Chapter 2 #2
"How enterprising of him."
"That's one word for it. We've been managing things ourselves since then, waiting for the duke to send someone." She studied him with those dangerous coffee eyes. "I suppose you're that someone."
"It would appear so."
"Well, Mr. Fletcher, and it is strange calling you that when I've only just gotten used to the previous Mr. Fletcher being gone, you should know that we've organized the Christmas fair without any help from the estate.
We couldn't very well cancel it just because our steward turned out to be a thief. "
"Heaven forbid Christmas be canceled."
She tilted her head, studying him. "You don't approve of Christmas, do you?"
"What gives you that impression?"
"Oh, just the way you say 'Christmas' like it's a particularly unpleasant medical condition."
"I prefer to think of it as a form of collective hysteria."
"How romantic. Do you also disapprove of birthdays and sunshine?"
"Birthdays are merely reminders of one's inevitable mortality, and sunshine in December is suspicious."
She laughed again, that bright, surprising sound. "Oh dear. You're going to be absolutely miserable here, aren't you? We take Christmas very seriously in Hollingford."
"So I'm beginning to gather. Is it always this..." he gestured vaguely at the controlled chaos around them, "enthusiastic?"
"This? This is nothing. Wait until you see when we start the actual fair preparations. We have competitions, Mr. Fletcher. Competitive carol singing. Aggressive mince pie baking. Last year, Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Hartley nearly came to blows over the gingerbread house contest."
"Physical violence over gingerbread. How festive."
"Mrs. Martin accused Mrs. Hartley of using non-traditional icing. It was quite the scandal."
"I'm sure the London papers were devastated to have missed it."
"Mock all you like, but our Christmas fair is the highlight of the year. People come from three villages over."
"Three entire villages. However do you manage the crowds?"
"With difficulty and strategic placement of mulled wine stations." She paused, seeming to really look at him for the first time. "You must be freezing. And I'm keeping you standing in the snow while furniture-sized stars are being redirected. Where are you staying?"
"I had intended to go directly to the hall."
"The hall?" She looked genuinely shocked. "But it's been closed up for a month. No fires, no aired rooms, and I'm fairly certain Mrs. Appleby, the housekeeper, has been staying with her sister in York since Mr. Fletcher disappeared."
This was getting better and better. "I see. And the other servants?"
"What other servants? There's only ever been Mrs. Appleby and Thomas, the groundskeeper, and he's older than the foundation stones. The duke hasn't exactly been generous with the household budget."
Alaric felt a flash of indignation on his own behalf before remembering that he was, theoretically, not himself. "Perhaps there's an inn?"
"The Laughing Sheep. It's just there." She pointed to a building whose sign featured a sheep that did indeed appear to be laughing, though possibly it was just having some sort of seizure. "Mrs. Morrison runs it. Fair warning though—she's already Christmas mad and it's only December fifteenth."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning she's hung mistletoe in strategic locations and she's not above physically pushing people under it. Last year she trapped the vicar under there for twenty minutes until his wife rescued him."
"Assault by mistletoe. Another charming rural tradition."
"You really don't like Christmas, do you?" She seemed genuinely curious rather than offended.
"Let's say I fail to see the appeal of forced merriment and scheduled joy."
"What about unscheduled joy?"
"That's called alcohol, and I approve of it entirely."
She laughed yet again, and Alaric found himself oddly pleased to be the cause of it. Which was ridiculous. He was the Duke of Wexmere. He didn't care about making random village women laugh. Except apparently he did, because he was already trying to think of something else amusing to say.
"Mr. Fletcher!" A man's voice called out, and for a moment Alaric forgot that was supposed to be him. "The star's free!"
Indeed, the wooden monstrosity had been liberated and was being slowly transported in the opposite direction, like some sort of festive funeral procession.
"Your carriage should be able to get through now," Marianne said. "Though..." She glanced at the sky, where the snow was falling with increasing enthusiasm. "You might want to secure a room quickly. This looks like it's going to get worse before it gets better."
"Your meteorological assessment is noted."
"My meteorological assessment comes from living here for thirty years. When the clouds look like that and the wind comes from the north, we're in for at least a foot, possibly two."
"Marvelous. Trapped in Christmas village by snow. It's like something of a new circle Dante forgot to mention."
"The one where people are forced to decorate trees for eternity?"
"While listening to off-key caroling, yes."
She grinned. "Come on, Mr. Fletcher. Let me introduce you to Mrs. Morrison. If we're lucky, she'll give you the room without mistletoe access."
"And if we're not lucky?"
"Then you'll spend the next week diving around corners to avoid her strategic placement. It's actually quite good exercise."
She started walking toward the inn, apparently assuming he would follow. Which, to his surprise, he did.
"Mrs. Whitby," he called, and she turned back. "What exactly is your role in all this? The fair, I mean."
"Oh, I'm the general coordinator of chaos. Officially, I run the bakery, just there, see the shop with the crooked sign, but somehow I've also become responsible for preventing the village from destroying itself every December."
"And you do this voluntarily?"
"Someone has to. Left to their own devices, they'd hang the garlands upside down and put the tree in the pond."
"That sounds entertainingly disastrous."
"You weren't here for the year they tried. We had to fish it out with boat hooks. The land steward fell in. It was December, so you can imagine how well that went."
"I'm beginning to think your village has a drinking problem."
"Only in December. The rest of the year we're quite sensible."
"How reassuring."
They reached the inn's entrance, where a truly impressive amount of mistletoe hung from the door frame like a festive threat.
"Ah," Marianne said. "She's reinforced it since this morning."
"Is it possible to enter through a window?"
"She's thought of that. Thomas tried it last year and found mistletoe tied to the windowsill."
"The woman is a menace."
"She's a romantic. There's a difference."
"Yes, romantics are more dangerous. Menaces at least have predictable motivations."
Marianne pushed open the door, ducking expertly under the mistletoe.
Alaric attempted to follow but was immediately accosted by a woman who could only be Mrs. Morrison; a formidable lady of middle years with the determined expression of someone who had married off three daughters and was looking for new projects.
"A new face!" she exclaimed with alarming enthusiasm. "And such a handsome one! Marianne, you didn't tell me you were bringing gentleman callers."
"He's not a caller, Mrs. Morrison. This is Mr. Fletcher, the duke's new steward."
Mrs. Morrison's eyes lit up with an unholy gleam. "The new steward! How wonderful! And so tall! You know, Marianne, tall men make excellent..."
"Mrs. Morrison," Marianne interrupted firmly, "Mr. Fletcher needs a room for tonight. The hall isn't ready for habitation."
"Of course, of course! Our best room! It has a lovely view of the village square, perfect for watching all the Christmas preparations."
"How delightful," Alaric said in a tone that suggested it was anything but.
"And will you be staying long, Mr. Fletcher?" Mrs. Morrison asked, already seeming to be calculating something that Alaric suspected involved mistletoe and strategic ambush tactics.
"That remains to be seen."
"Oh, but you must stay for the fair! It's in three days, and it's the social event of the season. Everyone attends. Everyone." She emphasized this last word while looking meaningfully at Marianne, who had suddenly become very interested in a spot on the floor.
"I'll certainly consider it," Alaric said, which in duke-speak meant 'absolutely not' but probably translated differently in whatever language Mrs. Morrison spoke.
"Wonderful! I'll prepare the room immediately. Marianne, dear, why don't you show Mr. Fletcher to the private parlor? He must be frozen."
Before either of them could protest, Mrs. Morrison had bustled off, moving with the purposeful stride of a woman on a matrimonial mission.
"I apologize," Marianne said once she was out of earshot. "She means well, but she's been trying to marry me off for the past two years."
"And you're resistant to her efforts?"
"I'm resistant to her choices. Last month she tried to set me up with a traveling man who she insisted had 'kind eyes.' He also had three teeth of his own and breath that could strip paint."
"The kind eyes must have been a comfort."
"Oh certainly. I was thinking of them while I climbed out the kitchen window to escape."
She led him to a small parlor that was, predictably, decorated within an inch of its life with Christmas paraphernalia. Garlands, ribbons, candles, and what appeared to be an army of tiny knitted angels covered every available surface.
"It's like Christmas exploded in here," Alaric observed.
“This is actually restrained for Mrs. Morrison. You should see her private rooms. She even insisted last year to put mistletoe in church.”
"And people say London society is strange."