Chapter Twelve #2
“You’re him, aren’t you?” the man said, stopping a few paces away and swaying slightly. “His Grace. The Duke of Thornwick.”
Christian went very still. “I am the Duke of Thornwick, yes.”
“Thought so. Saw Your Grace coming out of Martha’s shop.” The man spat into the dust beside the road. “Didn’t expect to see you down here among us.”
“I came to—”
“We came to buy bread,” Fiona said coolly. “Like anyone else. I trust there is no objection to that.”
The man’s gaze shifted toward her, lingering a moment too long before returning to Christian.
“So the stories are true, then,” he muttered. “His Grace has taken a lady to Thornwick.”
His mouth twisted.
“That will do.” Christian’s voice had gone quiet and dangerously steady.
The man gave a short, humourless laugh.
“As Your Grace wishes.” The words were obedient; the tone was anything but. “Wouldn’t wish to give offence.”
He shifted his weight, glancing briefly at the watching villagers before continuing.
“But I’ll say this much, if Your Grace will forgive the boldness. Folk here have long memories.”
Fiona felt Christian stiffen beside her.
“What do you mean?” she asked gently.
“My father worked at the castle,” the man said. “Thirty years in service to your house. And when the old duke—your father, Your Grace—took against him, he dismissed him. No reference. No pension. Nothing.”
His voice roughened.
“My father never recovered from it.”
The street had fallen utterly still. Fiona became aware of faces at windows and doorways, villagers pausing to listen.
“So you’ll forgive me, Your Grace,” the man finished heavily, “if I find it difficult to believe the castle has much concern for the rest of us.”
Christian was silent for a moment.
Then he said quietly, “I am sorry.”
The man blinked, taken aback.
“I did not know what my father did to your family,” Christian continued. “But I know the kind of man he was. He treated many people cruelly who did not deserve it.”
He stepped forward slightly, though his voice remained measured.
“I cannot undo what was done to your father. I cannot restore the years he lost. But I can say this: I have spent my life trying not to become the man my father was.”
The man studied him, uncertainty beginning to intrude upon his anger.
“I do not ask you to forget what happened,” Christian went on. “Nor to think well of me simply because I hold this title. I ask only that you judge me for myself.”
Silence followed.
Then, from somewhere among the watching villagers, a woman’s voice broke in:
“Oh, for goodness sake, Henry. His Grace apologised. More than your father ever did for all the money he borrowed and never repaid.”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the gathered crowd.
The tension eased—not entirely, but enough.
Henry scratched the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable now that the moment had shifted.
“Well,” he muttered at last, “an apology’s something, I suppose. “More than the old duke ever gave anyone.”
“It is a beginning,” Christian said. “Perhaps, in time, I can offer more than words.”
Henry gave a reluctant nod, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the inn at the end of the street.
Fiona released a breath she had not realised she was holding.
“That,” she said quietly, “was not a disaster.”
“It felt like one.”
“It was a confrontation. A difficult one. But you bore it well.” She gave his arm a reassuring pressure. “You apologised for something that was not your fault. You asked for a chance rather than demanding respect. That matters, Christian. It will be remembered.”
He glanced around at the villagers still watching from windows and doorways. A few met his gaze; most looked away. But the expressions he saw were no longer only fear. There was curiosity now—and perhaps the beginning of reconsideration.
“May we go home now?” he asked.
“Soon.” Fiona began walking again, drawing him gently along beside her. “First, I should like to look in at the church. And then the blacksmith—I have questions about repairing the fountain.”
“Fiona—”
“We agreed upon an hour. It has not yet been an hour.” She looked up at him with a faint smile. “And besides, you have already faced the worst of it. Everything else must surely be easier.”
He sighed, but allowed her to lead him onward.
***
The blacksmith’s wife proved the greatest surprise of the morning.
She was a small, sturdy woman with iron-grey hair and sharp, intelligent eyes, and when they entered the smithy to inquire about repairs, she regarded Christian with none of the unease they had encountered elsewhere.
“So you’re His Grace,” she said, wiping her hands upon her apron before giving a small, respectful bob of her head. “The Duke of Thornwick.”
“I am.”
“They call you the Beast,” she added after a moment.
“They do.”
“Hm.” She regarded him briefly, then lowered her gaze again. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but you do not look much like a beast to me.”
Christian blinked.
“I—that is—”
“My sister had a mark upon her face,” the woman continued simply. “Not so large as Your Grace’s, but plain enough. She spent her whole life hiding herself away, convinced she was something dreadful to behold.”
Her hands folded together in her apron.
“She would never allow anyone to come near her. Would never believe she might be loved.”
Her mouth tightened faintly.
“She died alone. I always thought it a terrible waste.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Fiona said gently.
“Oh, it was many years ago now, miss. But I think of her sometimes, when I hear the stories folk tell about the duke up at the castle.”
She glanced up again—quickly this time, but without discomfort.
“It does me good to see Your Grace abroad today. Among your tenants, I mean. It is… a better thing than the stories.”
“I am trying,” Christian said quietly.
“That is all any of us can do, Your Grace.”
She gave another small nod, returning to the practical matter at hand.
“You wished to have the fountain repaired, I believe? I shall send my husband up to the castle next week to look at it.”
Then, after a brief hesitation:
“And if Your Grace will forgive the liberty—do not let the stories drive you back indoors again. Not everyone gives such things credit.”
She dipped her head once more, as though conscious she had perhaps said more than was her place to say.
Christian stood very still for a moment.
“Thank you,” he said at last, quietly.
The woman gave a small shrug, already turning back toward her workbench.
“Plain sense, that’s all, Your Grace.”
Fiona inclined her head in return. “Good day.”
“Good day to you, miss. Your Grace.”
They stepped out of the smithy and for a few moments, Christian said nothing.
Fiona felt the change in him all the same. The rigid tension that had held his shoulders since their arrival in the village had eased, if only slightly.
Not gone—but loosened.
The hour stretched into two, and then nearly to three.
By the time they finally climbed back into the carriage, Fiona’s feet ached, and her arms were full of purchases.
Christian sat opposite her looking weary but somehow lighter.
“That was not as terrible as I had expected,” he admitted.
“High praise indeed.”
“I mean it.” He leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest. “It was difficult. There were moments when I wanted to run—to retreat behind my walls and never venture out again. But there were other moments when I felt almost… normal.”
“You are normal.”
“I am many things, but I suspect normal is not among them.” He smiled faintly. “Still… perhaps I am not quite so strange as I believed. Perhaps the world is not as cruel as I was taught to expect.”
“The world does contain cruelty,” Fiona said.
“You met some of it today, with Henry.” She reached across and took his hand.
“But it also contains kindness. And curiosity. And the willingness to reconsider old judgements when given reason. The blacksmith’s wife saw you as you are, not as the rumours describe you. Others will too, in time.”
“In time,” he repeated softly. “I suppose I have time now. Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to us.” She squeezed his hand. “We are doing this together, remember?”
“I remember.” He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “And I shall remember it every day of my life.”
The carriage rolled steadily on, carrying them back toward the castle.
Yet something had shifted, Fiona realised. Something fundamental.
Christian had faced the world—and the world had not destroyed him.
It was, she thought, the first real step toward freedom.