Chapter 9
"Your Grace appears to be actually accomplishing something with those ledgers, which is either admirable dedication or a sign that something bad is imminent."
Alaric didn't look up from the columns of figures he'd finally managed to make sense of after days of trying.
The extent of Fletcher's embezzlement was worse than he'd initially thought—the man had been systematically stealing from both the estate and the tenants for at least two years, possibly longer given how creatively he'd hidden his tracks.
"Fletcher was stealing approximately thirty percent more than I initially calculated," he said, making another notation. "The man was either a criminal genius or the estate's oversight has been criminally negligent."
"Given that Your Grace hasn't visited in years, I would suggest the latter."
"Your support is, as always, overwhelming, Grimsby."
"I live to serve, Your Grace. Speaking of which, you might want to observe the weather."
"The weather can wait. These calculations cannot."
"The weather, Your Grace, appears to be developing opinions about waiting."
Alaric finally looked up from his ledgers to glance toward the window.
The sky, which had been merely grey an hour ago, had turned an ominous purple-black.
Snow was already falling, but not the gentle, picturesque snow of the previous days.
This was aggressive snow, horizontal snow, snow that seemed personally offended by the existence of anything not covered in white.
"That looks unpleasant," he observed.
"That looks biblical, Your Grace. I believe we're about to experience what the locals call a proper blow."
"A proper blow?"
"Their term for a blizzard that arrives with enthusiasm and stays with determination."
As if to emphasize Grimsby's point, the wind suddenly picked up, rattling the windows with enough force to make the glass shake in its frames. The gentle snowfall became a wall of white, obscuring the view of the square entirely.
"Perhaps I should secure provisions from the kitchen," Grimsby suggested. "If this continues, we may be trapped here for some time."
"We're in an inn, Grimsby. Being trapped in an inn is hardly a hardship."
"Your Grace has never experienced Mrs. Morrison's enthusiasm during enforced proximity. I'm told last year's blizzard resulted in three betrothals and one nervous breakdown."
"The betrothals or the breakdown was worse?"
"The breakdown was Mr. Morrison. The betrothals were various victims of mistletoe deployment under extreme weather conditions."
Before Alaric could respond to this alarming information, there was a pounding at the door—not knocking, but the kind of desperate hammering that suggested someone was fighting the wind for the privilege of entering.
Grimsby opened it to reveal Thomas Ironwell, looking like a small snow sculpture that had somehow achieved animation. His face was red with cold and he was breathing like he'd run a considerable distance through a hurricane.
"Mr. Fletcher!" he gasped, looking past Grimsby to Alaric. "Mrs. Whitby says you're to come to the bakery immediately!"
"In this weather? That seems inadvisable."
"She says if you try to stay at the inn, you'll either freeze to death trying to get back to your room because Mrs. Morrison's already started drinking her emergency blizzard brandy and has hung mistletoe in the hallways with strategic intent, or you'll end up betrothed to someone by morning, or possibly both. "
"Both?"
"Betrothed and frozen. Mrs. Morrison doesn't let a little thing like being cold interrupt her matchmaking."
"And the bakery is better?"
"The bakery has ovens and no mistletoe. Also, her mother says we can't have the duke's steward dying on our watch because His Grace might actually have to visit to find out what happened, and nobody wants that."
Alaric felt a small pang at this casual dismissal of his presence, even though he was, technically, present.
"The square is only twenty yards away," he pointed out.
"Twenty yards of what my dad's calling 'white death.' He tried to get to the pub and got turned around twice. He was gone for twenty minutes and ended up at the church, and that's in the opposite direction."
The wind chose that moment to literally shake the building, and somewhere below, Alaric could hear Mrs. Morrison singing something that sounded like a Christmas carol but might have been a battle hymn.
"Your Grace," Grimsby said quietly, "perhaps the bakery would be safer."
"From the storm or from Mrs. Morrison?"
"Both."
Alaric looked at the window, which was now completely opaque with snow, then at Thomas, who was dripping melting snow onto the carpet and shivering despite his thick coat.
"Fine. Thomas, tell Mrs. Whitby I'll come immediately."
"Actually, sir, I'm supposed to walk you over. Mrs. Whitby says you'll get lost otherwise, being a London man with no sense of direction in weather."
"I have an excellent sense of direction."
"In weather?"
"In all conditions."
"Even when you can't see past your own hand?"
"That seems like an exaggeration."
Thomas opened the window to demonstrate. The wind immediately tried to rip it from his hands, and snow flew in horizontally, coating everything within three feet instantly. Visibility was indeed approximately nothing.
"Point taken," Alaric conceded.
He bundled into his greatcoat while Grimsby fussed about adequate coverage and the folly of venturing out in such conditions. Thomas waited with the patience of someone who'd grown up with dramatic weather and dramatic adults.
"Ready, Mr. Fletcher?"
"As ready as one can be for wrestling with meteorological violence."
"That's the spirit! Keep hold of my coat and whatever you do, don't let go. Last year, Mr. Martin let go and we found him three hours later in Mrs. Ironwell's garden shed, convinced he'd discovered a new continent."
They ventured out into the storm, and Alaric immediately understood why Thomas had been sent as a guide.
The wind was brutal, driving snow into every gap in clothing, and visibility was indeed near zero.
If Thomas hadn't been leading, he would have walked directly into the memorial horse trough within ten feet of the inn's door.
The journey across the square, which normally took perhaps thirty seconds, became an epic battle against the elements.
The wind seemed determined to push them backward, sideways, or possibly airborne.
Thomas navigated by some mysterious childhood knowledge of every obstacle, while Alaric simply held on and tried not to think about how undignified it would be to be found frozen in the middle of the village square, twenty yards from shelter.
When they finally reached the bakery door, it opened immediately, hands pulling them inside before slamming it shut against the wind's attempts to follow.
"Good heavens, you're both frozen!" Marianne's voice, warm and concerned, as she began brushing snow off Thomas with practiced efficiency. "Thomas, go stand by the ovens immediately. Mr. Fletcher, your lips are blue."
"They're not blue, they're... aesthetically challenged by cold."
"That's the worst euphemism for hypothermia I've ever heard."
"I don't have hypothermia. I'm merely... thermally inconvenienced."
"You're shaking."
"I'm shivering. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Shivering is voluntary."
"No, it's not."
"It is when done with dignity."
"You can't shiver with dignity."
"I can do anything with dignity."
"You have icicles in your hair."
"Dignified icicles."
She shook her head but was smiling as she helped him out of his frozen greatcoat.
The bakery was blessedly warm, filled with the heat of the ovens and the smell of baking bread.
Mrs. Whitby senior appeared with towels and immediately began fussing over both Thomas and Alaric with the efficiency of someone who'd weathered many storms.
"Sit," she commanded, pushing Alaric toward a chair near the largest oven. "Both of you, sit and warm up before you catch your death."
"This is perfectly adequate, thank you," Alaric said as soon as he sat, then caught himself looking at Marianne's raised eyebrow. The chair was worn, comfortable, and clearly much-used—hardly something that required such formal acknowledgment.
"Adequate?" Marianne repeated. "It's a chair, not a parliamentary seat."
"I meant comfortable. The cold has affected my vocabulary."
"Your vocabulary seems more formal when you're cold. How interesting."
Mrs. Whitby senior handed him a cup of something hot that smelled of apples and cinnamon. "Drink this. It'll warm you from the inside."
"What is it?"
"Cider with a touch of brandy. My mother's recipe."
Alaric took a sip and immediately felt warmth spread through his chest. "This is excellent. The balance of spices is perfect."
"How kind of you to say so," Mrs. Whitby senior said, but she was looking at him oddly. "You speak like someone who knows about such things."
"I've had cider before."
"Yes, but you speak like someone who's had many different kinds and developed opinions about them."
"I... observed carefully during my training. In various houses." That sounded weak even to his own ears.
"Your training must have been very thorough," Marianne said, and there was something in her tone that suggested she wasn't entirely buying his explanation.
Thomas, having warmed up sufficiently, announced he was going home, while adding "before Mum sends out a search party" and headed back into the storm with the fearlessness of youth.
This left Alaric alone with the two Whitby women, who were both looking at him with expressions that suggested they found him interesting in ways that had nothing to do with his role as steward.
"Well," Mrs. Whitby senior said, "since you're here and the storm's getting worse, you might as well make yourself useful. Marianne's got the evening baking to do, and an extra pair of hands would be helpful."
"Mother, Mr. Fletcher is a guest."