Chapter 13 #2
"And you've been helping with the fair! How marvelous! Very common touch, very modern. Though why you're dressed like that, I can't imagine. And holding a fishing net? Is this some sort of Christmas tradition I'm unaware of?"
"We were catching geese," Alaric said weakly.
"Catching geese? Whatever for?"
"They're eating the pies."
"My goodness, the nobility really has declined, hasn't it? In my days, dukes didn't chase geese. They had people for that."
"Things change," Alaric said, still watching Marianne, who hadn't moved or spoken since her last outburst.
"Well, yes, I suppose they do. Still, your father would be displeased. A duke catching geese! With a net! At a village fair!"
"My father's opinion ceased to matter when he died," Alaric said sharply.
"Yes, well. Quite. Still, it's marvelous to see you here. You must tell me all about it. Are you staying at the hall? I heard it was closed up."
"I'm staying at the inn."
"The inn? The village inn? But why?"
"It's complicated."
"I imagine it is. And this young lady is...?"
"This young lady," Marianne said with icy precision, "is someone who's just discovered she's been made a fool of by someone she thought she could trust. If you'll excuse me, Your Grace," she said the title like it was profanity, "I have pies to save and a fair to run.
Something those of us who actually live here and care about this village do. "
She threw the net at his feet and walked away, her back rigid with anger and hurt. Alaric started to follow, but Dupont caught his arm.
"I say, did I interrupt something? She seemed rather upset."
"Yes, Dupont, you interrupted something. Something important."
"Oh. Well. Sorry about that. But really, Wexmere, what are you doing here? And dressed like that? And why does that woman think you're someone called Fletcher?"
"It's a long story."
"I have time."
"I don't." Alaric pulled free. "I need to..."
But Marianne was already gone, disappeared into the crowd. He could see the ripple of gossip spreading from where they stood—people whispering, pointing, the news traveling like wildfire through the village.
The Duke of Wexmere was here. Had been here all along. Pretending to be someone else. Lying to everyone.
Lying to Marianne.
"Well," Dupont said cheerfully, oblivious to the catastrophe he'd caused, "shall we get some of this wine I keep hearing about? I'm told it's traditional."
"Dupont," Alaric said with barely controlled patience, "I need you to go away. Now. Immediately."
"I say, that's rather rude."
"Yes, it is. Go anyway."
"But I just got here!"
"And now you're leaving."
"But..."
"Dupont, I am having the worst day of my life, which is saying something considering my life has contained some remarkably bad days. If you don't leave immediately, I will do something we'll both regret."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet, but I'm sure it will be creative and painful."
Dupont huffed but retreated, muttering about the decline of ducal manners. Alaric stood alone in the middle of the fair, surrounded by people who were all staring at him with expressions ranging from shock to anger to betrayed hurt.
The geese, sensing the shift in attention, took the opportunity to escape with their pilfered pies. Admiral Feathers honked what sounded like a victory call as he led his troops away.
Even the geese were having a better day than him.
"Your Grace."
He turned to find Mrs. Whitby senior standing there, and the disappointment in her eyes was somehow worse than Marianne's anger.
"Mrs. Whitby..."
"You're the Duke of Wexmere."
"Yes."
"You've been here for four days, pretending to be someone else."
"Yes."
"You let us feed you, shelter you, trust you, all while lying about who you were."
"Yes."
"Why?"
It was such a simple question, but he found he didn't have a simple answer. Why had he done it? What had he hoped to accomplish?
"I don't know," he admitted. "I came to review the books, to see what Fletcher had stolen. I didn't intend to stay, didn't intend to get involved. But then everyone assumed I was the new steward, as I led them to believe, and it seemed easier to play along than explain."
"Easier for whom?"
"For me, obviously."
"And it never occurred to you that the truth would come out? That people would be hurt?"
"I thought I'd be gone before it mattered."
"But you stayed."
"I stayed."
"Why?"
He looked across the square to where Marianne was viciously organizing something, her movements sharp with anger. "You know why."
"Do I?"
"Your daughter is... remarkable."
"My daughter deserved the truth."
"I know."
"She trusted you. We all did."
"I know."
"She's been hurt before. Lost her husband, had to rebuild her entire life. And just when she was starting to open up again, to trust again, you..."
"I know." His voice was rough. "I know what I've done."
"Do you? Because from where I stand, it looks like you played with her feelings for your own amusement."
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?"
"It was..." He struggled for words. "It was real. Everything I said, everything I felt, it was real. The only lie was my name."
"Your name and your title and your position and the fundamental facts of your existence."
"When you put it like that, it sounds terrible."
"It is terrible."
They stood there for a moment, the fair continuing around them with forced cheer as people tried to pretend the enormous scandal unfolding in their midst wasn't happening.
"What are you going to do?" Mrs. Whitby senior asked finally.
"I don't know."
"That's not good enough."
"I know that too."
"She won't forgive easily. She doesn't trust easily in the first place, and when that trust is broken..."
"I'll make it right."
"How?"
"I don't know yet."
"Your Grace...can I even call you that? It feels strange after calling you Mr. Fletcher."
"Call me whatever you like. I probably deserve worse."
"Your Grace," she said firmly, "you have two choices. You can leave now, go back to London, and never return. Marianne will hurt, but she'll heal, and eventually, this will become just another story about the aristocracy's fundamental unreliability."
"Or?"
"Or you can stay and fight for her. Prove that despite the lies, there was truth in what you shared. Show her, show all of us, that you're more than just another absent landlord playing at understanding our lives."
"And if she won't listen?"
"Then at least you'll have tried. Which is more than your father ever did, and more than you've done for the past years."
The criticism stung because it was accurate. "You're right."
"I usually am. Now, the fair continues despite personal dramas, and someone needs to judge the pie contest. The actual judges are all too afraid of Mrs. Martin to vote against her, but a duke might have enough authority to be honest."
"You want me to judge pies? Now?"
"Life doesn't stop for broken hearts, Your Grace. The pies need judging, the bonfire needs lighting, and the Christmas service needs attending. You can participate as yourself for once, or you can run away. Your choice."
She walked away, leaving him standing there surrounded by the fair he'd helped build, the community he'd briefly been part of, and the wreckage of what might have been something wonderful.
Thomas materialized at Alaric’s elbow like a small, worried shadow, his usual mischief nowhere in sight. His cap was askew, his cheeks raw from the cold, and a feather clung stubbornly to his sleeve.
“She’s really angry,” he announced, solemn as a magistrate.
“I noticed,” Alaric said, still scanning the square as if he might catch a glimpse of Marianne between stalls and garlands and the drifting snow.
“I mean really, really angry,” Thomas persisted. “She called you some words I’m not supposed to know.” He paused, then added helpfully, “I knew them anyway.”
“I probably deserved them.”
“Probably,” Thomas agreed, with the ruthless honesty of youth. He tipped his head, studying Alaric as though examining a curious specimen. “Are you really the duke?”
“I am.”
Thomas let out a low whistle. “That’s actually pretty impressive. I mean, the lying is terrible, but being a duke is magnificent.”
“It’s really not.”
“You have a castle?”
“It’s a hall, not a castle.”
“Still amazing,” Thomas said, undeterred. “Do you have a coat of arms? With, like, lions and daggers and a Latin word no one can pronounce?”
“Yes,” Alaric said, because arguing about heraldry felt easier than contemplating the wreckage he’d made. “No daggers.”
“Pity.” Thomas planted his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. “Mr. Fletcher...sorry, Your Grace, look, you’ve hurt her. You know that.”
“Thomas, I’ve hurt someone you care about.” The admission scorched on the way out. “I see it.”
“Yeah. You have.” Thomas’s gaze drifted toward the bakery as though he could see through snow and brick to the woman inside. “But you also helped with the fair and fought the geese and made her laugh. She hasn’t laughed like that since her husband died.”
“And now she’ll never laugh with me again.”
“Maybe. Or maybe not.” Thomas shrugged in the helpless, hopeful way of boys who have seen sorrow and chosen stubborn optimism anyway. “Mrs. Whitby’s pretty forgiving. Eventually. After she’s done being scary and angry.”
“How long does scary and angry usually last?”
“Depends on the offense.” He began counting on his fingers. “When I broke her kitchen window with a ball, it was three days. When Mr. Martin said her bread was dry, it was a week. For lying about being a duke while making her feel things?” He lifted both hands, palms up. “Could be forever.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“I’m just being honest.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Want some advice?”
“From a twelve-year-old?”
“I’m a very wise twelve-year-old.” Thomas’s expression did not invite dispute. “Also observant. Also fast on my feet, which is useful when the geese organize.”
Against all sense, Alaric almost smiled. “All right. What’s your advice?”
“Grovel,” Thomas said promptly. “A lot. Publicly. With gifts.”
“Gifts?”
“Good gifts. Not duke gifts—no diamonds the size of plums or horses with four names. Real gifts. Things that show you were paying attention.”
“Such as?”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed, as if riffling through memories.
“She complains when the flour sacks tear because someone’s been skimping on twine.
She hides the last slice of cake in the blue tin with the dented lid.
She says the vicar’s hands get cold in winter and he won’t admit it, so she gives him warm stones wrapped in linen before services.
She keeps a book of poems under the flour bin, don’t tell her I know, and she pretends she doesn’t cry at the poem about snow and lamps, but she does.
” He looked up, satisfied. “Start there.”
Alaric swallowed. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“That’s my job. I pay attention and then I do something about it. You could try that.” Thomas tilted his head again, studying Alaric’s face. “And don’t talk like a duke when you apologize. You do that thing where your words line up like soldiers and none of them are allowed to feel anything.”
“I’m not sure I know how to talk any other way.”
“Then learn.” Thomas’s voice softened. “You learned how to knead bread without murdering it. You learned how to dodge Admiral Feathers. You can learn this.”
“Publicly?”
“Everyone knows anyway,” Thomas said with a grimace, jerking a thumb toward the growing clusters of whisperers.
“Half the village heard ‘Your Grace’ and the other half learned it from Mrs. Morrison before the hour was out. Witnesses make it harder for her to murder you. Also, they’ll see you mean it. ”
Alaric stared at the trampled snow, at the scattered feathers and the crushed edge of a garland loop. “And if she won’t listen at all?”
Thomas considered. “Then you keep showing up. Day after day. Fix what Fletcher broke. Pay back what was stolen. Stand in the cold when people are cold. Carry the heavy things. Learn the names of the geese and the names of the people. Prove you’re not just a man who pretended to be someone else for a lark at Christmas. ”
“That’s a great deal to do.”
“That’s love. That is what Marianne always says,” Thomas said simply. “And also consequence.” He nudged Alaric’s elbow with an unexpected gentleness. “You really did watch her like she was made of Christmas magic.”
“I didn’t...”
“You really did,” Thomas insisted, without malice. “It was actually kind of embarrassing. But also sweet. In an awkward, duchy way.” He flashed a quick, crooked grin. “If you want her to believe you, stop being awkward and start being brave.”
Alaric let out a slow breath that trembled more than he liked. “Brave,” he repeated.
“Brave,” Thomas affirmed. “Now go wash the flour off your sleeve and think of a gift that proves you were listening. And maybe start practicing the words ‘I’m sorry’ until they sound like you mean them.”
“I do mean them.”
“Good,” Thomas said. “Make sure she hears it.” He pointed toward the church, where the bells were being tested for evening service. “And maybe read at the service. Not like a duke. Like a man who finally knows where he belongs.”
“Where do I belong?” Alaric asked before he could stop himself.
Thomas’s grin widened, fierce and bright. “Right here. If you’re brave enough to stay.”