"How did he die?"
"At dinner, surrounded by guests and the hum of conversation, he simply slumped forward onto the table.
"That's..." Lydia seemed to struggle for words. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"No. But I didn't understand that then. I was twenty-two when he died, and I'd spent my entire life trying to earn his approval. Never succeeding, of course, because I don't think he was capable of approval, but I was always trying. And then suddenly he was gone, and I realised I'd been performing for an audience that wasn't there anymore."
"So what did you do?"
"Nothing. That's the worst part. I just......I kept going. Kept reviewing accounts and maintaining the estate and doing all the things he'd trained me to do. I didn't know what else to do. The habits were too strong, the patterns too ingrained." He turned to look at her. "I think I might have gone on like that forever. Alone in that house, turning into him without even realising it."
"But you didn't."
"No. Because I rode through a village and saw a woman at a forge, and something…" He stopped, not sure how to articulate what had happened in that moment. "Something woke up. Something I'd thought was dead."
Lydia was quiet for a long moment. The fire crackled between them, sending sparks spiralling up into the darkness.
"When my parents died," she said finally, "I didn't speak for three months. I told you that at the fair. But I didn't tell you what happened after."
"You don't have to."
"I want to." She drew a breath. "After Mrs Wrightly helped me find my voice again, I went through a period where I was angry at everything. At my parents for dying, at the village for pitying me, at myself for surviving when they didn't. I used to go to the woods and scream until my throat was raw. I threw rocks at trees. I broke things."
"That sounds healthy, actually. Better than holding it in."
"Maybe. But it scared people. They didn't know what to do with an angry orphan. They wanted me to be sad and quiet and grateful for their charity. They didn't want me to rage." She smiled, but there was an edge to it. "My uncle was the only one who understood. He'd lost his brother, my father, and he was angry too. So instead of trying to calm me down, he took me to the forge and taught me how to channel it. How to take all that fury and put it into something useful."
"The ironwork."
"The ironwork. He showed me that fire isn't just destruction, but it can be transformation. You take raw metal, you heat it until it glows, you beat it into shape, and something new emerges. Something strong." She held out her hands, showing him the calluses and small scars that marked them. "Every time I work, I remember that. That anger doesn't have to consume you. It can make you stronger, if you let it."
Frederick looked at her hands, at the evidence of years of work, of transformation, of channelled fire, and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to take them in his own. He resisted, but only barely.
"You're extraordinary," he said. "You know that, don't you?"
"I'm ordinary. Extraordinarily ordinary, if anything." But she was blushing, he could see it even in the firelight. "I'm just a blacksmith's niece who learned to make things out of metal. There's nothing special about that."
"There's something special about that. About you." He did take her hand then, unable to stop himself. "Lydia, I need to tell you something."
"You don't have to…"
"I do. Because if I don't say it now, I'll lose my nerve, and I'll go back to being the duke who rides through villages and never stops." He took a breath. "I can't stop thinking about you. I've tried, Heaven knows I've tried, but you are there, in my mind, all the time. When I wake up, when I fall asleep, when I'm supposed to be reviewing accounts or meeting with tenants or doing any of the hundred things a duke is supposed to do. I think about your voice, and your laugh, and the way you looked at me like I was a person instead of a position. And I don't know what to do with that."
She was very still beside him. The fire crackled, and the rain continued its assault on the roof. The world had shrunk to this small room, this moment, this unbearable vulnerability.
"You asked me, at the fair, if you could see me again," she said finally. "And I said 'not yet.' Do you know why?"
"Because you were being sensible."
"Because I was terrified." She turned to face him fully, drawing one knee up to her chest. "I'm not a fool, Frederick. I know what happens when dukes take an interest in village girls. I've heard the stories, we all have. The promises, the passion, and then the inevitable ending when reality intrudes. I couldn't let myself hope for something different. It seemed safer to keep you at a distance."
"And now?"
"Now we're trapped in an abandoned cottage in a rainstorm, and you've just told me you can't stop thinking about me, and I'm sitting here trying to remember all the reasons why this is a terrible idea." She laughed, soft and rueful. "I'm not succeeding very well."
"What if it's not a terrible idea? What if it's just... an idea? Something we could explore, without knowing where it leads?"
"That's very philosophical for a man who didn't know how to light a fire ten minutes ago."
