Chapter 1 #2
The journey north proceeded with the sort of monotonous efficiency that Alaric preferred.
They changed horses at Hatfield, where the innkeeper's wife attempted to press a mince pie upon him "for the journey, Your Grace, made with my own hands just this morning.
" Alaric regarded the pie with the same expression he might have worn if offered a small explosive device.
"Madam, I appreciate the gesture, but I make it a policy never to accept baked goods from strangers."
"But Your Grace, it's Christmas!"
"So I am repeatedly informed. The answer remains no."
The woman retreated, clutching her pie and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "unnatural." Alaric was not offended. He had been called far worse by far more distinguished persons.
"That was somewhat harsh, Your Grace," Grimsby observed as they resumed their journey.
"Was it? I thought I was rather polite. I didn't mention that her establishment smells like cabbage and disappointed dreams."
"The very soul of discretion, Your Grace."
They continued north as the morning gave way to afternoon, the landscape gradually shifting from the tamed prettiness of the Home Counties to something wilder, more honest. Alaric had always preferred the north.
It didn't pretend to be anything other than what it was; harsh, unforgiving, and utterly disinterested in one's comfort or consequence.
"Look, Your Grace," Grimsby said, gesturing toward the window. "Snow."
Indeed, the threatened snow had finally begun to fall, fat white flakes that seemed in no particular hurry to reach the ground. They drifted past the window with lazy grace, already beginning to dust the hedgerows and fields.
"How picturesque," Alaric said in a tone that suggested he found it anything but. "No doubt someone will compose a poem about it. 'Ode to Frozen Precipitation' or some such nonsense."
"I believe Your Grace once wrote poetry."
"I was seventeen and in love with my tutor's daughter. We all make mistakes in youth. The key is not to repeat them in maturity."
"What happened to the young lady, if I may ask?"
"She married and had six children. I received a letter last Christmas informing me that she names her chickens after Romantic poets. Apparently, Wordsworth produces exceptional eggs."
"A narrow escape, Your Grace."
"Indeed. Can you imagine? I might have been married to a woman who anthropomorphises poultry."
The snow grew heavier as they traveled, transforming the landscape into something from a children's story—all soft edges and mysterious shadows.
Alaric watched it with deep suspicion. Snow, in his experience, was nature's way of making everything more difficult while pretending to make it more beautiful.
Rather like Christmas itself, come to think of it.
"Are you certain Fletcher is expecting us, Your Grace?" Grimsby asked as they paused to rest the horses at a posting inn near Leicester.
"I sent word three weeks ago. Though given his recent correspondence, or lack thereof, I'm not entirely certain he can read.
His last letter contained more ink blots than words and seemed to suggest that the entire east wing had been invaded by moths or goths.
His handwriting left the matter unclear. "
"Perhaps he meant guests, Your Grace."
"At Hollingford? Who would guest at Hollingford? It's three hours from the nearest proper town and the last time I visited, which was many years ago, the most exciting local entertainment was watching the blacksmith shoe horses."
"Rural communities often have their own diversions, Your Grace."
"Yes, I'm familiar with rural diversions. They generally involve either alcohol, violence, or livestock, and sometimes an unfortunate combination of all three."
The inn at Leicester proved to be slightly more sophisticated than their previous stop, though the innkeeper still felt compelled to offer them what he called "traditional Christmas cheer," which appeared to be a cup of something that smelled like paint thinner mixed with cinnamon.
"For the cold, Your Grace," the man said, beaming as though he'd offered liquid gold.
Alaric accepted the cup, took the smallest possible sip, and managed not to visibly recoil. "Fascinating. What do you call this beverage?"
"Mulled wine, Your Grace."
"Wine seems rather a generous description. Still, I appreciate the gesture." He set the cup down and would have walked away, but the innkeeper was still hovering expectantly. "Was there something else?" Alaric asked.
"Well, Your Grace, seeing as it's the season and all, I wondered if you might be interested in contributing to our local orphans' fund. We're trying to raise money for Christmas dinners for the poor children."
Alaric studied the man for a long moment. "How much do you need?"
"Whatever Your Grace sees fit to..."
"No, how much do you need? Total. For all the dinners."
The innkeeper blinked. "Well, I suppose... twenty pounds would feed them all quite handsomely, Your Grace."
Alaric reached into his coat and withdrew his purse. He counted out fifty pounds and placed them on the bar. "Twenty for the dinners, twenty for warm clothes, and ten for you to stop serving that abomination you call mulled wine."
The innkeeper stared at the money as though it might disappear. "Your Grace, this is... this is most generous!"
"It's not generous, it's practical. Hungry children grow up to be desperate adults, and desperate adults are bad for property values. Pure self-interest, I assure you."
But as they returned to the carriage, Grimsby noticed his master didn't look quite as severe as usual.
"That was kind, Your Grace."
"That was strategic investment in social stability. Entirely different thing."
"Of course, Your Grace."
"Stop smirking, Grimsby."
"I'm not smirking, Your Grace. This is my normal face."
"Your normal face looks suspiciously pleased."
"Perhaps it's the Christmas spirit, Your Grace."
Alaric made a sound that in a less dignified man might have been called a snort.
The afternoon wore on, and the snow continued to fall with increasing enthusiasm. What had begun as a picturesque dusting was rapidly becoming what Bridges would probably call "a bit of weather," which in coachman speak meant anything from a light drizzle to the apocalypse.
"How much farther to Hollingford?" Alaric asked, consulting his pocket watch. It was nearly four o'clock, and the light was already beginning to fade.
"Another hour in good conditions, Your Grace," Grimsby replied, peering out at the steadily worsening weather. "Perhaps two in this."
"Marvelous. We'll arrive in the dark, in a snowstorm, at a house that hasn't been properly inhabited in years. It's like something from one of those novels my cousin Augusta insists on leaving around my library."
"The ones Your Grace claims never to read?"
"I've glanced at them. Purely to understand what drives seemingly intelligent women to such literary depths. Did you know that in the one she left last month, the heroine fainted seventeen times? Seventeen! In three hundred pages! The woman needed medical attention, not a brooding hero."
"Perhaps fainting was fashionable."
"If unconsciousness becomes fashionable, I'm retreating to an abbey. Though knowing my luck, they'd probably celebrate Christmas too."
The carriage hit a particularly impressive rut, sending both occupants briefly airborne.
"I beg your pardon, Your Grace!" Bridges called from his perch. "The road seems to have opinions about our presence!"
"The road," Alaric called back, "can take its opinions and..." He caught Grimsby's reproving look. "Never mind, Bridges. Carry on. Try not to kill us."
"Right you are, Your Grace!"