Chapter 5 #2
"Your honour needs better soldiers. These ones are crumbly."
Marianne laughed, the sound bright and warm in the cold morning air, and Alaric felt something in his chest tighten.
This was dangerous. This was very, very dangerous.
He was lying in the snow with a provincial baker's widow on top of him, covered in pastry, and all he could think about was how her laugh made him want to make her laugh again.
"We really should get up," Marianne said, though she still hadn't moved.
"Yes."
"People will be waking soon."
"Undoubtedly."
"This will be the talk of the village for months."
"Years, probably."
"Decades if Mrs. Morrison has her way."
"Centuries. They'll build a monument. 'Here lies where the duke's steward was assassinated by pies.'"
"That's a terrible monument inscription."
"I'm open to suggestions."
"'Here lies where Marianne Whitby finally lost the last shred of her reputation.'"
"That's rather long for a plaque."
"Fine. 'Here lies where everything went wrong.'"
"Pessimistic."
"Realistic."
"Is it though?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, loaded with more meaning than he'd intended.
Marianne went very still, looking at him with an expression he couldn't read. "Mr. Fletcher..."
"Marianne Whitby, what on earth are you doing?"
They both turned their heads to see Mrs. Morrison standing in the inn doorway, fully dressed despite the hour, looking like Christmas had come early and brought her the gift of premium gossip.
"Good morning, Mrs. Morrison," Marianne called with admirable calm for someone in her position. "I've had a small accident."
"That's not what it looks like from here!"
"What does it look like from there?"
"It looks like you're embracing Mr. Fletcher in the street!"
"I'm not embracing him. I'm... positioned above him. Temporarily. Due to gravity."
"Gravity doesn't usually require such close positioning!"
"It does when ice is involved."
"I see no ice!"
Alaric lifted his head slightly. "That's because Mrs. Whitby is on top of it. And me. She's on top of me and the ice. It's a layered situation."
Mrs. Morrison's eyes lit up with unholy glee. "Mr. Fletcher, are you compromising our Marianne?"
"Nobody's compromising anybody," Marianne said quickly, finally managing to push herself up and roll sideways into the snow. "We collided, we fell, and now we're getting up. See? Completely upright and surely not compromised."
She stood, covered in snow and flour, her hair now completely free of its pins, looking like she'd been through a pastry-based war. Alaric pushed himself up more slowly, aware that he probably looked equally ridiculous. There was definitely mincemeat in his hair.
"You're both covered in pies," Mrs. Morrison observed, her tone suggesting this was somehow more scandalous than the positioning.
"Yes, thank you for that observation," Marianne said, attempting to brush pastry from her skirt and only succeeding in spreading it around. "I was carrying pies, we collided, the pies went everywhere. It's not complicated."
"What was Mr. Fletcher doing outside your bakery at this hour?"
"I was investigating economic patterns," Alaric said with as much dignity as a man covered in mincemeat could muster.
"Is that what young people are calling it these days?"
"Calling what?"
"Romance, Mr. Fletcher. Romance."
"There's no romance!" Marianne protested. "There's just impact and pastry distribution!"
"That sounds like romance to me."
"Your definition of romance is very strange, Mrs. Morrison."
"Says the woman who was just lying on top of an eligible bachelor in the snow."
"He's not a bachelor, he's a steward."
"Stewards can be bachelors."
"Not relevant bachelors."
"All bachelors are relevant when you're a widow."
"That's the most depressing thing you've ever said."
"It's practical. Now, both of you inside before the entire village sees this... situation."
"It's not a situation," Marianne muttered, but she was already moving toward the inn. "I need to clean up and make four dozen new pies before the committee meeting."
"I'll help," Alaric said without thinking.
Both women turned to stare at him.
"You'll help?" Marianne repeated. "You'll help make pies?"
"How hard can it be?"
"Have you ever baked anything in your life?"
"I've observed baking."
"That's not the same as baking."
"It's adjacent to baking."
"It's really not."
"Let him help," Mrs. Morrison said with a grin that suggested she was already composing the story she'd tell at the committee meeting. "It'll be educational."
"Educational for whom?" Marianne asked suspiciously.
"Everyone involved, I'm sure."
Marianne looked from Mrs. Morrison to Alaric, then at the destroyed pies slowly freezing in the snow. "Fine. But if you ruin my kitchen, you're explaining to the committee why there's no breakfast."
"How bad could it be?"
"Famous last words, Mr. Fletcher."
The bakery was even warmer inside than it had looked from outside, filled with the smells of baking bread and spices. Marianne's mother, a short woman with Marianne's eyes but gray hair, looked up from where she was shaping rolls.
"Marianne, dear, did you...good heavens, what happened to you?"
"I collided with Mr. Fletcher."
"The new steward? How nice. Is he badly injured?"
"I'm standing right here, Mrs. Whitby," Alaric said.
"Oh! I didn't see you there. You're very... tall."
"So I've been told."
"And covered in mincemeat."
"That's a more recent development."
Marianne was already moving through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, pulling down bowls and gathering ingredients. "Mother, Mr. Fletcher has volunteered to help make new pies."
"Has he? How generous. Does he know how to bake?"
"No," Marianne said at the same time Alaric said, "how difficult can it be?"
Both Whitby women exchanged a look that suggested they were about to witness something entertaining.
"Right," Marianne said, tying a fresh apron around her waist and then pulling another from a hook. "Put this on."
The apron was clearly made for someone much shorter and rounder than Alaric. It was also red. With ruffles.
"This is your revenge, isn't it?"
"This is protection for your clothing. The revenge comes later."
"What form will this revenge take?"
"Depends on how badly you ruin my pies."
He put on the apron. It looked exactly as ridiculous as he'd expected. The ruffles were particularly offensive.
"You look very pretty, Mr. Fletcher," Mrs. Whitby senior said with a perfectly straight face.
"Thank you. I've always felt red was my colour."
Marianne snorted, then tried to cover it with a cough. "Right. First, wash your hands."
"I know how to wash my hands."
"Do you? Because you were pressing your face against my window earlier like a child at a sweet shop."
"I was not pressing my face against anything."
"Your breath fogged the entire window."
"That was atmospheric moisture."
"That was your breathing."
"Prove it."
"You had your hand raised to wipe it clear when I came out."
"Circumstantial evidence."
"You're not in a court of law, Mr. Fletcher. You're in my kitchen, where I'm judge, jury, and executioner."
"That seems like a conflict of interest."
"Take it up with the management."
"You are the management."
"How convenient for me."
Mrs. Whitby senior watched this exchange with increasing delight. "Oh, this is wonderful. Marianne hasn't argued with anyone like this since her husband died."
"Mother!"
"What? It's true. You've been far too agreeable lately. It's unnatural."
"I'm perfectly agreeable."
"You threatened to ban Mr. Martin from the bakery last week."
"He said my sourdough was dense!"
"It was dense, dear."
"It was artisanal!"
"It was a weapon."
"Mr. Fletcher," Marianne said, clearly desperate to change the subject, "hands. Washed. Now."
He washed his hands in the basin she indicated, very aware that both women were watching him with the intensity of scientists observing a rare specimen.
"Now what?"
"Now we make pastry. I assume you know what pastry is?"
"The thing that was recently covering me?"
"That was the finished product. We're starting with ingredients." She began pulling items toward her. "Flour, butter, salt, water. Simple."
"If it's so simple, why do people study for years to become bakers?"
"Because there's a difference between simple and easy. Rather like the difference between observing and doing."
"You're never going to let the observation comment go, are you?"
"Not in this lifetime."
She showed him how to measure flour, how to cut cold butter into small pieces, how to rub the butter into the flour until it resembled breadcrumbs. His first attempt resulted in something that looked more like lumpy snow.
"You're overthinking it," Marianne said, watching him work. "It's meant to be intuitive."
"Nothing about this is intuitive. Why are we rubbing butter into flour? What's the scientific principle?"
"The scientific principle is that it works."
"That's not science, that's faith."
"Welcome to baking." She moved closer, reaching around him to demonstrate the proper technique. "Like this. Light touches, quick movements. You're not trying to strangle it."
She was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her and smell that cinnamon scent again. Her hands covered his, guiding them through the motion, and he found himself paying far more attention to the contact than the pastry lesson.
"Mr. Fletcher, are you listening?"
"Absolutely."
"What did I just say?"
"Something about strangulation."
"Of the dough, not in general."
"Ah. Important distinction."
"Are you always this impossible?"
"I prefer to think of myself as challenging."
"That's one word for it." But she was smiling as she said it. "Now, add water. Just a little—no, that's too much!"
Water went everywhere. The dough, which had been cooperating marginally, turned into something resembling paste.
"What did you do?"
"Added water, as instructed."
"I said a little water!"
"You didn't define 'little.'"