilton said, surprising himself with his conviction.

"You aren't likely to be the only one in this position, and I thank you for bringing the matter to my attention.

Not having children myself yet, I'd forgotten about this need, and I appreciate you reminding me.

If you think I've forgotten it again in the future, be sure to nudge me once more. But I don't see how I could forget."

He got to his feet to take his leave, his mind already racing ahead to possibilities he had never before considered. Through the window, he saw Mary look up, her small face lighting with curiosity as she spotted him watching her.

"I will be leaving in a few days to visit some of my old school chums, and education is something that they hold very dear. So, I will be sure to ask them for some advice. We will have a solution for you and your children as soon as we can figure it out."

John's face lit with gratitude. "Oh, my lord, that's most kind of you! My missus will be ever so delighted to hear that. She keeps weeping over the children and their lack of learning."

"Well, tell Mrs. Williams to dry her tears. We will have this matter sorted before too very long, I swear to you."

"No need to swear, my lord. I know you're as good as your word, just as your dearly passed father was. Our families have been tied together for generations. I know you won't let me down, my lord."

The words followed Chilton as he rode away from the Williams' humble home, his heart both lightened and weighed down by the tenant's faith in him.

It gratified him that John and his family were so loyal to the barony, but their trust came with a weight of responsibility he was not sure he had the strength to carry.

As he cantered along the well-worn path that led back to Sutcliffe Manor, he passed the village green where a group of children played, their laughter carrying on the autumn breeze.

They scattered respectfully at his approach, tugging forelocks or bobbing curtsies as he passed.

He wondered how many of them, like Mary Williams, had minds that hungered for knowledge they might never receive.

Yet, for the first time in a long while, he had a purpose beyond simply maintaining what he had inherited. He was going to that wedding. And perhaps, just perhaps, he would finally begin to understand what it meant to be more than just the idle Baron Sutcliff.

As he approached his house once more, the setting sun gilding the ivy-covered walls, Chilton found himself wondering what Miss Martin would make of his sudden interest in education.

He could almost see her arch expression, hear the scepticism in her voice.

Well, he would simply have to prove himself worthy of more than her contempt.

The wedding invitation still lay where he had left it on his desk. Chilton picked up his quill and began to write his acceptance, a small smile playing about his lips. Sometimes, he reflected, the most important lessons came long after one's schooling had ended.

That evening, as Chilton dressed for dinner—a solitary affair in the grand dining room that could seat thirty—he found himself unusually restless. The candles in their silver holders cast dancing shadows across the damask tablecloth as Simmons served each course with practiced precision.

"Will you be needing Jenkins to accompany you to the Linford wedding, my lord?" the butler inquired as he poured the wine.

"Yes, I think so," Chilton replied, surprised that the news of his decision had already reached the servants' hall. "And have Mrs. Hobbs press my blue superfine coat. The one with the silver buttons."

"Very good, my lord." If Simmons was surprised by his master's sudden interest in his appearance, he gave no sign of it.

Chilton ate mechanically, hardly tasting the excellent sole or the roast pheasant that followed.

His mind was too full of unexpected possibilities.

A school for his tenants' children. A chance to engage with the scholars he had once avoided.

And perhaps, an opportunity to show Miss Martin that he was more than the idle lord she had dismissed.

After dinner, he retreated to the library, a room he seldom used for its intended purpose.

Tonight, however, he found himself running his fingers along the spines of books he had inherited but rarely opened.

Natural philosophy, astronomy, agriculture, history—volumes his father and grandfather had collected, waiting for a baron who might actually read them.

On impulse, he pulled down a book on modern educational theories.

The leather binding cracked slightly as he opened it, suggesting it had rarely been disturbed.

As he settled into a wing chair near the fire, a sense of anticipation filled him—not just for the wedding, but for the changes that might follow.

Outside, an owl called in the darkness, its cry echoing across the grounds of Sutcliffe Manor. Inside, lit by firelight and new purpose, the fifth Baron Sutcliffe began to read.