"This is a different matter, Your Grace." Boggins' expression was unreadable, but there was something in his posture, a stiffness that suggested this was important. "Miss Fletcher should be present."
"Lydia? Why?"
"Because what I have to say concerns her as much as it concerns you." Boggins' gaze was steady. "I believe she's arriving shortly? I took the liberty of sending word that her presence would be appreciated."
Frederick stared at him. In all those years, Boggins had never done anything like this. He had never presumed to invite guests, never inserted himself into Frederick’s personal affairs, never stepped outside the carefully defined boundaries of his role.
"What's going on?"
"I would prefer to explain only once, Your Grace. With both parties present."
As if on cue, there was a knock at the sitting room door—the small sitting room, the one Frederick had started using since Lydia began visiting, because it felt more convenient.
"That will be Miss Fletcher," Boggins said. "Shall I admit her?"
"Yes. Obviously. What is…" Frederick broke off, frustrated. "Fine. We'll do this your way."
Boggins inclined his head and went to answer the door.
A few minutes later, they were seated in the sitting room; Frederick and Lydia on the small sofa, Boggins in a chair across from them. It was, Frederick reflected, possibly the strangest arrangement he had ever been part of. Servants didn't sit in chairs and request audiences. It simply wasn't done.
And yet here they were.
"Thank you for coming, Miss Fletcher," Boggins said. "I apologise for the irregular nature of this summons."
"It's fine. I'm just confused." Lydia glanced at Frederick. "Is something amiss?"
"I don't know. Boggins won't tell me." Frederick turned to his valet. "Well? You have our attention. What is this about?"
Boggins took a moment to prepare tea before answering; an elaborate ritual that Lydia recognised as the work of a man buying time, gathering his thoughts. The leaves were measured with precision, the water poured at exactly the right temperature, the steep timed to the second.
"Tea first," he said. "What I have to say deserves proper accompaniment."
Only when they were both settled with their tea did he pour his own cup and take his seat.
"I have served this family for many years," he began. "I started as a footman under His Grace's grandfather, worked my way up through the usual channels, and was appointed valet to His Grace upon his ascension to the title. In that time, I have watched three generations of Hawthornes live and die."
"Boggins…"
"Please, Your Grace. Allow me to finish." Boggins' eyes held a quiet plea that Frederick had never seen before. "I have things I need to say, and if I don't say them now, I may never find the courage again."
Frederick subsided, trading a confused glance with Lydia.
"When I first came to this house," Boggins continued, "I was seventeen years old. Youngest footman, lowest rank, invisible to everyone who mattered. I used to watch the family at dinner, standing against the wall, ready to serve, but mostly just observing. And what I observed was fascinating."
He paused, taking a sip of his tea.
"His Grace's grandfather was still alive then. A formidable man, by all accounts. Cold as ice, precise as clockwork. But there were moments, brief moments, when I would catch him staring at nothing, with an expression that looked almost like grief. I didn't understand it at the time. I thought he was simply tired, or distracted by business matters."
"My grandfather?"
"The same. Years later, I learned about the farmer's daughter. About the match that was broken off, the life he might have had. And suddenly those moments of grief made perfect sense." Boggins set down his cup. "He spent forty years married to a woman he didn't love, raising children he couldn't connect with, managing an estate that meant nothing to him. And every day, in quiet moments when he thought no one was watching, he mourned the choice he'd been too afraid to make."
"I never knew…"
"Of course you didn't. Hawthornes don't share such things. They bury them, hide them, pretend they don't exist. That's what you were taught, isn't it? Emotions are a weakness. That wanting things is beneath your station."
Frederick was quiet.
