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T he grooms were preparing his carriage; the day for his travel had arrived. There was nothing for him to be nervous about.

Chilton stood at the edge of the stable yard, watching the flurry of activity, yet unable to summon the enthusiasm he should have felt. The morning was crisp, promising a fair day for travel, with a pale autumn sun rising over the eastern woods of his estate.

His traveling carriage—a well-sprung vehicle of dark green with the Sutcliffe crest emblazoned on the door—was being readied with practiced efficiency.

Jenkins, his valet, supervised the loading of his trunks, while Simmons conferred with the head groom about the team of four matched greys that would pull them to Linford Park, the ancestral home of Jasper's family.

"Will you require anything further for the journey, my lord?" Simmons inquired, approaching with the quiet deference that had characterized his service for over fifteen years.

"No, that will be all," Chilton replied, absently adjusting the cuffs of his traveling coat. "We should reach the Crown Inn by nightfall if we make good time."

"Very good, my lord." Simmons bowed slightly. "I've taken the liberty of sending word ahead to secure your usual rooms."

Chilton nodded his appreciation. The Crown Inn at Marlborough was a favourite stopping place, known for its clean rooms and excellent kitchen. At least that part of the journey would be pleasant, even if its destination filled him with a curious mixture of anticipation and dread.

The crisp morning air carried the scent of freshly cut hay, mingling with the faint, ever-present aroma of the stables. The horses snorted and tossed their heads as the grooms secured the harnesses, their movements swift and practiced.

Everything was in order. Everything was as it should be. And yet, something within him felt disjointed.

For the briefest moment, he wondered if he was truly cut out for this life.

He had never doubted his love for Sutcliffe.

Every last corner of his estate, from the ancient oaks lining the drive to the sprawling fields that fed his tenants, held a place in his heart.

Even the most onerous tasks—overseeing crop rotations, handling disputes, managing ledgers—filled him with a deep satisfaction when performed in service to his barony.

But lately, an unsettling thought had taken root: Was love enough? Was he enough?

"My lord," a voice interrupted his reverie.

Matthews approached from the direction of the estate office, a leather portfolio tucked under one arm, as per usual. Despite the early hour, the steward was impeccably dressed, his grey hair brushed neatly back from his weathered face.

"I've brought the quarterly accounts for your review. I thought perhaps you might wish to examine them before your departure."

Chilton suppressed a sigh. The last thing he wanted before a lengthy journey was to pour over columns of figures. But duty was duty.

"Very well, Matthews. Let's step into the library."

The steward's eyes flickered briefly to the waiting carriage, but he made no comment as he followed Chilton into the house.

The morning sun streamed through the library windows, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the golden light.

Chilton settled behind his desk, accepting the portfolio with a resigned nod.

"The harvest yields were higher than expected," Matthews began without preamble. "Particularly the wheat in the north fields, where we implemented the new drainage system."

"That's excellent news," Chilton replied, genuinely pleased.

The drainage improvements had been his idea, based on an article he'd read in an agricultural journal—one of the few scholarly publications he regularly perused.

Matthews had chided him about the need for a school when Chilton mentioned Mr. Williams's concerns to his steward.

"What did you think was going to happen?" Matthews had asked, arms crossed over his broad chest as they stood in this very library.

"What do you mean?" Chilton had countered, frowning at his faithful steward.

"It's been at least five years since we've had a good school here," Matthews had said, his tone implying that Chilton should have known this.

"Your tenants need some structure, my lord," he had continued, his tone bordering on insolent. "You've been a little too carefree, and that doesn't bode well for your profits—or for anyone living here."

"But everything's doing so well," Chilton had argued, his frown deepening as he gestured to the estate ledgers.

"Don't you suppose that's because of my efforts, not yours?" Matthews had nearly sneered the response, and Chilton flinched at the memory.

Now, as the steward detailed the estate's financial position, Chilton found himself only half-listening. His mind wandered to the conversation with John Williams, to the bright-eyed daughter who arranged beans in patterns, to the scholars who would gather at Linford Park.

And, unbidden, once more, to Miss Martin with her forthright manner and intelligent eyes.

"My lord?" Matthews's voice cut through his wandering thoughts. "Have I lost your attention?"

Chilton straightened in his chair. "Forgive me, Matthews. I was considering the school question."

Something flashed in the steward's eyes—surprise, perhaps, or scepticism. "Indeed, my lord? I had thought the matter dismissed."

"Not dismissed," Chilton replied, meeting the older man's gaze directly. "Merely set aside until I could give it proper consideration."

Matthews's expression remained carefully neutral, but Chilton sensed his disapproval despite his previous argument otherwise. "A school requires significant investment, my lord. The buildings, the master's salary, books, and materials—"

"I'm well aware of the costs," Chilton interrupted, surprising himself with his firmness. "But I'm beginning to believe the benefits might outweigh them. An educated tenant is a more productive tenant, wouldn't you agree?"

"To a point." Matthews's tone was measured. "Though one must be careful not to educate them beyond their station. It breeds discontent."

There it was—the same argument he had once made to Miss Martin, now directed at him. The irony was not lost on Chilton.

"Their station?" he asked quietly. "And who determines that, Matthews? Birth? Fortune? Or perhaps ability and character?"

The steward's eyebrows rose slightly. "You sound like a radical, my lord."

"I sound like someone questioning assumptions," Chilton countered. "Something I've perhaps not done enough of."

A clock chimed in the hallway, breaking the tension between them. Matthews closed the portfolio with a snap.

"Your carriage awaits, my lord. We can continue this discussion upon your return."

"Indeed, we shall," Chilton agreed, rising from his desk.

"In the meantime, I'd like you to gather information on the cost of establishing a small school.

Nothing elaborate—just a sound building, a respectable teacher, and the necessary materials.

We may be able to repurpose something already in existence, I cannot rightly recall at the moment. "

He moved toward the door, then paused. "And Matthews?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Consider the possibility of accommodating both boys and girls. I believe there are bright minds in both."

The look of astonishment on his steward's face followed Chilton from the room, bringing a smile to his lips that lingered as he made his way back to the waiting carriage.

Likely, he ought to sack the man for his insolence. But he needed Matthews; he was the most reliable steward Chilton had, the one who had taught him everything he knew about the estate.

Chilton had been so young when he'd lost both parents, and his sisters, though they'd done their best to provide him with a sense of family history, had been preoccupied with raising him.

They hadn't been taught anything about the management of the estate, and so it had fallen to Matthews to teach him what he needed to know.

Still, it seemed he hadn't instilled the same work ethic in Chilton that the steward himself possessed.

But that wasn't fair, Chilton reminded himself.

He had devoted himself to the running of his estate ever since he was old enough to understand that it was his destiny.

His sisters had insisted on his education, sending him off to Eton and then to Oxford, but his heart had always remained at Sutcliffe.

Sutcliffe. His beautiful estate. His legacy. His responsibility.

As he stepped into the carriage, the familiar scent of polished leather and waxed wood enveloped him.

Jenkins followed, settling opposite him with a leather travel case containing refreshments for the journey.

The carriage rocked gently as the groom closed the door, then again as the coachman mounted the box.

Through the window, Chilton watched as Sutcliffe Manor receded from view, its ivy-covered facade and mullioned windows gleaming in the morning sun. His home. His birthright. The source of both his pride and his deepest insecurities.

The carriage turned onto the main road, the manor disappearing behind a screen of ancient elms. Chilton leaned back against the squabs, closing his eyes briefly as the rhythmic motion lulled him.

What would the coming week bring? Scholarly debates he could scarcely follow? Pitying glances from men whose intelligence far outstripped his own? Or perhaps something else entirely...

"Would you care for some refreshment, my lord?" Jenkins asked, opening the travel case to reveal a selection of cold meats, cheese, and a flask of Madeira.

"Not just yet, thank you," Chilton replied, though he accepted the book Jenkins offered from the side pocket—a volume on educational theory he had begun the week before.