Chapter 13 #3
He moved to his desk, pulled out paper and ink, and began to write. Not a letter to his aunt; he had nothing more to say to her that wouldn't make things worse. Not a letter to Lydia; that news needed to be delivered in person, with all the care and honesty it deserved. No, this was something else.
A list of assets. Of allies. Of ammunition.
He had the title. That was his first advantage. His aunt could threaten and bluster, but she could not take away what was his by birthright. The lands, the income, the social standing that came with being a duke; all of that was his, regardless of whom he married.
He had the manor. The estate. The tenants who depended on him. If he were a good landlord, and he was becoming one, slowly, learning what that meant, they would stand by him. They had nothing to gain from his aunt's schemes.
He had Boggins. Loyal, wise, unfailingly honest Boggins, who had watched over him for years and knew every secret he possessed. Boggins would not betray him, no matter what pressure was applied.
And he had Ashwick.
This was the asset his aunt hadn't accounted for.
The village that had begun to accept him, grudgingly and slowly, but accept him nonetheless.
The community that loved Lydia and would protect her.
The people who had seen him at the fair, at the dinner, in the street, and were beginning to believe that perhaps he wasn't the cold, remote figure they had always assumed.
If his aunt tried to hurt Lydia, tried to damage her reputation, her family, her livelihood, she would have to go through the village first. And villages, Frederick was learning, could be remarkably stubborn when they chose to be.
He wrote for an hour, filling page after page with plans and contingencies and strategies.
Some were practical; letters he would write, allies he would contact, legal protections he would put in place.
Some were emotional; things he wanted to say to Lydia, promises he wanted to make, futures he wanted to build.
By the time he finished, the fire had burned low, and the first grey light of dawn was beginning to show at the windows.
He had not slept. He was exhausted. And he had never felt more certain of anything in his life.
Tomorrow, today, now, he would go to Lydia. Tell her everything. Let her decide if she still wanted to be part of this fight.
And if she did, if she chose him, knowing the cost, then they would face it together.
Just as he had promised.
***
In the village, news travelled fast; it always did, but tonight it travelled faster than usual.
"There was a carriage at the manor. A London carriage."
"Whose?"
"I don't know. But it had a crest on the door. Fancy. The kind of crest that means old money and older grudges."
"Probably someone coming to talk sense into the duke."
"Or to drag him back to London."
"Or to make trouble for the Fletcher girl."
This last suggestion caused a ripple of unease to pass through the assembled drinkers at the Crossed Keys. Whatever their opinions about the duke and his unconventional courtship, Lydia was one of theirs. And in Ashwick, that meant something.
"If anyone comes here making trouble for Lydia," said Robert the carpenter, who had been among the most sceptical of the duke's intentions, "they'll find we're not as easy to push around as they might think."
"What are you going to do, Robert? Hit them with a hammer?"
"If I have to."
There was laughter at this, but underneath it, a current of genuine resolve.
The village had been watching the strange romance unfold between their blacksmith's niece and the duke from the manor, and while opinions remained divided, one thing was clear: no outsider was going to come here and hurt one of their own.
Not without a fight.
Mrs Wrightly, who had been nursing a cup of tea in her usual corner, spoke up for the first time.
"We don't know anything yet. We don't know who this visitor is or what they want. Best not to borrow trouble before it arrives."
"Easy for you to say. You weren't there when the merchant's daughter from Bristol came here, trying to poach our best customers with her fancy city prices."
"That was fifteen years ago, Daniel."
"And I still remember how we sent her back." Daniel, the miller’s son, grown now but still bearing grudges from his childhood, crossed his arms. "We look after our own in Ashwick. Always have and always will."
"Looking after our own doesn't mean starting fights with aristocrats," Mrs Wrightly said firmly.
"It means being there when we're needed.
Supporting Lydia if things go wrong. Showing her she's not alone.
" She set down her teacup with a decisive click.
"It does not mean borrowing Robert's hammer and assaulting anyone who arrives in a fancy carriage. "
"It seems like a missed opportunity, if you ask me."
"No one asked you, Daniel."
Mr Holloway, who had been listening to this exchange while polishing glasses behind the bar, cleared his throat.
"Heard something else tonight. From Martha, who had it from the baker's wife, who heard it from someone at the manor."
The room went quiet. Second-hand gossip was one thing; news from the manor itself was quite another.
"The visitor is the duke's aunt. His mother's sister. A viscountess from London."
"What does she want?"
"What do they always want? To put a stop to anything that doesn't fit their precious notions of propriety.
" Mr Holloway set down his glass and leaned on the bar.
"She's here to make the duke marry someone suitable.
Someone with a title and a fortune and an education at one of those fancy finishing schools. "
"And what about Lydia?"
"What do you think? She's a blacksmith's niece. In their world, she's nothing. Less than nothing. A problem to be disposed of."
The silence that followed was thick with anger and concern and something that might have been fear.
"He won't do it," said Molly's mother; Margaret Whitmore, who had served the duke pie at the fair and watched him discover wonder for the first time. "The duke, I mean. He won't just abandon her. Not after everything."
"How do you know?"
"I saw his face when he looked at her. At the fair, and again tonight, when he was walking to Thomas' house. That's not the face of a man who's playing games." She shook her head. "He loves her. Really loves her. I'd stake my reputation on it."
"Your reputation for making excellent pie?"
"My reputation for reading people. Which is considerably better than my reputation for pie, though both are formidable."
There was a ripple of reluctant laughter, and some of the tension in the room eased.
"So, what do we do?" Robert asked. "Just wait and see what happens?"
"What else can we do? This isn't our fight; not yet. It's between the duke and his family." Mrs Wrightly rose, gathering her shawl around her shoulders. "But if it becomes our fight, if anyone tries to hurt Lydia or her uncle or any of us, then we'll respond. Together. As a village."
"And until then?"
"Until then, we watch. We listen. We make sure Lydia knows she's not alone." She paused at the door. "And we pray that the duke is the man she believes him to be. Because if he's not, if he breaks her heart, then Heaven help him. Because we certainly won't."
She left, and the public house fell back into its usual rhythm of drinking and gossip and speculation. But underneath the familiar sounds, there was a new current; a sense of waiting, of anticipation, of a community preparing itself for whatever might come.
In Ashwick, they looked after their own.
They always had, and they always would.
***
Lydia was awake when the knock came at her window.
It was past midnight, and she should have been asleep hours ago, but her mind wouldn't stop replaying the evening; the dinner, the garden, the kiss. Frederick’s face when he'd promised not to let her face anything alone. The warmth in her chest hadn't faded even as the fire burned low.
She had tried reading, she had tried counting sheep. She had tried all the usual tricks for quieting a racing mind, but nothing worked. Her thoughts kept circling back to Frederick—to the way he'd looked at her, the things he'd said, the future he'd implied without quite putting into words.
What were they doing? Where was this going? Was it possible, truly possible, for a duke and a blacksmith's niece to build something lasting, or were they just fooling themselves?
The knock came again, soft but insistent.
She rose, pulling a shawl around her shoulders, and crossed to the window. Through the glass, she could see a figure in the darkness; too small to be Frederick, too slim to be her uncle.
Molly. Little Molly from the fair, the one who had dragged Frederick to the pie stall and declared him "not scary, just sad."
Lydia opened the window. "Molly? What are you doing here? It's the middle of the night."
"I had to tell you." The girl's face was pale in the moonlight, her eyes wide. "My mum sent me. She works at the public house sometimes, helping with dishes. She heard things."
"What things?"
"About the fancy lady at the duke's house. About what she said."
Lydia's stomach dropped. "What did she say?"
"She said…" Molly bit her lip, clearly struggling to remember the exact words. "She said that the duke has to marry someone else. Someone suitable. And if he doesn't, she's going to make trouble. For you. For your uncle. For everyone."
The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples of fear through Lydia's carefully maintained calm.
"How do you know this?"
"My mum heard that a servant from the manor knows someone here, and she came and told them.
They said the fancy lady was angry and she's planning something.
" Molly's voice dropped to a whisper. "They said she wants to ruin you.
Make it so no one in the village will speak to you.
Make the duke ashamed to be seen with you. "
Lydia felt cold, despite the shawl wrapped around her shoulders. This was what she had feared—the outside world reaching in, threatening everything she'd built, everything she'd hoped for. A fancy lady with a fancy carriage, had come to put an end to dreams that had barely begun.
"Thank you, Molly. For telling me."
"Are you going to be okay?"
"I don't know." Lydia reached out and squeezed the girl's hand. "But I'm glad I know. Now go home, before your mother worries."
"She knows I'm here. She's the one who sent me." Molly's chin lifted with stubborn pride. "She said you needed to know what you were facing. She said you're one of us, and we don't let outsiders hurt our people."
Something warm bloomed in Lydia's chest, even as fear continued to coil in her stomach. The village. Her village. Standing up for her, looking out for her, just as they always had.
"Tell your mother thank you. From me."
"I will." Molly hesitated, then added: "The duke isn't going to let them hurt you. I know it. He's not like other rich people. He actually sees us."
"How do you know that?"
"Because he looked at me. At the fair. He really looked at me, like I mattered." The girl smiled; a flash of brightness in the darkness. "People who look at you like that don't give up easily. Trust me."
She disappeared into the night, leaving Lydia alone with her thoughts.
She closed the window and stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
So, this was it. This was what she had feared.
She could walk away. End things now, before they go any further, before she gets hurt worse than she already has. It was the sensible thing to do. The safe thing.
But safety had never been what she wanted.
She wanted Frederick; she wanted the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her, the hesitation in his voice when he was about to say something honest, the way he'd held her hand in the garden like she was precious and worth protecting.
She wanted to fight for that. Even if the fight was hopeless. Even if she lost.
Her uncle had told her about her parents; about her mother giving up everything for love and never regretting it. About her father seeing a woman through a window and knowing, somehow, that she was the one.
Maybe that kind of certainty was hereditary. Because Lydia felt it now, deep in her bones, past all her fears and doubts and practical objections.
Frederick was worth fighting for.
And if she had to fight a viscountess to keep him, then that's what she would do.
Tomorrow, she would talk to him. Find out what had really happened, what threats had been made, what he planned to do about them. And then they would decide, together, whether this was worth pursuing or whether the cost was simply too high.
But tonight, she would do something she hadn't done in years.
She would pray.
And tomorrow, everything would change.
She just had to believe it would change for the better.