Chapter 15
"Your Grace appears to have not slept, which would explain why you're sitting at the window staring at the bakery like a Gothic hero contemplating his tragic fate, though I suspect Gothic heroes had better grooming habits and possibly more dignity."
Alaric didn't move from his position at the window where he'd been sitting since returning from the midnight service, watching the bakery where Marianne was undoubtedly not sleeping either.
"Gothic heroes also had the advantage of fiction, Grimsby.
They could brood dramatically and somehow still win the heroine's heart by chapter's end.
Reality appears to be less accommodating. "
"Reality does tend to be inconveniently complex, Your Grace. Though I must say, your brooding has achieved remarkable levels of drama. The entire inn's staff is taking bets on whether you'll flee to London before noon or continue your vigil until you waste away from romantic despair."
"What are the odds?"
"Three to one in favor of fleeing, I'm afraid. Though young Thomas Ironwell has placed a significant wager on you staying and, I quote, 'doing something ridiculously grand that either makes everything better or much, much worse.'"
"That child has disturbing insight into my character."
"He also suggested that you might benefit from a wash and change of clothes, as you currently look like, and again I quote, 'a sad duke who's been dragged through a hedge of feelings backward.'"
Alaric finally looked at his reflection in the window and had to admit the boy had a point.
His clothes were wrinkled from a night of sitting, his hair was in complete disarray from running his hands through it while thinking, and there was a general air of dishevelment that suggested emotional crisis barely contained by aristocratic breeding.
"The entire village knows, I assume?"
"Oh yes, Your Grace. The news spread with remarkable efficiency.
By my count, the story has been told and retold at least forty-seven times since last night, with increasing embellishments.
The current version involves you dramatically revealing your identity while fighting off a pack of geese with one hand and declaring your love with the other. "
"That's not remotely what happened."
"No, but it's significantly more entertaining than the truth, which is that Lord Dupont has the social awareness of a particularly obtuse brick and destroyed Your Grace's romantic prospects with three words."
"Two words. 'Your Grace.' That's all it took to ruin everything."
"To be fair, Your Grace, the situation was perhaps already somewhat ruined by the foundational lie upon which it was built."
"You're supposed to be supportive, Grimsby."
"I'm supposed to be honest, Your Grace. Support without honesty is not support at all, and you've had quite enough of that in your life."
Before Alaric could argue with this uncomfortable truth, there was a knock at the door—not the tentative knock of someone bringing bad news or the aggressive knock of someone seeking confrontation, but the businesslike knock of someone with a purpose.
Grimsby opened it to reveal Mrs. Whitby senior, dressed in her Christmas best but with an expression that suggested celebration was the furthest thing from her mind.
"Your Grace," she said with formal coldness that was worse than anger. "I've come to discuss practical matters."
"Mrs. Whitby, please, let me explain..."
"There's nothing to explain. You lied to us, we trusted you, and now we all have to live with the consequences. But there are matters that need addressing regardless of personal feelings."
"What matters?"
"The families who've been overpaying rent due to Fletcher's theft. The repairs needed throughout the village that have been postponed for lack of funds. The elderly tenants who are choosing between food and heating because their money is not enough. Those matters."
Alaric felt shame wash over him like cold water. While he'd been playing at being Mr. Fletcher, falling for Marianne, and enjoying his temporary escape from responsibility, real people had been suffering from his neglect.
"Make a list," he said quietly. "Everything that needs addressing. I'll see it all corrected."
"Will you? Or will you return to London and forget us again for another twenty-three years?"
"I'm not leaving."
"That's what you say now, in the midst of romantic drama and Christmas emotion. But what about in a week? A month? When the novelty wears off and London society calls you back?"
"I'm staying."
"For how long?"
"For as long as it takes."
"Takes to what?"
"To make things right. To earn forgiveness. To prove that I'm not my father."
Mrs. Whitby senior studied him for a long moment, and he saw something shift in her expression; not forgiveness, not yet, but perhaps a willingness to consider the possibility.
"Marianne's locked herself in the bakery," she said finally. "Won't see anyone, won't talk to anyone. She's baking because that's what she does when she's hurt—she makes bread like she's trying to pound her feelings into submission."
"Can I..."
"No. You can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But if you're serious about staying, about making things right, then you need to understand what you've broken."
"Tell me."
"You broke her trust, obviously. But more than that, you broke her hope. She was starting to believe she could have something good again, something real. And then she discovered it was all built on lies."
"Not all of it."
"Enough of it. The foundation was false, Your Grace. It doesn't matter if the feelings were real when they were built on deception."
"Then how do I fix it?"
"You don't. You can't fix another person's heart like it's a broken fence or a ledger that won't balance. All you can do is show, through actions not words, that you're worthy of a second chance. And then hope she's generous enough to give you one."
"What kind of actions?"
"That's for you to figure out. But I'll tell you this—grand gestures and dramatic declarations won't work. Marianne's had enough of performance. If you want to reach her, you need to show her something true."
She left him with that, and Alaric sat in his wrinkled clothes and emotional dishevelment, trying to figure out what truth he could possibly show that would matter.
"If I may, Your Grace," Grimsby said after a moment of silence, "perhaps the first truth you might show is that dukes are capable of basic hygiene and fresh clothing."
"That seems trivial given the circumstances."
"On the contrary, Your Grace. Appearing in public looking like you've been dragged through emotional hedgerows backward sends the message that you're wallowing.
Appearing properly dressed but clearly affected sends the message that you're trying to maintain dignity while dealing with difficult emotions.
The latter is more likely to garner sympathy. "
"I don't want sympathy."
"Then what do you want, Your Grace?"
"I want to turn back time and tell Marianne the truth from the beginning."
"That's not an option available even to dukes, I'm afraid."
"Then I want to find a way to show her that everything that mattered was real."
"Then I suggest you start by participating in the Christmas Day traditions as yourself, not as Mr. Fletcher or as the brooding duke, but as yourself."
"I don't know who that is anymore."
"Then perhaps it's time to find out."
Alaric bathed and dressed properly, though his hands shook slightly as he tied his cravat—not from fear but from the weight of what lay ahead. When he descended to the inn's common room, conversation stopped immediately. Every eye turned to him, some curious, some hostile, some pitying.
"Happy Christmas, Your Grace," Mrs. Morrison said with formal politeness that lacked all her usual warmth. "Will you be joining us for the Christmas Day caroling?"
"If I'm welcome."
"Everyone's welcome at Christmas," she said, though her tone suggested there might be exceptions. "It's tradition."
The caroling was a village tradition where groups went from house to house, singing and sharing Christmas greetings.
It was exactly the sort of communal activity that normally made Alaric uncomfortable, but he found himself following the group as they made their way through the snow-covered streets.
At the first house, old Mr. Thompson came to the door, saw Alaric, and said loudly, "is that the duke who's been lying to us all week?"
"Yes," Alaric said simply. "It is."
"Hmph. Well, at least you sing better than Fletcher did. That man couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it."
It was perhaps the strangest acceptance he'd ever received, but Alaric took it.
They moved from house to house, and at each one, the reception was different.
Some villagers were cold, offering formal greetings that emphasized his title and the distance it created.
Others were curious, asking questions about why he'd done it, what he'd hoped to achieve.
The children were the most direct, with one small girl asking, "are you the one who made Mrs. Whitby cry? "
"Yes," he admitted, feeling the weight of it. "I am."
"That was mean."
"Yes, it was."
"Are you going to say sorry?"
"I'm going to try."
"You should bring flowers. Mummy always likes flowers when Daddy says sorry."
"I'll remember that."
But when they reached the bakery, Marianne wouldn't come to the door. They could see her through the window, working at her ovens, but she didn't acknowledge their presence.
"We should sing anyway," Thomas said. "It's tradition. Every house gets carols on Christmas Day."
So they sang, standing in the snow outside the bakery while Marianne worked inside, pretending not to hear them. They sang "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" and "The First Nowell," and then someone started "The Herald Angels Sing."