"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."
