Chapter 9 #2
"Mr. Fletcher is someone who needs to stay warm and busy or he'll sit there brooding about estate management. I can see it in his posture."
"My posture doesn't brood."
"Your posture is currently attempting to maintain perfect dignity while sitting in my kitchen. You sit like someone's about to inspect you."
She wasn't wrong. Alaric forced himself to relax slightly, though years of training made it difficult. Dukes didn't slouch, even when pretending not to be dukes.
"There, that's better. Now, Marianne will teach you to properly knead bread. Last time was a disaster, but everyone deserves a second chance."
"Third chance," Marianne corrected. "The first attempt created glue, the second created abstract art."
"Third time's the charm, then."
The wind howled outside, rattling the windows and occasionally sending drafts that made the candle flames dance. But inside the bakery, it was warm and safe, a bubble of comfort in the midst of meteorological chaos.
Marianne had already begun preparing for tomorrow’s baking, measuring flour and warming water for the dough. She moved with the unconscious grace of someone completely at home in their space, and Alaric found himself watching her perhaps more intently than was strictly proper.
"Are you going to help or just observe?" she asked without turning around.
"I'm studying your technique."
"My technique isn't that complicated."
"Everything is complicated when done well."
"That's very philosophical for bread-making."
"My tutors at..." he caught himself, "...my tutors were fond of finding philosophy in everything."
"Your tutors sound exhausting."
"They were... thorough."
"Where did you receive this thorough education? You speak like someone from Oxford or Cambridge."
Dangerous territory. "My father believed in education above station. He worked for a man who insisted his staff be well-educated." Not entirely a lie—his father had indeed insisted on the best education, just not for a steward's son.
"Progressive of him."
"He had his moments."
Marianne handed him an apron—not the red ruffled one from before, but a plain white one that actually fit. "Right, let's see if you remember anything from the last lesson."
She showed him again how to mix the ingredients, how to bring the dough together, how to turn it out onto the floured surface. This time, he paid attention to her hands rather than her face, which helped his concentration considerably.
"Better," she said as he began kneading. "You're not attacking it this time."
"I've learned that dough responds poorly to aggression."
"Most things do."
"Tell that to the Christmas geese."
"The geese are a special case. They respond poorly to everything."
His hands were already beginning to ache from the unfamiliar work, but there was something soothing about the rhythm of it, the push and fold and turn.
Marianne worked beside him on her own batch, and they fell into a companionable silence broken only by the storm outside and Mrs. Whitby senior humming as she shaped rolls.
"Your hands," Marianne said suddenly, then seemed to catch herself.
"What about them?"
"Nothing. I just... they're very smooth for someone who works on an estate."
Alaric looked at his hands; pale, uncallused, the hands of someone who held a pen more often than a plow. "I've been doing more administrative work recently. Ledgers don't cause calluses."
"No, I suppose they don't." But she was still looking at his hands with a slight frown.
To distract her, he asked, "how long have you been baking?"
"Since I could reach the counter standing on a stool. So... twenty-five years, give or take."
"You started young."
"Everyone starts young in a bakery family. Thomas's been helping since he was five."
"Thomas's?"
"Thomas Ironwell. He's just adopted me as a secondary mother. His actual mother is lovely but somewhat scattered. I provide structure and fresh bread."
"And wisdom about geese warfare."
"That too. Essential life skills."
The evening wore on, the storm growing fiercer outside while inside they worked through batch after batch of dough. Alaric's technique was improving, though he suspected his bread would still be inferior to Marianne's decades of experience.
"You need to feel when it's ready," she said, guiding his hands over the dough. "It should be smooth, elastic, alive under your fingers."
"Alive?"
"The yeast is living. You're creating an environment for life to flourish."
"That's unexpectedly poetic for bread."
"My father again. He had opinions about the sacred nature of baking."
"Sacred?"
"Bread is life, Mr. Fletcher. It's in every religious tradition, every culture. We make bread together, we share it, we use it to mark occasions. It's the most basic human food and the most complex. My father said baking bread was participating in civilization itself."
"And here I thought it was just flour and water."
"Just flour and water? That's like saying wine is just grapes, or music is just sound."
"I apologize to the bread."
"You should. You're about to give it life, after all."
As the evening progressed, the storm showed no signs of abating. If anything, it seemed to be getting worse. The windows were completely obscured by snow, and occasionally something would bang against the walls; probably loose shutters or displaced decorations.
"You'll have to stay," Mrs. Whitby senior announced, returning from peering out the back door. "Can't see three feet out there, and the snow's waist-deep already."
"I couldn't impose..."
"It's not an imposition, it's practicality. Would you rather freeze trying to get back to the inn?"
"The inn is twenty yards away."
"Twenty yards of zero visibility and winds that could take you anywhere but the inn. We'll make up a bed near the ovens. It'll be warm, and you'll be here to help with the morning baking."
"I don't think my help is particularly helpful."
"Nonsense," Marianne said. "Your third batch is almost acceptable."
"Almost acceptable. High praise indeed."
"From Marianne, that's practically a declaration of genius," her mother said.
Before they could say anything else, Mrs. Whitby senior announced dinner was ready. It was simple fare, soup and bread and cheese, but after the cold and the work, it tasted wonderful.
Alaric waited for both women to sit before taking his own seat, pulling out Marianne's chair with practiced ease. Both women noticed.
"Such manners!" Mrs. Whitby senior exclaimed. "Were you in service at a grand house, Mr. Fletcher?"
"I... observed carefully during my training." The same weak excuse, but he couldn't think of a better one.
"You must have observed very carefully indeed. You hold your spoon like someone who learned from a dancing master."
"A dancing master?" Marianne asked, amused. "What does that mean?"
"Proper deportment includes proper dining etiquette," her mother explained. "The way one holds cutlery, the angle of the wrist, the posture at table. Mr. Fletcher has clearly been taught."
"Many people have good table manners," Alaric said, trying to deflect.
"Yes, but yours are unconscious. You're not thinking about them, which means they were drilled into you young." Mrs. Whitby senior was studying him with uncomfortable intensity. "You sit like someone who had a governess who made him practice with books on his head."
She wasn't far wrong. His governess had been a terror about posture but she had not used books.
"Perhaps we could discuss something other than my posture?" he suggested.
"Of course," Marianne said, though she was looking at him speculatively. "Tell us about London. You must have seen interesting things there."
Dangerous ground, but probably safer than discussing his upbringing. "London is... chaotic. Beautiful and terrible in equal measure."
"Have you been to the theater?"
"Occasionally." Nearly every week during the season, but a steward might have gone occasionally.
"What did you see?"
He named a few popular productions, careful to choose ones that had been widely attended rather than exclusive premieres.
"And the parks? I've heard Hyde Park is lovely."
"It is, particularly in spring when..." he caught himself about to describe the view from his townhouse, "...when the flowers bloom. I've walked there on my half-days."
"Half-days. Of course. And I suppose you've seen the great houses? From the outside?"
"Yes, from the outside." And from very much the inside, but she didn't need to know that.
"It must be strange, working for someone so elevated. The Duke of Wexmere, I mean. Have you met him often?"
"We've... encountered each other." Every morning in the mirror.
"What's he like?"
"He's..." Alaric paused, trying to think how to describe himself from an outside perspective. "Particular. Demanding. Not unkind, but not particularly warm either."
"Sounds delightful," Marianne said dryly.
"He has his qualities."
"Such as?"
"He pays well. Usually on time."
"High praise indeed. No wonder he never visits. He probably has no idea what to do with actual people rather than ledgers."
"That's... not entirely inaccurate."
"Poor man," Mrs. Whitby senior said unexpectedly. "It must be lonely, having all that wealth and no connection to the people and places that depend on you."
"I don't think he sees it as lonely," Alaric said carefully. "More... efficient."
"Efficiency is a cold feeling," Mrs. Whitby senior observed. "Even colder than this storm."
As if to emphasize her point, something crashed outside—probably a tree branch or someone's ambitious Christmas display succumbing to the wind.
"That sounded expensive," Marianne murmured.
"That sounded like Mrs. Martin's Christmas cathedral finally admitting defeat."
"She'll be devastated."
"She'll rebuild. She always does."
They continued eating, the conversation flowing easily despite the occasional probing question that made Alaric have to carefully navigate around the truth. The wind howled like something alive and angry, but inside the bakery, it was warm and comfortable and oddly peaceful.
After dinner, Mrs. Whitby senior excused herself. "These old bones need rest. Marianne, make up a bed for Mr. Fletcher by the main oven. The storm won't break before morning, if then."
She headed upstairs, leaving Marianne and Alaric alone. The silence that fell wasn't uncomfortable exactly, but it was charged with something; an awareness that they were essentially alone, trapped by the storm, with the night stretching ahead.