Chapter 5
"Your Grace appears to be staring at the ceiling with unusual intensity. May I inquire if there's something particularly fascinating about it?"
Alaric didn't move from his position on the bed, fully dressed except for his coat, having given up on sleep approximately two hours ago. Which meant he'd been lying here since two in the morning, staring at absolutely nothing while his mind churned through conversations he shouldn't be replaying.
"Did you know, Grimsby, that some people fill empty spaces with activity to avoid thinking about loss?"
"I believe that's a common psychological response to grief, Your Grace."
"And did you also know that some people are so busy being strong that they forget it's acceptable to be tired?"
"That sounds like a very specific observation about a very specific person, Your Grace."
"It was a general philosophical observation."
"Of course, Your Grace. About no one in particular."
"Exactly."
"Certainly not about a certain baker's widow who Your Grace spent the evening observing."
"I observe everyone, Grimsby."
"Scientifically and neutrally, as Your Grace mentioned several times. With increasing emphasis."
Alaric finally turned his head to look at his valet, who was already dressed and pressed despite the ungodly hour. "What time is it?"
"Half past four, Your Grace."
"Why are you awake?"
"Your Grace has been sighing dramatically every three minutes for the past hour. It seemed prudent to be available in case Your Grace decided to do something inadvisable."
"I don't sigh dramatically."
"Your Grace just did it again."
"That was breathing with emphasis."
"If Your Grace says so." Grimsby moved to the window, pulling back the curtain slightly. "The bakery appears to be active, if Your Grace is interested in that sort of information."
"Why would I be interested in the operational hours of a bakery?"
"No reason at all, Your Grace. I merely thought Your Grace might want to know, given your sudden interest in local commerce."
Alaric sat up, running a hand through his hair. "I should review the ledgers."
"An excellent idea, Your Grace."
"The irregularities won't identify themselves."
"Indeed not, Your Grace."
"Financial accountability is crucial for proper estate management."
"Absolutely, Your Grace."
"I'll start immediately."
"The ledgers are on the desk, Your Grace."
Alaric stood, walked to the desk, looked at the ledgers, then walked to the window. The bakery was indeed lit, warm golden light spilling onto the snow-covered street. He could see movement inside—just shadows, but one shadow moved with particular purpose and efficiency.
"The thing is, Grimsby, as the new steward, I should probably understand all aspects of village life."
"Very thorough of Your Grace."
"Including local businesses."
"Naturally."
"And their operational patterns."
"Essential information for estate management."
"So really, investigating why the bakery opens at such an unusual hour would be part of my duties."
"Your Grace's dedication to duty is admirable."
"It has nothing to do with Mrs. Whitby."
"I never suggested it did, Your Grace."
"Good. Because it doesn't."
"Of course not, Your Grace."
"I'm simply being thorough."
"Exceptionally so, Your Grace."
Alaric grabbed his coat. "Don't wait up."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Your Grace.
Alaric gave his valet a look that would have quelled lesser men. Grimsby merely straightened an already straight cravat.
"Try not to propose marriage before breakfast, Your Grace."
"I'm going to review local business practices, not propose to anyone."
"How reassuring, Your Grace."
The pre-dawn air was sharp enough to cut, the kind of cold that made breathing feel like swallowing ice.
The village was silent except for the crunch of his boots on fresh snow.
No one else was mad enough to be awake at this hour, which suited Alaric perfectly.
He could investigate the bakery's operations without witnesses to his. .. investigation.
The bakery sat on the corner of the main square, its windows glowing like a lantern in the darkness. He could hear sounds from within; the clatter of pans, the thump of something heavy on wood, and was that singing? Someone was definitely singing, though the words were muffled by the walls.
He approached the window, trying to peer inside without looking like he was peering inside, which was exactly as difficult as it sounded. The glass was fogged with warmth, but he could make out the interior; a long counter, shelves already holding fresh loaves, and there, in the back, Marianne.
She was indeed singing, while wrestling with what appeared to be an enormous quantity of dough.
Her hair was pinned up but already escaping, creating that same halo effect he'd noticed yesterday.
She wore a practical brown dress under a flour-dusted apron, and her sleeves were rolled up to reveal surprisingly strong arms as she kneaded.
There was something mesmerizing about watching her work; the rhythm of it, the way she threw her whole body into the kneading, the unconscious grace of someone completely comfortable in their space.
She turned the dough, folded it, pressed down with the heels of her hands, turned again.
It was like a dance, if dancing involved violence toward wheat products.
He must have leaned too close to the window because his breath fogged the glass completely, obscuring his view. He raised his hand to wipe it clear but suddenly the bakery door exploded open.
Marianne burst out like a small hurricane, moving at considerable speed while balancing an enormous tray of what looked like enough mince pies to feed a small army. She was looking back over her shoulder, calling out, "I'll be back for the rest, Mother! Just keep them from..."
The collision was spectacular.
Alaric had exactly enough time to think "Oh, no" before Marianne's tray met his chest with remarkable force.
He went backward, she went forward, the tray went up, and the mince pies went everywhere.
The word "everywhere" didn't really do justice to the distribution—they seemed to achieve a sort of pastry omnipresence, defying physics in their determination to cover every available surface.
He hit the ground first, landing flat on his back in the snow with a thump that drove all air from his lungs.
Marianne landed on top of him a second later, her hands braced on either side of his head, their faces suddenly inches apart.
For a moment, neither moved, both too shocked to process the sudden proximity.
Her eyes were even more dangerous up close, and she smelled like cinnamon and butter and something uniquely her that made his brain stop functioning properly.
Her breath puffed white in the cold air between them, quick and startled.
A strand of her hair had come completely loose, hanging between them like a curtain, and he had the insane urge to tuck it behind her ear.
"Mr. Fletcher?" she said, her voice breathless.
"Mrs. Whitby," he managed, though his lungs were still recovering from the impact.
"You appear to be beneath me."
"You appear to be above me."
"This is somewhat improper."
"Somewhat? I believe this transcends somewhat and achieves completely."
"I should probably move."
"That would be advisable."
Neither of them moved.
"It's just," she said, "I'm fairly certain I've injured my knee, and if I move, I might injure something of yours."
"Something of mine is already injured. My dignity may never recover."
"Your dignity looked like it needed humbling anyway."
"I'll have you know my dignity was perfectly calibrated."
"Your dignity was lurking outside my bakery at four in the morning like a thief or a suitor, and I'm fairly certain you're not here to steal bread."
The implication hung between them for a moment before Marianne seemed to realize what she'd said. Her face, already pink from cold, turned a remarkable shade of red.
"I didn't mean...that is, I wasn't suggesting..."
"Of course not," Alaric said quickly. "You were simply observing that thieves and suitors are the only categories of person who lurk outside bakeries before dawn."
"Exactly. Those are the only two options."
"No third category exists."
"Absolutely not."
"Although," he said, because apparently his mouth had decided to operate independently of his brain, "technically, I wasn't lurking. I was investigating."
"Investigating what? Whether my windows fog properly?"
"The economic patterns of rural bakeries."
"At four-thirty in the morning?"
"I'm very dedicated to economic pattern analysis."
"You're very dedicated to something, but I don't think it's economics."
She shifted slightly, trying to push herself up, and her hand slipped on a patch of ice. She came back down, closer this time, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes.
"Oh, my goodness. Confound it," she breathed.
"Such language from a respectable widow."
"I'm covered in snow, lying on top of a relative stranger in the middle of the street, surrounded by the destroyed remains of four dozen mince pies. Respectability has already left for warmer climates."
"Four dozen? That seems excessive."
"They were for the fair committee breakfast meeting. Mrs. Morrison insists on feeding everyone as though they're preparing for hibernation." She paused. "Oh Heavens, Mrs. Morrison. She's going to have opinions about this."
"We could lie here until spring. She might forget by then."
"You clearly don't know Mrs. Morrison. She remembers every remotely scandalous thing that's happened in this village since 1750."
"She wasn't alive in 1750."
"She inherited the memories from her mother-in-law. It's like a family heirloom, but with more gossip."
A mince pie chose that moment to slide off the bakery's roof where it had somehow landed, hitting Alaric squarely on the forehead.
"I believe your pies are attacking me."
"They're defending my honour."