"Many people have good table manners," Alaric said, trying to deflect.
"Yes, but yours are unconscious. You're not thinking about them, which means they were drilled into you young." Mrs. Whitby senior was studying him with uncomfortable intensity. "You sit like someone who had a governess who made him practice with books on his head."
She wasn't far wrong. His governess had been a terror about posture but she had not used books.
"Perhaps we could discuss something other than my posture?" he suggested.
"Of course," Marianne said, though she was looking at him speculatively. "Tell us about London. You must have seen interesting things there."
Dangerous ground, but probably safer than discussing his upbringing. "London is... chaotic. Beautiful and terrible in equal measure."
"Have you been to the theater?"
"Occasionally." Nearly every week during the season, but a steward might have gone occasionally.
"What did you see?"
He named a few popular productions, careful to choose ones that had been widely attended rather than exclusive premieres.
"And the parks? I've heard Hyde Park is lovely."
"It is, particularly in spring when..." he caught himself about to describe the view from his townhouse, "...when the flowers bloom. I've walked there on my half-days."
"Half-days. Of course. And I suppose you've seen the great houses? From the outside?"
"Yes, from the outside." And from very much the inside, but she didn't need to know that.
"It must be strange, working for someone so elevated. The Duke of Wexmere, I mean. Have you met him often?"
"We've... encountered each other." Every morning in the mirror.
"What's he like?"
"He's..." Alaric paused, trying to think how to describe himself from an outside perspective. "Particular. Demanding. Not unkind, but not particularly warm either."
"Sounds delightful," Marianne said dryly.
"He has his qualities."
"Such as?"
"He pays well. Usually on time."
"High praise indeed. No wonder he never visits. He probably has no idea what to do with actual people rather than ledgers."
"That's... not entirely inaccurate."
"Poor man," Mrs. Whitby senior said unexpectedly. "It must be lonely, having all that wealth and no connection to the people and places that depend on you."
"I don't think he sees it as lonely," Alaric said carefully. "More... efficient."
"Efficiency is a cold feeling," Mrs. Whitby senior observed. "Even colder than this storm."
As if to emphasize her point, something crashed outside—probably a tree branch or someone's ambitious Christmas display succumbing to the wind.
"That sounded expensive," Marianne murmured.
"That sounded like Mrs. Martin's Christmas cathedral finally admitting defeat."
