Chapter 11
Morning came too soon and not soon enough.
Alaric woke to the sound of movement in the kitchen and the smell of fresh coffee.
His back ached from the floor despite the blankets, and his formal clothes were hopelessly wrinkled, but there was something pleasant about waking in a warm kitchen instead of a cold inn room.
"You're awake," Marianne said, not quite meeting his eyes. She was already dressed and working, her hair properly pinned up, looking every inch the respectable widow rather than the woman who'd sat by firelight sharing brandy and secrets.
"The storm's passed," she continued, bustling about with determined efficiency. "Though we're properly snowed in. Thomas already came by, over the snow rather than through it, he claims, to say that half the fair structures have collapsed and the entire village is needed to rebuild."
"I should help."
"After breakfast. Mother insists. She'll be down shortly."
There was a careful distance in her voice, a return to propriety that felt wrong after last night's honesty. But what had he expected? That one evening of brandy-fueled conversation would change everything?
"Marianne..." he began.
"About last night," she said quickly, still not looking at him. "The brandy and the storm and... we probably said things we shouldn't have."
"Did we?"
"You told me about your mother. I told you about William. Those are precious truths, not meant for casual acquaintance."
"Is that what we are? Casual acquaintances?"
She finally looked at him then, and he could see conflict in those dangerous eyes.
"What else could we be? You're leaving in two days.
Back to London, back to your life serving the duke.
And I'm staying here, baking bread and raising other people's children and organizing Christmas fairs until I'm old. "
"That doesn't answer my question."
"It's the only answer that matters."
Before he could argue, Mrs. Whitby senior appeared, full of morning energy and apparently oblivious to the tension in the room.
"Mr. Fletcher! You survived the night. Excellent. I was worried you might freeze, but Marianne says the ovens kept you warm enough."
"More than adequate," he said, and caught Marianne's small smile at his choice of words.
"Good, good. Now, breakfast, then you can help with the storm cleanup. The whole village will be out. It's tradition after a big blow—everyone helps everyone. Even the duke himself would be expected to help if he were here."
"Would he?" Alaric asked, curious despite himself.
"Oh yes. The old duke, the current one's father, he was useless at it but he tried. Spent one memorable storm aftermath trying to nail boards and hit his thumb so many times the physician had to bandage it. But he tried, which is more than his son has ever done."
"Mother," Marianne said in a warning tone.
"What? It's true. The boy, well, he's not a boy anymore, must be past thirty now, he's never once helped with anything. Never shown his face, never checked on his tenants, never participated in the life of the village his family has owned for two hundred years."
"Perhaps he has reasons," Alaric said quietly.
"Everyone has reasons. The difference is whether we let those reasons become excuses."
It was like being scolded by his own mother, if his mother had lived long enough to scold his adult self. He felt ashamed and defensive in equal measure.
"You're right," he said finally. "Reasons shouldn't become excuses."
Mrs. Whitby senior looked at him approvingly. "You're a good man, Mr. Fletcher. The duke is lucky to have you."
If only she knew, Alaric thought.
After breakfast, which was awkward with Marianne being overly polite and her mother being overly observant, they ventured out to see the storm's aftermath.
The village looked like it had been buried in white.
Snow reached the windows of some buildings, and various Christmas decorations were either destroyed or relocated to improbable places.
A garland hung from the church weather vane, and what appeared to be part of Mrs. Martin's Christmas cathedral had somehow ended up on the bakery roof.
"How did that get there?" Alaric asked, staring at the large wooden star perched at an angle on Marianne's chimney.
"Wind does strange things," Marianne said.
The entire village was indeed out, working together to clear paths, repair damage, and salvage what they could of the fair preparations. It was organized chaos, with the land steward directing efforts like a general commanding troops.
"Mr. Fletcher!" he called. "Good to see you survived! We need tall people for the garland recovery mission."
"Garland recovery?"
"The high street garlands are in the trees. All of them. It looks like the forest is decorated for Christmas."
Alaric spent the morning climbing trees to retrieve garlands, helping to rebuild vendor stalls, and shoveling more snow than he'd thought possible.
The physical labor was exhausting but oddly satisfying.
People worked together without complaint, sharing tools and labor and occasional flasks of something warming.
Marianne worked alongside everyone else, directing and helping in equal measure. They moved around each other carefully, politely, maintaining a proper distance that felt entirely wrong after the intimacy of the previous evening.
"You're being weird," Thomas announced, appearing at Alaric's elbow while he was wrestling with a particularly stubborn garland.
"I'm being helpful."
"You're being weird with Mrs. Whitby. You keep looking at each other when you think the other's not looking."
"That's not true."
"You're doing it right now."
Alaric realized he was, indeed, watching Marianne as she helped Mrs. Ironwell untangle lights.
"Mind your own business, Thomas."
"In this village? There's no such thing as own business. Everyone's business is everyone's business."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's actually quite efficient. We all know everything, so there's no need for secrets."
"Everyone needs some secrets."
"Do you have secrets, Mr. Fletcher?"
"Doesn't everyone?"
"I suppose. Mrs. Whitby says you're running from something."
"She said that?"
"Not to me. I heard her talking to her mum. She said you have the look of someone carrying weight that's not entirely your own."
"That's very philosophical for eavesdropping."
"I'm a philosophical eavesdropper."
Despite himself, Alaric smiled. "What else did she say?"
"That you're not who you pretend to be, but that might not be a bad thing."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know. Adults are confusing."
"Yes," Alaric agreed. "We really are."
The day wore on, the sun came out, and gradually the village returned to something resembling order.
The fair would go on, it would take more than a blizzard to stop Hollingford's Christmas fair, but it would be different than planned.
More improvised, more chaotic, more community-built than professionally organized.
"It's better this way," Marianne said, appearing beside him as he finished repairing a stall. "When everyone builds it together, everyone owns it."
"Very democratic."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"I say it like it's an observation."
"Your safe word again."
"I thought we were maintaining safe distance today."
"Are we?"
"Aren't we?"
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a moment the careful distance dissolved.
"Last night..." she began.
"Was unusual circumstances," he finished. "I understand."
"Do you? Because I'm not sure I do."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I told you things I haven't told anyone. I mean you told me things I suspect you haven't told anyone. I mean we almost..." She stopped, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter. You're leaving tomorrow after the fair."
"The day after, actually."
"Oh. Well. One extra day doesn't change anything."
"Doesn't it?"
"Mr. Fletcher...Edmund...whoever you are..."
"I'm..." he started to say "the Duke of Wexmere" but stopped himself. That revelation would change everything, and not for the better. "I'm someone who should probably maintain that safe distance you mentioned."
"Yes. You probably should."
"For both our sakes."
"Absolutely."
They stood there, agreeing to be sensible while looking at each other with expressions that suggested sensibility was the last thing either wanted.
"Marianne! Mr. Fletcher!" The land steward’s voice broke the moment. "We need judges for the emergency snow sculpture contest!"
"The what now?" Alaric asked.
"Snow sculpture contest. Since we have all this snow, might as well use it. Come on!"
And so the day continued, full of village absurdity and careful distance and moments when that distance collapsed despite their best efforts.
By evening, the fair preparations were back on track, the village was exhausted but triumphant, and Alaric was no clearer on what to do about Marianne Whitby than he'd been that morning.
"Stay for dinner," Mrs. Whitby senior insisted as the sun set. "Both of you nearly froze helping today, least we can do is feed you."
"I shouldn't..."
"Nonsense. Marianne, tell him he's staying for dinner."
"Mr. Fletcher can make his own decisions, Mother."
"Not when he's making the wrong ones. Mr. Fletcher, you're staying for dinner."
And somehow, he was.
Dinner was quieter than the previous night, all three of them tired from the day's work. But there was something comfortable about it too, sitting in the warm kitchen eating simple food while outside the village settled into evening.
"One more day," Mrs. Whitby senior said suddenly. "The fair's tomorrow, then you'll be off back to London, I suppose."
"Yes."
"Will you tell the duke about us? About the village?"
"What would you want me to tell him?"
"That we're doing our best. That we don't need much, just a landlord who remembers we exist. That his mother would be sad to see how abandoned the hall has become. He cannot even live there anymore so abandoned that it is."
"Mother," Marianne said quietly.
"It's true. That beautiful house, sitting empty year after year. It's wrong."
"I'll tell him," Alaric promised. "All of it."
"Good. Someone should."
After dinner, as he prepared to leave, Marianne walked him to the door.
"Thank you," she said. "For helping today. You didn't have to work that hard."
"Yes, I did. Your mother's right—everyone helps everyone. Even absent dukes should help, if they were here."
"But they're not here."
"No," he agreed. "They're not."
"Edmund?" She used the name hesitantly. "Was any of it real? Last night?"
"All of it," he said quietly. "Every word."
"Even the parts that shouldn't have been?"
"Especially those."
She nodded, wrapping her shawl tighter. "The fair tomorrow. It's going to be chaos."
"I would expect nothing less."
"And then you leave."
"And then I leave."
"Back to your adequate life."
"Back to my safe life."
"Is safe the same as happy?"
"I used to think so."
"And now?"
"Now I think safe might just be another word for afraid."
She reached out and touched his hand briefly, so quickly he might have imagined it.
"Goodnight, Mr. Fletcher."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Whitby."
He walked back to the inn through the snow-cleared paths, thinking about last night's conversation, today's careful distance and tomorrow’s inevitable goodbye. The stars were out, brilliant in the clear post-storm sky, and somewhere someone was singing carols.
For the first time in years, they didn't sound like a lie.
They sounded like hope.