Chapter 4
"Dough can be difficult?" Alaric asked as she took the seat beside him.
"Oh yes. Today's batch had opinions about proper development."
"And you disagreed?"
"Vehemently. We had words. Well, I had words. The dough maintained a sullen silence."
"Who won?"
"Ask me tomorrow when you see the bread. If it's edible, I won. If it's suitable for building material, the dough won."
Mrs. Morrison immediately began fussing over Marianne, insisting she eat something "substantial" and pushing various dishes toward her with determination.
"I'm fine, Mrs. Morrison."
"You're too thin."
"I'm exactly the right amount of thin."
"Men like women with some meat on them."
"Then it's fortunate I'm not trying to attract men."
"Of course not, dear," Mrs. Morrison said, while in an unsubtle manner gesturing toward Alaric.
Marianne caught the gesture and rolled her eyes. "Subtle as always, Mrs. Morrison."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You're literally pointing at Mr. Fletcher."
"I'm reaching for the salt."
"The salt is on the other side of the table."
"The other salt."
"There is no other salt."
"Then I'm gesturing expansively."
"At Mr. Fletcher's face?"
"It's a very gesturable face."
Alaric nearly choked on his wine. "I'm not sure that's a word."
"It is now," Mrs. Morrison said firmly. "I just made it up."
"You can't just make up words," the land steward protested.
"Why not? Someone made up all the other words."
"That's what Thomas said about rules," Marianne noted.
"Smart boy. Gets it from his mother."
"His mother thinks parsnips are a fruit," Mr. Ironwell said.
"They're sweet!" Mrs. Ironwell defended.
"So is some medicine, but we don't put it in fruit salad."
"That's because it's poisonous in big amounts, Harold."
"So are some fruit if you eat the seeds."
"What fruit?"
"Apples. Apple seeds contain something poisonous."
"In tiny amounts," Alaric felt compelled to point out. "You'd need to eat about two hundred apple seeds to get a fatal dose."
Everyone stared at him.
"Why do you know that?" Marianne asked.
"General education."
"That's very specific for general education."
"I had a very thorough education."
"In poisoning?"
"In chemistry. Poisoning was merely a subset."
"That's reassuring," Marianne said dryly. "The duke's steward knows exactly how many apple seeds it takes to kill someone."
"Only approximately. It would depend on body weight and individual sensitivity."
"Oh well, that's much better."
The conversation devolved into a heated debate about which common foods were secretly poisonous, with Mr. Ironwell insisting that tomatoes were "suspicious" and Mrs. Martin claiming she'd once been "nearly killed" by an underdone potato.
"You can't be nearly killed by a potato," her husband protested.
"I was violently ill!"
"That's not the same as nearly killed."
"It felt like death."
"You said the same thing about your cousin's wedding."
"That also felt like death. Have you met my cousin?"
Throughout dinner, Alaric found himself increasingly aware of Marianne beside him—the way she laughed at the ridiculous arguments, how she absently tucked her hair behind her ear when thinking, the small gestures she made while talking.
It was deeply unsettling. He was the Duke of Wexmere.
He did not notice provincial widows' hair-tucking habits.
"You're staring," Marianne said quietly, not looking at him.
"I'm observing the table dynamics."
"You're staring at me."
"You're part of the table dynamics."
"I'm eating soup."
"Dynamically."
She turned to face him fully. "Mr. Fletcher, are you flirting with me?"
"Absolutely not. I don't flirt."
"What do you do?"
"I make observations."
"Romantic observations?"
"Scientifically neutral observations."
"About my soup-eating."
"About your dynamic soup-eating."
"That might be the strangest compliment I've ever received."
"It wasn't a compliment. It was an observation."
"A complimentary observation?"
"A neutral observation that you're choosing to interpret favorably."
"So you're saying I eat soup well?"
"I'm saying nothing about your soup consumption."
"You literally just..."
"Would anyone like pudding?" Mrs. Morrison interrupted loudly, clearly having been eavesdropping. "We have Christmas pudding!"
"It's not Christmas yet," the land steward pointed out.
"It's Christmas season. That counts."
"By that logic, we could have Christmas pudding from November through January."
"What a wonderful idea!"
The pudding was produced with great ceremony, flamed dramatically, nearly setting Mr. Ironwell's borrowed coat on fire, and served with brandy butter that was more brandy than butter.
"This is excellent, Mrs. Morrison," Alaric said, surprising himself by meaning it.
"Marianne made it, actually."
He looked at Marianne, who was suddenly very interested in her plate. "I thought you made bread."
"I make many things."
"When do you sleep?"
"Sleep is for people without flour deliveries at four in the morning."
"That sounds awful."
"It's peaceful, actually. Just me and the dough and the ovens. No one asking me to organize things or hang garlands or rescue their husbands from trees."
"Hey!" Mr. Ironwell protested. "I was helping!"
"You were decorating the tree with yourself, Harold," his wife said.
"That's still helping. I was very festive."
After dinner, the gathering moved to the parlor, where someone had produced a fiddle and people were making noises about dancing.
"Oh no," Alaric muttered.
"Oh yes," Marianne said, grinning at his expression. "Village dancing. It's like London dancing but with more enthusiasm and less skill."
"That sounds terrifying."
"It is. Want to escape?"
"Desperately."
"Come on. I know a way out through the kitchen."
She grabbed his hand, casual, unthinking, and pulled him through the crowd. Her hand was warm and flour-rough and fit oddly well in his. Not that he was noticing. He was simply observing. Scientifically.
The kitchen was empty, the staff having joined the others, and Marianne led him out the back door into the snow-quiet night.
"Better?" she asked, releasing his hand.
"Much." He tried not to notice the loss of warmth but failed. "Though won't they notice we're gone?"
"Oh, they'll notice. There shall be gossip by morning."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
She shrugged. "There's always gossip. Last week, everyone was convinced I was secretly courting the butcher because I ordered extra lamb."
"Were you?"
"Have you seen our butcher? He's seventy and believes bathing weakens the constitution."
"Ah."
"Besides, I needed the lamb for a large order. But try explaining that to Mrs. Martin."
They stood in the kitchen garden, snow falling softly around them. The noise from the inn was muffled, distant, like something from another world.
"Can I ask you something?" Marianne said.
"You've been asking me things all evening."
"Something serious."
"As opposed to our very frivolous discussion of apple seed poisoning?"
"Mr. Fletcher." Her voice had changed, become softer, less certain. "Why did the duke really send you here?"
"To review the estate. I told you."
"Yes, but why now? Why December? It can't be coincidence."
Alaric was silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "The irregularities in the ledgers have become... pronounced."
"You mean Fletcher was stealing more than candlesticks and brandy."
"That would be the logical conclusion."
"How much?"
"I'm still determining that."
"But enough to finally get the duke's attention."
"Yes."
She wrapped her arms around herself, though whether from cold or emotion, he couldn't tell. "It's strange. Fletcher seemed so... proper. Boring, even. Then one day he's gone, and we find out he's been skimming from everyone's rents."
"Everyone's?"
"Oh yes. Charging the tenants one amount, reporting another to the estate, pocketing the difference. Some families have been struggling to make the inflated payments."
Alaric felt a cold anger settle in his chest. His tenants, his responsibility, had been suffering while he sat in London, ignoring his duties.
"I'll fix it," he said.
Marianne looked at him sharply. "You'll fix it?"
"The estate will make restitution. Once I determine the full extent of the theft."
"That's... that's very generous."
"It's not generous. It's just. The estate failed in its duty of oversight."
"You mean the duke failed."
"Yes."
She studied him in the dim light. "You don't like him much, do you? The duke?"
"I don't know him well enough to like or dislike him."
"But you work for him."
"That doesn't require liking."
"It must be strange, though. Managing the life of someone you never see."
"No stranger than him owning the lives of people he never sees."
"That's a rather radical sentiment, Mr. Fletcher."
"Is it? It seems merely observational."
"Observation seems to be your primary skill."
"It's useful."
"What do you observe about me?"
The question caught him off-guard. "What?"
"You've been observing me all evening. What do you see?"
He should have deflected, made a jest, changed the subject. Instead, he found himself answering honestly.
"I see someone who holds everyone together while letting no one hold her. I see someone who makes everyone else's problems her responsibility while never asking for help with her own. I see someone who's so busy being strong that she's forgotten it's all right to be tired."
Marianne stared at him, her eyes wide. "That's... that's not observation. That's mind-reading."
"It's pattern recognition. You do the same thing my..." He caught himself. "The same thing I've seen in others who've lost someone important. You fill every moment with activity so you don't have to think about the empty spaces."
"And what would you know about loss, Mr. Fletcher?"
"More than you might think."
They stood there, the snow falling between them like a curtain, separating them from the warm, noisy world of the inn.