A ripple of something passed through the room; surprise, perhaps, at a duke offering to fetch his own drinks. Mr Holloway's expression flickered before settling back into professional neutrality.
"As Your Grace wishes. That'll be sixpence."
Frederick produced the coins, exactly sixpence, Lydia noticed, not a penny more, and collected the tankards. It was a small thing, but she saw the way people noticed. The way theyrecalculated their assumptions about this man who could have demanded service and chose not to.
They found a table in the corner; not hiding, exactly, but not claiming the centre of attention either. A strategic position that allowed them to see the room without dominating it.
"Well," Thomas said, once they were seated. "We're here."
"We're here," Frederick agreed. "Now what?"
"Now we drink. And we wait." Thomas lifted his tankard. "To the first hurdle."
"To the first hurdle."
They drank. Around them, conversations slowly resumed—hushed at first, then gradually returning to normal volume. People were still watching, still aware, but the initial shock was fading. The Duke of Corvenwell was in their place. The world hadn't ended. Life could continue.
"They're talking about us," Frederick said quietly.
"Of course they're talking about us. We're the most interesting thing to happen since the miller's daughter ran off with that travelling player." Lydia took a sip of her ale. "They'll talk for weeks. Months, probably. Get used to it."
"What are they saying?"
"Probably wondering what you're doing here. Whether this is some elaborate game. Whether you're going to get bored and disappear back to your manor." She met his eyes. "They've seen nobles before, Frederick. They know how this usually goes."
"How does it usually go?"
"The lord shows up, makes nice for an evening, maybe two. Promises things, implies things. Then vanishes back to his real life and pretends the village doesn't exist." Lydia's voice was matter-of-fact, without bitterness. "They're waiting to see if you're different."
"I am different."
"I know. They don't. Not yet." She reached under the table and squeezed his hand. "That's why tonight matters. That's why we're here."
Frederick was quiet for a moment, absorbing this. In his world, the world of London society and country house gatherings, connection was assumed. You knew people because you were born knowing people, because your families had known each other for generations, because the same tutors and schools and social occasions threw you together from infancy. You didn't have to earn trust. It was simply given, based on name and rank and the accident of birth.
This was different. This required something he'd never been taught; the patience to prove himself to people who had no reason to believe him.
"How do I…" He stopped, frustrated. "What do I do? How do I show them I'm not what they expect?"
"You don't do anything," Thomas said. "That's the point. You don't perform or make grand gestures. You just... Be here. Be real. Let them see you as a person, not a title."
"That's remarkably unhelpful advice."
"Most good advice is." Thomas took a long sip of his ale. "When my brother was courting Eleanor, he used to come to this place every evening for three months. He didn't say much at first—just sat in the corner, drank his ale, watched people. It took him six weeks before anyone would talk to him without being prompted."
"Six weeks?"
"Village folk are suspicious of change. Especially the change that comes from above." Thomas' eyes met his. "But once they decide you're trustworthy, that trust runs deep. They'll defend you against anyone, including your own family, if it comes to that."
"You're saying I need to be patient."
"I'm saying you need to be consistent. Show up, every time. Do what you say you'll do. Keep your word, even when it's inconvenient." Thomas shrugged. "That's what my brother did. That's what earned him the village's acceptance."
"And it took three months."
"It took three months. But he had the rest of his life with the woman he loved, surrounded by people who would have died for him." Thomas's voice softened. "Some things are worth waiting for."
Before Frederick could respond, a shadow fell across their table.
