"Boggins said the same thing. He has remarkably good instincts."
"Your valet gives you advice on social calls?"
"My valet gives me advice on everything. I'd be lost without him."
Thomas considered this for a moment. Then, surprisingly, he laughed; a genuine sound, rough and warm.
"Well, that's honest, at least. Sit down, Your Grace. Dinner's almost ready."
Frederick sat. The chair was wooden, sturdy, nothing like the upholstered furniture he was accustomed to. But it was comfortable in its own way; solid and real and unpretentious.
Lydia sat across from him, and their eyes met over the rough wooden table. She was nervous, he realised. Just as nervous as he was. Somehow, that made everything easier.
"The house is lovely," he said, and meant it.
"It's small," Lydia replied. "Nothing like what you're used to."
"Nothing like what I'm used to is exactly what I was hoping for."
Thomas brought the pot to the table, a rich stew of some kind, fragrant with herbs and root vegetables, and began ladling it into bowls. There was fresh bread, still warm from the oven, and butter in a small ceramic dish. Simple food. Real food. The kind of meal that nourished body and soul alike.
"My brother taught me to cook," Thomas said, settling into his own chair. "Lydia's father. He said a man who couldn't feed himself was only half a man." He paused, glancing at Frederick. "No offence intended, Your Grace."
"None taken. I can't cook at all. I'm beginning to realise that makes me considerably less than half a man."
"It makes you someone who's never had to learn. There's a difference." Thomas picked up his spoon. "Now eat. And tell me honestly what you think because I don't want any aristocratic politeness. If it's terrible, say so."
Frederick tasted the food.
The stew was extraordinary. Rich and savoury and complex, with layers of flavour that unfolded on his tongue like a story being told. The meat was tender, the vegetables perfectly cooked, the broth thick with something that tasted like rosemary and something else he couldn't identify.
"This is…." He stopped, aware that he was about to gush and unsure if gushing was appropriate. "This is one of the best things I've ever tasted."
Thomas studied him for a moment, as if checking for sincerity. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him.
"My mother's recipe. She was a cook for a great house before she married my father. She learned all kinds of things there; French sauces, proper seasoning, how to make simple ingredients taste like a feast." He took his own bite, chewing thoughtfully. "She always said that cooking was like the work of a blacksmith. You take raw materials, and you transform them into something better. You just need heat, time, and attention."
"I never thought of it that way."
"Most people don't. Most people think cooking is women's work, something beneath a man's notice. But food is how we show love, isn't it? How we care for people. A meal made by someone who loves you tastes different from a meal made by a stranger."
Frederick thought about the endless parade of perfectly prepared dishes he'd consumed over the years; exquisite food,technically flawless, utterly without soul. He thought about the pie at the fair, and how it had tasted like a revelation.
"I think you're right," he said quietly. "I've just never had the chance to experience it before."
Lydia had been silent throughout this exchange, but now she spoke up.
"He means that literally, Uncle. He's never had anyone cook for him with love. His mother died when he was six, and his father..." She trailed off, glancing at Frederick as if asking permission.
"My father viewed meals as necessary fuel, nothing more," Frederick finished for her. "We ate in silence, usually at opposite ends of a very long table. I don't think I ever saw him enjoy food. Or anything else, for that matter."
Thomas was quiet for a moment. Then he reached for the bread, tore off a piece, and handed it across the table to Frederick.
"Well," he said. "That ends tonight. In this house, we enjoy our food. We talk while we eat. We laugh if something's funny and argue if something needs arguing. And when we're done, we help clear the table." He fixed Frederick with a steady gaze. "You think you can manage that, Your Grace?"
"I can try."
"Trying is all anyone can do."
