Chapter 3
"So, Mr. Fletcher," Mrs. Morrison said, settling into what was clearly going to be an interrogation disguised as conversation, "are you married?"
"Mrs. Morrison!" Marianne protested.
"What? It's a reasonable question. A handsome man of his age, surely some sensible woman has snapped him up."
"No one has snapped me anywhere," Alaric said. "I remain unsnapped."
"How extraordinary. And why is that?"
"Perhaps I'm not as handsome as you suggest."
"Nonsense. You have excellent bone structure and all your teeth. That's more than most men can claim."
"The bar seems rather low."
"You haven't seen the local options," Marianne muttered, then blushed when she realized she'd said it out loud.
"Are the local men particularly toothless?" Alaric asked.
"Not toothless, just..." Marianne searched for a word. "Agricultural."
"She means they smell like sheep," Mrs. Morrison clarified helpfully.
"I did not mean that!"
"You did a little."
"Maybe a little," Marianne admitted. "But it's an honest living."
"Of course it is, dear. But you can't marry a man who smells like livestock. Think of the wedding night."
"Mrs. Morrison!" Marianne's face had turned an impressive shade of red.
"What? I'm being practical. Physical compatibility is important in a marriage."
Alaric choked on his tea. Grimsby, still standing by the door, made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh or possibly a death rattle.
"I think," Marianne said, standing abruptly, "I should get back to the bakery. The afternoon bread won't bake itself."
"But you've only just sat down," Mrs. Morrison protested.
"And now I'm standing up. Mr. Fletcher, it was interesting to meet you. I'm sure we'll see each other around the village. It's rather unavoidable."
"I look forward to the inevitability," he said, standing as well.
She gave him an odd look, as though trying to figure out if he was making fun of her or not, then seemed to decide it didn't matter. "Try not to let Mrs. Morrison force-feed you too much cake. She believes sugar solves all problems."
"It does!" Mrs. Morrison insisted.
"It causes more problems than it solves," Marianne countered.
"Details," Mrs. Morrison said again.
Marianne shook her head, gave a small curtsy that seemed more mocking than respectful, and left. Alaric watched her go, noting the way she ducked under the mistletoe with practiced ease and how she immediately started issuing orders to someone about garland placement the moment she stepped outside.
"She's a lovely girl," Mrs. Morrison said, following his gaze.
"She's certainly... energetic."
"She's been holding this village together since her husband died. Took over the bakery from her mother, organizes all the events, makes sure the elderly have enough food in winter. She's a treasure."
"She sounds exhausting."
"She's lonely," Mrs. Morrison said, with surprising insight. "Oh, she'd never admit it because she is too proud. But you can see it sometimes, when she thinks no one's looking. She gets this expression like she's forgotten something important but can't remember what."
Alaric didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing.
"Well," Mrs. Morrison continued, "I'll show you to your room. You must be tired after your journey."
The room was, as promised, the inn's best, which meant it was clean, had a fire already laid, and only featured a moderate amount of Christmas decoration. The view did indeed overlook the square, where Marianne was now directing what appeared to be the untangling of a massive knot of lights.
"Dinner is at seven," Mrs. Morrison informed him. "We're having roast goose, in honour of the season."
"How festive," Alaric said dryly.
"That's the spirit! Oh, and Mr. Fletcher? Do be careful moving about the inn. The mistletoe has a tendency to appear in unexpected places."
"It spontaneously generates?"
"Something like that." She gave him a wink that was deeply alarming and left.
Grimsby immediately began unpacking with the efficiency of long practice. "Your Grace..."
"Not here, Grimsby. The walls probably have ears. Also eyes and possibly strong opinions."
"Very well, Mr. Fletcher." The emphasis on the false name conveyed volumes of disapproval. "May I ask what His Grace is thinking?"
"Honestly? I have no idea. I intended to go straight to the hall, review the books, and leave. Instead, I'm apparently staying at an inn run by a madwoman and have somehow become involved in Christmas fair preparations."
"If I may say so, Your...eh, Mr. Fletcher, this seems unnecessarily complicated."
"Everything about this is unnecessarily complicated. Did you know the previous steward was a thief?"
"I gathered as much from Mrs. Whitby's comments."
"And the house is apparently uninhabitable."
"Also gathered."
"And the entire village is Christmas-obsessed to a degree that borders on medical concern."
"That was evident from the decorated sheep I observed."
"The what?"
"Someone has dressed several sheep in red and green ribbons. They're in the field behind the inn."
Alaric moved to the window and looked out. Indeed, a small flock of sheep stood in the snowy field, each wearing what appeared to be festive ribbons tied in bows around their necks.
"That's disturbing."
"That's festive, apparently."
"Grimsby, what have I gotten us into?"
"If I may be so bold, Mr. Fletcher, you've gotten yourself into a situation where you're pretending to be your own employee while staying in a Christmas-mad village during the height of Christmas madness."
"When you put it like that, it sounds like poor planning."
"I would never suggest such a thing."
"You're suggesting it right now."
"I'm merely observing, Mr. Fletcher."
Alaric continued staring out the window.
Marianne had managed to untangle the lights and was now directing their placement with the intensity of a military campaign.
She had a smudge of something, possibly pine sap, on her cheek and her hair was now completely free of its pins, falling around her shoulders in dark waves.
She looked absolutely nothing like the elegant ladies of London society, and yet. ..
"She's rather pretty," he said without meaning to.
"Mrs. Whitby? I suppose she has a certain rural charm."
"Rural charm. You make her sound like a thatched cottage."
"I apologize. She has a certain non-agricultural appeal."
"That's worse, Grimsby."
"I'm not the one staring at her from a window like a gothic novel villain."
Alaric stepped back from the window. "I wasn't staring. I was observing. There's a difference."
"Of course, there is."
"Your agreement sounds suspiciously like disagreement."
"Years of practice, Mr. Fletcher."
A knock at the door interrupted what was becoming a familiar pattern of verbal sparring. Grimsby opened it to reveal a young boy, perhaps twelve, covered in snow and pine needles.
"Begging your pardon, sir," the boy said to Alaric, "but Mrs. Whitby says if you're really the new steward, you ought to come see about the star placement. She says you had opinions about geometry."
"I had observations about physics."
"She said you'd say that, and to tell you that observations without action are just fancy complaining."
Alaric blinked. "She said that?"
"Well, she used more words, but that was the general meaning."
"And if I decline?"
"She said to tell you that would be expected but disappointing."
"Expected but disappointing."
"Yes, sir. She also said something about London men and their delicate constitutions, but I wasn't supposed to repeat that part."
"Yet you did."
"Must have slipped out, sir."
The boy grinned, unrepentant, and Alaric found himself oddly charmed. Children in London were either terrified of him or sickeningly obsequious. This one seemed to view him as a source of mild entertainment.
"What's your name?" Alaric asked.
"Thomas, sir. Thomas Ironwell."
"Well, Thomas Ironwell, you may tell Mrs. Whitby that my constitution, delicate or otherwise, will be down shortly."
"She said you'd say that too."
"Did she predict anything I might do that would surprise her?"
"She said if you actually helped with the star, she'd eat her best Sunday bonnet."
"Her best Sunday bonnet."
"The one with the blue ribbons and the fake cherries."
"Then by all means, let's make sure she has an interesting meal."
Thomas grinned wider and scampered off. Alaric could hear him clattering down the stairs, probably leaving snow and pine needles in his wake.
"Your Grace," Grimsby said carefully, "are you actually going to help with Christmas decorations?"
"Apparently I am."
"May I ask why?"
"Scientific curiosity. I want to see if Mrs. Whitby actually owns a bonnet with fake cherries."
"That seems like a lot of effort for fruit-based millinery confirmation."
"Also, if I'm supposed to be the steward, I should probably act like one. Stewards help with village things, don't they?"
"I believe they typically maintain a professional distance."
"Well, I'm not a typical steward."
"No, Your Grace is a duke pretending to be a steward, which is significantly less typical."
"Your point is noted."
"But Your Grace is going anyway."
"Yes."
"Would Your Grace like his coat?"
"That would be helpful, but stop calling me Your Grace."
Grimsby fetched the coat, holding it out with the air of a man sending his master off to war. "Try not to volunteer for anything else, Your… Mr. Fletcher. You have a tendency to become involuntarily involved."
"I do not become involuntarily involved."
"You once ended up judging a pie contest because you made the mistake of walking past at the wrong moment."
"That was different."
"You ended up married to pie judgment for three hours."
"The pies needed judging. It was a public service."
"Of course, it was."
Alaric shrugged on his coat and headed for the door, then paused. "Grimsby, if anyone asks, you're my valet because the duke is particular about his servants' standards."