Chapter 19 #2
She laughed, and he spun her, making her laugh more. Around them, other couples had joined the dancing, but he was only aware of Marianne; the warmth of her hand in his, the way she moved with him, the joy on her face.
"One minute to midnight!" someone called.
The dancing stopped, everyone turning toward the church tower where the bells would ring. Marianne stayed in his arms, not pulling away even though the dance was over.
"New year," she said softly. "New beginnings."
"New chances."
"New risks."
"Worth taking?"
"We'll see."
The countdown began, the crowd calling out the numbers. Ten, nine, eight...
"Marianne," he said urgently, "I need to tell you something."
"Now? With five seconds to midnight?"
"Especially now."
Three, two, one!!
"I love you."
The bells erupted, the crowd cheered, fireworks burst overhead, but Marianne just stared at him.
"You can't just declare love at midnight!"
"When should I declare it?"
"With warning! With preparation! With..."
He kissed her. Or she kissed him. Later, neither would be quite sure who moved first. All that mattered was that they were kissing, really kissing, in front of the entire village as the New Year began.
When they finally pulled apart, the crowd had gone silent, everyone staring.
Then Thomas's voice rang out: "FINALLY! I WIN SO MUCH MONEY!"
The tension broke, everyone laughing and cheering and calling out congratulations and good-natured jesting. But Alaric only had eyes for Marianne, who was looking at him with wonder.
"You kissed me in public."
"You kissed me back."
"The entire village saw."
"Good. Now they all know."
"Know what?"
"That I love you. That you're mine. That I'm yours. That this is real and permanent and worth everything."
"You can't just decide all that."
"I'm not deciding it. I'm recognizing it. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"You tell me. You kissed me back."
"That was impulse."
"Was it?"
"No," she admitted. "It was inevitability."
"Good inevitable or bad inevitable?"
"The best inevitable."
He kissed her again, shorter this time but no less meaningful.
"I have something to say," Marianne announced suddenly, loud enough for the crowd to hear.
"Oh no," Alaric murmured. "Are you about to throw something at me after all?"
"No. Maybe. Probably not." She climbed onto the platform where the musicians had been playing, pulling him up with her. "I have something to say about forgiveness."
The crowd went quiet, everyone listening.
"This man," she said, pointing at Alaric, "lied to all of us. He pretended to be someone he wasn't. He deceived us and betrayed our trust."
"This is not the romantic declaration I was hoping for," Alaric muttered.
"But," Marianne continued, "he also stayed when the truth came out. He bled fixing my roof. He listened to your complaints for three hours without once looking bored. He's promised to stay, to be part of this community, to use his position to help instead of hide."
"Marianne..."
"I'm not finished. The point is, he hurt me. Hurt us. But he's trying to make amends. And if this village can forgive Fletcher for stealing, if we can forgive the geese for destroying everything annually, if we can forgive Mrs. Martin for the garland incident of '03..."
"That was art!" Mrs. Martin protested.
"...then we can forgive a duke for being human. For being afraid. For choosing connection even when it meant risking rejection."
"Are you defending me?" Alaric asked, amazed.
"I'm explaining you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Also, I love him."
The crowd gasped.
"You can't just declare that!" Alaric protested, echoing her earlier words.
"You did it first!"
"That's different!"
"How?"
"I don't know, but it must be!"
"Equal declaration rights," someone in the crowd called. "If the duke can declare love, so can Marianne!"
"Thank you!" Marianne said. "See? The village understands equality."
"The village understands drama," Alaric corrected.
"Same thing in Hollingford."
"I've noticed."
They stood on the platform, facing each other while the entire village watched with the intensity of an audience at the best theatrical performance.
"So what happens now?" Marianne asked.
"Now I court you properly. No lies, no pretense."
"How does one properly court a baker?"
"Early morning visits, helping with deliveries, suffering through your experiments."
"I don't experiment."
"You made savory gingerbread last week."
"That was innovation!"
"That was a crime against gingerbread."
"You ate three pieces."
"I was being supportive."
"You liked them."
"I like everything you make."
"Even the failures?"
"Especially the failures. They're honest."
"Like us?"
"Exactly like us."
They were standing very close now, the crowd forgotten, the world narrow down to just the two of them on a platform in the firelight.
"Alaric," she said, using his real name for the first time in public.
"Yes?"
"Kiss me again."
"Here? Now? In front of everyone?"
"Especially in front of everyone. Let them see. Let them know. Let there be no doubt."
"About what?"
"About us. About this. About the fact that I choose you, lies and all, because the truth underneath was worth finding."
He kissed her then, properly this time, with no hesitation or surprise, just the sweet certainty of two people who'd found their way through deception to truth, through anger to forgiveness, through fear to love.
When they pulled apart this time, the crowd erupted in genuine celebration. Someone started playing a waltz, couples began dancing, and the New Year's celebration continued with renewed energy.
"We should probably get down," Marianne said, suddenly seeming to realize they were still standing on the platform like actors who'd forgotten to exit.
"Should we? I rather like being up here with you. Away from the crowd."
"We're literally elevated above the crowd. Everyone can see us better."
"But they can't reach us. No one can interrupt."
"Thomas could probably climb up."
"Thomas wouldn't dare. He has money riding on us staying together."
"How much?"
"His entire Christmas funds, apparently."
"That boy is going to be either rich or heartbroken."
"Rich, definitely. I'm never letting you go."
"That sounds vaguely threatening."
"It's meant to sound absolutely promising."
"Alaric?"
"Yes?"
"We should probably discuss practical things."
"Such as?"
"Such as where we go from here. You're a duke. I'm a baker. Those are different worlds."
"Not anymore. Now they're the same world. Our world."
"That's romantic but impractical."
"Then let's be practical. You keep the bakery. I'll help when you need it. The hall is open for village use but remains our private residence when we want it. We split our time between both places. You teach me to bake properly. I teach you to... actually, what can I teach you?"
"How to be a duchess?"
"That's presumptuous."
"You're the one talking about our world and never letting me go."
"Fair point. Yes, I'll teach you to be a duchess. Though honestly, you'll teach the aristocracy more than they'll teach you."
"Such as?"
"Such as how to be real. How to choose joy despite pain. How to make broken things whole."
"With icing?"
"Metaphorical icing."
"The best kind."
They finally climbed down from the platform to find the celebration in full swing.
The next hour was a blur of congratulations, toasts, and good-natured jests.
Mrs. Morrison was practically glowing with matchmaking success.
Thomas was collecting his winnings with entrepreneurial efficiency.
The vicar was trying to look stern about public displays of affection but kept smiling.
"I should go home," Marianne finally said as the celebration began to wind down.
"Should you?"
"It's nearly two in the morning."
"That's not an answer."
"What are you asking?"
"Come to the hall with me."
"Alaric!"
"Not for... I mean, unless... What I mean is, I want to show you something."
"At two in the morning?"
"It's important."
"More important than sleep?"
"More important than anything."
She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "All right. But if this is another big gesture..."
"It's not. It's something small. Something true."
They walked through the snowy streets, hand in hand now with no pretense of mere neighborliness. The village was quiet, most people having gone home, though occasional laughter drifted from houses where private celebrations continued.
The hall was dark and cold, but Alaric led her confidently through the rooms to the library, where he lit a fire and several lamps.
"What did you want to show me?" Marianne asked, looking around at the book-lined walls.
He pulled out a leather journal from a shelf. "This."
"What is it?"
"My mother's diary. Her last entry. I wanted you to read it."
"Alaric, that's private."
"Please. It's important."
She took the journal carefully, sitting by the fire to read. He watched her face as she read his mother's words about choosing love over fear, about broken things being worth mending, about Christmas being an act of defiance against despair.
When she finished, she looked up with tears in her eyes. "She would have loved you. The man you've become, not the duke you were supposed to be."
"She would have loved you more. You're everything she tried to teach me to value—joy despite sorrow, strength without hardness, love without conditions."
"I have conditions."
"Such as?"
"No more lies."
"Never."
"No running to London when things get difficult."
"I'm never leaving you."
"No hiding behind newspapers."
"That seems unfairly specific."
"Those are my terms."
"I accept them all."
She stood, moving to where he sat, and surprised him by settling into his lap, the journal falling forgotten to the floor.
"This is highly improper," he said, though his arms went around her immediately.
"We're alone in your library at two in the morning after publicly declaring love. I think we've passed improper and entered scandalous."
"Good point."
"I'm full of good points."
"Among other things."
"Such as?"
"Love. You're full of love. Even when you were angry, even when you were hurt, you were still full of love. It just needed the right key to unlock it."
"And you're the key?"
"I'm trying to be."
"No," she said, framing his face with her flour-dusted hands. "You are. You have been since you fell in that snowbank covered in mince pies. I just needed time to admit it."
"And now?"
"Now I'm admitting everything. I love you. I want to be with you. I want to wake up every morning knowing you're there. I want to teach you to bake and watch you fail and love you anyway. I want to be your duchess even though I'll be terrible at it."
"You'll be perfect."
"I'll track flour through the halls."
"The halls need flour."
"I'll argue with aristocrats."
"They need arguing with."
"I'll insist on keeping the bakery."
"I'll help you run it."
"You will?"
"Every morning if you'll let me."
"Even though you're terrible at baking?"
"Especially because I'm terrible. I need the practice."
"That could take years."
"Good. We have years."
"Do we?"
"All of them. Every year, every day, every moment you'll give me."
She kissed him then, sweet and deep and full of promise.
"Take me home," she said when they pulled apart.
"The bakery?"
"Wherever you are is home now."
"That's the most romantic thing you've said."
"Don't get used to it. I'm usually much more practical."
"I love your practicality."
"You love everything about me."
"True."
"That's dangerous. I have many flaws."
"Name one."
"I throw flour when angry."
"That's endearing."
"I talk to bread dough."
"That's charming."
"I can't forgive easily."
"You forgave me."
"You're an exception."
"The only exception?"
"The only one that matters."
They left the hall together, walking back through the village as snow began to fall again, soft and silent and perfect. At the bakery door, Marianne turned to him.
"Stay," she said simply.
"Marianne..."
"Not for... not yet. Just stay. Sleep by the fire. Be here when I wake up. Let me know this is real."
"It's real."
"Prove it. Stay."
And he stayed.
In the morning, when she came down to find him still there, covered in a flour-dusted blanket and sleeping by the dying fire, she knew.
It was real. They were real. Broken things could be mended.
And sometimes, just sometimes, they became stronger for having been broken.
The gingerbread heart in his pocket had crumbled slightly in the night, but the piece was still there, still whole enough to matter.
Just like them.