Chapter 3 #3
The church ladder was fetched, and with considerably less drama than the tree-climbing attempt, the star was successfully raised to its position at the top of the tree.
It was, Alaric had to admit, impressive once in place—catching the light from the lanterns and seeming to glow against the dark sky.
"It's beautiful," Marianne said softly, standing beside him as they watched the finishing touches being added.
"It's acceptable," Alaric conceded.
"High praise from you."
"I save my high praise for truly exceptional things."
"Like what?"
"Properly organized ledgers. Efficient filing systems. Tea that's exactly the right temperature."
"You're going to die alone, aren't you?"
"Probably. But my papers will be impeccably sorted for the estate sale."
She laughed, that bright sound he was beginning to anticipate. "You're impossible."
"I prefer improbable. Impossible suggests I couldn't exist, yet here I am."
"Causing chaos in my carefully planned Christmas preparations."
"Your carefully planned preparations involved a man becoming part of a tree."
"That was unplanned excitement."
"Is there planned excitement?"
"Tomorrow we're hanging the garlands on High Street. I fully expect at least two arguments and one minor injury."
"How festive."
"You could help."
"I could also stick needles in my eyes."
"That seems excessive."
"Have you seen how many garlands you have?"
"Not nearly enough, according to Mrs. Martin."
"Mrs. Martin may have a garland problem."
"Mrs. Martin has many problems. Garlands are the least of them."
Before Alaric could ask what the greatest of them might be, the church bells began to ring, clear and bright in the cold air.
"Seven o'clock," Marianne said. "Dinner time. You're at the inn?"
"Unless Mrs. Morrison has evicted me for insufficient Christmas spirit."
"Give her time." Marianne pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "I should go. Mother will be wondering where I am."
"You live with your mother?"
"Above the bakery. It's convenient and economical."
"And probably warm, given the ovens."
"Extremely. Sometimes too warm. Summer is interesting."
"I imagine."
They stood there for a moment, neither quite moving to leave. The snow was still falling, lighter now, and the village around them was settling into evening; windows glowing warm, voices calling children in for dinner, the comfortable sounds of a community preparing for night.
"Thank you," Marianne said suddenly. "For helping with the star. Even if you were insufferably smug about it."
"I prefer confidently correct."
"Of course you do." She started to walk away, then turned back. "Mr. Fletcher?"
"Yes?"
"Try to enjoy yourself a little. I know Christmas isn't your preferred season, but you're stuck here for a while. Might as well make the best of it."
"I don't do 'best of it.' I do 'endure with dignity.'"
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's actually quite restful. No expectations to meet."
"Except your own."
"Those are the worst kind."
She studied him for a moment, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she was seeing more than he intended to show.
"Goodnight, Mr. Fletcher."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Whitby."
She walked away, her figure quickly disappearing into the swirling snow. Alaric stood there longer than necessary, watching the space where she'd been.
"Your Grace."
He turned to find Grimsby, holding an umbrella and looking disapproving.
"Dinner is served at the inn."
"Ah. Yes. Dinner."
"With Mrs. Morrison."
"Heaven help me."
They walked back to the inn through the snow, Alaric ducking under increasingly elaborate mistletoe arrangements.
"She's added more," he observed.
"Every hour on the hour, Your Grace. I've been timing it."
"The woman is relentless."
"She mentioned something about you being 'a challenge worth rising to.'"
"That's ominous."
"I thought so too, Your Grace."
Dinner was, as threatened, roast goose with all the trimmings. Mrs. Morrison had seated Alaric at what was clearly the place of honor, with herself to his right and, surprisingly, Marianne's empty chair to his left.
"I invited her," Mrs. Morrison explained, "but she always says no. Something about needing to prepare tomorrow’s bread."
"At seven in the evening?"
"Oh, she starts the dough the night before. Very dedicated to her craft, our Marianne."
"Our Marianne?" Alaric repeated.
"Well, she belongs to the village, doesn't she? We all look after each other here."
This was such an alien concept to Alaric, the idea of belonging to a place, of being looked after by anyone other than paid servants, that he didn't know how to respond.
Other diners filtered in; the Ironwells, Mr. Ironwell now wearing a borrowed coat that was too small, the Martins and various other village notables.
"So, Mr. Fletcher," the land steward said, already well into his third glass of wine, "what brings you to our humble village?"
"The duke sent me to review the estate."
"Ah yes, His Grace. Tell me, have you met him?"
"On occasion."
"What's he like? We have so many theories."
"Do you?" This could be interesting.
"Oh yes. Mrs. Martin thinks he's hideously scarred from a duel."
"I never said hideously," Mrs. Martin protested. "I said romantically scarred."
"What's the difference?" Mr. Martin asked.
"Romantic scars are attractive. Hideous scars are... hideous."
"All scars are just damaged tissue," Mr. Ironwell contributed.
"That's very unromantic, Harold," his wife scolded.
"It's very accurate," Alaric said. "The duke has no scars, romantic or otherwise."
Everyone looked disappointed.
"Well, what's his excuse then?" the land steward asked.
"Excuse?"
"For never visiting. If he's not hideously scarred, why doesn't he come?"
"Perhaps he's busy," Alaric suggested.
"Too busy for Christmas?" Mrs. Morrison looked scandalized.
"Some people don't celebrate Christmas."
The entire table gasped as though he'd suggested some people didn't breathe air.
"Everyone celebrates Christmas," Mrs. Martin said firmly.
Alaric decided this was not an argument worth pursuing. "The point is, the duke has his reasons."
"Bad reasons," the land steward muttered.
"All reasons are bad when they keep a man from his duty," Mrs. Morrison said, with surprising severity.
"His duty?" Alaric asked, genuinely curious.
"To his tenants. To his land. To his mother's memory." Mrs. Morrison's eyes were fierce. "The late duchess loved this place. Loved the people. And he can't even be bothered to visit her grave."
This hit closer to home than Alaric cared to admit. He hadn't visited his mother's grave since the funeral. Couldn't bear to see her name carved in stone, permanent proof of his failure to protect her from his father's indifference.
"Perhaps," he said quietly, "it's too painful."
"Pain doesn't excuse negligence," Mrs. Morrison said, though her tone softened slightly. "We all have pain, Mr. Fletcher. The difference is what we do with it."
Before the conversation could become even more uncomfortable, the door burst open, bringing a swirl of snow and a thoroughly disheveled Marianne.
"Sorry, sorry!" she called, shaking snow from her coat. "The dough was being difficult."