Chapter 17
"You're fidgeting."
"I'm not fidgeting. I'm... adjusting."
"You've adjusted your cuffs seven times in the last three minutes. That's fidgeting."
Frederick dropped his hands to his sides with the air of a man caught in an embarrassing act.
They were standing in the small parlour of the blacksmith's cottage, a room Lydia had hastily tidied that afternoon, though it still bore the comfortable clutter of a home actually lived in, waiting for Thomas to finish getting ready.
"I'm nervous," Frederick admitted. "Is that so strange?"
"You're a duke. You've addressed the House of Lords. You've dined with princes and negotiated with foreign dignitaries." Lydia straightened his cravat, which had somehow become askew despite his adjustments. "And you're nervous about going to a village public house?"
"The House of Lords doesn't care whether I'm a decent person. They care whether I vote the right way on the corn laws." He caught her hands as she finished with the cravat. "The people at the Crossed Keys will be judging me. Really judging me. Whether I'm worthy of you."
"You're worthy."
"You're biased."
"Hopelessly." She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. "But I'm also right."
Thomas appeared in the doorway, dressed in his Sunday best; a coat that was fifteen years old but meticulously maintained, and a waistcoat that had belonged to his brother. He looked between them with an expression that mixed resignation with something softer.
"If you're quite finished," he said. "The public house won't stay open all night."
"We're ready." Lydia smoothed down her dress one final time. The deep blue wool, her best, the one she saved for Christmas and special occasions. Tonight felt like both.
They walked through the village as the sun set, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. It was the golden hour, when everything seemed softer, more forgiving. A good omen, perhaps. Or perhaps just good timing.
The Crossed Keys sat at the heart of Ashwick, a building that had been serving ale since before the first Hawthorne set foot in the county.
Its sign, two keys crossed over a crown, creaked gently in the evening breeze.
Through the windows, Lydia could see the warm glow of candlelight, the shadows of people moving inside.
Her people. Her neighbours. The men and women who had watched her grow from a grief-stricken orphan into the woman she was today.
And now she was about to walk in with the Duke of Corvenwell on her arm.
"Ready?" Frederick asked.
"No." She squared her shoulders. "But let's do it anyway."
***
The door swung open, and the warmth of the public house rushed out to meet them; the smell of wood smoke and ale and something savoury cooking in the kitchen. For a moment, everything was normal; the crackle of the fire, the murmur of conversation, the comfortable sounds of an ordinary evening.
Someone looked up, and that was enough because then everyone looked up.
The silence spread like ripples in a pond, starting at the door and washing outward until the entire room had gone quiet. Lydia felt the weight of it; dozens of eyes turning toward them, conversations dying mid-sentence, tankards pausing halfway to lips.
She had expected this and had prepared herself for it. But preparation and reality were different things, and the reality was that she had never felt so exposed in her life.
Frederick’s arm was steady under her hand. His face was calm, composed; the mask of a duke, perfected over thirty years of practice. But she could feel the tension in his muscles, the slight tremor that betrayed his nerves.
He was terrified. He was doing it anyway.
That, more than anything else, gave her courage.
"Your Grace." Mr Holloway materialised from behind the bar, his voice carefully neutral. He was a man in his sixties, weathered by decades of work, with the particular diplomacy of someone who had learned to serve all comers without offending. "Miss Fletcher. Mr. Fletcher. Welcome."
"Thank you, Mr Holloway." Frederick’s voice was steady. "Three ales, if you please."
"Of course, Your Grace. I'll bring them to your table."
"We'll collect them at the bar, if that's acceptable. I'd hate to put you to extra trouble."
A ripple of something passed through the room; surprise, perhaps, at a duke offering to fetch his own drinks. Mr Holloway's expression flickered before settling back into professional neutrality.
"As Your Grace wishes. That'll be sixpence."
Frederick produced the coins, exactly sixpence, Lydia noticed, not a penny more, and collected the tankards. It was a small thing, but she saw the way people noticed. The way they recalculated their assumptions about this man who could have demanded service and chose not to.
They found a table in the corner; not hiding, exactly, but not claiming the centre of attention either. A strategic position that allowed them to see the room without dominating it.
"Well," Thomas said, once they were seated. "We're here."
"We're here," Frederick agreed. "Now what?"
"Now we drink. And we wait." Thomas lifted his tankard. "To the first hurdle."
"To the first hurdle."
They drank. Around them, conversations slowly resumed—hushed at first, then gradually returning to normal volume. People were still watching, still aware, but the initial shock was fading. The Duke of Corvenwell was in their place. The world hadn't ended. Life could continue.
"They're talking about us," Frederick said quietly.
"Of course they're talking about us. We're the most interesting thing to happen since the miller's daughter ran off with that travelling player." Lydia took a sip of her ale. "They'll talk for weeks. Months, probably. Get used to it."
"What are they saying?"
"Probably wondering what you're doing here. Whether this is some elaborate game. Whether you're going to get bored and disappear back to your manor." She met his eyes. "They've seen nobles before, Frederick. They know how this usually goes."
"How does it usually go?"
"The lord shows up, makes nice for an evening, maybe two. Promises things, implies things. Then vanishes back to his real life and pretends the village doesn't exist." Lydia's voice was matter-of-fact, without bitterness. "They're waiting to see if you're different."
"I am different."
"I know. They don't. Not yet." She reached under the table and squeezed his hand. "That's why tonight matters. That's why we're here."
Frederick was quiet for a moment, absorbing this.
In his world, the world of London society and country house gatherings, connection was assumed.
You knew people because you were born knowing people, because your families had known each other for generations, because the same tutors and schools and social occasions threw you together from infancy.
You didn't have to earn trust. It was simply given, based on name and rank and the accident of birth.
This was different. This required something he'd never been taught; the patience to prove himself to people who had no reason to believe him.
"How do I…" He stopped, frustrated. "What do I do? How do I show them I'm not what they expect?"
"You don't do anything," Thomas said. "That's the point. You don't perform or make grand gestures. You just... Be here. Be real. Let them see you as a person, not a title."
"That's remarkably unhelpful advice."
"Most good advice is." Thomas took a long sip of his ale.
"When my brother was courting Eleanor, he used to come to this place every evening for three months.
He didn't say much at first—just sat in the corner, drank his ale, watched people.
It took him six weeks before anyone would talk to him without being prompted. "
"Six weeks?"
"Village folk are suspicious of change. Especially the change that comes from above." Thomas' eyes met his. "But once they decide you're trustworthy, that trust runs deep. They'll defend you against anyone, including your own family, if it comes to that."
"You're saying I need to be patient."
"I'm saying you need to be consistent. Show up, every time. Do what you say you'll do. Keep your word, even when it's inconvenient." Thomas shrugged. "That's what my brother did. That's what earned him the village's acceptance."
"And it took three months."
"It took three months. But he had the rest of his life with the woman he loved, surrounded by people who would have died for him." Thomas's voice softened. "Some things are worth waiting for."
Before Frederick could respond, a shadow fell across their table.
Robert the carpenter was a man who wore his years like well-fitted clothes; comfortably, without pretence.
His hands were scarred from decades of work, his face weathered by time and labour, his eyes sharp with the particular intelligence of someone who had learned more from observation than from books.
He stood at the edge of their table, a tankard in his hand, his expression unreadable.
"Your Grace," he said. "Mind if I join you?"
Frederick glanced at Lydia, then back at Robert. "Please."
Robert pulled over a chair from a nearby table, not asking permission, simply assuming it would be granted, and settled into it with the ease of a man who had spent fifty years learning how to be comfortable in any situation.
"I've been watching you," he said, without preamble.
"So I've noticed."
"Not just tonight. These past weeks. The fair, the forge, walking through the village like you're trying to remember which way is up." Robert took a sip from his tankard. "It's been... educational."
"I'm glad I could provide entertainment."
"It's not entertainment. Or not just entertainment.
" Robert set down his tankard and leaned forward.
"I've lived in this village my whole life.
Sixty-two years. I've seen lords come and go; your grandfather, your father, now you.
I've watched the way nobility treats common folk, the casual cruelty that comes from never having to see us as real. "