He pulled out the documents he'd prepared. "So here's what I'm going to do, if you'll let me. First, all debts related to Fletcher's theft are forgiven. Every family that was overcharged will receive full restitution plus interest."
There were gasps around the room.
"Second, the hall will be opened for village use. The ballroom for dances, the library for readings and lessons, the grounds for fetes and fairs. It belongs to this community as much as it belongs to me."
More murmurs, growing excitement.
"Third, I'll be establishing a fund for village improvements—roofs, roads, whatever is needed. The decisions will be made by a village committee, not by me alone."
"And fourth," he said, looking directly at Marianne now, "I'll be staying. Not for a week or a month, but permanently. Hollingford is my home, even if I've been too foolish to recognize it. You're my people, even if I don't deserve to claim you. And I want to be part of this community, not as your absent landlord but as your neighbour."
The room erupted in discussion, everyone talking at once. But Alaric only had eyes for Marianne, who was standing very still in the doorway.
"Why?" she called out, her voice cutting through the noise. "Why now? Why any of this?"
"Because someone recently told me that we create joy, even when we don't feel it, as an act of defiance against despair. Because someone showed me that choosing connection over isolation is brave, not weak. Because someone made me want to be the kind of man who stays and fights for something that matters, instead of the kind who runs."
"Pretty words," she said. "You're good at those."
"Then let me try actions instead." He pulled out one more document. "This is the deed transfer for the bakery building. I'm putting it in your name. Whatever happens between us, the bakery is yours, free and clear. You'll never have to worry about rent or leases or absent landlords again."
The room had gone silent again, everyone watching this play out.
"You can't buy forgiveness," Marianne said, but her voice was less certain now.
"I'm not trying to buy anything. I'm trying to show you that I understand what matters to you. The bakery matters. This village matters. The people matter. And if I have to spend the rest of my life proving that you matter most of all, then that's what I'll do."
"The rest of your life?"
"Or however long it takes for you to believe that what we shared was real, even if my name wasn't."
She stood there for a long moment, the entire village holding its breath. Then she walked forward, stopping just in front of him.
"I'm still angry," she said quietly.
"I know."
"I may be angry for a very long time."
"I know."
"This doesn't fix everything."
"I know that too."
"But," she said, and his heart stopped, "it's a start."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out something—the gingerbread heart she'd made days ago, now carefully wrapped in paper.
"For the duke who's learning to use his heart," she said, pressing it into his hand. "Try not to break it. The heart or the biscuit."
"Marianne..."
"That's all you get for now," she said, stepping back. "Maybe more later, maybe not. But for now, that's all."
It wasn't forgiveness, not entirely. It wasn't a declaration of love or a promise of a future. But it was hope, and hope was more than he'd had this morning.
"Thank you," he said simply.
