Chapter 12
"The green, Your Grace. We discussed this."
"I know we discussed it. I'm having second thoughts."
"Second thoughts are for people who have time to indulge them.
You are expected at the blacksmith's house in forty-seven minutes, and you are currently standing in your undergarments debating the merits of various coat colours.
" Boggins held up the green coat with the patience of a saint.
"The green. It brings out your eyes. It suggests someone being approachable.
It is not the navy that your father would have chosen, which I suspect is half the point. "
Frederick took the coat, put it on, looked at himself in the mirror and saw a man who was about to do something unprecedented and terrifying and possibly wonderful.
"What if they hate me?"
"They won't hate you."
"What if the food is terrible and I can't hide my reaction?"
"The food will not be terrible. Miss Fletcher's uncle has been cooking for himself for thirty years. He knows what he's doing."
"What if I say something wrong? Offend them somehow? What if I accidentally insult their home or their livelihood or…"
"Your Grace." Boggins stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the mirror.
"You have dined with princes. You have attended state functions where a single misplaced word could have caused diplomatic incidents.
You have survived countless evenings with people who actively wished you ill.
You can survive dinner with a blacksmith and his niece. "
"This is different."
"Yes. It is. Because this time, you actually care about the outcome." Boggins' expression softened. "That's not a weakness, Your Grace. It's a sign that you're finally alive."
Frederick drew a breath and straightened his cravat. Checked his reflection one more time.
"The wine," he said. "Where's the wine?"
"Already wrapped and waiting by the door. A respectable one, as we discussed. Excellent but not ostentatious."
"And I shouldn't offer to pay for the meal."
"Correct."
"But I should compliment the food."
"Sincerely. Not excessively."
"And if there's a lull in conversation?"
"Ask questions. People enjoy talking about themselves. Ask about the forge, about the village, about Miss Fletcher's childhood. Show genuine interest." Boggins paused. "You do have a genuine interest, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"Then let it show. That's all you need to do."
Frederick nodded. He could do this. He had faced worse odds, hadn't he?
He had survived his father's funeral, his first address to the House of Lords, and the endless parade of social obligations that constituted aristocratic life.
Surely he could survive dinner with two people who actually seemed to like him.
"I'm walking," he announced. "Not taking the carriage."
"A wise choice. It suggests humility."
"It suggests that I don't want to arrive looking like I think I'm too good for their street."
"That too." Boggins handed him the wrapped bottle of wine. "Good luck, Your Grace. Though I suspect you won't need it."
"Your confidence in me is touching."
"It's not confidence, Your Grace. It's an observation. I've watched you these past weeks, and I've seen something I never thought I'd see. I have seen you becoming the person you were always meant to be." Boggins opened the door. "Now go, Your Grace. And try not to overthink it."
***
The walk from the manor to the village took approximately twenty minutes at a comfortable pace. Frederick used every one of those minutes to convince himself that he was not, in fact, about to make the biggest mistake of his life.
The evening was cool but pleasant, the kind of October night that reminded you autumn could be beautiful before it became brutal. The trees along the ridge road had turned brilliant shades of gold and amber, and the setting sun painted everything in warm, honeyed light.
He passed the old groundskeeper's cottage, the one where he and Lydia had sheltered from the storm, and felt a strange warmth bloom in his chest. He had already spoken to his estate manager about repairs.
The cottage would be habitable again by Christmas, and he would find someone to live there, someone who could use a home.
It was a small thing. But small things, he was learning, could matter enormously.
As he approached the village, he became aware of eyes on him. Curtains twitching and faces appearing briefly in windows. The Duke of Corvenwell, walking through Ashwick at sunset with a bottle of wine under his arm. It was, he suspected, the most interesting thing that had happened here in years.
Let them look. Let them wonder. He had nothing to hide.
The blacksmith's house was at the far end of the village, attached to the forge itself.
It was a sturdy stone building, practical rather than pretty, with a small garden in front that showed signs of careful tending.
Flowers had been planted along the path, late-blooming chrysanthemums in shades of rust and gold, and the windows glowed with warm candlelight.
Frederick stood at the gate for a moment, gathering his courage. He had dined with kings and had survived. Why did this feel more terrifying than any royal banquet?
Because you care, Boggins' voice reminded him. Because this time, it matters.
He opened the gate and walked up the path. He raised his hand to knock.
The door opened before his knuckles could touch wood.
Lydia stood in the doorway, wearing a dress he hadn't seen before—deep blue, almost the colour of midnight, with small white flowers embroidered along the neckline. Her hair was pinned up more carefully than usual, though a few rebellious strands had already escaped to frame her face.
She was, he thought, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
"You came," she said.
"I said I would."
"You're early."
"By three minutes. I was trying not to be late."
"Well." A smile played at the corners of her mouth. "You'd better come in, then. Before the neighbours expire from curiosity."
She stepped aside, and Frederick entered the blacksmith's house.
***
The interior was smaller than he'd expected; a single main room that served as kitchen, dining area, and parlour, with doors leading to what he assumed were bedrooms. But it was warm in a way that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth.
Every surface showed signs of life; books stacked on a shelf, a half-finished piece of embroidery on a chair, a pair of well-worn boots by the door.
This was a home, he realised. Not a house, not a residence, but a home.
He hadn't been in a home since his mother died.
Thomas Fletcher stood by the fire, stirring something in a large pot that smelled extraordinary. He turned as Frederick entered, and for a moment the two men simply looked at each other—the duke and the blacksmith, each taking the other's measure.
"Your Grace," Thomas said. His tone was neutral, neither warm nor cold. "Welcome to our home."
"Thank you for having me, Mr Fletcher. I know this is unusual."
"Unusual is one word for it." Thomas set down his spoon and crossed the room, extending his hand. "But unusual isn't always bad. Let's see what kind of unusual this turns out to be."
Frederick shook his hand; a firm grip, calloused from years of work, the handshake of a man who had earned everything he had.
"I brought wine," Frederick said, holding out the bottle. "Boggins, my valet, said one shouldn't arrive empty-handed. I hope it's not too presumptuous."
Thomas took the bottle and examined the label with raised eyebrows. "That's... not what I was expecting."
"Is it wrong? I wasn't sure what would be appropriate. If you'd prefer something else…"
"It's fine. It's more than fine." Thomas's expression had shifted into something that might have been amusement. "I was expecting you to show up with something ridiculous. French champagne, maybe. Or a case of port that cost more than my forge."
"Lydia told me not to bring anything ostentatious."
"Did she now?" Thomas glanced at his niece, who was watching this exchange with barely concealed anxiety. "Smart girl. She knows I don't trust gifts wrapped in silk."
"Boggins said the same thing. He has remarkably good instincts."
"Your valet gives you advice on social calls?"
"My valet gives me advice on everything. I'd be lost without him."
Thomas considered this for a moment. Then, surprisingly, he laughed; a genuine sound, rough and warm.
"Well, that's honest, at least. Sit down, Your Grace. Dinner's almost ready."
Frederick sat. The chair was wooden, sturdy, nothing like the upholstered furniture he was accustomed to. But it was comfortable in its own way; solid and real and unpretentious.
Lydia sat across from him, and their eyes met over the rough wooden table. She was nervous, he realised. Just as nervous as he was. Somehow, that made everything easier.
"The house is lovely," he said, and meant it.
"It's small," Lydia replied. "Nothing like what you're used to."
"Nothing like what I'm used to is exactly what I was hoping for."
Thomas brought the pot to the table, a rich stew of some kind, fragrant with herbs and root vegetables, and began ladling it into bowls. There was fresh bread, still warm from the oven, and butter in a small ceramic dish. Simple food. Real food. The kind of meal that nourished body and soul alike.
"My brother taught me to cook," Thomas said, settling into his own chair. "Lydia's father. He said a man who couldn't feed himself was only half a man." He paused, glancing at Frederick. "No offence intended, Your Grace."
"None taken. I can't cook at all. I'm beginning to realise that makes me considerably less than half a man."
"It makes you someone who's never had to learn. There's a difference." Thomas picked up his spoon. "Now eat. And tell me honestly what you think because I don't want any aristocratic politeness. If it's terrible, say so."
Frederick tasted the food.