Chapter 5
"About the tenant. About the village. About any of this." She gestured broadly. "You're a duke. You could ignore us entirely, and it wouldn't make a whit of difference to your life. Why does it matter to you whether we like you or not?"
It was the kind of question no one had ever asked him, the kind of question that assumed his feelings were worth examining in the first place. Frederick found himself at a loss for words, which was unfamiliar territory.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I've been asking myself the same thing. My father certainly didn't care. He was content to be feared. He said respect followed fear, and love was for those too weak to demand respect."
"That sounds lonely."
"It was, and it is." He corrected himself without quite meaning to. "The truth is that I've spent thirty years being told that being liked doesn't matter. That a duke doesn't need to be liked. That needing to be liked is a weakness. And I believed it. I still half believe it."
"But?"
"But I watched you yesterday. The way the village people gathered after the carriage passed, the laughter, the conversation, the.
.. warmth. And I realised I've never had that.
Not once. Not with anyone." His voice was very quiet.
"And I wondered what it would feel like to belong somewhere.
To have people who knew you and cared about you and wanted you around. "
Lydia felt something in her chest that she firmly refused to name.
"That's not weakness," she said. "That's being human."
"My father would disagree."
"Your father is dead."
The words hung in the air between them, blunt and true. Frederick looked at her sharply, and for a moment she thought she had gone too far; but then something in his expression shifted. Softened. Like ice beginning to melt at the edges.
"Yes," he said slowly. "I suppose he is."
Despite everything, Frederick felt that twitch at the corner of his mouth again. "I have been told I have a certain severity of expression."
"That's one word for it." But she was smiling now, a real smile that reached her eyes. "Another word might be intimidating. Another might be terrifying to small children."
"I don't mean to terrify children."
"I believe you. But meaning and effect aren't always the same thing."
They stood there for a moment, the space between them charged with something Frederick couldn't name. She had insulted him; mildly, but still. She had laughed at him, and she had presumed to explain his own failures to him like he were a slow student who needed guidance.
And somehow, impossibly, he didn't mind.
"The Harvest Fair," he said suddenly.
Lydia blinked. "What about it?"
"It's in three weeks. The village committee sent me an invitation. I was going to refuse."
"You always refuse."
"Yes. But…" He hesitated, then pushed forward. "What if I didn't? What if I attended?"
Something flickered in her expression. Surprise, maybe, or hope. Or just the particular wariness of someone who has been disappointed before and has learned to protect herself from it.
"Why would you do that?"
"Because you said trust goes both ways. Because I can't expect them to know me if I don't show up.
Because…" He met her eyes directly. "Because you'll be there, and that would give me strength because I shall feel that at least one person sees me.
And you're the first person in the years that I have been a duke who has looked at me like I might be worth knowing. "
The silence stretched between them, heavy with implications.
"That's a lot of pressure to put on someone," Lydia said finally.
"I know."
"I'm not promising anything. If you come to the fair and make everyone miserable, I won't defend you."
"Fair enough."
"And I'm not…" She took a breath. "Whatever you think might happen…I'm a blacksmith's niece. You're a duke. I shall not be able to defend you, and that doesn't change just because we had one strange conversation in a room full of hinges."
"I know," Frederick said again. And he did know. He knew all the reasons this was impossible, inappropriate, and doomed to failure. He knew his father would be furious at the very idea of the Duke of Corvenwell seeking guidance from a village girl with soot-stained hands and too much honesty.
But his father was dead. And Frederick was tired of being above.
"Come to the fair," Lydia said finally. "Not for me but for yourself. See if you can learn to be human in public for an afternoon. If you can manage that…" She shrugged. "Maybe we'll talk again."
"Maybe?"
"I don't make promises I'm not sure I can keep." She moved toward the door, then paused. "The ironwork is good. Your housekeeper will try to find fault, because that's her job, but she won't succeed. My uncle is the best blacksmith in the county, and I'm…"
"The best finisher?"
She smiled. "Learning. But getting better."
"I believe you."
The words came out more sincere than he had intended. More personal. But Lydia didn't flinch from them, just nodded once and reached for the door handle.
"Three weeks," she said. "The fair starts at noon. Wear something that can survive mud."
"I don't own anything that can survive mud."
"Then buy something. Or borrow something. Or…" Her smile turned mischievous. "Learn to tolerate being dirty. It won't kill you."
"You seem very certain of that."
"I am." She opened the door. "Goodbye, Your Grace."
"Frederick," he corrected, but she was already gone.
***
Frederick stood in the empty room for a long time after she left, staring at the hinges on the table.
They really did an excellent job. His father would have rejected them anyway; he would have found some microscopic flaw, some excuse to assert dominance over the craftsman who had made them. That was the Hawthorne way.
But his father was dead, and Frederick was tired, and somewhere in his chest, in the place where he kept everything that hurt, a small crack had begun to form.
He picked up one of the hinges again, turning it over in his hands.
He thought about the hours of work that had gone into it; the heating and the hammering, the careful shaping, the attention to detail.
He thought about Lydia's hands, strong and capable, learning this craft in a world that told her that women could not do it.
She had told him to buy something that could survive mud, and she had laughed at his stone face. She had called him Frederick, like it were the most natural thing in the world, like titles were optional between them.
No one had ever treated him that way. Not the people who wanted his favour. Not the servants who feared his displeasure. Not even Boggins, who came closest to honesty but still maintained the careful distance of employee to employer.
Lydia had just talked to him like he was a person, not a title.
The door opened behind him, and Boggins' measured footsteps approached.
"The young lady has departed, Your Grace."
"I am aware."
"She seemed... pleased. By the conversation." A pause. "Whatever conversation may have occurred."
"We discussed ironwork, Boggins. The quality of her uncle's craftsmanship."
"Of course, Your Grace. And the Harvest Fair?"
Frederick’s head turned sharply. "How do you know about that?"
"I have excellent hearing, Your Grace. And the walls of this manor are not as thick as one might hope." Boggins' expression remained perfectly bland. "Am I to understand that Your Grace is considering attending?"
"I am considering. Yes."
"A remarkable development."
"Is it?"
"Your Grace has refused the invitation every year since inheriting the title. The committee has, I believe, continued sending invitations purely out of obligation, with no expectation of acceptance." Boggins paused. "They will be surprised."
"They will probably assume I'm coming to cause trouble."
"Very likely, Your Grace."
"They will watch my every move, waiting for me to make a mistake."
"Almost certainly, Your Grace."
"They will talk about me afterwards, regardless of how the day goes."
"Without question, Your Grace."
Frederick set down the hinge. "Then why am I considering it?"
Boggins was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was gentler than Frederick had ever heard it.
"Perhaps, Your Grace, because some things are worth doing even when they are difficult. Perhaps because change requires action, and action requires risk. Or perhaps…" He hesitated. "Perhaps because a young woman with strong opinions and stronger convictions suggested it might matter."
"You heard that part too?"
"I hear most things, Your Grace. It is something of a professional requirement."
Frederick turned to face his valet. In his years of service, Boggins had never offered personal advice. Never commented on matters of the heart. Never suggested that Frederick’s carefully maintained isolation might be anything other than appropriate.
"What do you think I should do?" Frederick asked.
Boggins' eyebrows rose. "Your Grace is asking my opinion?"
"I appear to be, yes."
"I think…" Boggins paused, choosing his words with evident care.
"I think that Your Grace has spent thirty years being the person your father wanted you to be.
I think that person is very tired. And I think that when someone offers you a different path, even a difficult one, it might be worth exploring. "
"Even if it ends badly?"
"All paths end eventually, Your Grace. The question is whether the journey is worth taking." Boggins straightened his already-straight cuffs. "Will there be anything else?"
"No. Thank you, Boggins."
"Very good, Your Grace."
The valet withdrew, and Frederick was alone again with the hinges and his thoughts.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days to figure out how to be human in public.
It seemed impossible, and it probably was impossible.
But for the first time in eight years, Frederick found himself wanting to try.
***
Lydia walked home through the afternoon sunshine with her heart beating too fast and her thoughts in disarray.