Chapter 7 #2
"Ah yes, the turnip. It's bronze, actually. Commemorates the great turnip harvest of 1742 when the village survived a particularly harsh winter on nothing but turnips and determination."
"There's a bronze turnip?"
"There's a bronze turnip. It's the land steward’s pride and joy. He claims it's historically significant."
"A bronze vegetable is historically significant?"
"Welcome to Hollingford, Mr. Fletcher, where we take our root vegetables very seriously indeed."
"And someone needs to polish it?"
"It tarnishes. Especially around Christmas when the weather is damp. An unpolished commemorative turnip would be a village disgrace."
"I'm beginning to understand why Fletcher fled in the night."
"With only two candlesticks? After dealing with the geese, I'd have taken at least four. And the good brandy."
"He did take the brandy."
"Well then, he showed more restraint than I would have."
Alaric stood, setting the list on his desk. "When do these tasks need to be completed?"
"Oh, did I not mention? We start immediately. The pine bough expedition leaves in twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes? I haven't even finished reviewing the accounts."
"The accounts have been accumulating errors for three years. Another day won't make much difference. The fair, however, is in two days, and those pine boughs won't fetch themselves."
"Can't someone else fetch them?"
"Everyone else is busy with their own tasks. Besides, you're tall. You can reach the good branches."
"That's your reasoning? I'm tall?"
"You're tall and you have no other observable skills related to Christmas preparation, so we might as well use your height for something productive."
"I have many Christmas-related skills."
"Name one."
"I can... identify inferior mince pies."
"By wearing them?"
"That was unintentional."
"Most of your involvement in our Christmas preparations has been unintentional, and yet here you are."
"Here I am," he agreed, not entirely sure why he was agreeing to any of this. He was the Duke of Wexmere. He had people to fetch pine boughs for him. People who had people to fetch pine boughs. He certainly didn't traipse through woods in December like some sort of festive forester.
And yet.
"Fine," he heard himself saying. "I'll fetch your pine boughs. But I draw the line at polishing vegetables."
"We'll see about that. The turnip has a way of growing on people."
"That's a terrible pun."
"That's an excellent pun and you're just jealous you didn't think of it first."
"I don't make puns about vegetables."
"Your loss. Vegetable humor is very popular in agricultural communities."
"I'm beginning to see why you and the village suit each other so well."
"Was that a compliment?"
"More of an observation."
"You and your observations. Do you ever just experience things without analyzing them?"
"Experience without analysis is just chaos."
"Sometimes chaos is fun."
"Said the woman who organized a task list with footnotes."
"Those footnotes are necessary contextual information."
"One of them just says 'Remember: the vicar is afraid of geese.'"
"That's crucial information if you're going to be involved in goose-catching."
"Why is the vicar afraid of geese?"
"Childhood incident. We don't talk about it. But if you see him and a goose in proximity, intervene immediately."
"This village is insane."
"This village is colorful. There's a difference."
"Is there though?"
Marianne moved to the window, looking out at the square where various villagers were bustling about with armfuls of decorations. "You know, Mr. Fletcher, most people would be grateful to be included in community preparations."
"Most people haven't seen your task list."
"The previous steward, the other Mr. Fletcher, never complained."
"He also stole from the estate and fled in the night."
"Fair point. Though I'm starting to think the theft was incidental and the fleeing was about the geese."
"What exactly did these geese do?"
"What haven't they done? They're criminal masterminds with feathers and a taste for chaos. Last year they organized a coordinated attack on the pie tent."
"Geese can't organize."
"These geese can. They have a hierarchy and battle tactics. The large one—we call him Admiral Feathers—he's the strategic mind. The two medium ones are his lieutenants. The rest are foot soldiers. Or wing soldiers. Whatever you call goose infantry."
"You've named the geese?"
"You can't fight an enemy you don't know.
"You've read The Art of War?"
"I've read many things, Mr. Fletcher. Just because I bake bread doesn't mean I'm ignorant."
"I didn't mean to imply..."
"Yes, you did. London men always do. They come here and see a provincial widow who makes pies and they assume that's all there is to know."
There was something in her voice, a sharpness that hadn't been there before, and Alaric realized he'd inadvertently hit upon an old wound.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I apologize. That was presumptuous and insulting."
She turned from the window, surprise evident on her face. "You're apologizing?"
"I do occasionally. When I'm wrong."
"And you're admitting you're wrong?"
"It happens. Rarely. Don't get used to it."
"I wouldn't dream of it." But she was smiling again, the sharp edge gone from her voice. "Now, about those pine boughs. You'll need proper clothing. It's muddy in the woods this time of year."
"I have proper clothing."
"London proper or countryside proper?"
"What's the difference?"
"About three layers of mud and a significant chance of thorn bushes."
"My clothing can handle mud."
"Can your dignity handle being seen in muddy clothing?"
"My dignity is more flexible than you might think."
"Your dignity got offended by a red apron."
"That apron was an assault on fashion and good taste."
"That apron was practical."
"That apron was punishment disguised as practicality."
"You're learning, Mr. Fletcher. You're definitely learning."
Twenty minutes later, Alaric found himself standing in the village square wearing his most sacrifice-worthy boots and coat, surrounded by what could only be described as a pine bough retrieval committee.
This consisted of Mr. Ironwell, still wearing his borrowed too-small coat, his son Thomas, the land steward’s relative, Jeremy, who seemed to be permanently confused, and Marianne, who had changed into a practical brown wool dress and sturdy boots that had clearly seen many winters.
"Right then," Mr. Ironwell announced with the air of a general addressing troops, "the mission is simple. We go to Wickham Wood, we locate the finest pine boughs the forest has to offer, we liberate them from their arboreal bondage, and we return triumphant."
"Did you rehearse that speech?" Marianne asked.
"I may have practiced it a bit in the mirror this morning."
"Arboreal bondage?"
"The wife suggested it. She said it sounded educated."
"It sounds like something inappropriate is happening to trees."
"Trees can't have inappropriate things happen to them. They're trees."
"Tell that to the one you got tangled in yesterday."
"That was mutual tangling. The tree was a willing participant."
"The tree was a victim of your enthusiasm."
"Can we please just go get the pine boughs?" Jeremy interjected, looking pained.
They set off toward Wickham Wood, which lay about a mile outside the village.
The snow from the previous night had settled into a thick blanket that crunched satisfyingly underfoot, and the morning sun made everything sparkle like it had been dusted with diamond powder.
It was, Alaric had to admit, rather beautiful in an aggressively festive way.
"So, Mr. Fletcher," Thomas said, falling into step beside him with the easy confidence of youth, "is it true you're courting Mrs. Whitby?"
"Thomas!" Marianne exclaimed from behind them. "That's inappropriate to ask!"
"Mrs. Morrison says you were expressing physical affection in the street this morning."
"Mrs. Morrison needs better spectacles and fewer romantic novels."
They entered the woods, where the snow had filtered through the canopy in patches, creating a dappled pattern of white and brown on the forest floor. The silence was profound, broken only by their footsteps and the occasional complaint from Jeremy about the cold.
"The best boughs are deeper in," Marianne said, leading them down a narrow path that showed evidence of recent deer passage. "The ones near the edge have been picked over for years."
"How do you know so much about pine bough retrieval?" Alaric asked.
"I've been doing this every Christmas since I was seven. My father used to bring me. He said the forest was different in winter, more honest."
"How can a forest be honest?"
"No leaves to hide behind. You can see the true structure of things, the bones of the world."
"That's rather poetic."
"My father was a baker who read poetry in his spare time. He used to say bread and words were both about transformation—taking simple ingredients and making something greater."
"Wise man."
"He was. He died when I was fifteen. Mother never quite recovered from losing him."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago. But I still come here every Christmas, looking for pine boughs and remembering his lessons about honesty and bones."
There was something in her voice, a wistfulness that made Alaric want to comfort her, though he had no idea how.
Comfort wasn't something he'd been taught.
His father had believed in stoicism, his mother in putting on a brave face.
Neither had prepared him for dealing with genuine emotion in others.
"My mother loved Christmas," he found himself saying, the words emerging without conscious decision. "She used to say it was the one time of year when magic was socially acceptable."
Marianne looked at him with interest. "Used to say?"
"She died when I was nine." The words came automatically but he couldn't very well say his mother was the former Duchess of Wexmere.
"That's very young to lose a mother."
"Any age is too young to lose a mother."
"True. Did she teach you about Christmas? Before she died?"
"She tried. I was perhaps not the most receptive student."
"You? Unreceptive? I'm shocked."
"I know, it's hard to imagine."
"What did she try to teach you?"
Alaric thought back to those December days at Hollingford Hall, his mother's determined cheerfulness in the face of his father's absence.
"She said Christmas wasn't about the decorations or the presents or even the food.
She said it was about choosing to believe that people could be better than they were the rest of the year. "
"And you didn't believe that?"
"I was nine. I believed what I saw. And what I saw was that people were exactly the same at Christmas, they just hid it better under festive wrapping."
"That's a very cynical view for a nine-year-old."
"I was a very cynical nine-year-old."
"What happened to make a child that cynical?"
My father happened, Alaric thought but didn't say. Instead, he shrugged. "Life, I suppose. Observation. Reality."
"Those are all just words for disappointment."
"Perhaps."
"Your mother would be sad to know you'd given up on Christmas magic."
"My mother was sad about many things. My lack of Christmas spirit was probably the least of them."
Marianne stopped walking and turned to face him fully. "Mr. Fletcher, that's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"It's not sad, it's honest. Like your winter forest."
"No, it's heartbreaking. A little boy who stopped believing in magic because the world showed him its bones too early."
"That's very poetic, Mrs. Whitby, but I assure you I'm perfectly content with my rational worldview."
"Content isn't the same as happy."
"Happy is overrated."
"Said no happy person ever."
"Oi!" Mr. Ironwell's voice carried back through the trees. "Are you two coming or are you going to stand about having philosophical discussions all day?"
"We're coming!" Marianne called back, but she didn't move immediately.
Instead, she reached out and touched Alaric's arm lightly.
"Your mother was right, you know. About people being better at Christmas.
Maybe not everyone, maybe not always, but some people, sometimes. And sometimes is better than never."
"Is it?"
"Yes, Mr. Fletcher. It is. Now come on, we have pine boughs to liberate from their arboreal bondage."
They caught up with the others in a grove of particularly impressive pines. The trees towered overhead, their branches heavy with snow and perfect green needles. Thomas had already scrambled up one of the smaller trees and was calling down suggestions about which branches would be best.
"That one there, Dad! The one that looks like it's reaching for heaven!"
"They're all reaching for heaven, Thomas. That's what trees do."
"But that one's reaching with particular enthusiasm!"
"Trees don't have enthusiasm."
"This one does. Look at it!"
Alaric studied the tree in question, noting the particularly symmetrical arrangement of its branches and the density of its needles. It would, he had to admit, make excellent Christmas decoration.
"I'll get it," he said, surprising himself.
"You'll climb the tree?" Marianne asked, skepticism evident.
"How hard can it be? Thomas managed it."
"Thomas is twelve and part squirrel."
"I'm thirty-two and part... determined."
"Part what now?"
"I'm still working on the analogy."
"Part fool, more like," Mr. Ironwell muttered, but he was grinning.
Alaric approached the tree, studying its structure. He hadn't climbed a tree since he was a boy, and even then, it had been the carefully maintained trees in Hyde Park, not wild pines in a winter forest. But the principle was the same, surely. Find handholds, don't look down, don't fall.
The first few feet were easy enough. The branches were sturdy and well-spaced, and his height was actually an advantage. But as he climbed higher, the branches became thinner, more flexible, and covered in snow that made everything slippery.
"You're doing well!" Marianne called up, and he could hear the surprise in her voice.
"Did you expect me to fail immediately?"
"I expected you to refuse to try."
"I'm full of surprises."
"That's one way to put it."