“You are staring,” she murmured.
“I am not,” Thea whispered back, though she knew she was.
Turning her gaze to the other ladies in their circle, she tried to focus on the chatter, but her gaze slipped once more to the two gentlemen in the distance. Her father’s back was straight, his posture so still that he seemed carved from stone, and in that moment, Frederick was his mirror—though the two men bore no resemblance at all.
It was unnerving. Unnatural. Frederick Voss was an animated creature. Even in his sorrows, he tried his best to embrace the sunshine peeking through the clouds. Often to a fault. Yet now, Frederick’s stony expression betrayed no emotion whatsoever.
Just a few quick words, and then her father gave a curt nod and strode away. Thea raised a hand to catch Frederick’s attention, but before he spied her, he turned, cutting straight through the crowd, the market square, and down the main thoroughfare without a backward glance.
Mina followed her gaze, her brow furrowing. “Has something happened?”
Thea’s lips parted, but no words came. Around them, laughter rang bright and easy, the music swelling again, but all she could do was watch his retreating form, her heart sinking with the quiet certainty that something had just gone terribly wrong.
“Can you not ask your father about their discussion?” whispered Mina, and Thea stared at her cousin, her brows raised to the heavens.
“I can count on a single hand the number of private conversations I’ve had with my father, and none of them wererevelatory,” whispered Thea with a frown. “And I do not know if I can rely on Frederick to tell me. He is so secretive of late.”
Slipping her arm through Thea’s, Mina leaned into her cousin’s side. “I am certain all will be set to rights in a trice. He loves you.”
“I know,” said Thea.
“What are you two whispering about?” asked Mrs. Wingfield with a sly smile, and Thea braced herself for a bout of more teasing concerning “grand announcements” and “plans to come.”
However, Miss Stiles gave her friend a subtle nudge away from those topics as the ladies’ gazes fell to the conspicuously bare lapel on Thea’s spencer, which Frederick clearly had no intention of adorning. There was no malice or triumph in their gazes, merely the awkward belief that something was amiss with the couple.
Thea straightened, not allowing her spine to droop. Something was amiss, but not the terrible disaster they implied with the disconcerted silence that followed. The flower that remained affixed to his chest signified nothing beyond his forgetfulness. Frederick’s head was full of the loss of his father and those other unnamed concerns.
Nothing more.
And she would not add to the speculation by appearing anything other than content.
*
With most of Haverford availing themselves of the feast and festivities, the streets were unusually quiet for a bright spring afternoon, though some couldn’t set aside their labor even for this grand event, and there was the odd cart trundling down the lane. Frederick walked without purpose down the high street,determined to place distance between himself and the troubles he’d found at the village green.
Everywhere he looked, life went on as it always had, unaware and unperturbed by the crumbling of his quiet corner of the world. That constancy ought to have been reassuring, yet it only deepened the hollow within him.
Mr. Keats’ words nipped at his heels, and Frederick forced them from his mind. The path ahead was not easy, but it was traversable. Things were not so dire that he needed to break Thea’s heart. He would find a way.
The familiar sweep of the drive opened before him, the lane curving gently between tall elms until the house came into view. Nestled primly amongst trimmed hedges, neat gravel paths, and carefully cultivated gardens, Dunsby Hall carried itself with quiet dignity, even now. That red brick façade rose high into the crystalline sky, contrasting perfectly with the blue expanse and the golden limestone of the quoins.
The building exuded endurance and long-lasting lineage, and as Frederick paused at the gate, letting his gaze travel its familiar lines, he felt the first fragile flicker of hope. Here was his father’s legacy. His family’s home. Its foundations sank deep into Lincolnshire soil, and its walls held countless memories of Vosses long dead. If the house could stand firm after centuries, then surely he could do the same.
Arriving at the front door, Frederick swept in, depositing his things so the maid could see to them when she arrived home from the feast. But before he took two steps in, the housekeeper appeared with a bob.
“Master—Mr. Voss,” she said, still stumbling over his new title. He was no longer Master Frederick, though it would take far more than a few months for Mrs. Skinner (who had served the family his whole life) to grow accustomed to it. “Mr. Gleasonand that solicitor friend of his are in the study. I informed them that you were at the feast, but they insisted on waiting.”
Frederick hid a frown and quickly turned his thoughts to his diary, though he was certain no appointment was written there.
“I serve them some refreshments,” she added, as though that were the greatest of his concerns.
“My thanks, Mrs. Skinner.” Nodding, Frederick turned toward the stairs, but paused. “You are going to enjoy the feast as well, aren’t you?”
“Certainly, sir,” she said. “I have a few things to see to first.”
With another sharp nod, he crossed the entryway, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor; taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way through the house and swept into the study.
The pair rose from the armchairs before the fireplace, where a feast of pastries, pies, bread, and cheese was laid out. Brushing off their hands, they extended them in turn, and Frederick moved through the pleasantries before taking his seat behind the desk.
