The service began, carols were sung, prayers were said, and then the vicar announced, "we have a special honour tonight. His Grace, the Duke of Wexmere, will read the Christmas lesson."
The whispers increased as Alaric made his way to the lectern. The Bible lay open to a well-known passage of Scripture. He had heard it countless times before, read it himself on many a Sunday, yet tonight the familiar words seemed to carry a weight and warmth he had never fully felt.
He read slowly, carefully, very aware of Marianne finally looking at him. When he reached the part about there being no room at the inn, he heard someone mutter, "Unlike our inn, which always has room for liars."
He continued reading, about shepherds and angels and good tidings of great joy, and when he finished, the church was silent.
"Thank you, Your Grace," the vicar said, though he looked uncomfortable. "That was... well read."
Alaric returned to his seat, feeling the weight of every stare. The service continued, but he barely heard it, too aware of Marianne's presence across the aisle, of the distance between them that felt both tiny and insurmountable.
When the service ended with carols sung by candlelight, Alaric watched Marianne sing, her face illuminated by the small flame she held. She looked beautiful and sad and completely unreachable.
As people filed out, exchanging Christmas greetings, Alaric found himself alone in the duke's pew. Even Dupont had abandoned him, apparently finally understanding that his presence wasn't welcome.
"Your Grace?"
He looked up to find the vicar standing there.
"Yes?"
"Might I offer some advice?"
"Everyone else has."
"Your mother, used to say that Christmas wasn't about the decorations or the presents or even the traditions. She said itwas about choosing love over fear, hope over despair, connection over isolation."
"She said many things."
"She also said that her greatest hope was that you'd find someone who could make you laugh, really laugh, not just polite society amusement."
"Did she?"
"She did. I think she would have liked Mrs. Whitby."
"I think so too."
"Then perhaps you should stop thinking about what your father would have done and start thinking about what your mother would have wanted."
"Which was?"
"For you to be brave enough to stay and fight for something that matters."
The vicar left him there, and Alaric sat in the empty church thinking about his mother, about Christmas, about choices made and unmade.
Finally, he rose and walked out into the cold night air. The fair was winding down, stalls being packed up, families heading home. He could see Marianne helping to dismantle decorations, still avoiding his side of the square.
Tomorrow, he was supposed to return to London. Tomorrow, he could go back to his safe, adequate, controlled life.
Or he could stay and try to earn forgiveness from a woman who'd shown him what it meant to choose joy despite pain, to create warmth in winter, to build community from chaos.
Tomorrow, he could stop being the duke his father had been and start being the man his mother had hoped he'd become.
The question was whether Marianne would give him the chance.
As he walked back to the inn, snow began to fall again, gentle this time, like a benediction or a second chance.
Behind him, the church bells chimed midnight.
