Chapter 17 #2
"I'm not…"
"Let me finish." Robert's voice was firm but not hostile. "I've also seen the exceptions. The rare ones who actually look at us, who see us as people instead of furniture. They're few and far between, but they exist."
"And you're trying to determine which category I fall into."
"I'm trying to determine if you're worth the risk." Robert's eyes were steady. "Lydia's not entertainment. She's not a diversion for a bored aristocrat. She's one of us; she has been since she was seven years old, standing at her parents' grave, too small to understand what she'd lost."
Lydia felt her throat tighten.
"I was friends with her father," Robert continued. "Best man I ever knew; honest, hardworking, with a heart bigger than his common sense. I was there when he met Eleanor. I watched him court her, marry her, build a life with her. I was there when they died, too."
"I didn't know," Frederick said quietly.
"Why would you? You were locked away in your manor, learning Latin and proper deportment." Robert's voice wasn't accusatory, just matter-of-fact. "Different worlds, yours and ours. Always have been."
"They don't have to stay that way."
"Don't they?" Robert leaned back, studying him. "Let me tell you something about those different worlds, Your Grace. In your world, marriage is a transaction. Properties merged, bloodlines preserved, alliances formed. Love is a pleasant bonus if it happens, but nobody expects it."
"I'm aware."
"In our world, marriage is different. It's choosing someone to stand beside you when the work is hard and the money is short, and the future is uncertain.
It's building a life from nothing but effort and hope.
" Robert's voice softened. "It's waking up every morning next to someone you actually want to be with, not someone your family picked out of a ledger. "
"That's what I want," Frederick said. "That's exactly what I want."
"Is it? Because what you want and what you're willing to sacrifice are different things.
" Robert's eyes were shrewd. "Right now, you're in the flush of new love.
Everything feels possible, every obstacle seems surmountable.
But what about five years from now? Ten?
Twenty? When your aunt has made your life miserable, when society has closed its doors, when your own children are whispered about in the streets? "
"Then I'll still choose her."
"Easy to say now."
"It's not easy to say. Nothing about this is easy." Frederick’s voice hardened. "Do you think I don't know what I'm risking? Do you think I haven't counted the cost, weighed it against every expectation I've ever been taught to value?"
"Have you?"
"Yes." Frederick met Robert's gaze directly. "I've spent my entire life doing what I was supposed to do. Being what I was supposed to be. And you know what it got me? An empty house and an empty heart and the certainty that I would die alone without ever having actually lived."
The room had gone quiet again. People were listening, pretending not to, nursing their drinks and studying their hands, but definitely listening.
Frederick didn't seem to notice. Or didn't care.
"Lydia changed that," he continued. "She looked at me and saw something worth knowing, not just a title to be managed. She challenged me, pushed me, and demanded that I become better than I was. And for the first time in my life, I wanted to. I wanted to be the kind of man who deserved her."
"Pretty words," Robert said.
"They're not just words. I've spent the last month trying to prove it.
Learning to work a forge, walking through the village, sitting in this place drinking ale like a regular person instead of hiding in my manor like a coward.
" Frederick’s voice dropped. "I know I'm not there yet.
I know I haven't earned anyone's trust. But I'm trying.
Every day, I'm trying. And I'll keep trying for as long as it takes. "
Robert was quiet for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable.
"Her father said something similar," he said finally. "When he came to me asking about Eleanor. He said he knew he was a fool for loving her, knew her family would never accept him, knew the whole world would call him mad. But he'd rather be mad and happy than sane and miserable."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him that love was always madness.
That there was no sensible reason to risk everything for another person.
" Robert picked up his tankard. "I also told him that the people who never risked it, the ones who played it safe and married for convenience, they were the ones who ended up bitter and alone. "
"And what do you tell me?"
"I tell you the same thing." Robert drained his ale and set down the empty tankard. "Risk it. Risk everything. Because a life without love isn't really a life at all; it's just existing, going through the motions, waiting to die."
He pushed back his chair and stood.
"For what it's worth," he added, "I think you might actually mean it. The things you said. The way you look at her." He glanced at Lydia, then back at Frederick. "Her father looked at her mother the same way. Like she was the answer to a question he didn't know he was asking."
"She is," Frederick said simply.
"Then don't let anyone take that away from you.
Not your aunt, not society, not the weight of three hundred years of family expectations.
" Robert's voice hardened. "Because I promise you that if you hurt her, if you play games with her heart and then disappear back to your fancy world, I'll make sure you regret it. Duke or not."
"I believe you."
"Good. Then we understand each other." Robert nodded to Thomas, then to Lydia. "I'll leave you to your evening."
He returned to his own table, where his friends were waiting with the carefully casual expressions of people who had been listening to every word.
The silence stretched for a moment longer. Then, gradually, conversations resumed. The normal buzz of life reasserted itself, flowing around their corner table like water around a stone.
"Well," Thomas said eventually. "That could have gone worse."
"Could it?" Frederick’s voice was slightly strangled.
"He could have thrown his ale in your face. That's what he did to Mr Wrightly's son."
"That's... not as reassuring as you might think."
"It wasn't meant to be reassuring. It was meant to give you perspective.
" Thomas caught Mr Holloway's eye and gestured for another round.
"Robert's blessing matters. He's respected in the village; been here longer than almost anyone, and he knows where all the bodies are buried, metaphorically speaking.
If he's willing to give you a chance, others will follow. "
"I wasn't aware I was receiving a blessing."
"You weren't. You were receiving a warning wrapped in advice wrapped in cautious approval.
It's how village folk communicate." Thomas accepted the fresh tankards from Mr Holloway’s daughter, Martha, a practical woman in her thirties who had inherited her father's gift for serving without judging.
"The important thing is that he didn't dismiss you outright. That's progress."
Lydia reached under the table and found Frederick’s hand. He gripped it like a lifeline.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For bringing me here. For making me do this."
"I didn't make you do anything. You chose this."
"I chose you. Everything else follows from that."
***
The next hour passed more easily.
Not easily, there were still whispers, still sidelong glances, still the awareness that their every move was being observed and catalogued, but the initial tension had broken. Robert's conversation had opened a door, and others were beginning to cautiously step through.
Mrs Thompson was the first. She approached their table with a plate of apple pie, still warm from the kitchen, and set it down with the air of someone delivering a judgment.
"This is from us, " she said. "For being less insufferable than I expected."
Frederick blinked. "Thank you?"
"Don't thank me yet. The pie's a test." Her eyes were sharp. "I want to see if you eat it like a normal person or pick at it like you're afraid it might poison you."
"I assure you, I have no concerns about poison."
"Then prove it."
Frederick picked up a fork, cut a generous bite, and ate it with evident enjoyment. Mrs Thompson watched with the intensity of a magistrate overseeing a trial.
"Well?" Lydia asked.
"Adequate," Mrs Thompson pronounced. "He's not completely hopeless." She turned to go, then paused. "The candles, by the way—the ones you bought at the fair. Were they satisfactory?"
"More than satisfactory. Boggins, my valet, was quite impressed with the quality of the beeswax."
Something in Mrs Thompson's expression shifted, softened, almost. "Good. That's... good." She nodded brusquely. "Enjoy your evening."
She retreated to her own table, where she was immediately surrounded by curious friends demanding details.
"What just happened?" Frederick asked.
"You passed another test." Lydia stole a bite of the pie. "Mrs Thompson's candles are her pride and joy. If Boggins approved of them, that means something."
"How many more tests are there?"
"Unknown. Village acceptance isn't a single event; it's a process. You'll be tested and retested for months, maybe years." She smiled at his expression. "Don't worry. You're doing well so far."
"I feel like I'm navigating a diplomatic minefield without a map."
"That's because you are. Village politics are just as complex as court politics; they're just conducted over ale instead of champagne."