Chapter 4 #2
"I should go," Marianne said finally. "Early morning, bread to bake, empty spaces to avoid filling."
"Marianne..."
"Goodnight, Mr. Fletcher. Thank you for helping with the star."
She was gone before he could respond, disappearing into the snowy night with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly how to escape uncomfortable conversations.
Alaric stood in the garden a while longer, snow gathering on his shoulders, wondering what exactly he thought he was doing. He'd come here to review ledgers and fix problems, not to notice how widows tucked their hair or to have deeply personal conversations in snowy gardens.
"Your Grace."
He turned to find Grimsby, holding an umbrella and looking even more disapproving than usual.
"Are you planning to freeze to death, Your Grace? It would be inconvenient for the estate."
"Always thinking of the estate, Grimsby."
"Someone has to, Your Grace."
They walked back through the inn, where the dancing had reached levels of enthusiasm that bordered on violence. Alaric glimpsed Mr. Ironwell spinning his wife with such vigor that nearby furniture was in danger.
"They seem happy," he observed.
"Simple pleasures for simple people, Your Grace."
"There's nothing simple about these people, Grimsby."
"No, Your Grace?"
"They're remarkably complex. Frustratingly so."
"If you say so."
"I do say so."
"Then it must be true, Your Grace."
"Your agreement sounds like disagreement again and please stop calling me Your Grace."
"Years of practice, Your…… Mr. Fletcher."
Back in his room, Alaric stood at the window, looking out at the village square.
Someone, probably Marianne, had organized the cleaning up of the day's decorating debris.
The tree stood tall and straight, its star catching the moonlight when the clouds parted.
It was, he had to admit, rather beautiful.
Not that he was developing sentiment about Christmas decorations. He was simply observing. Scientifically. Neutrally.
Below, he could see a figure moving through the square—Marianne, heading back to the bakery, her shawl pulled tight against the cold. She paused beneath the tree, looking up at the star, and even from this distance, he could see her smile.
He stepped back from the window before she could look up and see him watching like some sort of Gothic novel hero...or villain, depending on one's perspective.
"Would Your Grace like me to prepare your things for tomorrow?" Grimsby asked.
"Tomorrow?"
"I believe Mrs. Morrison mentioned something about garland hanging. Repeatedly. With increasing volume."
"Oh my goodness."
"I could tell her you are indisposed."
"No. If I'm supposed to be the steward, I should participate."
"You are taking this charade very seriously."
"I always take my charades seriously, Grimsby."
"Of course, Your Grace. Though this particular charade seems to involve more widows than usual."
"There's one widow."
"One widow who Your Grace spent the evening observing 'scientifically.'"
"I observe everyone scientifically."
"Your Grace has never observed me scientifically."
"That's because you're not..." Alaric stopped.
"Not what, Your Grace?"
"Not requiring observation."
"How reassuring."
"Go to bed, Grimsby."
"Very good, Your Grace. Try not to observe anything too scientifically before morning."
After Grimsby left, Alaric sat at the small writing desk, intending to review the ledgers he'd brought. Instead, he found himself thinking about coffee-colored eyes and flour-dusted hands and laughter that cut through cold air like warmth.
This was ridiculous. He was the Duke of Wexmere. He had responsibilities, duties, a life in London that made sense. He did not develop... whatever this was... for provincial bakers who organized Christmas fairs and argued with dough.
And yet.
He opened the first ledger, determined to focus on numbers and facts and things that could be properly categorized and filed.
But the numbers kept blurring into images of Marianne standing beneath the star, smiling at something that had nothing to do with him but that he somehow wanted to be part of.
"This," he said to the empty room, "is what comes of leaving London in December."
The room, being a room, didn't respond. But somewhere in the distance, he could hear carolers starting up, their voices carrying across the snow-muffled village.
Alaric closed the ledger. Tomorrow, he would review the accounts. Tomorrow, he would be the efficient, emotionless steward he was pretending to be. Tomorrow, he would stop noticing things about Marianne Whitby that he had no business noticing.
But tonight, just tonight, he sat by the window and listened to the carolers, watching snow fall on a village that was trying very hard to show him something about Christmas that he'd spent many years trying not to see.
The truly disturbing part was that it might be working.
Outside, the star atop the tree continued to gleam, a beacon in the winter darkness, suggesting possibilities that Alaric wasn't quite ready to acknowledge but couldn't quite ignore.
Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight. December sixteenth. Nine days until Christmas.
Nine days to fix the estate problems and return to London.
Nine days to remain unaffected.
Nine days to resist whatever magic Hollingford and its inhabitants, one inhabitant in particular, were trying to weave around him.
He had a sinking feeling nine days wasn't going to be nearly enough.
Or possibly, it was going to be far too many.
Either way, the Duke of Wexmere was in trouble, and for once in his extremely well-ordered life, he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
Except, perhaps, to let it happen and see where it led.
Which was either the best or worst idea he'd ever had.
Time, as it always did, would tell.
But for now, he sat and watched the snow fall on a village preparing for Christmas, and for the first time in years, he felt something that might have been…, if he'd been willing to admit it, hope.
Or possibly indigestion from Mrs. Morrison's brandy butter.
He preferred to think it was the latter.
But he knew deep inside that it was almost certainly the former.