Thomas scowled. "Listen here, girl—"
"No, you listen," Beatrice cut him off, leaning over the counter. "That watch is worth twenty times what this miserable shop turns over in a year. You will weigh it, you will cut us a fair price for the meat, and you will give us the change in silver shillings. If you attempt to shortchange His Grace, I will personally walk this watch to the jeweler in York and tell every soul on the road that Thomas the butcher is a cheat who turns away honest gold. Do we understand each other?"
The shop was dead silent.
Arthur was staring at Beatrice, his breath caught in his throat. He had never seen someone defend him. He had spent years defending himself against the whispers, against the pity, against the rage. But this woman, who owed him nothing, had just thrown herself between him and the village's disdain like a shield.
Thomas looked from Beatrice to the grim, shocked face of the Duke. He grumbled, spitting into the sawdust on the floor.
"Fine," Thomas muttered, pulling out his ledger. "Let me see the watch."
Beatrice lifted her hand.
The transaction was tense, brisk, and fiercely negotiated by Beatrice, who haggled over the price of the bacon with the viciousness of a street dog defending a bone. Arthur stood behind her, silent. The rigid tension in his spine had slowly uncoiled.
Twenty minutes later, they walked out of the shop. Arthur carried a heavy sack over his shoulder. Beatrice carried a woven basket filled with wrapped meat and a dozen fresh eggs. In Arthur's pocket, heavy and solid, sat twenty silver shillings.
They walked back down the road, leaving the village behind. The wind was still biting, the road still muddy, but the walk felt entirely different.
When they reached the iron gates of the estate, Arthur finally stopped. He hoisted the heavy sack higher onto his shoulder. He looked down at Beatrice. Her nose was red from the cold, her hair blowing wildly in the wind.
"You did not have to do that," Arthur said. His voice was low. It wasn't the Duke speaking; it was just a man.
Beatrice adjusted her grip on the basket. She didn't look at him, keeping her eyes on the path ahead. "A man shouldn't be made to bleed in public," she said quietly. "The world is hard enough. We have food now. Let's go home."