She sank onto the small stool beside the anvil and let the tears come.
***
Thomas found her there an hour later.
He didn't say anything at first. Just stood in the doorway, taking in the sight of his niece; red-eyed, tear-streaked, curled in on herself like she was trying to disappear.
"What happened?" he asked finally.
"I ended it." Her voice was raw, scraped hollow by crying. "I told him it was over."
Thomas was quiet for a long moment. He moved into the forge, pulled up another stool, and sat down across from her.
"Tell me."
So, she did. All of it; Helena's visit, the story about Frederick’s mother, the nightmare of fire, the conversation she'd overheard in the garden. The decision she'd made. The words she'd said.
Thomas listened without interrupting. When she finished, he sat in silence for what felt like an eternity.
"You're a fool," he said finally.
Lydia blinked. "What?"
"A fool. A fool." His voice was hard—harder than she'd ever heard it. "You just threw away the best thing that ever happened to you because a bitter old woman told you it was the right thing to do."
"She wasn't wrong."
"She was entirely wrong. About everything." Thomas stood up, pacing the small space of the forge with an agitation she'd never seen in him before. "Helena Blackmore doesn't know anything about love. She's spent her whole life being afraid of it, afraid of what it might cost, what it might demand, what it might reveal about her."
"She told me about Frederick’s mother…"
"I know about Frederick’s mother. Everyone knows about Frederick’s mother." Thomas turned to face her. "But do you know what Helena didn't tell you? What she conveniently left out of her tragic tale?"
"What?"
"That Frederick’s mother left a letter. A letter she wrote on her deathbed, addressed to whoever eventually found it. And in that letter, she said the same thing she'd been saying for ten years; that giving up the man she loved was the worst mistake of her life."
Lydia felt the blood drain from her face. "What?"
"She didn't sacrifice herself nobly for duty. She was forced by her father, by Helena, by everyone who was supposed to love her. And she spent every remaining day of her life regretting it." Thomas' voice cracked. "She begged whoever read the letter to learn from her mistake. To choose love when they had the chance. To not let fear make their decisions for them."
"How do you know this?"
"Because I found the letter. Three years ago, when I was doing repair work at the manor." Thomas sank back onto his stool, suddenly looking older than his years. "It was hidden in the music room, behind the covered piano. She must have put it there before she died, hoping someone would find it."
"Did you…..Did you give it to Frederick?"
"No. I wasn't sure it was my place. I put it back where I found it and told myself that someday, the right person woulddiscover it." He met her eyes. "Maybe that person was supposed to be you. Maybe you were supposed to find it and understand what Helena didn't tell you."
"But I didn't find it. I just…I just listened to Helena, and I believed her, and I…" Lydia's voice broke. "What have I done?"
"You made a mistake. A terrible, destructive, well-intentioned mistake." Thomas reached out and took her hand. "But it's not too late to fix it."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I know what too late looks like, Lydia. I watched your father wait too long to tell Eleanor how he felt. I watched him nearly lose her because he was afraid of rejection, afraid of reaching above his station, afraid of all the same things Helena told you to be afraid of."
Lydia looked up. "I didn't know that."
