When the carriages carrying Laurence and his companions finally reached the university town, the air had already shifted toward autumn.
The journey had been long but not unpleasant. Rolling fields had given way to villages, then to the larger bustle of a city built almost entirely around learning and lineage. Stone towers rose above narrow streets. Bells from the colleges echoed across courtyards where young men walked with books beneath their arms, speaking in languages both ancient and modern.
Laurence had been here before.
Yet returning felt different this year.
Perhaps because the summer had not ended as simply as it once had.
The image lingered in his mind — a white handkerchief tucked neatly into Florian's breast pocket, the Erskine crest stitched carefully in gold thread.
Sophia's work, her devotion.
He had said nothing about it during the journey.
Florian had spoken of rowing schedules and lectures, of the coming term and the clubs they would attend, entirely unaware that Laurence's thoughts had turned inward.
By the time the carriage stopped before Laurence's townhouse, evening had begun to fall.
The residence stood a short walk from his college — an elegant three-storey building of pale stone with tall windows and wrought iron balconies. Lamps had already been lit within.
A footman opened the carriage door.
"Welcome back, my lord."
Laurence stepped out, adjusting his gloves slightly.
Unlike many of his peers who lodged in shared quarters within the college walls, Laurence possessed the luxury afforded by his position as heir to the Duchy of De Montfort.
The townhouse belonged entirely to him.
Servants moved quietly through its halls — a cook, two footmen, a valet, a housekeeper, and an aide who helped manage correspondence and arrangements. Everything was prepared before his arrival: rooms aired, books placed neatly upon desks, the study already stocked with writing paper and ledgers.
Florian descended from the carriage after him.
"Your accommodations improve each year," Florian remarked with easy amusement.
"You may stay with me if you would like," Laurence replied, "I can have the spare room prepared." For Florian was an upstanding gentleman if you discount the fact his looks and impeccable manners draw much attention from ladies in his vicinity
Florian smiled but shook his head.
"My boarding house serves well enough." Florian wasn't one to reach above his station. He formed friendships not for benefit but for genuine connections which was another reason Laurence felted conflicted to have held any fury for what transpired that summer.
Florian's own lodgings lay several streets away — a respectable boarding house favored by sons of the lesser nobility. Florian occupied an entire floor, which included a bedchamber, study, and small sitting room. Servants provided by the house attended to cleaning and meals.
Comfortable.
But not a townhouse.
They parted ways for the evening.
The new term began quickly.
Laurence settled into routine with the quiet discipline that had long defined him.
His mornings began early.
Lectures in politics, economics, and geography filled the first half of the day — subjects essential for a future duke. His tutors expected diligence and clarity of thought. Laurence delivered both without hesitation.
Afternoons were often devoted to physical training.
Swordsmanship lessons took place in a long hall that smelled faintly of oiled steel and leather. The clash of blades echoed sharply as young men practiced parries and lunges beneath the stern watch of instructors who had once served in war.
Laurence excelled.
His movements were precise, efficient, controlled.
Where others relied on speed or aggression, he relied on calculation.
Later in the afternoon came rowing.
The river that cut through the university town had long been the pride of its athletic societies. Rowing clubs were fiercely competitive, their members drawn largely from noble families who saw physical excellence as another measure of superiority.
Laurence rowed in the first boat.
Florian rowed with the same club, though he often struggled to maintain the same relentless pace.
"Botany does not train the shoulders," Florian once joked after practice, rubbing his arms with theatrical exhaustion.
Laurence rarely joked but he allowed himself a faint smile.
Florian's interests lay elsewhere.
Where Laurence studied the movement of nations and the economics of land, Florian studied the land itself.
His lectures in botany and agricultural science filled his mornings with diagrams of root systems, soil composition, and the classification of plants.
He took notes meticulously.
On several occasions he returned from lectures carrying small specimens — leaves pressed between pages, unfamiliar seeds, even fragments of bark.
"The northern estates could benefit from this," he explained one evening at their gentleman's club. "Certain plants strengthen the soil when rotated between harvests. I better write about my finding to father so that he may prepare for the new harvest season."
Laurence listened.
It was practical knowledge.
Useful.
The gentleman's club became a regular meeting place for many young men of their standing.
Its rooms were lined with dark wood panels and heavy velvet curtains. Cigarette and cigar smoke often lingered in the air as debates unfolded over glasses of brandy.
First-born sons.
Second-born sons.
Future earls, marquises, and dukes.
They spoke of politics, estate management, military service, and the shifting alliances of noble houses.
Laurence attended regularly.
He spoke rarely but when he did, it carried weight.
He observed constantly.
Understanding men, he believed, was as essential as understanding land or law.
Near midnight, the tone of the club sometimes changed.
When the hour grew late and conversation loosened, certain members invited women of the night into the club or private rooms.
It was spoken of lightly — a rite of passage for university men soon to be bound by marriages arranged more by strategy than affection.
Laurence never participated.
He remained seated, calm and watchful.
To him, the spectacle revealed character.
He learned who drank too much.
Who boasted.
Who revealed their ambitions too easily.
Florian did not stay.
The first time such an evening occurred, he rose immediately, flushing slightly.
"I shall retire," he said quietly.
"Already?" one of the others teased. "You grow timid, Erskine."
Florian only shook his head.
"I have urgent letters I must respond to," he replied simply.
And he left.
Laurence found this commendable.
Florian's reputation among their peers suggested charm, even flirtation. Yet when confronted with true debauchery, he withdrew rather than indulge it.
It was a curious contradiction.
One Laurence respected.
When Florian returned to his boarding house after such evenings, he often found letters waiting.
The landlady's son placed them neatly on the small desk within his sitting room.
There were many.
From his sisters — now married into households across the country. They wrote warmly of their children, their homes, their husbands' peculiar habits.
Their letters amused him.
From his mother — nearing sixty, still deeply protective of the son she had borne late in life. Her handwriting trembled slightly but her words remained affectionate and full of worry.
"Eat well. Sleep properly. Write often. Your mother misses you dearly."
There were also letters from young ladies.
Some he knew.
Others he did not.
They wrote with admiration and gentle flirtation.
He answered them all politely, just how he was taught. Not wanting to break hearts or seem ungenltemanly.
And then—
There were letters from Sophia.
Those he always read carefully for his affections of her grew much like for his sisters.
She wrote often.
Her letters were lively, filled with descriptions of life at De Montfort: Arthur's endless climbing expeditions, Fredrick's experiments in the library, Charlotte's charity visits to nearby villages.
She spoke of the changing gardens — which flowers bloomed in September, which leaves turned gold in October.
She asked questions about Laurence.
"How is my brother faring? Does he study too much? Does he still rise before dawn as he did at home?"
She asked about Florian as well, though always carefully.
"And what have you discovered recently in your botanical studies?"
Florian answered every letter earnestly.
He wrote of his lectures, of rowing practices, of the debates at the club. He described plants he encountered along the riverbanks or in the university gardens.
Often he enclosed something small.
A pressed flower.
A dried seed pod.
Once, a delicate fern leaf folded carefully between pages.
"These do not grow on the De Montfort estate," he wrote in one letter. "I thought you might enjoy seeing them."
Sophia treasured them.
She kept Florian's letters separate from the others in a small wooden box beside her bed.
Laurence wrote as well.
But his letters were brief.
Direct.
"Studies progressing well. Rowing season promising. Weather colder here than at home."
Maxim's letters from boarding school were similarly concise.
Sophia often laughed when she read them.
"Maxim and Laurence write exactly the same," she once told Charlotte. "It must be Father's influence."
The late Duke Theodore had never been a man of many words.
Sophia always read Florian's letters last.
She would open Laurence's first.
Then Maxim's.
Then the others.
Florian's remained sealed until the end.
She liked to savour them.
His handwriting flowed elegantly across the page, the ink sometimes carrying the faint scent of whatever cologne he used.
She read them slowly.
Sometimes twice.
Sometimes three times.
When a flower or seed arrived enclosed, she examined it carefully before placing it in her growing collection.
Soon she began sending things in return.
Pressed leaves from the De Montfort woods.
Petals from roses grown along the southern wall.
Small descriptions of when they bloomed, what the air smelled like when the garden changed with the seasons.
She did not imagine she was teaching Florian anything.
He knew far more about plants than she ever would.
But she wanted him to see what she saw.
To know what life looked like at De Montfort as the months passed.
Sometimes Florian sent more elaborate gifts.
Once, a small potted plant arrived with careful instructions.
"This species prefers shade and moist soil," he wrote. "It is used medicinally for minor fevers. I thought you might enjoy tending it."
Sophia felt a mixture of emotions reading such letters.
Warmth.
Gratitude.
Something deeper she did not quite name.
He thought of her.
Often enough to send plants.
Often enough to write pages.
Yet never in the tone of a lover.
Always gently.
Always kindly.
Autumn deepened.
Leaves turned amber.
Frost appeared along the garden paths some mornings.
The estate quieted as winter approached.
And eventually—
December arrived.
The house stirred again with anticipation.
Maxim returned first from boarding school.
He had grown slightly taller, his posture straighter, his speech more deliberate. Arthur greeted him with loud enthusiasm while Fredrick immediately began explaining some new discovery he had made in the library.
Sophia embraced him warmly.
But her thoughts drifted toward another arrival.
Each evening she found herself standing near the tall windows overlooking the drive.
Watching the road.
Waiting.
Laurence would come soon and maybe with him a guest she longed to see.
She tried not to dwell on it.
The first snow fell lightly across the fields one morning.
And somewhere along that road beyond the trees—
Laurence's carriage was already making its way home.
Sophia's heart beat faster with every passing hour.
Christmas had nearly arrived.