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"Lord Sutcliffe is... complicated," she said finally.

"When first we met at Oxford, he seemed the embodiment of every aristocratic prejudice—dismissive of education for those he considered beneath his station, content with the world exactly as it is.

Yet during our time at Linford Park, I glimpsed something different in him.

A willingness to question assumptions, to consider perspectives beyond his own experience. "

"Sounds dangerous," Sasha commented, though her tone was gentle rather than mocking. "A nobleman who thinks? Whatever next?"

Meredith smiled despite herself.

"It's not just that he thinks, but how he thinks.

He challenges my ideas, forces me to defend them rather than simply asserting their virtue.

And sometimes..." She hesitated, then continued more softly, "Sometimes he makes me consider whether there might be valid aspects to his perspective as well. "

"Now I know you're smitten," Sasha declared. "Meredith Martin acknowledging merit in aristocratic viewpoints? Surely the world is ending."

"I am not smitten," Meredith insisted, though the warmth in her cheeks belied her words. "I simply recognize that effective change requires understanding the concerns of those whose support is needed to implement it."

"Is that what you were doing? 'Securing his support'?" Sasha's eyes twinkled with friendly mischief. "And did you succeed?"

The question touched on Meredith's deepest uncertainty regarding Chilton.

"I'm not entirely sure," she admitted. "He expressed interest in our project, acknowledged the value of education beyond traditional boundaries. But when it came to concrete commitments..."

She trailed off, remembering the interrupted conversation in the library, Chilton's hesitation when Townsend had mentioned his family's traditional views.

"His sister disapproves of me," she added quietly. "Quite vehemently, in fact."

"Ah," Sasha nodded sagely. "The dreaded family opposition. That complicates matters."

"It shouldn't," Meredith said with more conviction than she felt. "Lord Sutcliffe's personal opinions are his own affair. I'm concerned only with securing support for our school."

"Of course," Sasha agreed, her tone making it clear she didn't believe this for a moment. "And will this purely professional association continue now that you've returned to Oxford?"

Meredith hesitated, then decided on complete honesty. "He asked permission to write to me. About the school," she added hastily, seeing Sasha's eyebrows rise. "He mentioned wanting time to review his estate's resources, to consider what support might be possible."

"Did he indeed?" Sasha sat back in her chair, regarding Meredith with newfound interest. "A nobleman requesting permission to correspond with an unmarried woman about 'educational philosophy'? How very... conventional."

"There's nothing improper about scholarly correspondence," Meredith defended, though she knew the justification was thin.

"Absolutely nothing," Sasha agreed solemnly. "I'm sure Lady Caroline will be delighted to learn her brother is engaging in purely scholarly exchange with the bluestocking she so disapproves of."

The pointed observation struck uncomfortably close to Meredith's own doubts. "It's unlikely Lady Hurst will be informed of our correspondence."

"Precisely my point," Sasha said gently. "Meredith, I'm not judging you—heaven knows you deserve some happiness beyond your books and teaching. But be careful. Men of his station don't always consider the consequences of their actions with the same seriousness as those who have much more to lose."

The warning was delivered with such genuine concern that Meredith couldn't take offense, even as she recognized the assumptions underlying it.

"Chilton isn't like that," she said before she could consider how the use of his Christian name would sound to Sasha. "That is, Lord Sutcliffe has been nothing but respectful in our interactions."

"Chilton, is it?" Sasha's expression softened. "Oh, Merry, you really are in deep waters, aren't you?"

Rather than deny it further, Meredith simply sighed. "I don't know what I am, Sasha. Two weeks ago, my path seemed perfectly clear—establish our school, educate as many children as possible, advocate for broader educational access. Now everything feels... complicated."

"Because you've discovered that your heart might want something your head hasn't planned for," Sasha suggested.

"Perhaps," Meredith admitted. "But there's so much standing between us—his position, his family's expectations, the very social order he's been raised to uphold. And I won't abandon our work for a romantic fantasy that has little chance of becoming reality."

"No one's suggesting you should," Sasha assured her. "But neither should you dismiss the possibility of happiness because it arrives in an unexpected form. The heart rarely consults one's carefully constructed plans."

The simple wisdom in her friend's words touched Meredith deeply. Sasha had experienced her own share of heartbreak—a childhood sweetheart lost to consumption, a father who drank away their security—yet she retained a fundamental optimism about life's possibilities that Meredith sometimes envied.

"Enough about my convoluted feelings," Meredith said, suddenly eager to move toward more concrete matters. "Tell me more about our space constraints. Do you think the bootmaker’s shop might truly be feasible?"

Recognizing her need to shift focus, Sasha allowed the change of subject.

"It's worth investigating. The location would certainly be convenient for most of our students.

Though we should consider how many more children we might accommodate—if word spreads about Lady Beaverbrook's patronage, we may find ourselves with more applicants than we anticipated. "

The conversation turned to practical planning—possible premises, curriculum organization, the division of teaching responsibilities.

As they discussed each aspect of their shared project, Meredith felt herself gradually returning to solid ground.

This was the work she understood, the purpose that had guided her since her father's death.

Whatever confusion Chilton had introduced into her emotional landscape, her commitment to education remained unwavering.

"I should check on the shop tomorrow," she decided as their planning session wound down. "See what condition it's in, what repairs might be needed, whether the owner would consider a reduced rent given how long it's stood empty."

"I'll come with you," Sasha offered. "Mr. Brookes can mind the shop for a few hours. And speaking of my father's shop, we should head there now—he's kept some letters that arrived for you during your absence."

Meredith's heart gave an unexpected leap at the mention of letters, though she knew it was absurd to think Chilton could have written so quickly. They had parted only two days ago.

They gathered their things and set out toward Brookes' General Store, which had served as the unofficial headquarters of their educational efforts thus far.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones as they navigated Oxford's familiar streets, the University students hurrying to and from lectures in their distinctive gowns.

"Strange to think that just across town, these young men are receiving the finest education England can provide, while the children we teach struggle for the most basic literacy," Meredith observed as they passed a group of undergraduates engaged in animated debate.

"Not for much longer," Sasha replied with quiet determination. "Not if we have anything to say about it."

The simple assertion of their shared purpose warmed Meredith's heart. Whatever uncertainties she might feel about Chilton and the complicated emotions he stirred, her alliance with Sasha and their mutual dedication to their students provided an anchor amidst the confusion.

Mr. Brookes greeted her with genuine pleasure when they entered the shop, emerging from behind the counter to clasp her hand warmly.

"Welcome back, Miss Martin! Sasha's been counting the days till your return. The little ones too—Mary Jenkins asks after you every lesson."

"It's good to be back, Mr. Brookes," Meredith replied, meaning it despite the lingering disorientation she felt. "Sasha mentioned you have some correspondence for me?"

"Indeed I do," he confirmed, retrieving a small stack of letters from beneath the counter. "Three arrived while you were away—one from Lady Hartford, I believe, another from someone called Professor Wilson, and the third just yesterday, though I don't recognize the hand."

Meredith accepted the letters, her attention immediately drawn to the third.

The handwriting was bold and masculine, the paper of excellent quality, though unmarked by any crest or seal that might identify the sender.

Her pulse quickened as she turned it over, noting that it had been posted from London, not Berkshire as she would have expected had it been from Chilton.

Disappointment and relief mingled in equal measure. She was being foolish to expect a letter so soon, yet the absence of one seemed to confirm the temporary nature of whatever connection they had formed.

"I'll read these at home," she said, tucking them into her reticule. "Thank you for keeping them safe."

As she and Sasha prepared to leave, Mr. Brookes mentioned that several parents had inquired about expanding their lessons to include additional children.

"Word's spreading about what you're doing," he said proudly. "People see the difference in the children who attend—how they carry themselves straighter, speak more clearly, understand the world better. You're changing lives, Miss Martin, one young mind at a time."

The simple acknowledgment of their work's impact steadied Meredith. This was why she had returned to Oxford—not for uncertain correspondence with a baron whose world remained fundamentally separate from hers, but for the children whose potential deserved nurturing regardless of their birth.

"Thank you, Mr. Brookes," she said sincerely. "That means more than you know."

As she and Sasha parted ways for the evening, agreeing to meet the following morning to inspect the bootmaker’s shop, Meredith found her spirits lifted despite the fatigue of travel.

Oxford might feel subtly changed, or perhaps it was she who had changed, but the purpose that had drawn her back remained clear and compelling.

In her room once more, she set about preparing for bed, the familiar routine comforting after days of travel and unfamiliar surroundings. Only when she was settled in her nightgown, a single candle burning on her bedside table, did she open the mysterious third letter.

The paper crackled as she broke the seal, unfolding the single sheet to reveal a brief message written in the same bold hand as the direction:

Miss Martin,

I write on behalf of Lady Evangeline, who wishes to further discuss your educational project upon her return to London next week.

If convenient, would you call at Berkeley Square on Tuesday next at two o'clock?

Lady Evangeline believes she may have identified additional supporters for your endeavour.

Your servant, Sean Smythe

Meredith read the note twice, pleasure suffusing her at this unexpected development.

Sean Smythe, the brilliant mathematician and Lady Evangeline's husband, had been among the scholars at Linford Park, though she had conversed with him only briefly.

That he and his wife wished to support her project was both surprising and gratifying.

She set the letter aside, reminding herself to compose a reply in the morning accepting the invitation. A journey to London would be an inconvenience, but one well worth making if it secured additional patronage for the school.

As she extinguished her candle and settled beneath the covers, Meredith allowed her thoughts to drift once more to Chilton.

Was he back at Sutcliffe by now? Had he spoken further with his sister about their disagreement? Did he think of her as often as she found herself thinking of him, despite all her rational arguments against such preoccupation?

Questions without answers swirled in her mind as sleep gradually claimed her.

Her last conscious thought was a reminder to herself that her priority must remain the school and the children who needed it, not romantic fantasies about a baron whose world and responsibilities lay far from Oxford's ancient streets.

Yet as she drifted into dreams, it was Chilton's voice she heard, speaking of how she had changed him—and the warmth in his eyes as he had asked permission to write to her.

Whether such correspondence would ever materialize remained to be seen, but the possibility lingered like a promise as sleep finally overtook her.