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."
