"You've read The Art of War?"
"I've read many things, Mr. Fletcher. Just because I bake bread doesn't mean I'm ignorant."
"I didn't mean to imply..."
"Yes, you did. London men always do. They come here and see a provincial widow who makes pies and they assume that's all there is to know."
There was something in her voice, a sharpness that hadn't been there before, and Alaric realized he'd inadvertently hit upon an old wound.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I apologize. That was presumptuous and insulting."
She turned from the window, surprise evident on her face. "You're apologizing?"
"I do occasionally. When I'm wrong."
"And you're admitting you're wrong?"
"It happens. Rarely. Don't get used to it."
"I wouldn't dream of it." But she was smiling again, the sharp edge gone from her voice. "Now, about those pine boughs. You'll need proper clothing. It's muddy in the woods this time of year."
"I have proper clothing."
"London proper or countryside proper?"
"What's the difference?"
"About three layers of mud and a significant chance of thorn bushes."
"My clothing can handle mud."
"Can your dignity handle being seen in muddy clothing?"
"My dignity is more flexible than you might think."
"Your dignity got offended by a red apron."
"That apron was an assault on fashion and good taste."
"That apron was practical."
"That apron was punishment disguised as practicality."
"You're learning, Mr. Fletcher. You're definitely learning."
Twenty minutes later, Alaric found himself standing in the village square wearing his most sacrifice-worthy boots and coat, surrounded by what could only be described as a pine bough retrieval committee. This consisted of Mr. Ironwell, still wearing his borrowed too-small coat, his son Thomas, the land steward’s relative, Jeremy, who seemed to be permanently confused, and Marianne, who had changed into a practical brown wool dress and sturdy boots that had clearly seen many winters.
"Right then," Mr. Ironwell announced with the air of a general addressing troops, "the mission is simple. We go to Wickham Wood, we locate the finest pine boughs the forest has to offer, we liberate them from their arboreal bondage, and we return triumphant."
"Did you rehearse that speech?" Marianne asked.
"I may have practiced it a bit in the mirror this morning."
"Arboreal bondage?"
"The wife suggested it. She said it sounded educated."
"It sounds like something inappropriate is happening to trees."
