Chapter 12 #2
The stew was extraordinary. Rich and savoury and complex, with layers of flavour that unfolded on his tongue like a story being told. The meat was tender, the vegetables perfectly cooked, the broth thick with something that tasted like rosemary and something else he couldn't identify.
"This is…." He stopped, aware that he was about to gush and unsure if gushing was appropriate. "This is one of the best things I've ever tasted."
Thomas studied him for a moment, as if checking for sincerity. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him.
"My mother's recipe. She was a cook for a great house before she married my father.
She learned all kinds of things there; French sauces, proper seasoning, how to make simple ingredients taste like a feast." He took his own bite, chewing thoughtfully.
"She always said that cooking was like the work of a blacksmith.
You take raw materials, and you transform them into something better.
You just need heat, time, and attention. "
"I never thought of it that way."
"Most people don't. Most people think cooking is women's work, something beneath a man's notice. But food is how we show love, isn't it? How we care for people. A meal made by someone who loves you tastes different from a meal made by a stranger."
Frederick thought about the endless parade of perfectly prepared dishes he'd consumed over the years; exquisite food, technically flawless, utterly without soul. He thought about the pie at the fair, and how it had tasted like a revelation.
"I think you're right," he said quietly. "I've just never had the chance to experience it before."
Lydia had been silent throughout this exchange, but now she spoke up.
"He means that literally, Uncle. He's never had anyone cook for him with love. His mother died when he was six, and his father..." She trailed off, glancing at Frederick as if asking permission.
"My father viewed meals as necessary fuel, nothing more," Frederick finished for her. "We ate in silence, usually at opposite ends of a very long table. I don't think I ever saw him enjoy food. Or anything else, for that matter."
Thomas was quiet for a moment. Then he reached for the bread, tore off a piece, and handed it across the table to Frederick.
"Well," he said. "That ends tonight. In this house, we enjoy our food. We talk while we eat. We laugh if something's funny and argue if something needs arguing. And when we're done, we help clear the table." He fixed Frederick with a steady gaze. "You think you can manage that, Your Grace?"
"I can try."
"Trying is all anyone can do."
They ate. They talked. And gradually, the stiffness in the room began to ease.
Thomas asked about Frederick’s education—where he'd gone to school, what he'd studied, and whether he'd learned anything useful.
"Latin, mostly," Frederick admitted. "Greek. Philosophy. The sort of things that are considered essential for a gentleman and completely useless for actual life."
"Can you add figures? Balance a ledger?"
"Yes, that I can do. Estate management requires it."
"Good. A man who can't count his money soon finds he doesn't have any." Thomas tore off another piece of bread. "What about practical skills? Can you build anything? Repair anything? Make something with your hands?"
"I can ride. I can shoot. I can dance, though I rarely do." Frederick paused, considering. "But build something? No. Repair something? No. The most useful thing I've ever done with my hands is sign documents."
"That's not useful. That's paperwork."
"I'm beginning to realise that."
Lydia had been listening to this exchange with a small smile on her face. Now she spoke up.
"He can't light a fire, Uncle. I had to teach him during the storm."
"You cannot light a fire?" Thomas stared at Frederick with something approaching horror. "How have you survived this long?"
"Servants. Many, many servants."
"My goodness," Thomas shook his head. "No wonder the aristocracy is useless. You've engineered your own helplessness."
"That's... remarkably accurate, actually."
"Well, we shall have to fix that." Thomas pointed at Frederick with his spoon. "If you're going to court my niece, you're going to learn to do things. Useful things. Things that don't require a valet and a butler, and a small army of staff."
"I'd like that," Frederick said, and was surprised to find he meant it.
"Start with the fire. Every man should be able to light a fire. Then we shall try cooking; nothing difficult, just the basics. Enough to keep yourself alive if you ever find yourself without your servants."
"Is that likely to happen?"
"Life is unpredictable, Your Grace. Best to be prepared for anything."
The conversation shifted as the meal progressed. Thomas told stories about the forge—customers he'd worked with, projects he was proud of, the satisfaction of taking raw metal and transforming it into something useful and beautiful.
"There's a moment," he said, his eyes distant with the memory, "when the iron reaches just the right temperature.
Not too hot, not too cold. You can see it in the colour—a deep orange, almost red.
And you know, in that moment, that the metal will do whatever you ask of it.
It's cooperative. Willing. Ready to become something new.
" He smiled. "I've been chasing that moment for many years. It never gets old."
"That's beautiful," Frederick said.
"It's work. But work can be beautiful, if you approach it right." Thomas studied him for a moment. "What do you love, Your Grace? What makes you feel that way; alive, engaged, fully present?"
It was a question no one had ever asked him. For a moment, Frederick didn't know how to answer.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I've spent most of my life doing things because they were expected, not because I wanted to. I'm not sure I've ever been fully present for anything."
"That's sad."
"Indeed. It is."
"Then you need to find something. Something that makes you come alive.
Otherwise, what's the purpose of any of it?
" Thomas gestured around the room—at the simple house, the modest furnishings, the life he had built through years of hard work.
"All of this means nothing if you don't love what you do.
The money, the status, the position; none of it matters if you're dead inside. "
"I'm beginning to understand that."
"Good. Understanding is the first step." Thomas turned to Lydia. "Fetch the dessert, will you? I made an apple cake. It's your grandmother's recipe."
Lydia rose to get the cake, and Thomas leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"She loves you. You know that, don't you?"
Frederick felt his heart flutter. "She's said no such thing."
"She doesn't need to say it. I've known that girl her whole life.
I know what she looks like when she cares about something or someone; fierce and protective and completely committed.
" He met Frtederick’s eyes. "She looks at you that way.
She has since the fair, I suspect, though she's only just admitted it to herself. "
"I…" Frederick swallowed. "I feel the same. About her."
"I know. That's why I'm telling you this." Thomas' voice hardened. "If you hurt her, if you break her heart, there will be nowhere you can hide. Not in your manor, not in London, not anywhere in England. I will find you, and I will make you regret it. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good." Thomas sat back as Lydia returned with the cake. "Now. Let's have dessert."
***
Thomas told stories about Lydia's father; his brother William, who had been dreamy and romantic and hopelessly impractical, who had fallen in love with a merchant's daughter and never looked back.
"He proposed to Eleanor within a week of meeting her," Thomas said, shaking his head at the memory.
"A week! I told him he was insane. I told him he didn't know anything about her; where she came from, what she wanted, whether she'd survive a month in the village.
He just smiled and said, 'I know everything I need to know. I know she's the one.'"
"And he was right?" Frederick asked.
"He was right. Over twenty years they had together, and I never once heard either of them express regret.
" Thomas' voice roughened. "When the fever came, when it took them both within days of each other, Eleanor's last words were about how grateful she was.
How she would choose the same life again, even knowing how it ended. "
Lydia had gone quiet, her eyes fixed on her plate. Frederick wanted to reach across the table and take her hand, but he wasn't sure if that was appropriate. Instead, he spoke.
"My mother never got to make that choice.
She married my father because it was arranged.
I don't know if she was happy; I was too young to understand such things.
But I remember..." He paused, surprised by the memory that was surfacing.
"I remember her laughing sometimes. When my father wasn't around.
She would take me to the garden, and we would pick flowers, and she would laugh at something I said, and for those moments, everything felt bright. "
"She sounds lovely," Lydia said softly.
"She was. I think she was. I don't have many memories; she died when I was six, but the ones I have are warm.
" He took a breath. "My father never spoke of her after she died.
He removed her portrait from the gallery, gave away her clothes, her jewellery, anything that might remind us she had existed.
I think he loved her, in his way, and losing her broke something in him.
But instead of grieving, he just froze. And he spent the rest of his life making sure I froze too. "
The table was silent for a long moment. Then Thomas spoke, his voice gruff.
"That's no way to raise a child."
"No. It wasn't."