At theCrossed Keys, where the older villagers had retreated as the evening grew colder, the conversation was more nuanced but equally intense.
"I don't trust it," said Robert the carpenter, nursing his ale. "A man doesn't change overnight. Especially not a Hawthorne."
"He seemed genuine enough to me," countered Mr Holloway from behind the bar. "Awkward as anything, but genuine. You don't fake that kind of awkward."
"My grandmother always said…"
"Your grandmother thought the moon was made of cheese, Daniel. Her opinions on dukes are not necessarily reliable."
"Still." Robert shook his head. "Eight years of nothing, and now suddenly he shows up at our fair, pets horses with children, buys half the pies in the village? It does not make sense."
"Maybe he's lonely," offered Mrs Thompson, the candle seller, who had apparently forgiven, or at least temporarily forgotten, the wick incident. "My sister worked at the manor. She said he eats every meal alone and sits in that big empty house with no company but his valet. That's no way to live."
"Plenty of ways he could fix that loneliness. He could have married any woman in England. Probably still can."
"Maybe he doesn't want just any woman."
This observation, delivered with a significant look toward the door through which Lydia Fletcher was not currently visiblebut was clearly implied, caused a ripple of murmurs around the room.
"You're not suggesting…"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm observing."
"There's nothing to observe. He talked to her. That's all."
"He talked to her for over an hour. He held her hand at one point and looked at her like she was perfection itself."
"He did not look at her like that."
"He did. I saw it. Martha saw it too. Didn't you, Martha?"
Martha Fenn, who had been pretending not to eavesdrop on the conversation, nodded reluctantly. "He looked at her. More than seemed strictly necessary for a casual conversation about whatever they were discussing."
"See?"
"That doesn't mean anything. Rich men look at pretty girls all the time. It doesn't mean they intend to do anything honourable about it."
The word "honourable" hung in the air, full of implications.
"If he does anything dishonourable to that girl," Mr Holloway said quietly, "he'll answer to this village. Duke or no duke. That's Thomas Fletcher's niece. She's ours."
There were murmurs of agreement around the room; fierce, protective, the sound of a community closing ranks around one of its own.
Outside, unaware of the conversations taking place about her, Mrs Wrightly found Lydia near the bonfire, staring into the flames with an expression that Mrs Wrightly couldn't quite decipher.
"So," the older woman said, settling beside her. "The duke came after all."
"He did."
"And he didn't cause a catastrophe."
"No. He caused several small ones, but nothing catastrophic."
"The candle incident?"
"Among others. But he recovered. He's better than he thinks he is. Just untrained. Like a horse that's never been properly socialised."
"Did you just compare the Duke of Corvenwell to a not socialised horse?"
