Chapter 16
"Your Grace has developed a disturbing habit of rising before dawn, which would be admirable if it weren't accompanied by an equally disturbing habit of staring out the window at a certain bakery like a lovesick poet composing odes to unrequited affection."
Alaric didn't move from his position at the window, though Grimsby's observation was, as usual, uncomfortably accurate.
Five days had passed since Christmas, five days of careful distance and polite formality from Marianne, five days of proving through action rather than words that he intended to stay.
"I'm observing the village beginning its day," he said, watching as the bakery's chimney began producing smoke, indicating Marianne was already at work. "It's important to understand the rhythms of the community I'm now part of."
"Of course, Your Grace. And this has nothing to do with the fact that Mrs. Whitby begins work at precisely four-thirty each morning and can be glimpsed through her kitchen window if one positions oneself at exactly the right angle?"
"That would be an oddly specific thing to notice, Grimsby."
"Indeed. Almost as oddly specific as Your Grace's sudden interest in early morning village observation that coincidentally aligns with Mrs. Whitby's working hours."
"You're suggesting something, Grimsby?"
"I'm suggesting nothing, Your Grace. I'm merely observing that you've worn a path in the carpet from your bed to this window, and that path happens to provide the optimal view of the bakery."
"Carpets naturally develop wear patterns."
"Not usually in the shape of what I can only describe as 'yearning trajectory.'"
"That's not a real term."
"It is now. I've coined it specifically for Your Grace's morning ritual of architectural pining."
Before Alaric could defend his entirely reasonable interest in village commerce patterns, there was a knock at the door; the enthusiastic, slightly chaotic knock that could only belong to one person.
"Thomas," Alaric said as Grimsby opened the door to reveal the boy, already covered in snow despite the early hour. "It's not even six o'clock."
"Couldn't sleep," Thomas announced, bouncing into the room with energy that suggested sleep was a concept he found generally optional.
"Too much happening. The New Year's Eve preparations are in full chaos mode, Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Ironwell are having another dispute about decoration placement, and most importantly, I have intelligence about Mrs. Whitby's emotional state. "
"You have intelligence?"
"I'm very intelligent."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant. You want to know about Mrs. Whitby. She's moved from angry baking to contemplative baking."
"There's a difference?"
"Oh yes. Angry baking involves a lot of aggressive kneading and occasional muttering of words I'm not supposed to know. Contemplative baking is quieter, more thoughtful. She stares at the dough like it might reveal universal truths."
"And this is progress?"
"Definitely. The stages of Marianne Whitby's emotional processing are well-documented. We've moved from stage two to stage three-point-five."
"Point-five?"
"It's a transitional phase. Not quite contemplative, not quite ready for stage four."
"Which is?"
"That's when she starts actually talking to people about her feelings instead of just talking to bread dough."
"She talks to bread dough?"
"Everyone needs a confidant. Dough doesn't judge."
"Unlike the rest of the village?"
"Oh, we judge plenty. But we do it lovingly. And speaking of judging, you have that estate meeting this morning. The whole village is coming to see if you're actually serious about all those promises you made."
Alaric had indeed scheduled a public meeting at the hall for this morning—the first of what he intended to be regular sessions where tenants could bring concerns, requests, and problems directly to him.
It was the sort of thing his father would have found appalling; the Duke of Wexmere taking petitions like some medieval lord holding court.
But it was also exactly what the village needed: proof that he was present, listening, and actually willing to act.
"Will Mrs. Whitby be attending?" he asked, trying for casual and achieving something closer to desperately interested.
"She'll be there," Thomas confirmed. "She never misses village meetings. She sits in the back and takes notes in her little book."
"Notes about what?"
"Who knows? Probably who's talking sense and who's talking nonsense. Or recipes. Could be recipes. She gets inspiration in weird places."
"From village meetings?"
"Last year she created something she called 'Controversy Cake' after a particularly heated discussion about hedge maintenance. It had layers. She said it was metaphorical."
"Your village is deeply strange, Thomas."
"Your village now, Your Grace. You're one of us now."
The boy had a point.
Two hours later, Alaric stood in the great hall of Hollingford Hall, watching as what seemed to be the entire village filed in.
They'd worked for three days to clear and clean the space, removing dust covers, opening windows, and arranging chairs.
It still showed signs of neglect, water stains on the ceiling, faded wallpaper, the general air of genteel decay, but it was functional, and more importantly, it was open.
The villagers entered with a mixture of curiosity and caution, many of them seeing the inside of the hall for the first time in their lives. He heard whispers of "look at that chandelier!" and "Is that real gold leaf?" and from one practical soul, "heating this place must cost a fortune."
Marianne entered near the end, slipping in quietly and taking a seat in the back corner exactly as Thomas had predicted.
She had her notebook and was already writing something, probably observations about who had chosen to sit where and what that meant for village dynamics.
She didn't look at him, but he was aware of her presence like a change in atmospheric pressure.
"Right then," Alaric began, feeling absurdly nervous despite having addressed Parliament on multiple occasions.
"Thank you all for coming. I know this is unusual, but I thought it important that we establish a new way of working together.
For too long, the estate has been managed from a distance, without input from the people who actually live and work here. That changes now."
"Pretty words," someone called from the back—Mr. Martin, by the sound of it. "But we've heard pretty words before."
"You're right," Alaric agreed. "Which is why we're going to move directly to actions.
I have a list of concerns that have already been brought to my attention, but I want to hear from you directly.
What needs fixing? What needs changing? What have you been waiting twenty-three years for someone to address? "
The floodgates opened.
For the next three hours, Alaric listened to complaint after complaint, request after request, years of accumulated frustration pouring out.
Roofs that leaked, walls that were crumbling, elderly tenants who could barely afford food after paying rent, young families who couldn't afford to stay in the village where they'd grown up because there was no work and no affordable housing.
He took notes on everything, asked questions, made immediate decisions where he could and promised consideration where he couldn't. Some requests were simple but others were complex; restructuring the entire tenant farming system would take time and careful planning.
Through it all, he was aware of Marianne watching from her corner, her hand moving steadily across her notebook.
Once, their eyes met across the room, and she held his gaze for a moment before looking away, but not before he saw something in her expression that might have been surprise or even the beginnings of approval.
"What about the bakery roof?" Mrs. Morrison asked. "It was damaged in yesterday's storm, and Marianne's too proud to ask for help herself."
All eyes turned to Marianne, who flushed pink. "The roof is fine. It just needs a few patches."
"It needs more than patches," Mrs. Morrison insisted. "Half the tiles came off in the wind. She's got buckets all over the upper floor catching drips."
"I can manage," Marianne said firmly, still not looking at Alaric.
"No one should have to manage a damaged roof in winter," Alaric said. "I'll have materials sent over this afternoon."
"I don't need..."
"It's not charity, Mrs. Whitby. It's a landlord's responsibility to maintain the properties on his estate."
"The bakery isn't part of the estate anymore. You gave me the deed, remember?"
"Then consider it neighbourly assistance."
"I don't need assistance."
"Everyone needs assistance sometimes."
They were looking at each other now across the room full of fascinated villagers who were watching this exchange like it was a theatrical performance.
"Fine," Marianne said finally. "But I'm paying for the materials."
"We can discuss that later."
"We'll discuss it now. I pay my own way."
"As you wish."
"I do wish."
"Then it's settled."
"It's not settled until we agree on the price."
"Market rate."
"Fair market rate, not duke market rate."
"Is there a difference?"
"Dukes tend to overpay for things because they don't know better."
"This duke knows exactly what things cost."
"Since when?"
"Since five days ago when he started actually paying attention."
Someone in the crowd, it sounded like Thomas, whispered loudly, "they're flirting!"
"We are not flirting!" Marianne said, her face now bright red. "We're negotiating!"
"Aggressively negotiating," someone else added.
"All negotiating with Marianne is aggressive," Mrs. Morrison observed. "It's part of her charm."
"Can we please return to estate business?" Marianne asked, sinking lower in her chair.