Chapter 11
The walk back to the village was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed, through a landscape transformed by the storm. Everything looked cleaner, somehow. Sharper. More real.
They reached the edge of the village just as the sun broke through the clouds, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
"I should leave you here," Frederick said, though everything in him wanted to walk her all the way home. "If you're going to tell people the truth about where you were, you should probably be the one to tell them. Not have me looming behind you like some kind of ducal shadow."
Lydia nodded, though she didn't immediately move to leave. "When will I see you again?"
The question, so simple, so direct, made something bloom in his chest.
"When would you like to?"
"Soon. But not as an errand, and not in secret." She met his eyes steadily. "If we're doing this, we're doing it properly. You said that yourself."
"I did. I meant it."
"Then come to dinner. At my uncle's house. Tomorrow night, if you're free."
It was a remarkable invitation. A blacksmith inviting a duke to dinner was not merely unconventional; it was the kind of thing that would set tongues wagging for months. But Lydia didn't seem to care, and Frederick found that he didn't either.
"I would be honoured," he said, and meant every word.
"Six o'clock. Don't be late, and don't bring anything ostentatious. My uncle doesn't trust gifts that come wrapped in silk."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
She smiled, that warm, genuine smile that made him forget about everything except how much he wanted to make her smile again, and then she was walking away, her blue dress catching the late afternoon light.
Frederick watched her until she disappeared around a corner, and then he stood there for several more minutes, trying to remember how to make his legs work.
He was having dinner with Lydia Fletcher. At her uncle's house. Tomorrow.
***
Back at the manor, Boggins was waiting.
"Your Grace appears to have been... moistened."
Frederick looked down at himself—at the still-damp coat, the mud-splattered boots, the general air of dishevelment that would have given his father heart palpitations.
"There was a storm," he said.
"Indeed. I noticed. The windows were quite emphatic about it." Boggins was too professional to show surprise, but there was a gleam in his eye that suggested he was cataloguing this moment for future reference. "I trust the boot shopping was successful?"
"The boots shall be ready in a week. I've ordered two pairs."
"Two pairs. For a man who has historically owned no fewer than twelve pairs of boots at any given time, that seems almost restrained."
"These are different. They're for... For practical purposes."
"Practical purposes." Boggins's tone managed to convey both acknowledgement and scepticism. "And would these practical purposes include additional visits to the village? Perhaps during times when a certain blacksmith's niece might be available for consultation?"
Frederick felt his face heat, which was ridiculous. He was one and thirty and the master of this house. He should not be blushing like a schoolboy because his valet was jesting with him.
"If you must know," he said with as much dignity as he could muster, "I've been invited to dinner tomorrow. At her uncle's house."
Now Boggins did show surprise; a slight widening of the eyes, a momentary pause in his usual unflappable demeanour.
"The blacksmith's house."
"Yes."
"For dinner."
"Yes."
"You. A duke. Having dinner with a blacksmith and his niece."
"Is there an echo in here, Boggins?"
"Forgive me, Your Grace. I was simply processing. This is an unprecedented development." He paused. "In fact, I believe this may be unprecedented in the entire history of the Hawthorne family. I shall have to consult the archives to be certain, but I suspect we are entering uncharted territory."
"The archives won't help. I very much doubt any previous Duke of Corvenwell ever dined with a blacksmith."
"No, Your Grace. They were far too busy hunting foxes and oppressing peasants to engage in cross-class social activities."
"Boggins!"
"I apologise, Your Grace. That was perhaps uncharitable to your ancestors." He straightened slightly. "Though not, I suspect, entirely inaccurate."
Frederick sighed. "You're enjoying this far too much."
"On the contrary, Your Grace. I am experiencing a complex mixture of emotions, chief among them cautious optimism and mild terror.
" Boggins began walking toward the stairs, clearly expecting Frederick to follow.
"Cautious optimism because this suggests Your Grace may finally be emerging from the emotional permafrost that has characterized your adult life.
Mild terror because I have no precedent for preparing a duke to dine with commoners, and I am concerned I may fail you at a crucial moment. "
"You've never failed me, Boggins."
"There is always a first time, Your Grace. I prefer to maintain a healthy awareness of my own fallibility." They had reached the staircase, and Boggins paused. "Will you be requiring a bath? Your current state suggests you recently lost a wrestling match with a particularly aggressive puddle."
"A bath would be welcome, indeed."
"I shall arrange it. And while you bathe, I shall begin considering the logistical challenges of tomorrow evening." Boggins' expression had shifted into something more serious. "Your Grace... If I may speak frankly?"
"You always speak frankly. It's one of your few flaws."
"I prefer to think of it as a service." The valet's voice softened.
"This dinner, this woman, this entire situation, is significant.
I have known you for years, and I have never seen you like this.
Never seen you willing to step outside the bounds of what is expected.
Never seen you pursue something for no other reason than that you wanted it. "
"Is that a problem?"
"It is the opposite of a problem, Your Grace.
It is, if I may say so, a miracle." Boggins' eyes were unusually bright.
"Your father spent his entire life within the walls he built for himself.
He never risked anything, never reached for anything, never allowed himself to want anything that wasn't already his by birthright.
And he died alone, exactly as he had lived.
I watched it happen, and I prayed, I literally prayed, Your Grace, which is not something I do lightly, that you would not follow the same path. "
"Boggins..."
"You are following a different path now. You are reaching for something. Someone. And I want you to know that whatever happens, whether this leads to happiness or heartbreak or something in between, I am proud of you. For trying. For caring enough to try."
It was, Frederick realised, possibly the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him.
"I might ruin it anyway," he admitted.
"You might. But at least you'll have tried.
And trying, truly trying, with your whole heart, is more than most people ever manage.
" Boggins smiled again. "Now, shall we address the state of your clothing?
You're dripping, and Mrs Patterson will have my head if I let you track mud through the entire house. "
Frederick laughed and followed his valet up the stairs, feeling lighter than he had in years.
An hour later, clean and dry and dressed in comfortable clothes, he found Boggins laying out options for tomorrow's dinner.
"The navy coat is the obvious choice," the valet said, gesturing to the garment in question. "Dignified but not ostentatious, as I mentioned earlier. However, I wonder if something slightly less formal might be appropriate."
"Less formal?"
"You are dining in a blacksmith's home, Your Grace.
Not attending a state dinner. A certain degree of relaxation in your attire might help put your hosts at ease.
" He produced a second option; a dark green coat that Frederick had always liked but rarely worn because his father had considered green "too cheerful. "
"The green?"
"It brings out Your Grace's eyes. And it suggests a willingness to step outside the usual aristocratic palette." Boggins set both options on the bed. "The choice, of course, is yours."
Frederick looked at the two coats. The navy was safe, traditional, exactly what would be expected. The green was a risk—a small one, but a risk nonetheless.
"The green," he said. "Definitely the green."
"An excellent choice, Your Grace." Boggins began gathering the rejected items. "Now, regarding a gift…"
"She told me not to bring anything ostentatious."
"Indeed. Which is why I have taken the liberty of procuring a bottle of wine from the cellar. Not our finest vintage, that would be ostentatious, but something respectable. The kind of wine a thoughtful guest might bring to express appreciation for the invitation."
"You've thought of everything."
"I endeavour to anticipate Your Grace's needs. It is, after all, my purpose in life." But his tone was warm, affectionate in a way that transcended the servant-master relationship. "Is there anything else Your Grace requires this evening?"
"No, I think... Actually, yes." Frederick turned to face him. "Thank you, Boggins. For everything. For putting up with me, and for helping me become someone worth putting up with."
"Your Grace has always been worth putting up with. You simply didn't know it." Boggins bowed slightly. "Goodnight, Your Grace, sleep well. Tomorrow promises to be eventful."
He withdrew, and Frederick was left alone with his thoughts and the green coat and the terrifying, exhilarating prospect of tomorrow.
***
At the blacksmith's forge, Lydia was having her own conversation.
"He's coming to dinner," she told her uncle, who had looked up from his work with raised eyebrows when she'd walked in damp and flushed and unable to stop smiling.
"The duke."
"Yes."
"To our house."
"Yes."