The next hour passed more easily.
Not easily, there were still whispers, still sidelong glances, still the awareness that their every move was being observed and catalogued, but the initial tension had broken. Robert's conversation had opened a door, and others were beginning to cautiously step through.
Mrs Thompson was the first. She approached their table with a plate of apple pie, still warm from the kitchen, and set it down with the air of someone delivering a judgment.
"This is from us, " she said. "For being less insufferable than I expected."
Frederick blinked. "Thank you?"
"Don't thank me yet. The pie's a test." Her eyes were sharp. "I want to see if you eat it like a normal person or pick at it like you're afraid it might poison you."
"I assure you, I have no concerns about poison."
"Then prove it."
Frederick picked up a fork, cut a generous bite, and ate it with evident enjoyment. Mrs Thompson watched with the intensity of a magistrate overseeing a trial.
"Well?" Lydia asked.
"Adequate," Mrs Thompson pronounced. "He's not completely hopeless." She turned to go, then paused. "The candles, by the way—the ones you bought at the fair. Were they satisfactory?"
"More than satisfactory. Boggins, my valet, was quite impressed with the quality of the beeswax."
Something in Mrs Thompson's expression shifted, softened, almost. "Good. That's... good." She nodded brusquely. "Enjoy your evening."
She retreated to her own table, where she was immediately surrounded by curious friends demanding details.
"What just happened?" Frederick asked.
"You passed another test." Lydia stole a bite of the pie. "Mrs Thompson's candles are her pride and joy. If Boggins approved of them, that means something."
"How many more tests are there?"
"Unknown. Village acceptance isn't a single event; it's a process. You'll be tested and retested for months, maybe years." She smiled at his expression. "Don't worry. You're doing well so far."
"I feel like I'm navigating a diplomatic minefield without a map."
"That's because you are. Village politics are just as complex as court politics; they're just conducted over ale instead of champagne."
Other visitors followed Mrs. Thompson. Old Mr. Davies shuffled over to share a rambling story about the manor's apple orchard, which led into a longer story about Frederick’s great-grandmother (apparently the only Hawthorne he'd ever liked),which somehow evolved into an extended meditation on the proper way to prune fruit trees. Frederick listened with genuine attention, asking questions at appropriate intervals, and Mr. Davies departed looking pleased with himself.
The miller's wife stopped by to complain about the condition of the roads between the village and the mill. It was, Frederick realized, a test of sorts; not a personal one, but a practical one. Could this duke actually do anything useful, or was he all empty promises?
"The road was resurfaced three years ago," he said. "I remember signing the authorization. Has it deteriorated so quickly?"
"The drainage is the problem, Your Grace. Every time it rains, the water pools in the low section near the crossroads. The carts get stuck, and the flour gets damaged." Mrs. Miller, a practical woman in her forties who had clearly been dealing with this problem for some time, spoke without deference, laying out the facts as she saw them. "We've petitioned before, but nothing ever comes of it."
"Petitioned whom?"
"Your steward, mostly. Mr. Blackwood. He says the estate can't afford unnecessary improvements."
Frederick made a mental note to have a conversation with Mr. Blackwood about what constituted "unnecessary."
"I'll look into it personally," he said. "If the drainage is the issue, it shouldn't be difficult to remedy. A proper culvert, some grading on the low section…"
"You know about road construction, Your Grace?"
"I know about the theory. I've never actually done the work." He smiled slightly. "I'm learning that there's a significant difference between the two."
