They ate. They talked. And gradually, the stiffness in the room began to ease.
Thomas asked about Frederick’s education—where he'd gone to school, what he'd studied, and whether he'd learned anything useful.
"Latin, mostly," Frederick admitted. "Greek. Philosophy. The sort of things that are considered essential for a gentleman and completely useless for actual life."
"Can you add figures? Balance a ledger?"
"Yes, that I can do. Estate management requires it."
"Good. A man who can't count his money soon finds he doesn't have any." Thomas tore off another piece of bread. "What about practical skills? Can you build anything? Repair anything? Make something with your hands?"
"I can ride. I can shoot. I can dance, though I rarely do." Frederick paused, considering. "But build something? No. Repair something? No. The most useful thing I've ever done with my hands is sign documents."
"That's not useful. That's paperwork."
"I'm beginning to realise that."
Lydia had been listening to this exchange with a small smile on her face. Now she spoke up.
"He can't light a fire, Uncle. I had to teach him during the storm."
"You cannot light a fire?" Thomas stared at Frederick with something approaching horror. "How have you survived this long?"
"Servants. Many, many servants."
"My goodness," Thomas shook his head. "No wonder the aristocracy is useless. You've engineered your own helplessness."
"That's... remarkably accurate, actually."
"Well, we shall have to fix that." Thomas pointed at Frederick with his spoon. "If you're going to court my niece, you're going to learn to do things. Useful things. Things that don't require a valet and a butler, and a small army of staff."
"I'd like that," Frederick said, and was surprised to find he meant it.
"Start with the fire. Every man should be able to light a fire. Then we shall try cooking; nothing difficult, just the basics. Enough to keep yourself alive if you ever find yourself without your servants."
"Is that likely to happen?"
"Life is unpredictable, Your Grace. Best to be prepared for anything."
The conversation shifted as the meal progressed. Thomas told stories about the forge—customers he'd worked with, projects he was proud of, the satisfaction of taking raw metal and transforming it into something useful and beautiful.
"There's a moment," he said, his eyes distant with the memory, "when the iron reaches just the right temperature. Not too hot, not too cold. You can see it in the colour—a deep orange, almost red. And you know, in that moment, that the metal will do whatever you ask of it. It's cooperative. Willing. Ready to become something new." He smiled. "I've been chasing that moment for many years. It never gets old."
"That's beautiful," Frederick said.
"It's work. But work can be beautiful, if you approach it right." Thomas studied him for a moment. "What do you love, Your Grace? What makes you feel that way; alive, engaged, fully present?"
It was a question no one had ever asked him. For a moment, Frederick didn't know how to answer.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I've spent most of my life doing things because they were expected, not because I wanted to. I'm not sure I've ever been fully present for anything."
"That's sad."
"Indeed. It is."
"Then you need to find something. Something that makes you come alive. Otherwise, what's the purpose of any of it?" Thomas gestured around the room—at the simple house, the modest furnishings, the life he had built through years of hard work. "All of this means nothing if you don't love what you do. The money, the status, the position; none of it matters if you're dead inside."
"I'm beginning to understand that."
