The once genial butcher offered only a glance before turning his back to weigh a haunch of meat. Two farmers bent their heads together as Frederick passed, their conversation hushed as their eyes followed after him, and amongst the boisterous laughter and chatter of commerce, a silent question lingered: would Frederick Voss settle his accounts, or prove as careless as the master before him?
Frederick stood straighter, yet the weight of it pressed on him all the same, as though every eye marked not only the quality of his grain and stock but that of his character.
And to one side, he spied the last person with whom he wished to speak.
Chapter 6
Thea’s father stood at the far side of the enclosure with several of the masters, making their appearance at the Spring Market whilst their stewards rushed to do their bidding. No doubt Father would’ve stood amongst them, exchanging pleasantries before settling somewhere more comfortable to enjoy some spirits and the other delights of the market day.
For all that Frederick tried to ignore him, he felt Mr. Keats’ attention on him again and again. Those eyes, which were so like his daughter’s, studied him as he moved amongst the livestock, listening in as his steward bartered for Frederick’s future.
With a nod, Mr. Keats broke from the group, making his way across the yard, and his path was too direct for Frederick to hope that he intended to speak to anyone else. For one fleeting moment, he considered turning away, feigning preoccupation with a nearby pen or the state of a ewe’s fleece, and when the gentleman halted before him, the silence between them stretched, taut and uncomfortable.
Around them, the air hummed with laughter and fiddles, but it was muted beneath the weight of Mr. Keats’s quiet regard. The man’s face was fixed with that inscrutable expression of a living statue, his gaze steady and assessing in that way that madeFrederick feel twelve years old. Instinct urged him to speak, to fill the space with some light remark. A jest, even. He’d coaxed smiles from far more forbidding faces before.
However, Frederick knew better than to attempt it. Before Father’s passing, the two had only ever spoken when Frederick asked permission to court Thea, but being the curate’s chosen churchwarden meant they’d spent a fair bit of time together whilst managing the church’s affairs, which had cemented Frederick’s understanding of the gentleman. Humor glanced off him like stones thrown at a wall.
Mr. Keats studied him long and hard, and Frederick forced himself not to fidget. He wasn’t one to be easily undone; heaven knows others attempted to ruffle him, but Frederick had never seen the use in caring what others thought of him. People were odd creatures who put too high a stock in others’ opinions.
And so Frederick stood still, the back of his neck prickling, forcing himself to remain silent as the weight of that calm, impenetrable stare bore down on him. He felt that gaze to his bones. Call it a premonition, the consequence of a mind too long haunted by thoughts of ruin, or the sheer logic of recognizing that Mr. Keats never sought him out in conversation for any reason other than his daughter, but Frederick knew what the gentleman wished to say.
“I have heard some troubling rumors,” said Mr. Keats.
Having nothing to add to that statement, Frederick remained silent.
“Concerning your family’s affairs. Debts.” The gentleman’s speech was so expressionless that it was as though he were speaking of some minor inconvenience. Something of no importance. A little nothing that required naught but a curt statement out on the village green during a public festival.
For a heartbeat, his mind went utterly blank, and his throat tightened as a familiar prickle of heat crept up from under hiscollar. Then a flurry of thoughts darted through his mind like trapped birds, desperately searching for an escape.
To admit the truth was impossible. To lie, unthinkable.
“I am aware of those rumors.” Though it was difficult to speak the words, Frederick managed it. Grasping onto something that might satisfy both his integrity and Mr. Keats’ concerns, he added, “I fear my father left the estate in a bit of a shamble, and it has been difficult to sort out.”
Mr. Keats inclined his head slightly, though his gaze did not soften. “Rumors have a way of growing teeth, Mr. Voss. Best to see them defanged before they bite. If you require any assistance setting matters to rights, I do hope you will call on me. I should be glad to do what I can.”
The offer, delivered so evenly, might have sounded kind, but it struck like an accusation all the same.
Frederick forced a small smile. “That is generous of you, sir, though unnecessary. Mr. Gleason and I have matters well in hand.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” said Mr. Keats, though his tone contained no pleasure. Or displeasure, for that matter. Monotone was as expressive as the gentleman could manage. “These things have a habit of worsening if left unattended for too long.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I hope to hear better news soon,” said Mr. Keats with a slow nod before striding away, leaving Frederick to himself. The festivities raged around him, the levity and joy swelling in the air, and for a long moment, he could only stand there, watching the man’s retreating back whilst all coherent thoughts slipped from his grasp.
Better news soon? The words rang in his ears, hollow and heavy, their meaning at once unclear and unmistakable. It wasnot an accusation or challenge precisely, but a warning through and through.
The laughter and chatter of the crowd pressed close, muffled and distorted, as though he were hearing it from beneath water, and his breath caught somewhere in his throat as his pulse thudded painfully in his temples. Forcing himself to move, Frederick turned on his heel and crossed the market square. He couldn’t stay here another moment.
The grain would fetch what it fetched; the livestock would sell or it would not. Standing here, watching it unfold wouldn’t alter a thing.
***
Laughter brightened the air, rippling through the din of the market. Though Phoebe shared her brother’s witty temperament, her humor boasted a subtlety that Frederick lacked, and in all the years that Thea had known the lady, Phoebe Voss hadn’t shown a predisposition toward boisterous displays. She loved the sly little twits and teases that left her with that mischievous smile upon her lips.
Yet now, her laughter rang out with all the warmth of the spring sun.
However, Thea couldn’t blame her friend when the source of that amusement was so very charming. Mr. Winwood dressed with care, though not in a manner that clamored for notice. His coat was of a fine cut, sitting easily upon his shoulders, and the linen at his throat was crisp and white without a hint of fuss. There were no bright hues or excessive ornament, yet the verysimplicity of it spoke of good taste and the quiet confidence of a man who required no embellishment.
