The afternoon sun hung pleasantly in the sky as gentlemen and ladies drifted at an unhurried pace along the broad gravel walks of Kingswood Park.
Fashionable society had gathered in respectable numbers, exchanging pleasantries beneath rows of ancient elms.
Laughter rose here and there, mingling with the distant clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the soft rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze.
For many, the promenade served little purpose beyond displaying the latest fashions, renewing acquaintances, or allowing hopeful mothers to parade their eligible daughters before the eyes of respectable gentlemen.
For others, it was where fortunes were negotiated beneath the comforting disguise of idle conversation.
Edmund Ashford belonged firmly to the latter.
He strolled with beside Mr. Lawrence Whitmore, matching the older man’s pace with ease. His hands rested neatly behind his back, his posture straight, the very image of a man enjoying an afternoon walk.
Though born in Arden, Whitmore had spent much of his life abroad. His commercial interests stretched far beyond the kingdom’s shores, keeping him overseas for most of the year.
His returns to the capital were infrequent enough that his acquaintances regarded each visit with curiosity, for lucrative ventures seemed to accompany him wherever he travelled. Wherever Whitmore appeared, whispers of new enterprises and astonishing profits were rarely far behind.
Edmund had first made his acquaintance several months earlier through mutual connections at a dinner hosted by one of the city’s wealthiest merchants. What had begun as a handful of courteous conversations over fine wine had gradually developed into a friendship founded upon mutual ambition and shared aspirations.
At least, so Edmund believed.
Whitmore was a striking man, though not in the manner of youthful charm that had made John so popular.
In his late forties, Lawrence Whitmore was tall and lean, with fine creases marking the corners of his eyes.
He stood several inches taller than Edmund, impeccably dressed, with neatly combed dark hair that had only just begun to grey at the temples.
His features were stern rather than conventionally handsome, lending him an air of authority that discouraged unnecessary familiarity.
Mr. Whitmore rarely smiled yet whenever he did, the expression was warm and capable of putting the most cautious men at ease.
Years spent negotiating with people had taught him the value of patience. He preferred to listen instead.
The younger man almost always revealed far more than he intended.
"I trust your journey from Port Aster was uneventful," Edmund remarked.
"It was tolerable."
"And your affairs abroad?"
"They continue to prosper."
Edmund nodded with evident satisfaction.
"I am pleased to hear it."
Whitmore regarded his surroundings for several moments before speaking again.
"Our discussions have occupied my thoughts these past several weeks."
"As they have mine."
The older man slowed briefly, allowing a young family to pass ahead before resuming his steady pace.
"Such opportunities seldom remain available indefinitely. I advise you to think on my suggestion from our last meeting and make a decision as soon as possible." Whitmore went on and Edmund nodded thoughtfully, already looking swayed.
"You have been nothing but kind to me and you are right, I have been dragging my feet on this." Edmund admitted somberly. "But I will stop wasting your time with my indecisiveness."
Whitmore glanced at him from the corner of his eyes.
"Good. That’s very good." He sounded more indifferent than relieved. "And I assume the remaining matter will soon be resolved as well." He probed.
"It will."
"I dislike unnecessary delays."
"As do I."
Whitmore flashed one of his rare smiles. "Then we are in agreement."
Their conversation drifted naturally toward commerce.
Edmund spoke with growing enthusiasm about expanding House Ashford’s influence beyond coal and landed income. The future, he believed, belonged to men willing to look beyond Arden’s borders.
The old families were too content to preserve what they already possessed, while younger men with vision stood ready to seize markets that had scarcely been explored.
Whitmore listened in thoughtful silence, interrupting only occasionally with a question or observation.
"I have made my own inquiries and I have heard only good things. The demand continues to grow every year," Edmund was saying, "Any man lucky enough to invest early stands to make an extraordinary fortune."
They walked several more paces before Whitmore spoke again.
"Once everything is settled, I believe we shall both find ourselves well rewarded."
"I have no doubt about it."
Whitmore inclined his head ever so slightly. "Then I shall leave the remaining arrangements in your capable hands."
The exchange concluded after that.
A few moments later, they reached the point where their paths naturally diverged.
Whitmore extended his gloved hand. "I look forward to the success of our undertaking."
He sounded so confident and dignified, Edmund wished he could one day interact with others with the type of charisma the man possessed.
Edmund clasped it firmly. "As do I."
The older man departed without another word, disappearing gradually into the flow of people until his dark figure was eventually swallowed by the distance and crowd.
Edmund remained where he was for a long moment, watching him disappear.
Few opportunities of this magnitude ever presented themselves to a man of his age.
If everything unfolded as planned, House Ashford would soon possess influence extending far beyond its collieries. Their name would carry weight in commercial circles across the continent, and he would finally emerge from beneath the long shadow his sister had cast over him during her years of service to the Queen.
The thought alone brought him a hint of satisfaction.
He had always relished those rare occasions when their parents directed their admiration toward him instead of Cassandra.
Their praise never lasted long, but while it did, it felt like reclaiming something that had always belonged to him. It reminded him that there remained one corner of his life where she could not eclipse him, one place where he alone stood at the centre of their expectations.
Outside those fleeting moments, however, reality proved far less accommodating.
Cassandra was still the more popular sibling.
Noble families sought her counsel. Courtiers recognised her on sight. Even seasoned statesmen spoke of her sharp mind with respect.
She had become accomplished in ways no daughter was expected to be. Now she luxuriated in a palace.
That distinction should have belonged to him.