For all that he prided himself on being fearless in the face of public scrutiny, it was easy to do when the ground beneath one’s boots was firm—and there was little ground more firm than at Dunsby Hall (or had been, as was the case). And somewhere in the mess of ledgers and income, councils and professions, Frederick’s sense of self had slipped away, lost amongst the remnants of his father’s crumbling legacy.
Why was he allowing himself to bear the shame of another’s actions? What did society’s opinion matter? It wouldn’t feed him nor rebuild what had been lost.
Of course, they sympathized and regretted this sorry turn of events, but Frederick would still be relegated to the lesser pews on the Sabbath and ignored on the street by former friends. Even his mother preferred pretense and abandonment rather than acknowledging the great effort her son had undertaken.
“I cannot imagine how difficult these past months have been,” murmured Mrs. Curtis, and her husband nodded, his brows pulled low.
“Yes,” he added, “One does… worry at times when there is talk of… changes at a long-standing estate like Dunsby Hall.”
Turning his gaze to his companions, Frederick gave them his most winning smile. “You mean when we sacked some of the staff and began selling off every bit and bauble?”
“Frederick!” gasped Mother, her complexion growing ashen.
“There is no need to sound aghast,” he murmured. “Everyone knows it already.”
Mouth agape, she stared at him a long moment, and Frederick’s heart squeezed at the horror in her eyes. Though he didn’t care to see such anguish, there was little point in avoiding it. The “secret” was spoken of in every corner of the village, and Mother knew it. That mortification had been a constant companion since the first time the word “retrenchment” struck her ears, so there was no saving her from it.
Stepping away from her son, the lady gave him her back and strode to where Phoebe stood, inserting herself at her daughter’s side—where there would be no talk of finances.
Mr. and Mrs. Curtis stood as still as statues as they stared at him, and at some point during the discussion, Mr. Barnsley had come to stand beside them. But it mattered not. The more, the merrier, as they say, and whatever was said here would be spread throughout the village by nightfall.
“Yes, I fear many ‘changes’ are coming to Dunsby Hall,” added Frederick. “Including a new master.”
Mrs. Curtis’s cheeks pinkened, and she glanced about as though searching for something or someone to rescue her from the conversation she’d been prodding him toward for the past quarter of an hour, and it was terribly amusing to see someone receive the unfortunate consequences of a wish granted.
“Luckily, my brother has a profession, and my sisters are all wed—or nearly so—but I fear I must start anew,” said Frederick. “Thankfully, my solicitor has found me the perfect storefront near Cobb’s forge with a set of rooms on the upper floor, so I have a place to rest my head after a long day oftrade.”
It took all of Frederick’s willpower (what little there was) not to laugh at their expressions. One might think that he’d let loose a string of words befitting the crassest of sailors, all filth and depravity, though he supposed “trade” was as close to it as a lady of Mrs. Curtis’s breeding could manage.
“I am quite eager to begin the venture,” he continued, not needing to feign his excitement. “I have seen firsthand a significant issue within the farming community, and I believe my shop will be able to resolve it, providing the necessary tools and machinery to Haverford.”
“Is that so?” murmured Mr. Barnsley, in a hollow tone.
“Surely Mr. Jenner, here, can attest to the difficulties facing farmers,” he added, reaching over to stop the passing fellow in his tracks and draw him into the conversation. And Mr. Jenner looked like a startled carp as Frederick expounded on the possibilities of his shop and the needs it would fill.
The more he thought about it, the more surprised he was that no one had opened such a shop. But he supposed that was the nature of tradition: people rarely questioned the way things were done. However, in this world that was growing ever more efficient with its new machines and inventions, mills and mechanization, it was time to evaluate it all.
And heaven help his audience, but they stood there, looking more and more aghast with each passing word, yet the same politeness that had allowed them to poke and prod genteelly at the Vosses’ great gaping wounds would not allow them to interrupt. They stood there, cringing, as Frederick boldly spoke of—gasp!—income and trade without a single euphemism to soften it.
A curious lightness came over him as he spoke, something bright and unfamiliar unfurling beneath his ribs. For weeks, Frederick had worn his restraint like armor, measuring every word, dulling every sharp edge so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of those who now gawked at him. But each sentence scraped clean another layer of the suffocating civility that had bound him.
And when Frederick paused long enough to allow them a word in edgewise, he smiled to himself as they seized uponthe opportunity and excused themselves to attend to the most pressing of business, which needed seeing to that very moment.
Good riddance to them—and to so many of the secrets that had bound his tongue.
*
The churchyard still teemed with people, though the posting had long since concluded. One would think that the foul weather would encourage the masses to retreat to their hearths, but with so much excitement surrounding the Vosses, no one wished to leave lest they miss some juicy morsel. Even the children were enjoying their parents’ distraction, weaving about the headstones in a manner that would normally earn them scolds.
The damp crept into Thea’s cloak, brushing its icy fingers against her skin, and she swallowed back a sigh. It wasn’t that she begrudged Phoebe her day. Even with that bitter argument hanging over them, unresolved, Thea couldn’t imagine leaving this celebration early. Glancing at the lychgate, its timbers darkened by the mist, she considered whether or not she could take her leave without offending or raising speculation. A warm fire and dry stockings would be divine.
Jerking her wandering thoughts back to her companion, Thea forced herself to focus on Mr. Downey, but he’d been speaking for an age, his words circling politely around the subject of his ventures—hinting at success without ever landing upon a concrete detail, even going so far as to call his profits mere “encouraging returns.” From his description, one couldn’t say whether he managed the business, invested in it, or simply had a great interest in that industry. But such was the way of the genteel.
Thea nodded at appropriate intervals, struggling to keep her mind from drifting away once more, but the gentlemanwas not conversing; he was soliloquizing in a manner that put Shakespeare to shame, speaking with the eagerness of one who assumed that all and sundry held the same interests and wished to hear the smallest of details surrounding that subject.
Frederick’s conversations, on the other hand, were explorations. When he spoke of his plans, he turned his thoughts over like stones, examining each one and bidding her to do the same. He listened—truly listened—and asked probing questions. Whether they agreed or not was immaterial, for Frederick wished to know her thoughts.
And the ache that was always simmering quietly in her chest stirred again, sharp and familiar.
