Frederick looked at the pies, looked at the fair and then looked back at her.
"That," he said slowly, "is either brilliant or insane."
"Most good ideas are both. Come on."
She led him into the fair, and together they began distributing pies to increasingly confused villagers. A slice for the miller's wife. A slice for old Mr Holloway, who accepted it with a grunt that might have been gratitude. A slice for the children from the horse-petting incident, who fell upon the pastry with the voracity of small hungry wolves.
"You're doing it wrong," Lydia said, as he tried to hand a slice to the blacksmith's apprentice.
"I'm giving away pie. How can that be wrong?"
"You're giving it away like it's an obligation. Like you're paying a debt." She took the slice from his hand, turned to the apprentice, a gangly youth with soot-stained cheeks, and smiled. "Thomas, isn't it? Mrs Whitmore makes the best gooseberries in the county. The duke's been buying everyone slices. Would you like one?"
Thomas looked at the pie, then at the duke, then back at Lydia. "Is it poisoned?"
"Thomas!"
"It's a fair question," Frederick said. "In his position, I might wonder the same thing."
"It's not poisoned," Lydia assured him. "The duke is just learning how to be friendly. Consider it practice."
Thomas took the pie with evident suspicion, bit into it, and his expression transformed into something approaching reverence. "This is really good."
"I told you." Lydia handed Frederick another slice. "Now you try. And this time, remember that you're sharing something nice, not dispensing charity from on high."
"There's a difference?"
"There's an enormous difference. Charity says,'I have more than you.'Sharing says,'I want youtoenjoy this too.' The first makes people feel small. The second makes them feel included."
Frederick considered this. "No one ever explained it that way before."
"That's because the people around you were probably more interested in keeping you separate than in helping you connect." She handed him the next slice. "Try again. The cobbler's daughter, there; her name is Sarah, she's twelve, and she's been eyeing the pie stall all afternoon, but her family can't afford extras."
He approached Sarah with the pie extended. "Sarah? I'm told this is excellent. Would you like some?"
The girl looked up at him with wide eyes. "Me, Your Grace?"
"You. I bought too much, and I can't possibly eat it all myself. You'd be doing me a favour."
Sarah glanced at her mother, who gave a hesitant nod. She took the pie, bit into it, and her face lit up with uncomplicated joy.
"Thank you, Your Grace!"
"You're welcome." And this time, Frederick found that he meant it. Not as a formality, not as an obligation, but as a genuine response to her genuine gratitude.
"Better," Lydia said, as they moved on. "Much better."
"I'm not sure I understand what I did differently."
"You looked at her like she was a person, not a problem to be solved. That's the whole secret, really. People know when you're actually seeing them versus when you're just going through the motions."
With each pie given away, Frederick seemed to relax a little more. The set of his shoulders eased. The stiffness in his jaw softened. He still looked out of place, would probably always look out of place, but he was beginning to look less like a man at his own execution and more like a man who was merely awkward at gatherings.
"What do I do when the pies run out?" he asked, as they distributed the last few slices.
"Then you'll have to rely on your natural charm."
"I don't have natural charm."
