"What if they hate me?"
"They won't hate you."
"What if the food is terrible and I can't hide my reaction?"
"The food will not be terrible. Miss Fletcher's uncle has been cooking for himself for thirty years. He knows what he's doing."
"What if I say something wrong? Offend them somehow? What if I accidentally insult their home or their livelihood or…"
"Your Grace." Boggins stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the mirror. "You have dined with princes. You have attended state functions where a single misplaced word could have caused diplomatic incidents. You have survived countless evenings with people who actively wished you ill. You can survive dinner with a blacksmith and his niece."
"This is different."
"Yes. It is. Because this time, you actually care about the outcome." Boggins' expression softened. "That's not a weakness, Your Grace. It's a sign that you're finally alive."
Frederick drew a breath and straightened his cravat. Checked his reflection one more time.
"The wine," he said. "Where's the wine?"
"Already wrapped and waiting by the door. A respectable one, as we discussed. Excellent but not ostentatious."
"And I shouldn't offer to pay for the meal."
"Correct."
"But I should compliment the food."
"Sincerely. Not excessively."
"And if there's a lull in conversation?"
"Ask questions. People enjoy talking about themselves. Ask about the forge, about the village, about Miss Fletcher's childhood. Show genuine interest." Boggins paused. "You do have a genuine interest, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"Then let it show. That's all you need to do."
Frederick nodded. He could do this. He had faced worse odds, hadn't he? He had survived his father's funeral, his first address to the House of Lords, and the endless parade of social obligations that constituted aristocratic life. Surely he could survive dinner with two people who actually seemed to like him.
"I'm walking," he announced. "Not taking the carriage."
"A wise choice. It suggests humility."
"It suggests that I don't want to arrive looking like I think I'm too good for their street."
"That too." Boggins handed him the wrapped bottle of wine. "Good luck, Your Grace. Though I suspect you won't need it."
"Your confidence in me is touching."
"It's not confidence, Your Grace. It's an observation. I've watched you these past weeks, and I've seen something I never thought I'd see. I have seen you becoming the person you were always meant to be." Boggins opened the door. "Now go, Your Grace. And try not to overthink it."
***
The walk from the manor to the village took approximately twenty minutes at a comfortable pace. Frederick used every one of those minutes to convince himself that he was not, in fact, about to make the biggest mistake of his life.
The evening was cool but pleasant, the kind of October night that reminded you autumn could be beautiful before it became brutal. The trees along the ridge road had turned brilliant shades of gold and amber, and the setting sun painted everything in warm, honeyed light.
He passed the old groundskeeper's cottage, the one where he and Lydia had sheltered from the storm, and felt a strange warmth bloom in his chest. He had already spoken to his estate manager about repairs. The cottage would be habitable again by Christmas, and he would find someone to live there, someone who could use a home.
