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As the carriage rolled through the countryside, Chilton found himself absorbed in the text, surprised by his own interest. The author argued persuasively for practical education combined with moral instruction, suggesting that even those destined for manual labour would benefit from basic literacy and numeracy.

It aligned with his own instincts about what the Williams children—and others like them—might need.

The journey passed more quickly than he had anticipated, the miles rolling away beneath the carriage wheels as he alternated between reading and gazing at the passing landscape.

They stopped only once at midday to change horses and take a light meal at a coaching inn, where Chilton found himself observing the other travellers with new interest.

How many of them could read the posted notices about stage departures? How many could cipher well enough to ensure they weren't being overcharged?

By late afternoon, they had entered Wiltshire, the landscape changing subtly as they approached the Marlborough Downs. The rolling hills were dotted with sheep, their white forms stark against the green pastures.

Here and there, ancient standing stones rose from the earth, silent sentinels that had witnessed centuries pass. The sight of them never failed to stir something in Chilton's breast—a connection to history, to those who had worked this land long before a baron named Sutcliffe had claimed it.

As twilight descended, the lamps of Marlborough came into view, and soon they were pulling into the courtyard of the Crown Inn. The innkeeper himself came out to greet them, bowing deferentially.

"Welcome, Lord Sutcliffe! Your rooms are ready, just as you like them. Will you be dining in your private parlour this evening, or would you care to join the company in the common room?"

Chilton hesitated. Normally, he would have automatically chosen the private parlour, avoiding the noise and society of the common room. But tonight, something prompted him to change his routine.

"I believe I'll dine in the common room, thank you. Though perhaps a table near the fire?"

The innkeeper's surprise was evident, though he quickly masked it. "Of course, my lord. It would be our pleasure."

As Jenkins supervised the unloading of their minimal luggage and the stabling of the horses, Chilton entered the inn.

The common room was warm and inviting, filled with the mingled scents of roasting meat, ale, and woodsmoke.

Several travellers were already gathered around the large fireplace, their conversation a pleasant background to the clatter of pewter tankards and ceramic plates.

Chilton clenched his jaw, adding the school to the growing list of things he needed to discuss with the scholars at the wedding.

Surely, one of them would have insight. If they would even entertain his modest questions—considering how prosperous they had become in their own pursuits, they might well think a country squire beneath them.

But he had been invited, and he needed to cling to that thought as a comfort. He deserved to be in their presence... or rather, deserved wasn't quite the right word. He simply refused to feel cowed by the inadequacies he saw in himself.

The innkeeper led him to a table set slightly apart from the others but still within the warm circle of firelight. As Chilton settled himself, a serving girl approached with a tankard of ale and a steaming bowl of soup.

"Best venison broth in the county, m'lord," she said with a curtsey. "Cook's special recipe, with herbs from our own garden."

"Thank you," Chilton replied, offering her a smile that brought a blush to her cheeks. As she hurried away, he found himself wondering if she could read, if she knew her numbers beyond what was needed to serve customers.

The common room gradually filled as the evening progressed, travellers of various stations finding their way to the Crown Inn as darkness fell.

A group of merchants discussed wool prices at one table, while at another, two gentlemen argued good-naturedly about the latest political developments in London.

At the bar, a weather-beaten man who appeared to be a cattle drover shared a ribald joke with the barkeeper, their laughter rising above the general din.

Chilton observed it all with quiet interest, occasionally catching fragments of conversation that drifted his way.

It was a world he rarely entered, despite technically being its master in his own corner of Berkshire.

These were his people—or people like those who lived and worked on his lands—yet how little he truly knew of their daily concerns and cares.

"Pardon me, sir, but might I share your table? The room's grown quite full."

Chilton looked up to find a young man standing before him, perhaps twenty-five years of age, dressed in the plain but respectable attire of a clergyman. His expression was earnest, his manner diffident.

"Of course," Chilton replied, gesturing to the empty chair opposite his own. "Please join me."

"Thank you, sir." The young man settled himself, then extended his hand. "Thomas Aldridge, at your service. I'm the new curate at St. Mary's in Devizes."

"Chilton Loring," Chilton replied, accepting the handshake without offering his title.

Something about the young man's honest face discouraged formality.

"Ah, are you perhaps related to the Baron Sutcliffe?" Aldridge asked, his eyes widening slightly. "I've heard his lands are among the finest in Berkshire."

Chilton smiled faintly. "I am he, though I'd prefer to dispense with titles for the evening, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, sir—that is, Mr. Loring." The curate looked momentarily flustered, then recovered his composure. "May I ask what brings you to Wiltshire?"

"A wedding," Chilton replied, taking a sip of his ale. "An old friend from Oxford days."

"How wonderful! I myself have just come from visiting my own alma mater—Cambridge, in my case.

" Aldridge's face lit with enthusiasm. "I was consulting with a professor there about establishing a small school in my parish.

The children have so little opportunity for education, you see, especially the girls. "

Chilton nearly choked on his ale.

Was the entire world suddenly preoccupied with education? Or was he simply noticing it now, like a man who purchases a new coat and suddenly sees the same style everywhere?

"I've been considering something similar for my estate," he admitted, surprising himself with the disclosure. "Though I confess I'm uncertain where to begin."

Aldridge's face brightened further. "What a coincidence! I'd be happy to share what I've learned, if it would be of use to you."

As their meal progressed, Chilton found himself engaged in the most stimulating conversation he'd had in months.

The young curate was passionate about education but practical in his approach, acknowledging the limited resources available in a rural parish and the competing demands on children's time.

"The key, I believe, is to make the learning immediately relevant," Aldridge explained, sketching a simple diagram on a scrap of paper. "For instance, teaching arithmetic through problems a farmer might encounter, or reading through texts that speak to their daily lives."

"Not unlike what my steward does with the estate ledgers," Chilton mused. "He always connects the figures to tangible outcomes—so many bushels of wheat means so much income, which funds specific improvements."

"Exactly!" Aldridge beamed. "Abstract knowledge rarely takes root without practical application, especially for children. That's why I believe in combining traditional subjects with practical skills."

As the evening drew to a close, Chilton and Aldridge exchanged contact information, promising to correspond about their respective educational endeavours. The young curate's enthusiasm had rekindled Chilton's own determination, reminding him why the project mattered beyond mere estate management.

"God speed your journey, Mr. Loring," Aldridge said as they parted at the foot of the stairs. "And may your school bring light to many young minds."

"Thank you," Chilton replied, feeling unexpectedly moved by the blessing. "I hope we meet again, Mr. Aldridge."

Later, as he settled into the comfortable but simple bed in his private chamber, Chilton found his thoughts returning to the conversation.

The curate's practical approach to education had resonated with him, offering a path forward that honoured both his instincts about what was needed and his concerns about resources.

It had been a fruitful conversation despite his own uninformed views on education. How remarkable to encounter someone he could test his thoughts with before he reached his scholarly friends who would surely have strong opinions on the topic.

Through the window, the waxing moon cast silver light across the room, illuminating the educational treatise he had placed on the bedside table. Tomorrow would bring him closer to Somerton Park, closer to the scholars who had once intimidated him, closer to Miss Martin and her challenging gaze.

For the first time in years, Chilton found himself genuinely looking forward to what the next day might bring. Not just dutiful anticipation of a social obligation, but genuine curiosity about the possibilities that lay ahead.

With a final glance at the moonlit landscape outside his window, he extinguished the candle and surrendered to sleep, dreams of bright-eyed children learning their letters mingling with the memory of Miss Martin's knowing smile.