Chapter 17 #3
Other visitors followed Mrs. Thompson. Old Mr. Davies shuffled over to share a rambling story about the manor's apple orchard, which led into a longer story about Frederick’s great-grandmother (apparently the only Hawthorne he'd ever liked), which somehow evolved into an extended meditation on the proper way to prune fruit trees.
Frederick listened with genuine attention, asking questions at appropriate intervals, and Mr. Davies departed looking pleased with himself.
The miller's wife stopped by to complain about the condition of the roads between the village and the mill. It was, Frederick realized, a test of sorts; not a personal one, but a practical one. Could this duke actually do anything useful, or was he all empty promises?
"The road was resurfaced three years ago," he said. "I remember signing the authorization. Has it deteriorated so quickly?"
"The drainage is the problem, Your Grace.
Every time it rains, the water pools in the low section near the crossroads.
The carts get stuck, and the flour gets damaged.
" Mrs. Miller, a practical woman in her forties who had clearly been dealing with this problem for some time, spoke without deference, laying out the facts as she saw them.
"We've petitioned before, but nothing ever comes of it. "
"Petitioned whom?"
"Your steward, mostly. Mr. Blackwood. He says the estate can't afford unnecessary improvements."
Frederick made a mental note to have a conversation with Mr. Blackwood about what constituted "unnecessary."
"I'll look into it personally," he said. "If the drainage is the issue, it shouldn't be difficult to remedy. A proper culvert, some grading on the low section…"
"You know about road construction, Your Grace?"
"I know about the theory. I've never actually done the work." He smiled slightly. "I'm learning that there's a significant difference between the two."
Mrs Miller studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.
"My husband said you were different. I didn't believe him." She nodded, a gesture of respect that felt more meaningful than any formal bow. "We'll see if the road gets fixed. That shall tell us more than any amount of pretty words."
She returned to her husband's table, and Frederick turned to find Thomas watching him with an expression that might have been approval.
"What?" Frederick asked.
"Nothing. Just......You handled that well."
"I told her I'd fix a road. That's not exactly a heroic accomplishment."
"You told her you'd fix her road. The road that affects her livelihood, her family's security.
To her, that's more important than all the grand gestures in the world.
" Thomas took a sip of his ale. "My brother used to say that nobility was measured in small acts, not large ones.
Anyone can make a speech or fight a battle.
It takes real character to listen to a miller's wife complain about drainage. "
The chandler wanted to know if the manor needed any repairs to its candlestick fixtures, which led to a surprisingly technical discussion about brass versus silver plating that Frederick found himself genuinely enjoying.
The man, Mr Thornton, had been making candles and candleholders for forty years and had strong opinions about the relative merits of different metals.
"Silver's prettier, I'll grant you that," Mr Thornton said. "But brass holds up better. You can polish silver for years, and it'll still tarnish the moment you turn your back. Brass just needs a good cleaning now and then."
"Is that a metaphor for something?" Frederick asked.
"It's a statement about metalwork, Your Grace. Not everything has to mean something." But Mr Thornton's eyes twinkled. "Though if you want to find deeper significance in candlestick maintenance, I won't stop you."
Even the children began to lose their wariness. Two boys who couldn't have been more than six crept closer and closer to the table, daring each other to get within arm's reach of the duke. Frederick pretended not to notice, keeping up his conversation with Thomas while the boys edged nearer.
Finally, the bolder of the two worked up the courage to speak.
"Are you really a duke?"
Frederick turned to face him with appropriate gravity. "I am. Is that surprising?"
"You don't look like a duke."
"What does a duke look like?"
The boy considered this. "Bigger," he decided. "With a crown."
"I'm afraid I left my crown at home. It gets heavy after a while."
"Do you live in a castle?"
"A manor house. It's like a castle, but with fewer dragons."
"Are there any dragons?"
"None that I've found. But I haven't checked all the rooms." Frederick leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "There's a tower that I've never been brave enough to explore. Perhaps you could help me investigate it sometime."
The boy's eyes went wide. "Really? I could come to your house?"
"If your parents allow it. I'd welcome the assistance. Potential dragon investigations require a team."
The boy ran off to share this extraordinary news with his friends, and within moments, a small cluster of children had formed near the door, all of them looking at Frederick with expressions of wonder and excitement.
"You're going to regret that," Lydia said, smiling despite herself.
"Probably. But they looked so serious, trying to figure out if I was a real person or some kind of exotic animal.
" Frederick watched the children whispering together.
"When I was their age, I wasn't allowed to speak to adults unless spoken to.
I certainly wasn't allowed to ask impertinent questions about crowns. "
"That sounds lonely."
"It was. Everything was lonely." His voice was soft.
"That's why this matters so much. Not just you, though you matter most of all, but all of it.
The village, the public house, the children asking if I have dragons.
I've spent my whole life being set apart, being told I was different, being kept at a distance from everyone and everything.
And now..." He trailed off, struggling for words.
"Now you're finding out you're not so different after all."
"Now I'm finding out that being different doesn't have to mean being alone." He took her hand under the table. "That's what you've given me, Lydia. Not just love, though I'll be eternally grateful for that, but belonging. A place to fit. People who see me as a person instead of a position."
"You've always been a person."
"I know. But I didn't always feel like one." His eyes met hers. "I feel like one now. With you."
The constable's daughter, a bold young woman of eighteen who was clearly the village gossip in training, asked if it was true that the manor had a ghost. She'd heard stories, she said, about strange noises in the night, about lights appearing in windows that should have been dark.
"I've never encountered one," Frederick admitted. "But the house is old, and old houses make noises. There may be something I haven't discovered yet."
"My grandmother said your grandfather saw a ghost. The ghost of a woman in white, weeping in the garden."
"I've heard that story. It's supposed to be the spirit of Lady Catherine Hawthorne—my great-great-great-grandmother."
"You don't seem like the kind of person who believes in ghosts."
"I don't seem like the kind of person who falls in love with blacksmiths' nieces, either. And yet here I am." He smiled. "Life is full of surprises."
Through it all, Lydia watched.
She watched Frederick adapt to each conversation, adjusting his manner without losing himself.
Formal with those who expected formality, casual with those who preferred directness, patient with the elderly and gentle with the young.
It wasn't the mask he'd worn when she first met him; that cold, distant facade designed to keep everyone at arm's length.
This was something different. Warmer. More genuine.
He was learning, she realised. Learning to be human in a way his upbringing had never taught him. Learning to connect with people who didn't share his education or his background or his assumptions about the world.
And he was doing it for her.
The thought made something bloom in her chest; something warm and fierce and a little bit terrifying.
"You're staring at me," Frederick said, catching her eye.
"I'm admiring you."
"That's worse."
"Is it? I would think a duke would be used to admiration."
"I'm used to flattery. That's different." He turned to face her fully, his expression softening. "Flattery is about what people want from you. Admiration is about what you actually are."
"And what are you, actually?"
"I have no idea. I'm still learning." He took her hand under the table. "But I think, I hope, I'm becoming someone worth admiring."
"You already are."
"You're biased."
"Hopelessly," she agreed. "But I'm also right."