Chapter 1

 

“Your Grace, might I suggest the green waistcoat? It would be most festive for the journey.”

Alaric Montrose, the Duke of Wexmere, did not look up from the letter he was reading—a tedious missive from his steward regarding drainage issues at the northern estate. He found drainage infinitely more compelling than his valet’s sudden preoccupation with seasonal color schemes.

“Grimsby,” he said, his voice carrying the particular tone of exhausted patience he’d perfected over twelve years of ducal responsibility, “if I wished to resemble a Christmas tree, I would have myself fitted with branches and tinsel. The black waistcoat, as usual.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” Grimsby’s tone suggested it was not, in fact, very good at all. The man had been attempting to inject what he called ‘a touch of warmth’ into Alaric’s wardrobe for the better part of a decade. It was a war of attrition that neither party seemed likely to win.

Alaric set down the letter and watched his valet pack with the efficiency of a man who had long ago accepted his employer’s sartorial preferences as one might accept inclement weather; with resignation and appropriate preparation. The December morning light filtering through the windows of his Mayfair townhouse had that peculiar quality that suggested snow, though London rarely obliged with anything more picturesque than grey slush.

“I trust you’ve remembered to pack my ledgers?” Alaric asked, though trust was perhaps too strong a word. Hope might be more accurate.

“All seventeen of them, Your Grace, including the supplementary volumes on crop rotation and the agricultural reports from the Royal Society.”

“Excellent. And the…”

“The correspondence from Mr. Ironwell regarding the boundary dispute, yes. Also the surveys from 1762, 1794, and 1803, as you requested. They are in the second trunk, organized chronologically with cross-references by property line.”

Alaric felt the smallest flicker of satisfaction. In a world gone insane with ribbons and good cheer, efficient filing systems remained a bastion of sanity.

“Tell me, Grimsby,” he said, moving to the window to observe the street below, where his neighbors were already engaged in the exhausting business of hanging garlands, “what precisely is the appeal of this season? Every year, perfectly rational individuals suddenly decide that bringing trees indoors and setting them aflame with candles is not only acceptable but desirable. It defies all logic.”

“I believe, Your Grace, that the appeal lies in the spirit of generosity and goodwill toward one’s fellow man.”

“Ah yes, goodwill. That explains why Lady Rhodes and Mrs. Ashford nearly came to blows yesterday over whose door wreath was more ‘authentically festive.’ I witnessed the altercation from my study. There was rather impressive use of a holly sprig as a weapon.”

Grimsby’s mouth twitched in what might have been suppressed amusement. “Perhaps the ladies were simply overcome with… seasonal enthusiasm.”

“If that’s enthusiasm, I should hate to see antipathy.” Alaric turned from the window. “No, Grimsby, I am convinced that Christmas is a form of collective madness, a contagion that spreads through the population every December, causing otherwise sensible people to behave as though happiness can be achieved through the strategic placement of evergreen boughs.”

“And yet, Your Grace is traveling to Hollingford Hall for the season.”

“To escape the madness, not embrace it. The northern estate has been neglected for years. The ledgers suggest concerning irregularities in the tenant payments, and my steward there, Fletcher, has been suspiciously vague in his recent correspondence. Besides,” he added, collecting his gloves from the side table, “Hollingford is remote enough that I doubt even Christmas could find it.”

This was, Alaric would later reflect, perhaps the most spectacularly wrong prediction he had ever made in his thirty-two years of existence.

“Will Your Grace be attending any of the local festivities?” Grimsby inquired with studied innocence. “I understand the village of Hollingford hosts quite a charming Christmas fair.”

“I would sooner attend my own funeral. At least that would have the advantage of being brief and requiring no small talk.”

“Very good, Your Grace. I shall pack your mourning clothes instead of evening wear.”

Alaric shot his valet a look that would have withered lesser men. Grimsby merely continued folding shirts with geometric precision.

“You know,” Grimsby ventured, “your blessed mother, may she rest in peace, was quite fond of Christmas.”

“My mother was fond of many things that brought her joy and others acute discomfort. I learned early to distinguish between the two.” The words came out sharper than intended, a reminder that some wounds, even decades old, never quite ceased aching.

The late Duchess of Wexmere had indeed loved Christmas with the passionate intensity that she’d brought to all her enthusiasms. She’d also loved her husband, who had reciprocated by spending every December in London with his mistress while his wife decorated Hollingford Hall alone. Young Alaric had watched his mother pretend joy for the servants’ sake, had seen her shoulders shake with suppressed tears as she hung stockings for a family that existed only in her imagination. He’d been eight when he’d found her crying into the Christmas pudding, and nine when he’d decided that any season that could make his formidable mother weep was not to be trusted.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not mean to…”

“No forgiveness necessary, Grimsby. You meant no harm.” Alaric straightened his cravat unnecessarily. “I simply prefer to acknowledge Christmas as what it truly is—a commercial enterprise designed to part fools from their money while forcing proximity upon relations who spend the rest of the year successfully avoiding one another.”

“A most philosophical view, Your Grace.”

“I prefer to think of it as practical. Now, shall we depart before someone attempts to sing at me?”

As if in response to this dire prediction, the sound of carolers began to drift through the window. Alaric closed his eyes in an expression of profound suffering.

“Grimsby, we leave immediately.”

“The carriage has been ready for an hour, Your Grace. I anticipated your desire for a swift departure when I saw Mrs. Rhodes organizing the street’s caroling schedule yesterday evening.”

“Remind me to increase your wages.”

“You said the same last Christmas, Your Grace.”

“Did I follow through?”

“You did not.”

“Well, consistency is a virtue.”

The carriage, a magnificent beast of black lacquer and gold trim that proclaimed its owner’s consequence without the vulgarity of ostentation, stood ready in the mews. Alaric’s matched grays stamped their hooves against the cobblestones, their breath forming clouds in the cold morning air. The coachman, Bridges, touched his hat as Alaric approached.

“Fine day for travel, Your Grace. The roads should be clear as far as Nottingham.”

“And beyond Nottingham?”

“Well now, that would be what we call an adventure, Your Grace.”

“I do not care for adventures, Bridges.”

“No, Your Grace. That’s why I didn’t mention the reports of highwaymen on the North Road.”

Alaric paused with one foot on the carriage step. “Highwaymen? In this day and age?”

“Desperate times, Your Grace. Though between you and me, I’d wager they’re just local lads playing at being Dick Turpin. A stern word and a glimpse of your pistols should send them scurrying back to their mothers.”

“How reassuring.” Alaric settled into the carriage’s leather interior, which smelled of polish and money; two of his favorite scents. “Do try not to overturn us in a ditch, Bridges. I should hate to die in December. The eulogy would undoubtedly mention the season, and I’ve no wish to be forever associated with Christmas.”

“I shall do my best, Your Grace, though if we do perish, I promise to ensure it happens on the twenty-sixth.”

“Your consideration is noted.”

Grimsby climbed in opposite him, somehow managing to make even this simple action appear dignified.

As the carriage rolled away from Grosvenor Square, Alaric allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. In approximately ten hours, he would be installed at Hollingford Hall, where he could spend the next days in blessed solitude as he hoped, reviewing ledgers and avoiding anything resembling festivity. No balls, no dinners, no insipid conversations about the weather or the latest fashion in sleeve decoration. Just himself, his accounts, and the rational pleasure of properly balanced books.

“Your Grace,” Grimsby said, interrupting this pleasant reverie, “I should perhaps mention that I took the liberty of packing your evening clothes despite your earlier instruction.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Call it intuition, Your Grace. Or perhaps experience. You have a remarkable talent for finding yourself in situations that require formal dress despite your best efforts to avoid them.”

“That was once. Once, Grimsby.”

“Three times, Your Grace. There was the incident with the Archbishop’s daughter, the situation involving the runaway horse at Lady Rhodes’s garden gathering, and that memorable evening when you accidentally attended the wrong funeral and ended up giving the eulogy.”

“The deceased’s family said it was very moving.”

“You didn’t know the man’s name, Your Grace.”

“I used generalities. ‘He was a man who lived’ seemed to cover the essential points.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. Nevertheless, I’ve packed the evening clothes.”

Alaric leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. “Sometimes, Grimsby, I suspect you take pleasure in my discomfort.”

“Never, Your Grace. I merely anticipate it with remarkable accuracy.”

The journey north proceeded with the sort of monotonous efficiency that Alaric preferred. They changed horses at Hatfield, where the innkeeper’s wife attempted to press a mince pie upon him “for the journey, Your Grace, made with my own hands just this morning.” Alaric regarded the pie with the same expression he might have worn if offered a small explosive device.

“Madam, I appreciate the gesture, but I make it a policy never to accept baked goods from strangers.”

“But Your Grace, it’s Christmas!”

“So I am repeatedly informed. The answer remains no.”

The woman retreated, clutching her pie and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “unnatural.” Alaric was not offended. He had been called far worse by far more distinguished persons.

“That was somewhat harsh, Your Grace,” Grimsby observed as they resumed their journey.

“Was it? I thought I was rather polite. I didn’t mention that her establishment smells like cabbage and disappointed dreams.”

“The very soul of discretion, Your Grace.”

They continued north as the morning gave way to afternoon, the landscape gradually shifting from the tamed prettiness of the Home Counties to something wilder, more honest. Alaric had always preferred the north. It didn’t pretend to be anything other than what it was; harsh, unforgiving, and utterly disinterested in one’s comfort or consequence.

“Look, Your Grace,” Grimsby said, gesturing toward the window. “Snow.”

Indeed, the threatened snow had finally begun to fall, fat white flakes that seemed in no particular hurry to reach the ground. They drifted past the window with lazy grace, already beginning to dust the hedgerows and fields.

“How picturesque,” Alaric said in a tone that suggested he found it anything but. “No doubt someone will compose a poem about it. ‘Ode to Frozen Precipitation’ or some such nonsense.”

“I believe Your Grace once wrote poetry.”

“I was seventeen and in love with my tutor’s daughter. We all make mistakes in youth. The key is not to repeat them in maturity.”

“What happened to the young lady, if I may ask?”

“She married and had six children. I received a letter last Christmas informing me that she names her chickens after Romantic poets. Apparently, Wordsworth produces exceptional eggs.”

“A narrow escape, Your Grace.”

“Indeed. Can you imagine? I might have been married to a woman who anthropomorphises poultry.”

The snow grew heavier as they traveled, transforming the landscape into something from a children’s story—all soft edges and mysterious shadows. Alaric watched it with deep suspicion. Snow, in his experience, was nature’s way of making everything more difficult while pretending to make it more beautiful. Rather like Christmas itself, come to think of it.

“Are you certain Fletcher is expecting us, Your Grace?” Grimsby asked as they paused to rest the horses at a posting inn near Leicester.

“I sent word three weeks ago. Though given his recent correspondence, or lack thereof, I’m not entirely certain he can read. His last letter contained more ink blots than words and seemed to suggest that the entire east wing had been invaded by moths or goths. His handwriting left the matter unclear.”

“Perhaps he meant guests, Your Grace.”

“At Hollingford? Who would guest at Hollingford? It’s three hours from the nearest proper town and the last time I visited, which was many years ago, the most exciting local entertainment was watching the blacksmith shoe horses.”

“Rural communities often have their own diversions, Your Grace.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with rural diversions. They generally involve either alcohol, violence, or livestock, and sometimes an unfortunate combination of all three.”

The inn at Leicester proved to be slightly more sophisticated than their previous stop, though the innkeeper still felt compelled to offer them what he called “traditional Christmas cheer,” which appeared to be a cup of something that smelled like paint thinner mixed with cinnamon.

“For the cold, Your Grace,” the man said, beaming as though he’d offered liquid gold.

Alaric accepted the cup, took the smallest possible sip, and managed not to visibly recoil. “Fascinating. What do you call this beverage?”

“Mulled wine, Your Grace.”

“Wine seems rather a generous description. Still, I appreciate the gesture.” He set the cup down and would have walked away, but the innkeeper was still hovering expectantly. “Was there something else?” Alaric asked.

“Well, Your Grace, seeing as it’s the season and all, I wondered if you might be interested in contributing to our local orphans’ fund. We’re trying to raise money for Christmas dinners for the poor children.”

Alaric studied the man for a long moment. “How much do you need?”

“Whatever Your Grace sees fit to…”

“No, how much do you need? Total. For all the dinners.”

The innkeeper blinked. “Well, I suppose… twenty pounds would feed them all quite handsomely, Your Grace.”

Alaric reached into his coat and withdrew his purse. He counted out fifty pounds and placed them on the bar. “Twenty for the dinners, twenty for warm clothes, and ten for you to stop serving that abomination you call mulled wine.”

The innkeeper stared at the money as though it might disappear. “Your Grace, this is… this is most generous!”

“It’s not generous, it’s practical. Hungry children grow up to be desperate adults, and desperate adults are bad for property values. Pure self-interest, I assure you.”

But as they returned to the carriage, Grimsby noticed his master didn’t look quite as severe as usual.

“That was kind, Your Grace.”

“That was strategic investment in social stability. Entirely different thing.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Stop smirking, Grimsby.”

“I’m not smirking, Your Grace. This is my normal face.”

“Your normal face looks suspiciously pleased.”

“Perhaps it’s the Christmas spirit, Your Grace.”

Alaric made a sound that in a less dignified man might have been called a snort.

The afternoon wore on, and the snow continued to fall with increasing enthusiasm. What had begun as a picturesque dusting was rapidly becoming what Bridges would probably call “a bit of weather,” which in coachman speak meant anything from a light drizzle to the apocalypse.

“How much farther to Hollingford?” Alaric asked, consulting his pocket watch. It was nearly four o’clock, and the light was already beginning to fade.

“Another hour in good conditions, Your Grace,” Grimsby replied, peering out at the steadily worsening weather. “Perhaps two in this.”

“Marvelous. We’ll arrive in the dark, in a snowstorm, at a house that hasn’t been properly inhabited in years. It’s like something from one of those novels my cousin Augusta insists on leaving around my library.”

“The ones Your Grace claims never to read?”

“I’ve glanced at them. Purely to understand what drives seemingly intelligent women to such literary depths. Did you know that in the one she left last month, the heroine fainted seventeen times? Seventeen! In three hundred pages! The woman needed medical attention, not a brooding hero.”

“Perhaps fainting was fashionable.”

“If unconsciousness becomes fashionable, I’m retreating to an abbey. Though knowing my luck, they’d probably celebrate Christmas too.”

The carriage hit a particularly impressive rut, sending both occupants briefly airborne.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace!” Bridges called from his perch. “The road seems to have opinions about our presence!”

“The road,” Alaric called back, “can take its opinions and…” He caught Grimsby’s reproving look. “Never mind, Bridges. Carry on. Try not to kill us.”

“Right you are, Your Grace!”

 

Chapter 2

 

As they continued their increasingly adventurous journey north, Alaric found himself thinking about Hollingford Hall. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Grimsby the estate had been neglected. His father had never liked the place, too far from London’s pleasures he said, and after his mother’s death, Alaric had found excuses to avoid it. The memories were too sharp, too tinged with that particular brand of sadness that came from watching someone you loved pretend to be happy.

But the ledgers didn’t lie, and something was definitely amiss with the estate’s management. Rents were being paid irregularly, repairs seemed to cost twice what they should, and Fletcher’s reports had become increasingly vague and increasingly rare. The man was either incompetent or corrupt, and Alaric intended to discover which.

“Your Grace,” Grimsby said suddenly, “I believe we’re approaching civilization.”

Alaric looked out to see lights in the distance; not the grand illumination of a great house, but something smaller, warmer. A village.

“That would be Hollingford village,” he said, recognizing the church spire even through the snow. “The hall is another mile beyond.”

As they drew closer, however, it became apparent that Hollingford village had been transformed into something unrecognizable. Every building was draped in greenery, every window glowed with candlelight, and the entire main street appeared to be one continuous display of Christmas enthusiasm.

“My goodness,” Alaric breathed. “It’s like a Christmas fever dream.”

The village square, which he remembered as a sedate patch of grass with a memorial to some long-forgotten battle, had been converted into what could only be described as a winter wonderland. Stalls were being erected despite the falling snow, an enormous fir tree stood in the center already half-decorated, and the entire population seemed to be out in the streets, hanging lanterns, stringing garlands, and generally behaving as though December was a perfectly reasonable time to be outside in a snowstorm.

“It appears,” Grimsby observed with what Alaric considered inappropriate amusement, “that Christmas has indeed found Hollingford.”

“This is a disaster.”

“Perhaps if Your Grace simply passes through quickly…”

But even as Grimsby spoke, the carriage began to slow. Alaric could hear Bridges calling to the horses, and then they stopped altogether.

“What fresh torment is this?” Alaric muttered, though he was fairly certain he knew. He opened the carriage door to find Bridges looking apologetic and snow-covered.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there’s a bit of a situation.”

“Of course there is.”

“The road ahead is blocked. Seems they’re moving some sort of enormous decoration, looks like a star, Your Grace, made of wood and roughly the size of a small barn, and they’ve got it stuck between the baker’s shop and the inn.”

Alaric climbed down from the carriage to better assess this catastrophe. Indeed, an enormous wooden star, painted gold and clearly intended for the top of the Christmas tree, was wedged at an impressive angle between two buildings. A crowd of villagers stood around it, offering helpful suggestions that seemed to mainly consist of “push harder” and “try pulling instead.”

“Can we go around?” Alaric asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

“Not unless Your Grace fancies driving through Mrs. Morrison’s front garden, and I’m told she’s particular about her roses.”

“It’s December. She doesn’t have roses.”

“She’s particular about where her roses will be, Your Grace.”

A young woman’s voice rose above the general chaos: “No, no, no! If you push from that angle, you’ll scratch the paint! Thomas, for heaven’s sake, mind the gilt work!”

Alaric turned to see who was issuing orders with such authority and found himself observing what he could only describe as organized chaos in human form. The young woman wore a practical wool dress in deep blue that had seen better days, currently decorated with snow, what appeared to be flour, and several pine needles. Her dark hair was coming loose from its pins, creating a somewhat wild halo effect, and her cheeks were pink from cold and exertion. She was standing on a crate, directing the star-moving operation with the intensity of a soldier at war.

“If someone could just…Mr. Ironwell, that’s your foot, not the star! Oh for heaven’s sake.” She jumped down from her crate with surprising grace and marched over to the stuck star. “Right, everyone listen. We’re going to need to lift it vertically first, then rotate it forty-five degrees, no, Mr. Martin, your other forty-five degrees, and then we can slide it through.”

“That will never work,” Alaric found himself saying.

The woman whirled around to face him, and he was struck by eyes the color of coffee with just a hint of cream; warm and slightly dangerous if consumed too quickly.

“I beg your pardon?” she said, in a tone that suggested she did not, in fact, beg anyone’s pardon. “And you are?”

“Someone with a basic understanding of geometry. Your star is approximately twelve feet at its widest point. The gap between these buildings is perhaps ten feet. Unless you’re planning to temporarily relocate one of the structures, your star isn’t going through there.”

She looked from him to the star, then back to him, her expression cycling through annoyance, calculation, and finally, grudging acceptance.

“Well then, what would you suggest, Mr…?”

“Fletcher,” he said, surprising himself. But something about admitting he was the Duke of Wexmere while standing in a snowstorm arguing about Christmas decorations seemed absurd even by his standards. “And I would suggest taking it back the way it came and going around the long way.”

“The long way adds an hour, and we’re losing light.”

“Then perhaps you should have considered the logistics before attempting to move a barn-sized star through a space better suited to a reasonably sized cow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you always this helpful, Mr. Fletcher, or is this a special performance for the holidays?”

“I consider it my Christmas gift to the village. Free practical advice, delivered with only mild condescension.”

Despite herself, he could see her fighting it, her lips twitched toward a smile. “How generous. I suppose next you’ll tell me the tree is too tall and the garlands are hung inefficiently.”

“The tree is actually perfectly proportioned for the space, though whoever is decorating it appears to be drunk. The garlands, however, are a fire hazard.”

“A fire hazard?”

“Too close to the lanterns. One good wind and you’ll have very festive kindling.”

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed—a bright, unexpected sound that seemed to cut through the cold. “Oh wonderful. We’ve acquired a practical critic just in time for the fair. How delightful for everyone.”

“I do try to spread joy wherever I go.”

“Like a festive plague.”

“Exactly like that, indeed.”

This time her smile broke free entirely, transforming her face from merely pretty to something that made Alaric’s chest do an odd stuttering thing he chose to attribute to the cold.

“Marianne Whitby,” she said, extending a hand as though they weren’t standing in a snowstorm surrounded by stuck Christmas decorations and increasingly vocal villagers.

He took her hand automatically, noting that despite the December cold, it was warm and callused; a hand that did real work. “A pleasure, Miss Whitby.”

“Mrs. Whitby, actually. Or it was. I’m a widow.” She said it matter-of-factly, without the dramatic pause he’d come to expect from society widows.

“My condolences.”

“Thank you, though it was three years ago. I’ve had time to adjust. Now, Mr. Fletcher, since you’re so clever about spatial relations, perhaps you’d like to help us actually solve this problem instead of simply critiquing it?”

“I should point out that I have my own transportation concerns.” He gestured toward his carriage, which was now attracting considerable attention from the villagers.

“That’s a right fancy carriage,” someone called out. “Is the duke finally coming for Christmas?”

Marianne’s expression shifted to something almost wistful. “The Duke of Wexmere? No, he never comes. Hasn’t been here since his mother passed.”

“Quite a lot of years,” Alaric admitted without thinking, then caught himself. “Or so I’ve heard.”

Marianne gave him a curious look. “You seem well-informed about our absent landlord.”

“I’m his new steward. He sent me to review the estate.” The lie came surprisingly easily, though Grimsby, still in the carriage, was probably having palpitations.

“Oh!” Marianne’s entire demeanor shifted, becoming somehow both more formal and more frustrated. “Well, that explains the fancy carriage, I suppose. Though you might have announced yourself properly instead of standing about criticizing our decorations.”

“In my defense, I’ve been in your village for exactly seven minutes, five of which have been spent discussing the geometric impossibilities of your star.”

“Fair point.” She turned back to the crowd. “Right, everyone! Mr. Fletcher’s correct, so we’ll need to go back and around. Yes, I know it’s longer, but unless someone’s brought a saw and feels like explaining to the land steward why we destroyed the star, it’s our only option.”

A collective groan went up from the assembled villagers, but they began the slow process of reversing the star’s journey.

“While they’re sorting that out,” Marianne said, turning back to him, “you should probably know that Mr. Fletcher, the previous Mr. Fletcher, not you Mr. Fletcher, left rather suddenly about a month ago.”

“Well, yes he is a distant cousin of mine, but you say he has left without saying anything?”

“In the middle of the night, apparently. Took two silver candlesticks and the good brandy from the hall’s cellar.”

“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.”

Marianne smiled, settling into a chair by the fire with an ease that suggested she was familiar with this room. “London society is strange in boring ways. All those rules about who can talk to whom and when you can wear what color gloves. Here, we’re strange in interesting ways.”

Alaric found himself sitting down across from her, which he hadn’t intended to do. He’d meant to excuse himself, find Grimsby, and organize his temporary accommodation with minimal fuss. Instead, he was sitting by a fire talking to a flour-dusted widow about Christmas decorations.

“So, Mr. Fletcher,” Marianne said, those dangerous eyes studying him with curiosity, “what brings a man who clearly despises Christmas to a Christmas-obsessed village in the middle of December?”

“Duty,” he said simply. “The estate needs management, and the duke requires someone to oversee things.”

“And he chose you?”

“I like to think I chose myself. The position was available, and I have experience with… difficult situations.”

“Is that what we are? A difficult situation?”

“You’re currently orchestrating a fair without a proper steward, your previous steward was apparently a thief, and you’ve wedged a star the size of a barn between two buildings. What would you call it?”

“Tuesday in Hollingford.”

Despite himself, he smiled. “Does this sort of thing happen often?”

“More than you’d think. Last spring, someone decided to cut a tree without telling anyone and it accidentally fell through the bakery window. That was also a Tuesday, come to think of it.”

“Your bakery window?”

“The very same. Though it gave me an excuse to get new glass, so really it worked out.”

“You’re remarkably philosophical about property damage.”

“When you live in a village this small, you learn to be philosophical about everything. Otherwise, you’d go insane from the proximity.”

“And yet you stay.”

She shrugged. “It’s home. My mother’s here, the bakery’s here, and despite their many, many flaws, I’m fond of these ridiculous people.”

“Even Mrs. Morrison and her mistletoe?”

“Especially Mrs. Morrison. She drove thirty miles through a snowstorm when my husband died, just to make sure I was eating. She can hang all the mistletoe she wants.”

There was a warmth in her voice that Alaric found oddly affecting. He’d never had that—that sense of community, of belonging. Even his own estates were just places he visited, duties he performed.

“Your husband,” he said carefully, “was he from the village?”

“No, from another village actually. We met when he was visiting his cousin. He thought marrying a country baker’s daughter was a grand adventure.” Her smile was soft, tinged with old sadness. “Turned out he was right, just not in the way he expected. He caught a serious cold our second winter here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“As I said, it was three years ago. And he gave me some good years before that. More than some people get.”

Before Alaric could respond, the door burst open and Grimsby appeared, looking slightly snow-covered and definitely disapproving.

“Mr. Fletcher,” he said, with only the slightest emphasis on the name, “I’ve brought your bags.”

“Ah, Grimsby. Excellent. This is Mrs. Whitby. She’s been explaining the local customs.”

Grimsby’s expression suggested he had opinions about his master adopting false identities and chatting with widows in inn parlors, but he merely bowed slightly. “Madam.”

“And you are?” Marianne asked.

“Grimsby is my… valet,” Alaric said, realizing too late that stewards probably didn’t have valets.

Marianne’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Your valet. How… unusual for a steward.”

“The duke insisted,” Alaric said quickly. “He’s very particular about his employees maintaining certain standards.”

“Even the employees he never visits?”

“Especially those. Distance makes him more suspicious, not less.”

“He sounds delightful.”

“He’s efficient,” Alaric said, then felt odd defending himself to himself. “And he pays well.”

“When he remembers to pay at all. The household budget has been three months late for the past two years.”

Alaric made a mental note to have sharp words with his London steward. Out loud, he said, “I’ll look into that.”

“Would you? Mrs. Appleby will be grateful. She’s been buying supplies on credit.”

The door opened again, and Mrs. Morrison bustled in with a tea tray that seemed to have more cakes than any three people could reasonably eat.

“Here we are!” she announced. “Fresh tea and some of Marianne’s lovely cakes from this morning. You must try the seed cake, Mr. Fletcher. Marianne has a particular way with seed cake.”

“I’m sure she does,” Alaric said, eyeing the cake with the suspicion of a man who’d once been poisoned by a similar-looking dessert at a county ball.

“Oh, don’t look at it like it might bite,” Marianne said. “It’s just cake.”

“In my experience, nothing is as it seems.”

“Your experience with cake sounds traumatic.”

“You weren’t at Lady Rhodes’s summer gathering three years ago. The cucumber sandwiches achieved independent thought.”

Marianne laughed while Mrs. Morrison looked shocked. “Lady Rhodes? The London Lady Rhodes?”

“Yes,” Alaric said, then realized a steward probably wouldn’t have attended Lady Rhodes’s gatherings. “I was there on business. With my previous employer.”

“Oh, how exciting! You must tell us all about London society, Mr. Fletcher. We get so little news here.”

“London society is ninety percent tedium and ten percent scandal, with occasional intervals of bad music.”

“How thrilling! Which ten percent did you witness?”

“Mostly the tedium, I’m afraid. Though I did once see a duchess throw a dinner roll at an ambassador.”

“No!” both women exclaimed in unison.

“It was quite expertly done. Hit him right in the monocle.”

“But why?” Marianne asked, leaning forward with interest.

“He suggested her musical evening had been ‘ambitious.’ In duchess-speak, that’s basically a declaration of war.”

“And she responded with bread warfare?”

“It was either that or challenge him to a duel, and dueling is so messy. Much better to stick with baked goods.”

“I’ll remember that next time someone criticizes my baking,” Marianne said. “Though I’d probably use something harder than a dinner roll. My Tuesday loaves could probably breach castle walls.”

“Your Tuesday loaves are perfectly fine,” Mrs. Morrison protested.

“Mrs. Morrison, my Tuesday loaves have been classified as weapons by the local constable.”

“That was only once, and Thomas deserved it for saying your cherry tart was soggy.”

“It was soggy.”

“Details,” Mrs. Morrison said, waving dismissively.

Alaric found himself enjoying this ridiculous conversation more than any he’d had in London in the past year. There was something refreshing about the easy banter, the lack of hidden meanings and social maneuvering. Marianne said her cherry tart was soggy, and she meant exactly that—not that someone’s reputation was questionable or that their marriage prospects were dim.

 

Chapter 3

 

“So, Mr. Fletcher,” Mrs. Morrison said, settling into what was clearly going to be an interrogation disguised as conversation, “are you married?”

“Mrs. Morrison!” Marianne protested.

“What? It’s a reasonable question. A handsome man of his age, surely some sensible woman has snapped him up.”

“No one has snapped me anywhere,” Alaric said. “I remain unsnapped.”

“How extraordinary. And why is that?”

“Perhaps I’m not as handsome as you suggest.”

“Nonsense. You have excellent bone structure and all your teeth. That’s more than most men can claim.”

“The bar seems rather low.”

“You haven’t seen the local options,” Marianne muttered, then blushed when she realized she’d said it out loud.

“Are the local men particularly toothless?” Alaric asked.

“Not toothless, just…” Marianne searched for a word. “Agricultural.”

“She means they smell like sheep,” Mrs. Morrison clarified helpfully.

“I did not mean that!”

“You did a little.”

“Maybe a little,” Marianne admitted. “But it’s an honest living.”

“Of course it is, dear. But you can’t marry a man who smells like livestock. Think of the wedding night.”

“Mrs. Morrison!” Marianne’s face had turned an impressive shade of red.

“What? I’m being practical. Physical compatibility is important in a marriage.”

Alaric choked on his tea. Grimsby, still standing by the door, made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh or possibly a death rattle.

“I think,” Marianne said, standing abruptly, “I should get back to the bakery. The afternoon bread won’t bake itself.”

“But you’ve only just sat down,” Mrs. Morrison protested.

“And now I’m standing up. Mr. Fletcher, it was interesting to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see each other around the village. It’s rather unavoidable.”

“I look forward to the inevitability,” he said, standing as well.

She gave him an odd look, as though trying to figure out if he was making fun of her or not, then seemed to decide it didn’t matter. “Try not to let Mrs. Morrison force-feed you too much cake. She believes sugar solves all problems.”

“It does!” Mrs. Morrison insisted.

“It causes more problems than it solves,” Marianne countered.

“Details,” Mrs. Morrison said again.

Marianne shook her head, gave a small curtsy that seemed more mocking than respectful, and left. Alaric watched her go, noting the way she ducked under the mistletoe with practiced ease and how she immediately started issuing orders to someone about garland placement the moment she stepped outside.

“She’s a lovely girl,” Mrs. Morrison said, following his gaze.

“She’s certainly… energetic.”

“She’s been holding this village together since her husband died. Took over the bakery from her mother, organizes all the events, makes sure the elderly have enough food in winter. She’s a treasure.”

“She sounds exhausting.”

“She’s lonely,” Mrs. Morrison said, with surprising insight. “Oh, she’d never admit it because she is too proud. But you can see it sometimes, when she thinks no one’s looking. She gets this expression like she’s forgotten something important but can’t remember what.”

Alaric didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

“Well,” Mrs. Morrison continued, “I’ll show you to your room. You must be tired after your journey.”

The room was, as promised, the inn’s best, which meant it was clean, had a fire already laid, and only featured a moderate amount of Christmas decoration. The view did indeed overlook the square, where Marianne was now directing what appeared to be the untangling of a massive knot of lights.

“Dinner is at seven,” Mrs. Morrison informed him. “We’re having roast goose, in honour of the season.”

“How festive,” Alaric said dryly.

“That’s the spirit! Oh, and Mr. Fletcher? Do be careful moving about the inn. The mistletoe has a tendency to appear in unexpected places.”

“It spontaneously generates?”

“Something like that.” She gave him a wink that was deeply alarming and left.

Grimsby immediately began unpacking with the efficiency of long practice. “Your Grace…”

“Not here, Grimsby. The walls probably have ears. Also eyes and possibly strong opinions.”

“Very well, Mr. Fletcher.” The emphasis on the false name conveyed volumes of disapproval. “May I ask what His Grace is thinking?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. I intended to go straight to the hall, review the books, and leave. Instead, I’m apparently staying at an inn run by a madwoman and have somehow become involved in Christmas fair preparations.”

“If I may say so, Your…eh, Mr. Fletcher, this seems unnecessarily complicated.”

“Everything about this is unnecessarily complicated. Did you know the previous steward was a thief?”

“I gathered as much from Mrs. Whitby’s comments.”

“And the house is apparently uninhabitable.”

“Also gathered.”

“And the entire village is Christmas-obsessed to a degree that borders on medical concern.”

“That was evident from the decorated sheep I observed.”

“The what?”

“Someone has dressed several sheep in red and green ribbons. They’re in the field behind the inn.”

Alaric moved to the window and looked out. Indeed, a small flock of sheep stood in the snowy field, each wearing what appeared to be festive ribbons tied in bows around their necks.

“That’s disturbing.”

“That’s festive, apparently.”

“Grimsby, what have I gotten us into?”

“If I may be so bold, Mr. Fletcher, you’ve gotten yourself into a situation where you’re pretending to be your own employee while staying in a Christmas-mad village during the height of Christmas madness.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds like poor planning.”

“I would never suggest such a thing.”

“You’re suggesting it right now.”

“I’m merely observing, Mr. Fletcher.”

Alaric continued staring out the window. Marianne had managed to untangle the lights and was now directing their placement with the intensity of a military campaign. She had a smudge of something, possibly pine sap, on her cheek and her hair was now completely free of its pins, falling around her shoulders in dark waves. She looked absolutely nothing like the elegant ladies of London society, and yet…

“She’s rather pretty,” he said without meaning to.

“Mrs. Whitby? I suppose she has a certain rural charm.”

“Rural charm. You make her sound like a thatched cottage.”

“I apologize. She has a certain non-agricultural appeal.”

“That’s worse, Grimsby.”

“I’m not the one staring at her from a window like a gothic novel villain.”

Alaric stepped back from the window. “I wasn’t staring. I was observing. There’s a difference.”

“Of course, there is.”

“Your agreement sounds suspiciously like disagreement.”

“Years of practice, Mr. Fletcher.”

A knock at the door interrupted what was becoming a familiar pattern of verbal sparring. Grimsby opened it to reveal a young boy, perhaps twelve, covered in snow and pine needles.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the boy said to Alaric, “but Mrs. Whitby says if you’re really the new steward, you ought to come see about the star placement. She says you had opinions about geometry.”

“I had observations about physics.”

“She said you’d say that, and to tell you that observations without action are just fancy complaining.”

Alaric blinked. “She said that?”

“Well, she used more words, but that was the general meaning.”

“And if I decline?”

“She said to tell you that would be expected but disappointing.”

“Expected but disappointing.”

“Yes, sir. She also said something about London men and their delicate constitutions, but I wasn’t supposed to repeat that part.”

“Yet you did.”

“Must have slipped out, sir.”

The boy grinned, unrepentant, and Alaric found himself oddly charmed. Children in London were either terrified of him or sickeningly obsequious. This one seemed to view him as a source of mild entertainment.

“What’s your name?” Alaric asked.

“Thomas, sir. Thomas Ironwell.”

“Well, Thomas Ironwell, you may tell Mrs. Whitby that my constitution, delicate or otherwise, will be down shortly.”

“She said you’d say that too.”

“Did she predict anything I might do that would surprise her?”

“She said if you actually helped with the star, she’d eat her best Sunday bonnet.”

“Her best Sunday bonnet.”

“The one with the blue ribbons and the fake cherries.”

“Then by all means, let’s make sure she has an interesting meal.”

Thomas grinned wider and scampered off. Alaric could hear him clattering down the stairs, probably leaving snow and pine needles in his wake.

“Your Grace,” Grimsby said carefully, “are you actually going to help with Christmas decorations?”

“Apparently I am.”

“May I ask why?”

“Scientific curiosity. I want to see if Mrs. Whitby actually owns a bonnet with fake cherries.”

“That seems like a lot of effort for fruit-based millinery confirmation.”

“Also, if I’m supposed to be the steward, I should probably act like one. Stewards help with village things, don’t they?”

“I believe they typically maintain a professional distance.”

“Well, I’m not a typical steward.”

“No, Your Grace is a duke pretending to be a steward, which is significantly less typical.”

“Your point is noted.”

“But Your Grace is going anyway.”

“Yes.”

“Would Your Grace like his coat?”

“That would be helpful, but stop calling me Your Grace.”

Grimsby fetched the coat, holding it out with the air of a man sending his master off to war. “Try not to volunteer for anything else, Your… Mr. Fletcher. You have a tendency to become involuntarily involved.”

“I do not become involuntarily involved.”

“You once ended up judging a pie contest because you made the mistake of walking past at the wrong moment.”

“That was different.”

“You ended up married to pie judgment for three hours.”

“The pies needed judging. It was a public service.”

“Of course, it was.”

Alaric shrugged on his coat and headed for the door, then paused. “Grimsby, if anyone asks, you’re my valet because the duke is particular about his servants’ standards.”

“And if they ask why a duke who never visits cares about his servants’ standards?”

“Tell them he’s consistently inconsistent.”

“That’s actually believable.”

“I’m choosing to be offended by that.”

“Your Grace has that right.”

Alaric made his way downstairs, ducking under the strategic mistletoe with newly acquired skill. Outside, the snow had intensified, turning the village into something from a Christmas card—the sort his mother used to collect, all soft edges and warm lights against the winter dark.

The square was even more chaotic than when he’d left it. The star had returned, now being positioned near the tree with a complex system of ropes and wheels for lifting that looked like something from a naval operation. Marianne stood in the middle of it all, somehow managing to direct multiple activities simultaneously while arguing with someone about garland density.

“No, Mr. Martin, we discussed this. The garlands need to overlap by at least six inches or they’ll gap when the wind blows. Mrs. Hartley, not there; the lights need to go on first! Thomas, stop throwing snow at your sister!”

She spotted Alaric approaching and her expression shifted to one of amused surprise. “Mr. Fletcher. I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“I was promised the sight of you eating a bonnet.”

“Only if you actually help. Standing about looking critical doesn’t count.”

“What if I stand about looking helpful?”

“That’s just standing about with a different expression.”

“I have many expressions.”

“Do you? So far I’ve seen critical, disapproving, and mildly unyielding.”

“That last one is my thoughtful face.”

“You might want to work on that.”

Several villagers had stopped what they were doing to watch this exchange with interest. Alaric became aware that he was essentially bantering with the widow in front of an audience that probably hadn’t had this much entertainment since the previous steward’s dramatic departure.

“Right then,” he said, affecting a businesslike tone. “What needs doing?”

Marianne blinked, clearly not having expected actual cooperation. “Oh. Well. The star needs to be lifted to the top of the tree, but the angle’s wrong. We can’t get it high enough without risking dropping it.”

Alaric examined the setup. They were trying to lift the star directly up, fighting gravity and the weight of the ridiculously large ornament.

“You’re approaching it wrong,” he said. “You need a counterweight system. Basic physics.”

“Basic physics,” Marianne repeated. “Of course. How foolish of us not to have our physics textbooks handy while decorating for Christmas.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t change the laws of gravity.”

“Pity. It would make life so much more interesting.”

“Your life seems plenty interesting already, given the decorated sheep.”

“You saw those? That was Mrs. Martin’s idea. She felt they looked ‘festively under-dressed.'”

“Festively under-dressed sheep. That’s a phrase I never expected to encounter.”

“Stick around Hollingford long enough, you’ll encounter phrases you never knew existed. Last week, someone described the land steward’s new hat as ‘aggressively burgundy.'”

“How can a colour be aggressive?”

“You’d have to see the hat. It’s like it’s attacking your eyes with its colour.”

Despite himself, Alaric found he was smiling. “Right. Your star problem. You need to run the rope through a higher point and add weight to the other end. The tree should have a strong enough branch about three feet from the top.”

“Should have?”

“Unless your tree is decorative rather than structural.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Is it a pretty tree or a strong tree?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“In my experience, rarely.”

“That’s a depressing life philosophy.”

“It’s kept me from being crushed by falling Christmas stars.”

“Fair point.” She turned to the assembled villagers. “Right, everyone! Mr. Fletcher suggests we need a counterweight system. Mr. Ironwell, can you climb?”

Mr. Ironwell, a spry man of about sixty, nodded enthusiastically. “Like a squirrel, Mrs. Whitby!”

“Excellent. Though perhaps aim for more dignity than a squirrel.”

As the villagers reorganized themselves according to Alaric’s suggestions, Marianne stood beside him, watching the proceedings with a critical eye.

“You know,” she said, “for someone who hates Christmas, you’re being remarkably helpful.”

“I don’t hate Christmas. I’m philosophically opposed to it.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Hate requires emotional investment. Philosophy requires only intellectual consistency.”

“That might be the coldest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“I choose to take it as one.”

She shook her head, but she was smiling. “You’re very strange, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Coming from a woman who decorates sheep, I’ll take that as high praise.”

“I didn’t decorate the sheep.”

“You allowed the sheep to be decorated. In some courts, that’s considered equally culpable.”

“What courts are these?”

“The Court of Reasonable Behaviour.”

“That sounds like a place you made up.”

“All courts are made up if you think about it.”

“That’s…” she paused, considering. “Actually oddly profound.”

“I have my moments.”

“All two of them?”

“Three, actually. But one was in private, so it doesn’t count.”

The star-raising operation had progressed to the point where Mr. Ironwell was now perched precariously near the top of the tree, threading rope through branches while his wife shouted helpful suggestions from below.

“Don’t look down, Harold!”

“I’m in a tree, Martha. Where else would I look?”

“Up! Look up!”

“At what? The sky? I know what the sky looks like!”

“This is going to end badly,” Marianne murmured.

“Almost certainly,” Alaric agreed. “Shall we take bets on how?”

“That seems uncharitable.”

“Five shillings says he gets tangled in the rope.”

“I shall accept the wager. My money’s on him falling into the garland display.”

They shook on it, and Alaric tried not to notice how her hand felt in his; warm and surprisingly soft for someone who presumably spent her days kneading dough.

“Oi! Mr. Fletcher!” Mr. Ironwell called from his perch. “Where does this bit go?”

“Through the branch above your left hand. No, your left; that’s your right.”

“This is like watching someone try to teach a dog mathematics,” Marianne observed.

“That’s unfair to dogs. They at least understand pointing.”

“Mr. Ironwell understands pointing.”

“He’s currently trying to thread rope through his own sleeve.”

“Oh dear. HAROLD! THE BRANCH, NOT YOUR JACKET!”

Too late. Mr. Ironwell had somehow managed to attach himself to the tree via his own clothing. His attempts to free himself only made things worse, and within moments he was effectively gift-wrapped to the spruce.

“I believe that means you owe me five shillings,” Alaric said.

“He’s not tangled in the rope, he’s tangled in his jacket.”

“Which is tangled in the rope.”

“That’s indirect tangling.”

“Tangling is tangling, Mrs. Whitby. Pay up.”

“I don’t have five shillings on me.”

“Then you’ll have to owe me.”

“I could bake you something instead.”

“After your admission about Tuesday loaves? I think not.”

“My Sunday baking is perfectly acceptable.”

“Faint praise.”

“HELP!” Mr. Ironwell called. “I’m becoming part of the tree!”

“We should probably help him,” Marianne said.

“Should we though? He seems to be fulfilling his lifelong dream of becoming one with nature.”

“That’s terribly philosophical for someone concerned with basic physics.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain sarcasm and mild social discomfort.”

“Those are multitudes if you count them right.”

Marianne laughed and started toward the tree. “Come on, Mr. Fletcher. Let’s rescue Harold before Martha decides to leave him up there as an ornament.”

“That would be festive.”

“And slightly illegal.”

“Only slightly?”

“Well, he volunteered.”

The rescue operation took another twenty minutes and involved three ladders and a pair of scissors. By the end, Mr. Ironwell was free but his jacket was a casualty of war, and the star was still on the ground.

“Right,” Marianne said, hands on her hips. “New plan. Mr. Fletcher, since you’re so clever, you can climb the tree.”

“I absolutely will not.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t climb trees. It’s undignified.”

“Everything about this situation is undignified.”

“Exactly. No need to compound the problem.”

“So your solution is to stand there being unhelpful?”

“I was extremely helpful. My counterweight idea was sound.”

“Your counterweight idea resulted in Mr. Ironwell becoming a Christmas ornament.”

“That was execution error, not design flaw.”

“Either way, the star’s still on the ground.”

They stood there, locked in a stalemate, while the rest of the village watched with the fascination usually reserved for public hangings or particularly good gossip.

“What if,” a small voice piped up, “we used the ladder?”

Everyone turned to look at Thomas, who had appeared seemingly from nowhere, covered in even more snow than before.

“What ladder?” Marianne asked.

“The really tall one from the church. Mr. Williams uses it to clean the windows.”

There was a moment of silence while everyone digested this remarkably sensible suggestion.

“That’s…” Marianne started.

“Actually brilliant,” Alaric finished. “Well done, Thomas.”

Thomas beamed. “Does this mean I get to help?”

“Absolutely not,” Marianne and Alaric said in unison, then looked at each other in surprise.

“Jinx,” Thomas said. “Now you have to buy each other a drink.”

“That’s not how jinx works,” Marianne protested.

“It is in Hollingford.”

“Since when?”

“Since right now. I just made it up.”

“You can’t just make up rules.”

“Why not? Someone made up the first rules.”

“He has a point,” Alaric said.

“Don’t encourage him.”

“Why not? He’s the only one here who’s had a sensible idea all evening.”

“That’s…” Marianne paused. “Actually also a fair point.”

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.”