Chapter 12
"Your Grace appears to be attempting to hide behind a newspaper that is both upside down and from three days ago, which suggests either a desperate interest in old news viewed from an inverted perspective, or a rather pathetic attempt to avoid going outside where the entire village is preparing for the fair. "
Alaric didn't lower the newspaper, though Grimsby's observation had rather destroyed its effectiveness as a shield. "I'm reading. Very thoroughly. From multiple angles."
"Of course, Your Grace. And this has nothing to do with the fact that Mrs. Whitby has been organizing fair preparations since dawn and you're concerned about facing her after your intimate evening of brandy and revelations?"
"There was nothing intimate about it. We were simply two people trapped by a storm, making conversation to pass the time."
"Conversation that resulted in Your Grace returning to the inn the next day with an expression I can only describe as besotted bewilderment."
"That's two words, not a description."
"Would Your Grace prefer 'hopelessly enamoured' or 'romantically compromised'?"
"I would prefer silence while I read my newspaper."
"The newspaper from three days ago."
"The news improves with age, like wine."
"Unlike Your Grace's excuses, which remain consistently poor regardless of vintage."
Alaric finally lowered the newspaper to glare at his valet, who was already dressed and looking disapprovingly efficient despite the early hour.
Outside, he could hear the sounds of final fair preparations; hammering, calling voices, and what sounded suspiciously like the Christmas geese staging another escape attempt.
"The fair is today," Grimsby observed unnecessarily. "Christmas Eve. The culmination of all the village's preparations, in which Your Grace has become surprisingly involved for someone who claims to despise Christmas."
"I don't despise Christmas. I'm philosophically opposed to its commercial exploitation and enforced joviality."
"And yet Your Grace has spent the last four days helping to prepare for exactly that sort of celebration."
"I was maintaining my role as steward. It would have been suspicious to refuse."
"Of course. And it had nothing to do with a certain widow who makes Your Grace smile in ways I haven't seen since... well, ever, actually."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being observant. Your Grace has smiled more in the past four days than in the past four years."
"That's a terrible exaggeration."
"Would Your Grace like me to provide specific examples? There was the smile when Mrs. Whitby corrected your bread-making technique, the smile when she argued with you about garland placement, the smile when she fell on top of you in the snow..."
"That was surprise, not a smile."
"Your Grace was grinning like a schoolboy who'd just discovered Christmas pudding."
"I was injured in the head from the impact."
"Your Grace's head injury lasted through the next three days?"
"Head injuries can have prolonged effects."
"Indeed. They can apparently cause one to spend an entire evening drinking brandy with a widow while sharing deeply personal revelations about one's childhood trauma," Grimsby replied since Alaric had already told him all the details of the night he spent at the bakery.
Alaric stood abruptly, tossing the newspaper aside. "The fair needs preparation. As the estate's representative, I should assist."
"Of course, Your Grace. And which particular preparation requires your assistance? The pie judging you've been conscripted into? The dance platform supervision? Or perhaps the church decoration that Mrs. Whitby specifically requested your help yesterday before you fled like a startled deer?"
"I didn't flee. I made a strategic withdrawal."
"Your Grace literally vaulted over a fence to avoid continuing a conversation with her."
"The fence was the most efficient route back to the inn."
"The gate was three feet to your left."
"The fence was more direct."
"The fence was more cowardly."
"Grimsby, has anyone ever told you that you're occasionally insubordinate?"
"Daily, Your Grace. Usually by you. And typically when I'm being particularly accurate about Your Grace's emotional state."
Before Alaric could respond to this piece of impertinence, there was a knock at the door.
Grimsby opened the door to reveal Thomas Ironwell, looking harried and covered in what appeared to be tinsel.
"Mr. Fletcher, sir, you're needed immediately at the church because Mrs. Whitby says the garlands are all wrong and she needs someone tall to fix them, and also rational because everyone else is being what she calls 'aggressively festive' about the decoration placement."
"Aggressively festive?"
"Mrs. Martin wants to create what she's calling a 'garland waterfall' from the altar, and the vicar's having some sort of crisis about it, and Mrs. Whitby said to fetch you because you're the only person who can reach the high points without a ladder and also the only person who might be able to explain to Mrs. Martin why garland waterfalls in churches might be considered a bad idea. "
"Why would I be able to explain that?"
"She said you have a talent for making the ridiculous sound reasonable through the strategic use of long words."
"That's... actually fairly accurate."
"She also said if you try to hide behind that newspaper again, she'll come fetch you herself and it will be, and I quote, 'significantly less dignified than coming voluntarily.'"
"She saw me reading the newspaper?"
"The entire village saw you reading the newspaper, sir. You were holding it in front of your face while walking through the square yesterday. You nearly walked into the memorial horse trough."
"I was absorbed in an article."
"You walked into a tree."
"It was a very absorbing article."
"The tree disagreed. Anyway, Mrs. Whitby says you have ten minutes before she comes to get you, and she mentioned something about still having that red apron if you need additional motivation."
The threat of the red apron was apparently sufficient, because Alaric found himself following Thomas through the village streets, which were in a state of controlled chaos that suggested the fair was both imminent and possibly impossible.
Vendors were setting up stalls, children were running about with ribbons and bells, and someone had dressed the bronze turnip in a small Santa hat, which somehow made it even more absurd.
"It's madness," Alaric observed.
"It's Christmas Eve," Thomas replied, as if this explained everything. "Oh, and Mr. Fletcher? Fair warning—Lord Dupont arrived this morning. Early. He's staying at the Jennings' place because the inn's full, but he's been wandering around asking questions."
"Questions?"
"About the fair, mostly, but also about you. He seems to think he knows you from somewhere."
Alaric felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. Lord Dupont was one of his father's old friends, someone who'd known Alaric since childhood. If Dupont saw him properly, recognition would be instant and inevitable.
"Where is he now?"
"Last I saw, Mrs. Morrison had trapped him near the mistletoe at the inn somewhere and was interrogating him about London society. He looked rather frightened."
"Mrs. Morrison has that effect on people."
"She has that effect on everyone. Even the geese avoid her during her matchmaking moods."
They reached the church to find it in a state of decorative warfare.
Mrs. Martin stood at the altar, gesturing dramatically with a garland that seemed to be approximately the length of a small river, while the vicar wrung his hands and Marianne stood between them with the expression of someone utterly helpless.
"It would be magnificent!" Mrs. Martin was insisting.
"It would be a fire hazard," Marianne countered with admirable patience considering this was clearly not the first iteration of this argument.
The vicar looked deeply uncomfortable. "Well, I suppose one could argue that excessive decoration might distract from the spiritual nature of the service..."
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Martin declared. "Beauty enhances spirituality!
"Spirituality does not require garland waterfalls."
"But there's no rule against it!"
"There's also no rule against bringing livestock into the church, but we don't do that either," Marianne pointed out.
"We did that one year," Thomas piped up. "Remember? For the living nativity?”
"That was different," Marianne said.
"How?"
"This would be intentional garland catastrophe."
"Catastrophe!" Mrs. Martin looked offended. "My artistic vision is not catastrophic!"
It was at this point that Marianne noticed Alaric standing in the doorway. Something flickered across her face—relief, uncertainty, and something else that made his chest tighten uncomfortably.
"Mr. Fletcher," she said with careful formality that felt wrong after their evening of brandy and truth.
"How good of you to finally join us. We need someone tall enough to reach the ceiling brackets and rational enough to explain why Mrs. Martin's vision, while creative, might not be entirely practical. "
"I heard there were threats involving red aprons," Alaric said, aiming for lightness.
"The red apron is always an option," Marianne replied, and there was almost a smile there, almost the easy banter they'd developed over the past days.
"But for now, we just need your height and your ability to use words like 'architecturally inadvisable' with enough authority that people believe you. "
"I do have experience with architectural inadvisability."
"From all that observation you're so fond of?"
"Precisely."
"Well then, observe this situation and advise us, architecturally or otherwise."
What followed was an hour of negotiation that would have done credit to an international peace treaty.
Mrs. Martin had opinions about everything; the placement of wreaths, the density of garland, the appropriate ratio of red ribbons to green.
The vicar wanted to ensure nothing obscured the religious elements of the service.
Marianne wanted to ensure nothing collapsed, caught fire, or caused injury.
And Alaric found himself in the unexpected position of mediator, using his "architectural authority" to support Marianne's safety concerns while finding ways to allow Mrs. Martin some creative expression.
"What if," he suggested finally, "we created a ground-level display that drew the eye upward without actually suspending anything? Use the natural lines of the architecture to create the illusion of height without the risk?"
"Explain," Mrs. Martin demanded.
"Place graduated arrangements at the base of each pillar, taller at the back, shorter at the front. The eye will naturally follow the line upward, creating the waterfall effect you want without actually hanging anything from questionable beams."
Mrs. Martin considered this. "That could work. But we'd need someone tall enough to place the higher arrangements."
"How fortunate that we have Mr. Fletcher," Marianne said dryly. "He does so enjoy being useful."
"I live to serve," Alaric replied, matching her tone.
"Since when?"
"Since approximately four days ago, apparently."
"A recent conversion to usefulness. How novel."
"I prefer to think of it as character development."
"Do you have character to develop?"
"That's harsh."
"That's accurate."
They were smiling at each other now, the awkwardness of the morning temporarily forgotten in the familiar rhythm of their banter. The vicar cleared his throat.
"Perhaps we should begin? The fair starts in three hours, and we still need to prepare for the evening service."
Then came two hours of ladder work, garland arrangement, and several near-death experiences as the ancient church ladder proved to have its own opinions about structural integrity.
Marianne held the ladder while Alaric climbed, and there was something both domestic and dangerous about the arrangement; her steady hands on the wood, his precarious balance above, the necessity of trust between them.
"Careful," she called as he reached for a particularly high point. "That rung is loose."
"Now you tell me?"
"I thought you'd notice. You're very observant, after all."
"I observe things at ground level. At height, I'm more focused on not dying."
"Death would be inconvenient. We'd have to find another tall person for the rest of the decorations."
"Your concern for my well-being is touching."
"I'm practical. Do you know how hard it is to find tall people on short notice?"
"I'm sure you'd manage. You're remarkably resourceful."
"Flattery won't make that ladder any safer."
"No, but it might make falling more pleasant."
"How exactly would flattery make falling more pleasant?"
"I'd have the memory of complimenting you to comfort me during the descent."
"That's ridiculous."
"That's romantic."
"That's the same thing."
She was looking up at him, and he was looking down at her, and for a moment the church, Mrs. Martin's running commentary, and everything else faded away.
There was just Marianne, holding his ladder, keeping him steady, her face tilted up toward his with an expression that made him want to climb down immediately and possibly do something inadvisable.
Which was, of course, when the ladder decided to assert its independence.