Chapter 2 #3
Marianne smiled, settling into a chair by the fire with an ease that suggested she was familiar with this room. "London society is strange in boring ways. All those rules about who can talk to whom and when you can wear what color gloves. Here, we're strange in interesting ways."
Alaric found himself sitting down across from her, which he hadn't intended to do. He'd meant to excuse himself, find Grimsby, and organize his temporary accommodation with minimal fuss. Instead, he was sitting by a fire talking to a flour-dusted widow about Christmas decorations.
"So, Mr. Fletcher," Marianne said, those dangerous eyes studying him with curiosity, "what brings a man who clearly despises Christmas to a Christmas-obsessed village in the middle of December?"
"Duty," he said simply. "The estate needs management, and the duke requires someone to oversee things."
"And he chose you?"
"I like to think I chose myself. The position was available, and I have experience with... difficult situations."
"Is that what we are? A difficult situation?"
"You're currently orchestrating a fair without a proper steward, your previous steward was apparently a thief, and you've wedged a star the size of a barn between two buildings. What would you call it?"
"Tuesday in Hollingford."
Despite himself, he smiled. "Does this sort of thing happen often?"
"More than you'd think. Last spring, someone decided to cut a tree without telling anyone and it accidentally fell through the bakery window. That was also a Tuesday, come to think of it."
"Your bakery window?"
"The very same. Though it gave me an excuse to get new glass, so really it worked out."
"You're remarkably philosophical about property damage."
"When you live in a village this small, you learn to be philosophical about everything. Otherwise, you'd go insane from the proximity."
"And yet you stay."
She shrugged. "It's home. My mother's here, the bakery's here, and despite their many, many flaws, I'm fond of these ridiculous people."
"Even Mrs. Morrison and her mistletoe?"
"Especially Mrs. Morrison. She drove thirty miles through a snowstorm when my husband died, just to make sure I was eating. She can hang all the mistletoe she wants."
There was a warmth in her voice that Alaric found oddly affecting. He'd never had that—that sense of community, of belonging. Even his own estates were just places he visited, duties he performed.
"Your husband," he said carefully, "was he from the village?"
"No, from another village actually. We met when he was visiting his cousin.
He thought marrying a country baker's daughter was a grand adventure.
" Her smile was soft, tinged with old sadness.
"Turned out he was right, just not in the way he expected.
He caught a serious cold our second winter here. "
"I'm sorry."
"As I said, it was three years ago. And he gave me some good years before that. More than some people get."
Before Alaric could respond, the door burst open and Grimsby appeared, looking slightly snow-covered and definitely disapproving.
"Mr. Fletcher," he said, with only the slightest emphasis on the name, "I've brought your bags."
"Ah, Grimsby. Excellent. This is Mrs. Whitby. She's been explaining the local customs."
Grimsby's expression suggested he had opinions about his master adopting false identities and chatting with widows in inn parlors, but he merely bowed slightly. "Madam."
"And you are?" Marianne asked.
"Grimsby is my... valet," Alaric said, realizing too late that stewards probably didn't have valets.
Marianne's eyebrows rose slightly. "Your valet. How... unusual for a steward."
"The duke insisted," Alaric said quickly. "He's very particular about his employees maintaining certain standards."
"Even the employees he never visits?"
"Especially those. Distance makes him more suspicious, not less."
"He sounds delightful."
"He's efficient," Alaric said, then felt odd defending himself to himself. "And he pays well."
"When he remembers to pay at all. The household budget has been three months late for the past two years."
Alaric made a mental note to have sharp words with his London steward. Out loud, he said, "I'll look into that."
"Would you? Mrs. Appleby will be grateful. She's been buying supplies on credit."
The door opened again, and Mrs. Morrison bustled in with a tea tray that seemed to have more cakes than any three people could reasonably eat.
"Here we are!" she announced. "Fresh tea and some of Marianne's lovely cakes from this morning. You must try the seed cake, Mr. Fletcher. Marianne has a particular way with seed cake."
"I'm sure she does," Alaric said, eyeing the cake with the suspicion of a man who'd once been poisoned by a similar-looking dessert at a county ball.
"Oh, don't look at it like it might bite," Marianne said. "It's just cake."
"In my experience, nothing is as it seems."
"Your experience with cake sounds traumatic."
"You weren't at Lady Rhodes's summer gathering three years ago. The cucumber sandwiches achieved independent thought."
Marianne laughed while Mrs. Morrison looked shocked. "Lady Rhodes? The London Lady Rhodes?"
"Yes," Alaric said, then realized a steward probably wouldn't have attended Lady Rhodes's gatherings. "I was there on business. With my previous employer."
"Oh, how exciting! You must tell us all about London society, Mr. Fletcher. We get so little news here."
"London society is ninety percent tedium and ten percent scandal, with occasional intervals of bad music."
"How thrilling! Which ten percent did you witness?"
"Mostly the tedium, I'm afraid. Though I did once see a duchess throw a dinner roll at an ambassador."
"No!" both women exclaimed in unison.
"It was quite expertly done. Hit him right in the monocle."
"But why?" Marianne asked, leaning forward with interest.
"He suggested her musical evening had been 'ambitious.' In duchess-speak, that's basically a declaration of war."
"And she responded with bread warfare?"
"It was either that or challenge him to a duel, and dueling is so messy. Much better to stick with baked goods."
"I'll remember that next time someone criticizes my baking," Marianne said. "Though I'd probably use something harder than a dinner roll. My Tuesday loaves could probably breach castle walls."
"Your Tuesday loaves are perfectly fine," Mrs. Morrison protested.
"Mrs. Morrison, my Tuesday loaves have been classified as weapons by the local constable."
"That was only once, and Thomas deserved it for saying your cherry tart was soggy."
"It was soggy."
"Details," Mrs. Morrison said, waving dismissively.
Alaric found himself enjoying this ridiculous conversation more than any he'd had in London in the past year.
There was something refreshing about the easy banter, the lack of hidden meanings and social maneuvering.
Marianne said her cherry tart was soggy, and she meant exactly that—not that someone's reputation was questionable or that their marriage prospects were dim.