Hawthornes did not weep. Hawthornes endured.
Across from him, Boggins sat with the particular stillness of a man who had learned long ago that his employer did not appreciate unnecessary movement. He was a lean figure, Boggins, all sharp angles and sharper observations, with grey threaded through his dark hair and a face that seemed perpetually on the verge of disapproval. He had been Frederick's valet for many years, inherited from the previous duke along with the title and the debts and the pervasive sense that nothing Frederick did would ever be quite enough.
"We are approaching Ashwick, Your Grace," Boggins observed, his tone carefully neutral.
"I am aware."
"The villagers appear to have assembled."
"I am aware of that as well."
Boggins’ gaze drifted to the window, where the first cottages were becoming visible through the carriage's silk curtains. "In significant numbers."
Frederick did not respond. He had learned long ago that response only encouraged Boggins, who possessed an inexhaustible talent for observation and an unfortunate tendency to share his findings aloud.
"I count approximately thirty-seven individuals at present," Boggins continued, undeterred. "Though the number appears to be growing. Word travels quickly in small communities, I understand."
"It does."
"Indeed, Your Grace. I believe the phrase is 'like wildfire.' Though perhaps 'like plague' would be more apt, given the expressions I am observing."
Frederick's jaw tightened by precisely one-sixteenth of an inch. Boggins noticed, because Boggins noticed everything, but had the grace to pretend otherwise.
Through the window, Frederick could see them now; the watchers, the critics, the keepers of grudges he had never fully understood. He recognised some faces from previous passages through the village. The baker with his thunderous eyebrows. The cluster of women who always seemed to turn their backs in unison, as if they had practised. The children gathering at the roadside with expressions that promised mischief.
He did not know their names. He had never been taught that names mattered; not the names of villagers and tenants and common folk who existed, in his father's worldview, merely as figures in ledgers and problems to be managed from a comfortable distance.
A duke does not mingle, his father had said.A duke does not explain. A duke does not lower himself to seek approval from those beneath him. We are Hawthornes. We are above.
Above what, precisely, his father had never specified. Frederick had eventually concluded that the answer waseverything, and everyone, and had arranged his life accordingly.
It was lonely, being above. But loneliness was also unbecoming in a Hawthorne, so Frederick had learned not to notice it.
"The young Wheeler boy appears to be miming something," Boggins observed. "I believe it may be Your Grace's death by drowning. His technique has improved since last season."
"Has it? "
"Indeed. He has added a gurgling component. Quite theatrical."
Frederick did not look. Looking would be acknowledging, and acknowledging would be bending, and bending was the first step toward breaking, and Hawthornes did not break.
The carriage slowed as it entered the heart of High Street, the horses' hooves transitioning from dirt to cobblestone with a change in rhythm that Frederick had memorised over years ofidentical journeys.Clip-clopbecameclack-clack. The sound of judgment approaching.
"Your Grace might consider drawing the curtain," Boggins suggested.
"I might."
He did not. Drawing the curtain would be hiding, and hiding would be admitting that their stares affected him, and admitting that would be…
Weakness. Everything came back to weakness in the end. The Hawthorne philosophy could be summarised in three words:weakness is unacceptable. It left no room for doubt, for vulnerability, for the inconvenient humanity that lurked beneath Frederick's perfectly pressed exterior.
He watched the village pass without appearing to watch, his face arranged in what he hoped was dignified neutrality, but he suspected it might simply look cold. The baker's glare. The synchronised back-turning. The children's escalating pantomimes of his theoretical demise.
He catalogued each slight with the precision of a steward recording minutes, filing them away in the mental cabinet where he kept everything that hurt. The cabinet was quite full, and he had stopped opening it years ago.
"The forge is approaching," Boggins said, and something in his tone made Frederick's attention sharpen involuntarily.
"Is it?"
