Chapter 15 #2
Alaric knew this one. His mother had loved it, had sung it every Christmas even when his father wasn't there to hear it. Without thinking, he found himself singing—not well, his voice rough with emotion and lack of practice, but with feeling that surprised even him.
“Joyful, all ye nations, rise, join the triumph of the skies….”
Through the window, he saw Marianne's hands still on the dough she'd been kneading. She was listening.
“Hark! The Herald Angels Sing...”
His voice cracked slightly on "angels sing," remembering his mother's voice in the empty halls of Hollingford Hall, but he continued. The other carolers had gone quiet, letting him sing alone.
When he finished, Marianne was standing at the window, looking out at him. Their eyes met for a moment, just a moment, before she turned away and disappeared deeper into the bakery.
"Well," Mrs. Morrison said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "that was... something."
"That was terrible," Thomas said cheerfully. "Your Grace really can't sing."
"Thomas!" his mother scolded.
"What? It's true. But it was also sort of nice. In a painful, listening-to-cats-dying sort of way."
"Thank you for that assessment," Alaric said dryly.
"You're welcome. Are you going to keep trying?"
"Yes."
"Good. It's entertaining. Also, I have money riding on you not giving up."
"How much?"
"My entire Christmas money. Five whole shillings."
"I'll try not to disappoint you."
"Or you could just pay me the five shillings now and save time."
"Thomas!" his mother said again.
"What? I'm being practical!"
The caroling group moved on, but Alaric found himself lingering outside the bakery. Through the window, he could see Marianne working, her movements sharp and aggressive as she attacked the dough.
"She's angry baking," Mrs. Ironwell observed, having stayed behind with him. "That's stage two."
"Stage two of what?"
"Marianne's anger process. Stage one is cold silence. Stage two is angry baking. Stage three is usually throwing things, though she restricts that to private moments. Stage four is crying, and stage five is either forgiveness or permanent banishment."
"How long does the process usually take?"
"Depends on the offense. When Mr. Martin insulted her Christmas pudding, it took three days. When her husband forgot their anniversary, it took a week. For this?" She shrugged. "Could be months."
"I don't have months."
"Then you'd better figure out how to speed up the process."
"How?"
"By doing something that matters. Not to you, but to her. Show her you understand what she cares about."
"She cares about the village."
"Then start there."
Alaric left the carolers and walked through the village alone, really looking at it for the first time. Not as the quaint Christmas scene he'd been enjoying for the past few days, but as a real place with real problems.
He saw the cottage roofs that needed repair, patches covered with canvas and hope. He saw the elderly residents carefully rationing coal, their homes cold despite the Christmas season. He saw the children playing with handmade toys because their parents couldn't afford anything from the shops.
This was his responsibility. These were his tenants, his people, and he'd abandoned them for twenty-three years because he couldn't bear to face his memories.
"Your Grace?"
He turned to find Thomas following him, looking uncharacteristically serious.
"Thomas. Shouldn't you be with your family?"
"Probably. But you looked like you were having thoughts, and someone should make sure they're good thoughts and not foolish duke thoughts."
"What's the difference?"
"Good thoughts lead to helping people. Foolish duke thoughts lead to running away to London."
"What makes you think I have foolish duke thoughts?"
"You've been having them for twenty-three years, haven't you?"
The boy had a point.
"Walk with me, Thomas."
They walked through the village while Thomas pointed out things Alaric had never noticed; which families were struggling, which buildings needed repair, where Fletcher's theft had hit hardest.
"Mrs. Wiggins, she's been buying food on credit for three months because the household budget never came through. Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, their roof's been leaking for two years but they can't afford to fix it. We also need new books—some of the ones we're using are older than you are."
"How do you know all this?"
"Because I pay attention. Also because I'm nosy. But mostly because this is my home and these are my people, and you notice when your people are struggling."
"Your people. Not mine?"
"Not yet. You have to earn that."
They reached the gates of Hollingford Hall; big, imposing and locked.
"Have you been inside since you got here?" Thomas asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I haven't had time."
"That's a lie. You've had time. You've been avoiding it."
"Perhaps."
"Definitely. My mum says the hall's full of ghosts."
"There are no ghosts."
"Not literal ghosts. Memory ghosts. The kind that make you sad."
"Your mother's very philosophical. Are you going in?"
Alaric looked at the hall, his ancestral home, the place where his mother had tried so hard to create happiness despite everything. "Yes."
"Now?"
"Now."
"Can I come?"
"Why would you want to?"
"Because it's a mysterious abandoned mansion and I'm twelve. Also, you might need moral support. Or someone to prevent you from doing something dramatically foolish."
"I don't do dramatically foolish things."
"You pretended to be your own steward and fell in love with the village baker. That's pretty dramatically foolish."
"I didn't say I fell in love with her."
"You didn't have to. You've been staring at her like she's made of Christmas magic and heartbreak... for four days."
"That's very poetic for a twelve-year-old."
"I read a lot. Are we going in or are we going to stand here until we freeze?"
Alaric found the keys in his pocket—he'd been carrying them since he arrived, unable to bring himself to use them. The lock protested, rusty from disuse, but eventually yielded.
The hall was exactly as he remembered and completely different.
Dust covers draped the furniture like ghosts indeed, and the air was stale with abandonment. But underneath the neglect, he could still see his mother's touch; the wallpaper she'd chosen, the arrangement of furniture she'd insisted upon, the paintings she'd hung with such care.
"It's massive," Thomas breathed, looking around with wide eyes.
"It's excessive," Alaric corrected. "No one needs this much space."
"But it could be beautiful again. Look at those windows! And the staircase! And is that a ballroom?"
"Through there, yes."
"When was the last time there was a ball?"
"Twenty-four years ago. The Christmas before my mother died."
"That's sad."
"Yes."
They walked through the rooms, Thomas's enthusiasm gradually drawing Alaric out of his melancholy. The boy saw potential where Alaric saw memories; a library that could hold reading groups, a ballroom perfect for village dances, kitchens that could prepare feast for the entire community.
"You could do so much with this place," Thomas said. "Instead of it just sitting here being sad and dusty."
"Such as?"
"Village events. Weddings. Harvest festivals. Christmas fairs when the weather's bad. School trips. Everything!"
"The village has managed without it for many years."
"Managing isn't the same as thriving. Mrs. Whitby says..." He stopped.
"What does Mrs. Whitby say?"
"She says the hall being closed is like the heart of the village being shut off. That your mother understood that the hall belonged to everyone, not just the duke."
"My mother understood many things I'm only beginning to learn."
They climbed to the attic, where Thomas immediately began exploring with the enthusiasm of someone who'd read too many adventure stories.
It was there, in a corner behind old trunks and forgotten furniture, that they found them; boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations, carefully packed away twenty-three years ago.
"These are incredible," Thomas said, pulling out ornament after ornament. "Look at this angel! And these garlands! And...what's this?"
He held up a wooden star, painted gold, smaller than the one currently adorning the village tree but clearly its inspiration.
"My mother made that," Alaric said quietly. "She said every tree needed a star to remind us to look up, to hope for something better."
"It's beautiful."
"She was talented."
"At more than just stars, I think." Thomas had found something else—a leather journal, tied with ribbon.
Alaric took it with shaking hands. His mother's handwriting, still clear despite the years.
"My dearest Alaric," the first entry began, "if you're reading this, then you've finally come home for Christmas. I know it will be hard. I know the memories hurt. But please remember that pain is just love with nowhere to go, and love is always worth the pain it brings."
He sat down on a dusty trunk and read while Thomas continued exploring. His mother had written entries for each Christmas after his father's death, as if she knew he would one day come back and need her words.
She wrote about the village, about the people she loved, about her hopes for the hall and the estate. She wrote about her regrets, her joys, her belief that Christmas was not about perfection but about choosing to create light in the darkness.
And in the final entry, dated just weeks before her death, she wrote: