Chapter 14 #2
The rest of the fair passed in a blur. Alaric helped where he could, though people now treated him with the awkward deference due to a duke rather than the easy camaraderie they'd shown "Mr. Fletcher.
" He saw Marianne occasionally, always at a distance, always surrounded by others, always determinedly not looking in his direction.
As evening settled over the village, the snow caught the firelight and turned the world to molten gold.
The bonfire roared in the square’s center, a great crackling pillar of warmth and tradition, and laughter carried on the air like carols half-remembered.
It should have been a beautiful sight, the kind that made a man feel part of something grand and ancient.
But Alaric stood at the edge of it all, hands buried in his coat pockets, feeling like an intruder at his own story.
He’d helped stack the wood that morning, helped the children twist pine garlands around the benches, even shown the land steward how to shield the kindling from wind.
Yet now that it burned bright, he couldn’t bring himself to step closer.
The villagers laughed freely, their faces glowing red and gold in the firelight, and every sound of joy seemed to widen the cold ache in his chest.
Thomas found him there, lurking near the shadows. The boy had a mug of juice in one hand and a look of worldly disappointment in the other. “You look pathetic,” he announced.
Alaric arched a brow. “Thank you for that assessment.”
“You’re welcome. It’s accurate.” Thomas sipped his juice with the air of a much older man. “Have you figured out your groveling strategy yet?”
“I’m doing the reading at the service,” Alaric said, hoping it sounded noble rather than desperate.
Thomas made a noise that was half snort, half sigh. “That’s not groveling, that’s just participating.”
“It’s a start.”
“It’s weak,” Thomas countered mercilessly. “You need a big gesture. Something she’ll remember. Something that says, ‘Yes, I lied about being a duke, but I’m emotionally competent now.’”
Alaric huffed. “Such as?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said, exasperated. “What do dukes do for such gestures?”
“Generally? Nothing. We’re not known for gesturing.”
Thomas’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Well, there’s your problem right there. You’ve got all the money and manners in the world and not a single dramatic bone in your body. Tragic, really.”
Alaric smiled faintly. “I’ve had a rather dramatic week, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Yeah, but not the right kind of dramatic,” Thomas said. “Falling off ladders and getting yelled at in front of the entire village is accidental drama. You need intentional drama. Something that says, ‘look, Marianne Whitby, I am a reformed fool.’”
“I’m beginning to think you missed your calling as a statesman.”
“I’d settle for local gossip legend,” Thomas said cheerfully. Then, more quietly: “You really love her, don’t you?”
The question landed like a snowflake on a wound; soft, but undeniable.
Alaric didn’t answer right away. The fire crackled, sparks drifting upward like little confessions escaping to the stars. Finally, he said, “I don’t think I knew what that word meant until now.”
Thomas nodded solemnly, as though that confirmed some private hypothesis. “Then you’ll have to prove it. Because she’s not the kind of woman who believes words anymore.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Actions,” Thomas said, tapping his mug for emphasis. “That’s what shall matter. You cannot hope to out-argue her, Your Grace; you must surpass even your own abilities.”
Before Alaric could respond, the church bells began to ring—slow, deep, and resonant, each peal rolling through the square like a heartbeat.
One by one, the villagers turned toward the sound, laughter fading into reverent murmur.
They began to move toward the church, families linking arms, children chasing in their wake.
The bonfire burned behind them, casting long shadows that stretched toward the chapel doors.
Alaric’s eyes found Marianne instantly. She was walking beside her mother, her shawl drawn tight, the lamplight brushing her hair with gold. She didn’t look his way, didn’t even seem to notice he existed, but he couldn’t look anywhere else.
He remembered her laughter in the bakery, her hands steady on his when he’d kneaded bread like a fool, the warmth of her voice when she’d said Edmund as if it meant something. And now she walked away from him with that same composure she’d shown while dismantling his lies.
Thomas followed his gaze, then gave a small, knowing sigh. “You’re going to have to be very brave,” he said.
“I’m aware.”
“Good,” Thomas said, stepping back toward the square. “Because you’ll need every ounce of courage you’ve got.” He flashed Alaric one last grin, crooked and mischievous as ever. “Good luck, Your Grace. You’re going to need it.”
***
The church was packed, every pew full, people standing in the back. Alaric entered to a wave of whispers and turning heads. The vicar had saved a place for him in the front pew, which was the duke's traditional seat, unused for over two decades.
Marianne was across the aisle, staring straight ahead with determined focus. Her mother sat beside her, occasionally patting her hand in maternal comfort.
The service began, carols were sung, prayers were said, and then the vicar announced, "we have a special honour tonight. His Grace, the Duke of Wexmere, will read the Christmas lesson."
The whispers increased as Alaric made his way to the lectern. The Bible lay open to a well-known passage of Scripture. He had heard it countless times before, read it himself on many a Sunday, yet tonight the familiar words seemed to carry a weight and warmth he had never fully felt.
He read slowly, carefully, very aware of Marianne finally looking at him. When he reached the part about there being no room at the inn, he heard someone mutter, "Unlike our inn, which always has room for liars."
He continued reading, about shepherds and angels and good tidings of great joy, and when he finished, the church was silent.
"Thank you, Your Grace," the vicar said, though he looked uncomfortable. "That was... well read."
Alaric returned to his seat, feeling the weight of every stare. The service continued, but he barely heard it, too aware of Marianne's presence across the aisle, of the distance between them that felt both tiny and insurmountable.
When the service ended with carols sung by candlelight, Alaric watched Marianne sing, her face illuminated by the small flame she held. She looked beautiful and sad and completely unreachable.
As people filed out, exchanging Christmas greetings, Alaric found himself alone in the duke's pew. Even Dupont had abandoned him, apparently finally understanding that his presence wasn't welcome.
"Your Grace?"
He looked up to find the vicar standing there.
"Yes?"
"Might I offer some advice?"
"Everyone else has."
"Your mother, used to say that Christmas wasn't about the decorations or the presents or even the traditions. She said it was about choosing love over fear, hope over despair, connection over isolation."
"She said many things."
"She also said that her greatest hope was that you'd find someone who could make you laugh, really laugh, not just polite society amusement."
"Did she?"
"She did. I think she would have liked Mrs. Whitby."
"I think so too."
"Then perhaps you should stop thinking about what your father would have done and start thinking about what your mother would have wanted."
"Which was?"
"For you to be brave enough to stay and fight for something that matters."
The vicar left him there, and Alaric sat in the empty church thinking about his mother, about Christmas, about choices made and unmade.
Finally, he rose and walked out into the cold night air. The fair was winding down, stalls being packed up, families heading home. He could see Marianne helping to dismantle decorations, still avoiding his side of the square.
Tomorrow, he was supposed to return to London. Tomorrow, he could go back to his safe, adequate, controlled life.
Or he could stay and try to earn forgiveness from a woman who'd shown him what it meant to choose joy despite pain, to create warmth in winter, to build community from chaos.
Tomorrow, he could stop being the duke his father had been and start being the man his mother had hoped he'd become.
The question was whether Marianne would give him the chance.
As he walked back to the inn, snow began to fall again, gentle this time, like a benediction or a second chance.
Behind him, the church bells chimed midnight.
Christmas Day.
A day for miracles, perhaps.
If he was brave enough to believe in them.
If she was generous enough to allow them.
If they were both foolish enough to try.