The walk to church was quiet.
Thomas didn't speak, and Lydia was grateful for the silence. She needed time to compose herself, to build the walls that would get her through the next few hours.
The village was already awake and bustling, families making their way toward the stone church at the centre of the village. Lydia kept her eyes down, avoiding the curious glances she could feel following her.
They know, she thought.They all know.
But when she finally looked up, what she saw wasn't scorn or pity. It was something else entirely.
Concern. Sympathy. A few hesitant smiles, quickly hidden.
Mrs Thompson caught her eye and gave a small nod; not friendly, exactly, but not hostile either. Robert the carpenter tipped his hat as they passed. Even Mr Holloway, standing outside theCrossed Keys, offered a gruff "Morning, Miss Fletcher" that sounded almost kind.
They didn't hate her. They didn't even seem to blame her.
They think I was the one who got hurt, she realised.They think the duke broke my heart, not the other way around.
The irony was almost too much to bear.
The church of St. Michael's had stood at the heart of Ashwick for three hundred years. It was a modest building by aristocratic standards, no grand spires or elaborate stonework, no flying buttresses or rose windows like the cathedrals of London, but it had a solid, comforting presence that Lydia had always loved.
Her parents had been married here. She had been christened here, in the same stone font where generations of village children had been welcomed into the faith. When her parents died, it was Reverend Clarke's predecessor who had spoken the words over their graves, and the village women who had sung the hymns.
The church was part of her. Part of who she was.
Today, it felt like a trap.
They found seats near the back, in the pew they always occupied—third from the rear, left side, close enough to the door for a quick escape if the sermon ran long. Thomas had been sitting in this same spot for forty years, since before Lydia was born, since before her father had married her mother and changed everything.
The church was filling quickly, families settling into their usual places with the comfortable familiarity of long habit. The Thompsons took their spot near the middle, Mrs Thompson's candles providing the altar light as they had for decades. Robert the carpenter sat with his wife near the front, his Sunday best coat straining slightly across his shoulders. The miller's family occupied an entire pew, their children squirming with barely contained energy.
It was a normal Sunday. Ordinary. Exactly like a hundred Sundays before it.
Except for the whispers.
"Is he coming?"
"I heard he locked himself in the manor."
"He refused to see anyone."
"The viscountess is still at the inn in Thornbury…"
"She'll destroy him if he doesn't…"
Lydia felt her stomach clench. Of course, people were talking about Frederick. Of course, they were wondering what had happened between them. The entire village had watched their courtship unfold over the past month; the harvest fair, the storm, the cottage, the forge lessons, the dinner at theCrossed Keys. They had seen something rare and precious taking shape, and they would naturally want to know how it ended.
But she hadn't expected him to come to church. Not after yesterday. Not after she had…
She couldn't finish the thought. She couldn't let herself remember the look on his face when she'd walked away.
He's not coming, she told herself.Why would he come? He's probably still at the manor, trying to pick up the pieces of what I destroyed.
The thought brought no comfort. Only guilt, heavy and sharp, was settling in her chest like a stone.
Right then, the door at the back of the church opened.
And Frederick walked in.
