"Keep your back straight and swing from the shoulder, not the elbow."

  Rosalind adjusted her stance, gripping the wooden handle of the sickle as Thomas had shown her. Two weeks had passed since her first disastrous day in the wheat fields, and while she remained far from skilled, she had at least progressed beyond total incompetence.

  "Like this?" she asked, executing a careful swing that sliced through a small patch of wheat stalks.

  "Better," Thomas approved, watching her form with a critical eye. "You're still tensing your wrist too much. The motion should flow naturally." He stepped closer, his hand briefly covering hers to adjust her grip. "Here—feel the difference?"

  Rosalind nodded, trying to ignore the warmth of his calloused palm against her skin. Such casual physical contact would have been unthinkable in her former life, where even dance partners maintained a proper distance and touches were restricted to the most formal of contexts. Here in the fields, however, such considerations seemed to evaporate in the heat of practical instruction.

  "Again," Thomas directed, stepping back. "Remember, you're working with the sickle, not fighting against it."

  She swung once more, focusing on keeping her motion fluid. The bde connected cleanly with the wheat stalks, slicing through with a satisfying whisper of steel against grain.

  "There!" Thomas's face broke into a genuine smile. "You're a natural."

  "A natural?" Rosalind couldn't help but ugh. "After two weeks of daily practice for a task children here master by age ten?"

  "Most children here have been watching their parents harvest since they could walk," Thomas pointed out reasonably. "You didn't have that advantage."

  "The many disadvantages of a privileged upbringing," Rosalind replied with mock solemnity, wiping her brow with her sleeve. The action, once unthinkably coarse, had become second nature. "No one thought to include 'sickle technique' alongside dancing and watercolor painting in my education."

  Thomas leaned against a nearby fence post, regarding her with that half-amused, half-thoughtful expression she'd come to know well. "And which education do you find more valuable now?"

  It was precisely the sort of provocative question he excelled at asking—seemingly simple but designed to make her reconsider her assumptions. Their conversations over the past fortnight had frequently taken such turns, much to Rosalind's initial annoyance and growing fascination.

  "That depends on where I end up, doesn't it?" she hedged, carefully setting aside the sickle and flexing her fingers. "Sickle skills won't be particurly valuable at court, just as knowing the proper way to address an archbishop won't help much in these fields."

  "Spoken like a true diplomat," Thomas observed with a chuckle. "Though I note you didn't actually answer the question."

  "Perhaps because it's not a fair question," Rosalind countered, reaching for the water jug they'd brought to the field. "Different knowledge serves different purposes. Even you, with all your progressive farming ideas, would be at a loss navigating a royal reception."

  "True enough," Thomas conceded, accepting the water jug when she passed it to him. "Though I like to think I'd adapt more quickly than you did to farmwork."

  "Is that a challenge, Mr. Brookfield?" Rosalind raised an eyebrow, surprised by how easily such banter now came to her. Two weeks ago, she would have been mortally offended by the comparison. Now, she found herself actually curious about how Thomas might fare in her world.

  "Merely an observation, Miss Harrington." His use of her family name was deliberate, a private joke between them since he'd discovered how Mrs. Hawthorn insisted everyone call her simply "Rose."

  "You're insufferable," she informed him, trying and failing to maintain a stern expression.

  "So I've been told," he replied cheerfully. "Usually by my mother, and usually when she's right."

  The easy mention of his mother reminded Rosalind how different their situations were. Thomas spoke of his family with casual affection—his practical father who shook his head at but ultimately supported his son's innovative ideas; his sharp-witted mother whose herbal remedies were sought throughout the region; his younger sister who had recently married the bcksmith's son from the neighboring vilge. These were retionships built on shared daily life and mutual dependence, utterly unlike the formal, often strategic connections that defined Rosalind's own family.

  "Speaking of mothers," Thomas said, as if following her thoughts, "mine has invited you to Sunday dinner after church. She's curious about the young woman I've been teaching farm skills to every morning."

  Rosalind's heart gave an unexpected leap that she immediately tried to suppress. "You've been discussing me with your mother?"

  "The entire valley discusses you," Thomas reminded her with infuriating calm. "You're still the most interesting thing to happen here since old Farmer Wilson's bull broke into the church during Easter service."

  "How fttering to be compared to a rampaging bull," Rosalind remarked dryly, though she couldn't summon real offense. The past two weeks had taught her that country humor tended toward the direct and unvarnished, without the veiled barbs and hidden meanings of court wit.

  "Will you come?" Thomas asked, his tone suddenly more serious. "My mother makes an excellent roast chicken, and my father has some agricultural journals from the Capital Province you might find interesting."

  The invitation presented several complications. For one, accepting would signal a shift in her retionship with Thomas—from casual field acquaintance to something approaching friendship. For another, it would mean presenting herself to his family not as Lady Rosalind Harrington, but as Rose, the disgraced exile learning to live as a commoner.

  "I'm not sure Mrs. Hawthorn would approve," she said finally, voicing the most practical objection. "She's quite strict about my schedule and activities."

  "Already taken care of," Thomas replied with a satisfied smile. "My mother spoke with her yesterday. She's given permission—apparently your behavior has been 'surprisingly acceptable' these past two weeks."

  "High praise indeed," Rosalind commented, both amused and oddly pleased by this assessment. She had, in fact, been making a genuine effort to complete her assigned tasks without the dramatic compints that had characterized her first days at Thornfield. Not out of any acceptance of her situation, she assured herself, but simply because it was more dignified than constant resistance.

  "So?" Thomas prompted. "Will you come? Or are you afraid to see how the other half lives?"

  It was a deliberate challenge, and they both knew it. "I accept your invitation," Rosalind said with exaggerated formality. "Though I warn you, I have precisely one dress that isn't patched or stained beyond redemption, so your mother will have to accept me in less than pristine condition."

  "She raised two children and runs a working farm," Thomas pointed out. "Her standards for 'pristine' are considerably more forgiving than those of the imperial court."

  With that settled, they returned to the morning's task—Thomas had taken it upon himself to teach Rosalind the basics of harvesting with a sickle rather than merely bundling behind more experienced workers. The arrangement had developed organically after that first field day, when Thomas had observed her struggling and offered a few practical suggestions that dramatically improved her efficiency.

  Mrs. Hawthorn, surprisingly, had raised no objection to these informal lessons, perhaps recognizing that Rosalind learned more effectively from Thomas's patient instruction than from the harried directions of the regur field workers. For his part, Thomas arrived at Thornfield most mornings with his father's threshing machine, spent an hour or so showing Rosalind various farming techniques, then returned to his regur duties overseeing the mechanical harvest.

  "Why do you bother with this?" Rosalind had asked him directly after their third such session. "Surely you have more important tasks than teaching a hopeless city girl how to bundle wheat properly."

  Thomas had considered the question with his usual thoughtfulness before answering. "Partly because I enjoy teaching, and you're an apt pupil despite your compints. Partly because it's refreshing to expin these things to someone who asks 'why' instead of simply accepting 'that's how it's done.' And partly," he'd added with that characteristic half-smile, "because your determination to master tasks you clearly find beneath you is oddly admirable."

  Now, as they worked side by side in the golden morning light, Rosalind found herself reflecting on how quickly these daily encounters had come to anchor her new routine. There was something comforting about Thomas's steady presence—his ck of either condescension or deference, his willingness to answer her endless questions, his occasional challenges to her assumptions.

  "You're thinking too hard again," Thomas observed, interrupting her reverie. "The sickle knows what to do if you let it."

  "I'm trying to understand the proper angle," Rosalind protested, returning her attention to the task at hand.

  "That's your problem—you're trying to understand with your mind what your body already knows. Farming isn't like your court dancing with its precise steps and counts. It's more like..." he paused, searching for an analogy she might rete to, "more like music. You can learn the notes, but eventually you have to feel the rhythm."

  Rosalind considered this as she attempted another swing, focusing less on the exact position of her hands and more on the natural arc of the motion. To her surprise, the bde connected cleanly, slicing through a wider swath of wheat than her previous attempts.

  "There," Thomas nodded approvingly. "You felt it that time."

  "Perhaps," she admitted, oddly pleased by this small success. "Though I still don't understand why anyone would choose this over more civilized occupations."

  "You mean like plotting court intrigues and designing eborate gowns?" Thomas teased.

  "Those are hardly the only occupations avaible in the capital," Rosalind protested. "There are schors, artists, physicians, engineers—"

  "And who feeds all these refined people?" Thomas interrupted, his tone light but his eyes serious. "Who builds the houses they live in? Who mines the coal that heats their water and cooks their food? Who grows the cotton for their 'civilized' clothing?"

  It was another of his gentle provocations, designed to make her consider perspectives she'd previously ignored. Rosalind had learned that Thomas had no patience for abstract philosophical debates; his challenges were always rooted in practical realities.

  "I take your point," she conceded. "Though I maintain there's a difference between recognizing the value of agricultural work and believing it's the only worthy occupation."

  "Fair enough," Thomas agreed, surprising her with his easy acceptance. "I've never argued that everyone should be a farmer—only that those who aren't should appreciate the ones who are."

  "Then we are in agreement, Mr. Brookfield," Rosalind decred with mock formality. "A historic occasion that should perhaps be commemorated with a monument."

  Thomas ughed, the sound warm in the morning air. "I'll carve it myself: 'On this spot, a duke's daughter admitted a farmer might occasionally be right.'"

  Their banter was interrupted by the distant sound of the estate bell signaling the midday meal. Rosalind realized with surprise that the morning had passed more quickly than usual, despite the physical exertion of learning to use the sickle.

  "I should return to the main house," she said, reluctantly setting aside the tool. "Mrs. Hawthorn has assigned me to the stillroom this afternoon—apparently I'm to learn the mysteries of preserving root vegetables."

  "A vital skill," Thomas nodded solemnly, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. "Almost as important as proper sickle technique."

  "You mock my suffering," Rosalind accused without heat, gathering her shawl from where she'd draped it over a fence post.

  "Never," Thomas assured her, his expression suddenly more serious. "I actually admire how you've approached all this. Many in your position would have either colpsed in despair or maintained a wall of bitter resentment."

  The unexpected compliment caught Rosalind off guard. "I've done plenty of both," she admitted. "Ask Agnes—she's endured more tearful tirades than any dy's maid should have to bear."

  "Yet here you are, swinging a sickle in the morning sun instead of plotting your escape back to the capital."

  Rosalind considered this as they walked together toward the estate buildings. Was that true? Had she stopped actively plotting her return to court life? The first week, she had fallen asleep each night imagining eborate schemes to regain her father's favor or secret appeals to sympathetic retives who might intervene on her behalf. When had those fantasies faded into the background of her consciousness?

  "Perhaps I've simply accepted the temporary nature of my situation," she said finally. "This exile won't st forever. Eventually, my father will decide I've been sufficiently 'reformed' and recall me to the capital."

  "And then?" Thomas asked, his tone carefully neutral. "You'll return to court, resume your pursuit of the prince, and forget Thornfield ever existed?"

  His question was uncomfortably direct, as usual. Rosalind had shared the basic outline of her disgrace during one of their morning sessions—her infatuation with Prince Adrian, her jealousy of Lady Sophia, the public humiliation that had led to her exile. Thomas had listened without judgment, asking only occasional crifying questions as she recounted her downfall.

  "I don't know," she admitted now, surprising herself with her honesty. "Court life seems... further away than it did even a week ago. Less substantial, somehow."

  Thomas nodded as if this confirmed something he'd already suspected. "The capital has a way of seeming like the entire world when you're in it. It's only when you leave that you realize how small a part of life it actually represents."

  "Says the man who spent two years studying there and couldn't wait to return to his fields," Rosalind pointed out with a smile.

  "Precisely why I can make the comparison," Thomas replied. "I valued my education, but I never confused the academic bubble with reality."

  They had reached the point where their paths would diverge—Thomas to return to the threshing operation, Rosalind to her midday duties at the main house. For a moment, neither moved to leave, an unusual hesitation hanging between them.

  "Sunday, then?" Thomas finally said. "After church? My mother will send a cart."

  "Sunday," Rosalind confirmed, surprised by the flutter of anticipation the simple pn evoked. "Please thank your mother for the invitation."

  As she turned toward the kitchen gardens, Rosalind found herself wondering what exactly she was walking into. A simple country dinner with a farming family? Or another step in the gradual recalibration of her understanding of the world and her pce in it?

  The small stone church that served Thornfield and the surrounding farms was far humbler than the grand cathedral where Rosalind had attended services in the capital. Its simple wooden pews cked cushions, its modest stained gss depicted agricultural scenes alongside religious ones, and its congregation dressed in their clean but unexceptional Sunday best rather than the eborate finery of court worship.

  Yet there was a warmth to the service that Rosalind found unexpectedly affecting. The local vicar, a middle-aged man with kind eyes and flour perpetually caught in his beard (he was, Maisie had informed her, a dedicated baker in his spare time), delivered his sermon with genuine passion rather than the political calcution that often fvored imperial religious ceremonies. The congregation sang with enthusiastic if not always melodious voices, and the prayers seemed directed at a God who might actually be concerned with harvest yields and vilge marriages rather than the abstract deity of philosophical debate that featured in capital sermons.

  Seated beside Mrs. Hawthorn, whose stern countenance had softened marginally for the Sabbath, Rosalind found herself singing along to hymns she'd previously dismissed as peasant simplifications of more complex theological concepts. There was an undeniable comfort in their straightforward verses, a grounding that she hadn't experienced in the eborate rituals of the imperial cathedral.

  "You have a pleasant voice," Mrs. Hawthorn remarked unexpectedly as they rose for the final blessing. "Though you stumble on the country variations."

  "The melodies are different from what I learned," Rosalind replied, surprised by what appeared to be an actual compliment from her usually critical overseer.

  "Regional differences," Mrs. Hawthorn nodded. "Every valley has its own way of singing the old hymns. You'll learn ours in time."

  The casual assumption that Rosalind would be at Thornfield long enough to master local hymn variations was both presumptuous and oddly reassuring. Despite her continuing belief that her exile was temporary, there was something comforting about being included in the community's future, however provisionally.

  As the congregation filed out of the church into the bright sunshine of the churchyard, Rosalind became aware of curious gnces in her direction. Though she had been at Thornfield for over two weeks now, this was her first appearance at a community gathering. Mrs. Hawthorn had previously assigned her tasks that kept her at the estate on Sundays, perhaps believing her not yet ready for public scrutiny.

  "Miss Rose," called a friendly voice, and Rosalind turned to find Martha from the dairy approaching with a plump, cheerful-looking woman of simir age. "This is my sister, Ellen. She's been dying to meet you since I told her about your adventures in milking."

  "Adventures is certainly one word for it," Rosalind replied with a smile, extending her hand to the newcomer. "Though 'disasters' might be more accurate."

  Ellen ughed, taking Rosalind's hand in both of hers with a warmth that would have been shocking in court circles. "Martha says you've improved remarkably. And she's not one for false praise, our Martha."

  "The cows no longer run when they see me approaching," Rosalind confirmed solemnly. "I count that as success."

  This simple joke—which would have fallen entirely ft among her former peers—was met with appreciative ughter. Before Rosalind could continue the conversation, however, she found herself surrounded by a small crowd of vilgers, each seemingly determined to introduce themselves and offer their own welcome.

  There was Old Willem with his distinctive limp, who informed her gravely that the calluses on her hands were "coming along nicely." Sara from the dairy, who proudly introduced three of her five children—the oldest two having stayed home to prepare Sunday dinner. The bcksmith, a mountain of a man named Garrett, who thanked her for helping his wife with undry the previous week—a task Rosalind remembered primarily for the blisters it had raised on her hands despite Thomas's healing salve.

  It was overwhelming and oddly touching, this casual acceptance by people who owed her no particur deference. In the capital, her status as the Duke's daughter had defined every interaction, creating an invisible barrier even with those who genuinely liked her. Here, she was simply Rose—the city girl learning country ways, subject to good-natured teasing and sincere encouragement in equal measure.

  "Quite the reception committee," came Thomas's voice from behind her, and Rosalind turned to find him watching the proceedings with evident amusement. He looked different today, she realized—his usual work clothes repced by a well-made navy coat and crisp white shirt. With his dark hair neatly combed and his strong features set off by the formal attire, he cut a figure that would not have been out of pce in the capital's more fashionable circles.

  The thought was disconcerting, as was her immediate awareness of how inadequate her own appearance must be. Her single "good" dress was a simple gray muslin that Agnes had managed to salvage from her trunk and alter to the more modest neckline appropriate for country church services. Her hair, once the pride of the capital's most exclusive stylist, was braided in the simple pattern Maisie had taught her for practical field work, with only a few modest pins to secure it.

  "You needn't look so armed," Thomas said with a chuckle, misinterpreting her expression. "My mother promised not to interrogate you too severely, and my father almost never bites guests on their first visit."

  "How reassuring," Rosalind replied, gathering her composure. "And here I was concerned I might not be properly entertained."

  Thomas's smile widened at her dry tone. "There's the sharp tongue I've come to expect. I was afraid church had rendered you uncharacteristically meek."

  "Never," she assured him, surprised by how easily they had fallen back into their usual banter despite the changed setting. "Though I am capable of appropriate reverence when the occasion demands it."

  "Of course," he agreed solemnly. "Now, shall we rescue you from your admirers? My mother's cart is waiting, and she's been cooking since dawn."

  With a polite farewell to the gathered vilgers—several of whom exchanged knowing gnces that Rosalind chose to ignore—she allowed Thomas to guide her toward a small cart where a compact, energetic-looking woman with Thomas's dark hair and bright blue eyes waited with barely contained curiosity.

  "Mother, may I present Rose," Thomas said formally. "Rose, this is my mother, Mrs. Margaret Brookfield."

  "It's a pleasure to finally meet you," Mrs. Brookfield said warmly, extending a hand that showed the same capable strength as her son's. "Thomas has told us so much about you."

  "All of it exaggerated, I'm sure," Rosalind replied, falling back on the social graces that had been drummed into her since childhood.

  "Oh, I doubt that," Mrs. Brookfield ughed, helping her up into the cart with surprising strength. "My son has many virtues, but exaggeration isn't among them. Quite the opposite—he tends to understate things of importance."

  Thomas, settling himself at the reins, shot his mother a warning look that she blithely ignored.

  "Now, tell me," Mrs. Brookfield continued as the cart began to move, "has the salve been helping with your hands? Thomas mentioned you were having trouble with blisters, which is only to be expected with field work when you're not accustomed to it."

  "It's been remarkably effective," Rosalind replied honestly. "I've been meaning to thank you for sending it. My hands would likely be in much worse condition without it."

  "I'm gd to hear it," Mrs. Brookfield nodded with satisfaction. "I'll prepare another jar for you to take back. The calendu is particurly potent this season—we had just the right bance of rain and sun in the spring."

  The conversation continued in this practical vein as they traveled the short distance to the Brookfield farm, with Mrs. Brookfield asking questions about Rosalind's daily tasks at Thornfield and offering various useful suggestions for managing everything from undry stains to kitchen burns. There was no mention of Rosalind's background or disgrace—either Thomas had instructed his mother to avoid the topic, or Mrs. Brookfield simply considered it irrelevant to their current interaction.

  The Brookfield farm, when they arrived, proved considerably more prosperous than Rosalind had anticipated. The main house was a solid two-story structure of local stone, with several well-maintained outbuildings and extensive fields stretching toward the nearby hills. Evidence of Thomas's modern farming techniques was visible in the orderly arrangement of crops and the various mechanical implements stored in a rge open shed.

  "We've been fortunate these past few years," Mrs. Brookfield remarked, noting Rosalind's assessment of the property. "Thomas's new methods have increased our yields beyond anything we thought possible on this nd."

  "Mother exaggerates," Thomas said as he helped both women down from the cart. "We've had good weather and made some strategic improvements, that's all."

  "And doubled our income," Mrs. Brookfield added with maternal pride. "Enough to add the new wing to the house and send my daughter to finishing school in town—something I never thought possible for a farmer's daughter."

  Inside, the house revealed a simir blend of traditional rural practicality and unexpected refinements. The main room centered around a massive hearth where various pots bubbled promisingly, but the furnishings included several well-made pieces that would not have looked out of pce in a prosperous merchant's home in the capital. Most surprising was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with volumes on subjects ranging from agricultural science to cssical literature.

  "Thomas built the shelves," Mrs. Brookfield expined, following Rosalind's gaze. "He's always been a reader—used to drive his father to distraction, finding him with a book when there were chores to be done."

  "Still does," came a deep voice from the doorway, and Rosalind turned to see an older version of Thomas entering the room. Mr. Brookfield had the same tall frame and broad shoulders as his son, though years of farm work had left him with a slight stoop and deeply lined features. His hair, once dark like Thomas's, was now liberally streaked with gray.

  "Father, this is Rose," Thomas made the introduction with the same formality he'd used with his mother.

  Mr. Brookfield studied Rosalind with keen blue eyes that missed nothing. "The duke's daughter," he said directly, causing Rosalind to stiffen slightly. "Learning to live like common folk."

  "George," Mrs. Brookfield said warningly.

  "It's not an accusation, Margaret," Mr. Brookfield replied mildly. "Just stating facts. She knows who she is, and so do we. No point pretending otherwise."

  Rosalind, recovering from her initial surprise at his bluntness, found herself respecting the older man's direct approach. "You're right, Mr. Brookfield," she said. "I am the duke's daughter, currently learning—with considerable difficulty—to live without the privileges I've always taken for granted."

  Mr. Brookfield's weathered face creased into an unexpected smile. "Honest, at least. That's something." He nodded toward his son. "Thomas said you've been working the fields. How are your hands holding up?"

  "Better than my pride," Rosalind replied honestly, earning a bark of ughter from the older man.

  "Pride heals slower than hands," he observed. "But it heals stronger in the end, if you let it."

  With the initial awkwardness navigated, the Brookfield family set about the familiar ritual of Sunday dinner with the easy coordination of people accustomed to working together. Mrs. Brookfield directed the final preparations of the meal while Mr. Brookfield and Thomas set the table—a substantial oak piece that dominated the center of the room. Rosalind, offered a seat by the fire as an honored guest, found herself instead asking how she might help.

  "You can bring the bread," Mrs. Brookfield suggested, indicating a rge covered basket. "Thomas mentioned you've been learning to bake at Thornfield."

  "Learning is perhaps generous," Rosalind admitted as she carefully transported the basket to the table. "I've produced several objects that technically qualify as bread, though their appearance is often arming and their texture unpredictable."

  This candid self-assessment earned another ugh from Mr. Brookfield and an approving nod from his wife. "Bread is unforgiving of impatience," Mrs. Brookfield observed. "It teaches you to respect its time, not impose your own."

  Soon they were seated around the table, which groaned beneath the weight of a roast chicken, various vegetables from the Brookfield garden, freshly baked bread, and a rge pot of savory gravy. It was a simple meal by the standards of Rosalind's previous life, where even informal family dinners had featured multiple courses prepared by professional chefs. Yet the aromas rising from the dishes were mouth-wateringly appealing, and Rosalind realized with surprise that she was genuinely hungry—a sensation she rarely experienced at formal court dinners where appearance and conversation took precedence over actual appetite.

  "We say grace before meals here," Mr. Brookfield informed her without apology. "You're welcome to join or not, as you prefer."

  "Of course," Rosalind nodded, bowing her head respectfully as the older man offered a straightforward thanks for the food, the hands that had prepared it, and the nd that had produced it.

  The meal that followed was unlike any dining experience in Rosalind's memory. There were no servants hovering at her elbow, no complex etiquette to navigate, no strategic conversation to manage. Instead, dishes were passed from hand to hand, second helpings were enthusiastically encouraged, and the conversation flowed naturally between topics both practical and surprisingly profound.

  Mr. Brookfield, initially reserved, proved to have strong opinions on everything from crop rotation to regional politics. Mrs. Brookfield banced her husband's occasional bluntness with warmth and wit, gently steering the conversation when it veered toward potentially contentious subjects. And Thomas, rexed in his family home in a way Rosalind hadn't seen before, revealed yet another facet of his character as he engaged his father in a good-natured debate about the merits of traditional versus modern farming techniques.

  "The old methods worked well enough for generations," Mr. Brookfield argued, helping himself to more chicken. "All these new ideas of yours—soil chemistry and mechanical innovations—they're expensive and unproven."

  "They're based on science, Father," Thomas countered with the patience of someone who had made this argument many times before. "And they've already proven themselves in our increased yields."

  "We've had good weather," Mr. Brookfield insisted, though without real heat. "That's the main factor."

  "The western field was failing three years ago, no matter the weather," Thomas reminded him. "After we implemented the new drainage system and crop rotation, it produced the best wheat harvest in the valley."

  "He has you there, George," Mrs. Brookfield interjected with a smile. "You called that drainage system a waste of good lumber until you saw the results."

  Mr. Brookfield harrumphed but didn't disagree. Instead, he turned his attention to Rosalind. "What do they teach noblewomen about agriculture in the capital? Anything useful, or just enough to make polite conversation at harvest festivals?"

  "Father," Thomas warned, but Rosalind shook her head slightly to indicate she wasn't offended.

  "Very little of practical value," she admitted. "Though my father did insist I learn the basics of estate management—crop yields, timber production, tenant agreements. He believes ndowners should understand the source of their wealth, not merely enjoy its benefits."

  "A sensible man, your father," Mr. Brookfield nodded approvingly. "Too many nobles treat their nd as an abstract concept rather than living soil."

  "I doubt he anticipated how concrete my education would become," Rosalind commented wryly, holding up her callused hands as evidence.

  This earned a genuine ugh from all three Brookfields, and the conversation shifted to Rosalind's experiences at Thornfield—her disastrous first attempt at milking, her ongoing battle with the bread oven, her gradual mastery of various field tasks under Thomas's tutege. To her surprise, she found herself able to recount these struggles with humor rather than bitterness, seeing them now as challenges navigated rather than humiliations endured.

  After the meal, while Mrs. Brookfield prepared coffee and Mr. Brookfield stepped outside to check on a newborn calf, Thomas invited Rosalind to see the farm's modest library—a small room adjoining the main living area where the Brookfield book collection was housed.

  "It's not the Imperial Library," he said as he opened the door, "but it's been my personal sanctuary since I was old enough to read."

  "It's wonderful," Rosalind said sincerely, taking in the floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with volumes of all sizes. A comfortable reading chair sat beside the room's single window, positioned to catch the natural light, with a small table beside it that currently held several open books and a notebook filled with Thomas's neat handwriting.

  "You're working on something," she observed, careful not to intrude by examining the notes too closely.

  "Always," Thomas acknowledged with a smile. "Currently it's a study of soil composition in different parts of the valley and its effect on crop yields. Not exactly thrilling reading for most people."

  "But important," Rosalind said, surprising herself with her genuine interest. "Your scientific approach to farming is what sets your family's nd apart, isn't it? That's why your yields have improved while others remain static."

  Thomas looked pleased by her perception. "Exactly. Farming isn't just physical bor—it's applied science. Understanding why certain practices work rather than simply following tradition allows for innovation and improvement."

  "Your father seems skeptical," Rosalind observed, remembering the dinner conversation.

  "He's cautious," Thomas corrected gently. "And with good reason. Failed experiments on a farm don't just mean wasted time—they can mean a season without income, or even hunger during winter months. His skepticism keeps my ideas grounded in practical reality."

  Rosalind considered this as she examined the bookshelves. Agricultural manuals and scientific texts dominated, but there were also volumes of history, philosophy, and—to her surprise—poetry.

  "Wordsworth?" she questioned, drawing out a well-worn collection.

  "'Nature never did betray the heart that loved her,'" Thomas quoted with a slightly self-conscious smile. "His understanding of man's retionship with the natural world speaks to me."

  "I wouldn't have expected a farmer to appreciate Romantic poetry," Rosalind admitted, then immediately regretted the presumption in her words.

  Rather than taking offense, Thomas simply raised an eyebrow. "Because farmers are concerned only with practical matters? Or because poetry is the exclusive domain of the educated elite?"

  "Neither," Rosalind protested, though she had to acknowledge there had been elements of both assumptions in her reaction. "It's just... unexpected."

  "Life is full of unexpected combinations," Thomas replied, taking the volume from her hands and repcing it on the shelf. "Like a duke's daughter who turns out to have a talent for sickle work, or a farmer who quotes Wordsworth while pnning crop rotations."

  The way he looked at her as he spoke—directly, without artifice or agenda—sent an unexpected warmth through Rosalind that had nothing to do with the summer heat or the hearty meal they'd shared. It was a sensation entirely different from the calcuted flirtations of courtiers or the strategic attentions of potential suitors. Thomas saw her—not as Lady Rosalind Harrington, potential political alliance or social stepping stone, but simply as a person worthy of honest conversation.

  The realization was both exhirating and terrifying.

  "I should check if your mother needs help with the coffee," Rosalind said abruptly, taking a step toward the door.

  Thomas didn't try to stop her, merely nodding in acknowledgment. "Of course. Though I warn you, she'll likely put you to work grinding the beans. Mother doesn't believe in idle hands, even for guests."

  "I've learned that idle hands are a luxury I can no longer afford," Rosalind replied, trying to recover her usual light tone. "Mrs. Hawthorn has made that abundantly clear."

  As she rejoined Mrs. Brookfield in the main room, helping to grind the coffee beans as Thomas had predicted, Rosalind found herself reflecting on the strange turns her life had taken. A month ago, she would have considered this simple Sunday dinner beneath her dignity—an event to be avoided at all costs or endured with condescending politeness if socially unavoidable.

  Now, she found herself genuinely enjoying the straightforward conversation, the simple but delicious food, and most disconcertingly, the company of a farmer's family who treated her as neither an exalted noble nor a disgraced exile, but simply as a welcome guest in their home.

  When it came time to return to Thornfield, Rosalind was surprised to find herself reluctant to leave. Mr. Brookfield, who had warmed considerably over the course of the afternoon, pressed a volume of regional agricultural history into her hands "for educational purposes," while Mrs. Brookfield provided the promised jar of healing salve along with a small packet of herb tea "to help you sleep after difficult days."

  "You must come again," Mrs. Brookfield insisted as Thomas prepared the cart. "Perhaps when the harvest is complete and we have more time for proper visiting."

  "I'd like that," Rosalind replied, surprised to discover she meant it sincerely.

  The journey back to Thornfield was quieter than their morning trip, a comfortable silence settling between Rosalind and Thomas as the cart traveled the now-familiar road. The te afternoon sun cast long shadows across the fields, turning the ndscape golden in a way that Rosalind, despite herself, found beautiful.

  "Thank you," she said finally as the Thornfield gates came into view. "For the invitation. I enjoyed meeting your family."

  "They liked you," Thomas replied simply. "Which doesn't surprise me, but might surprise you."

  "Why would it surprise me?"

  "Because you still think of yourself as separate from all this," he gestured at the countryside around them. "A temporary visitor to a world beneath your station."

  The observation, accurate as it was, stung more than Rosalind expected. "That's not entirely fair," she protested. "I've been trying to adapt, to learn."

  "You have," Thomas acknowledged. "But there's a difference between learning skills and accepting a pce. You're mastering the former while still holding yourself apart from the tter."

  It was another of his uncomfortably perceptive observations, delivered without judgment but with the clear expectation that she would consider it honestly rather than defensively. And he wasn't wrong—despite her growing competence at various farm tasks and her increasingly comfortable interactions with the estate workers, she still viewed herself as fundamentally separate from the community around her.

  "This isn't my world," she said finally as the cart stopped before the cottage she now called home. "No matter how well I learn to milk cows or bundle wheat, I was born to a different life. One I expect to return to eventually."

  Thomas studied her for a long moment before responding. "Perhaps. But consider this—you're experiencing something few in your position ever will: the chance to truly understand how the rest of the world lives. That knowledge can make you either a more compassionate ruler when you return to your 'real life,' or a more bitter exile clinging to lost privilege." He offered her his hand to help her down from the cart. "The choice is yours."

  As his warm, calloused palm closed around hers, Rosalind felt again that disconcerting flutter deep within her chest. "You always manage to turn a simple conversation into a philosophical challenge," she observed, trying to mask her confusion with humor.

  "One of my many irritating qualities," Thomas agreed with a smile. "Along with excessive punctuality and an unhealthy obsession with soil composition."

  The familiar banter helped restore Rosalind's equilibrium as she stepped down from the cart. "Thank you again for today," she said more formally. "Please convey my gratitude to your parents for their hospitality."

  "I will." Thomas hesitated, then added more softly, "Whatever you believe about your future, Rose, know that you're welcome in our home—not as the duke's daughter or an exile learning a lesson, but simply as yourself."

  With that, he tipped his hat in a gesture that managed to be both rustic and courtly, turned the cart, and headed back toward his family's farm, leaving Rosalind standing before her cottage with a borrowed book of agricultural history, a jar of homemade salve, and a growing suspicion that her "temporary" exile might be changing her in ways far more profound than her father had intended.