Chapter 47
“Sandro said he couldn’t come today and sent me in his stead.”
Just then, the gift Sandro had sent through a servant arrived.
The moment Victoria took it into her hands, the two young ladies standing beside her squealed before she could even react.
“The bouquet is so pretty!”
“I wonder what the gift is. Hurry and open it, my lady.”
Victoria, who had been forcing an awkward smile because of the sudden presence of her friends, immediately brightened.
Inside the large bouquet was a cheerful card, and in a small pale pink box was a silver bracelet.
[I wanted to see you again today, but unfortunately I could not come in person.
Please accept this small token of my heart.
— Yours, Dello]
It was a cliché message, but the three young women—barely past twenty—bounced with excitement.
“How enviable. Who knew Sir Sandro could be so romantic?”
“He must think of you constantly, my lady.”
Hearing the young ladies’ comments, Victoria’s cheeks flushed red.
“Anne, I should write him back, shouldn’t I?”
When Victoria naturally turned her gaze toward Anne, a disapproving ahem came from the viscountess.
“You don’t ask a maid for permission, Victoria. And you—”
She was about to turn her head and scold Anne when—
“Grandmother, why don’t you have a cup of tea before you go?”
Hannibal gently took Viscountess Deruca’s arm.
“Yes, you girls go ahead and chat with Victoria.”
At the viscountess’s words, the young ladies jumped in eagerly.
“Lady Victoria, shall we go shopping for gifts together?”
“And maybe do some shopping too!”
“Shall we?”
Tempted, Victoria once again glanced at Anne. Catching the look, Anne replied kindly.
“Please go ahead. I’ll inform the lord for you.”
With Anne’s answer, the two young ladies moved closer to Victoria and chattered away.
“From now on, make plenty of noble friends. We could stop by a salon for tea.”
“A salon?”
“Yes, they have delicious desserts!”
Anne quietly stepped away so as not to intrude on the lively conversation.
By the time the sun was setting, Victoria returned with a flushed face, both hands full of shopping bags.
“Anne! Not all noble ladies are bad people. Once you get close to them, it’s actually wonderful!”
“That’s good to hear. I’ll put away what you bought.”
“Mm-hm! These are the dress and accessories I’ll wear when Sir Sandro comes tomorrow. They’re a matching set, so make sure to store them together!”
“Yes, my lady.”
Victoria, brimming with excitement, waved her hands and went off to wash up.
As the maid assigned to attend her followed, Anne glanced down at the receipt listing their purchases.
She needed to check how much had been charged to the family’s account.
If the stingy lord—who only gave 3 gold coins for shopping—found out, he’d surely have something to say.
Still, when she pulled out the dress, it turned out to be a design currently popular in the West, so at least Victoria hadn’t been swindled.
Considering there’d been a time when she’d paid hundreds of gold for something that looked like candy wrapper fabric, this was significant progress.
From then on, Victoria grew close to Ladies Plonia and Anel, as well as to Sandro, and threw herself into the social activities she’d missed out on for the past twenty-some years.
Anne, meanwhile, was busy managing the household as the official head maid, leaving her with far less time to talk with Victoria.
Naturally, as each became busier with her own affairs, August arrived.
The month of the West’s grandest festival made the lord’s castle busier than ever.
“I wish the count would come as late as possible and leave early.”
Thump. Thump.
Dona pounded the white dough as if it were an enemy she held a grudge against.
News that Count Arthur Clayde would soon visit Tegenes Castle had clearly reached the kitchen.
Anne smirked, guessing his infamous reputation was well-known even in his hometown.
“Anne, what’s the count famous for in the capital?”
“Let’s see… the ‘Bluebeard Count’ who proposes to any woman, takes her to Tegenes, and then she either disappears or dies?”
“Mm-hm. Just that?”
“What else is there?”
“The vicious father-son battles.”
Anne stopped counting flour sacks and turned to Dona.
After slapping the dough flat and shaping it, Dona scattered raisins on top and grumbled.
“Whenever those two meet, the castle doesn’t have a moment’s peace.”
Taking over his father’s position at a young age meant Hannibal had both ability and recognition.
But could one really become lord without the patriarch’s trust? Anne tilted her head.
“They don’t get along?”
“The worst. Absolutely the worst.”
Dona lowered her voice to a mutter.
“Was there some reason for the falling-out?”
Compared to Hannibal, Arthur Clayde had a terrible reputation in his hometown—far worse than just the capital’s image of him as a playboy Bluebeard.
He was considered such a disgrace that his own family called him the ‘Clayde family’s mutation,’ and the people did not follow him at all.
“The count’s just jealous of his son. Honestly, we serve the young lord here—why should we care if the count comes from the capital or not?”
After leaving his wife to act as regent, the count had wandered from place to place, and the western people didn’t treat him as their lord at all.
At most, he was acknowledged as Hannibal Clayde’s father.
Anne had been surprised to find that in the West, Hannibal was clearly regarded as the true master.
Perhaps that was why Arthur Clayde wandered the capital so much.
“Still, if he comes back every year for the Witch’s Night festival, I guess he’s a Westerner at heart.”
At Anne’s comment, Dona sighed in worry.
“Honestly, I don’t know why he comes. Every year he brings back strange rumors from the capital, wears bizarre outfits, and angers the young lord by bringing capital women here. I swear he only comes to pick a fight with his son.”
“So it’s not capital folks who fuel the lord’s prejudice—it’s the count himself?”
“Pretty much.”
“Wow, that’s unfair.”
“Wouldn’t you feel the same? Every year he drags capital women here and nags—‘Get married, get engaged, you need an heir.’ No wonder the young lord despises—!!”
Dona suddenly clamped her mouth shut.
“…Dona, what was that?”
“No, nothing.”
Waving her hands, Dona claimed she was busy, fetched a rolling pin, and focused on kneading the dough.
Her firm tone made Anne drop the subject.
Even in the sweltering heat of late summer, Victoria’s romance with Sandro was sailing smoothly.
Every time Anne saw Victoria, who had completely forgotten her warnings, her stomach churned with worry.
Worse, the two new friends encouraged and envied the romance so much that Victoria grew ever more confident and lovestruck.
Anne now had little reason to attend Victoria. Whenever she tried to see her during a rare free moment, the young ladies blocked her way.
“You’re the head maid, right? You should be managing the maids. What’s the point of a personal maid if you’re here?”
“We’ll take care of her.”
They even “advised” Victoria to keep her distance from Anne.
“My lady, now that you have us, you shouldn’t get too friendly with a maid your own age. A maid is a maid, not a friend.”
“Especially if she’s from the capital.”
Like the viscountess, they discriminated against Anne for her place of birth—a sentiment Anne had heard so often since coming to Tegenes that her ears could sprout calluses.
Still, was there really reason enough for this level of prejudice?
She’d heard that some western nobles were from the capital, yet at Victoria’s birthday party held in Clayde, not a single noble from Edith Tara had been invited.
“Tegenes and Edith Tara have had a long, bitter history,” Patrick once told her.
“I’ve read a bit about it in books.”
The Claydes were among the founding heroes of the Empire. Yet they refused the imperial title of duke and returned to their position as the West’s ruling house.
Perhaps because of that, the Empire, instead of challenging their independent authority, granted them only the title of count—a rank almost insultingly low for someone who had long ruled the West like a king.
Naturally, the ranks of the lesser nobles in the West were also lowered.
Some even argued they should have fought for independence back then.
But waging war would have been difficult—the treacherous mountain ranges lay between Edith Tara and Tegenes, and militarily they were too far apart.
Moreover, the Claydes shared a border with the Luto Kingdom, whose ideology clashed with Haiman’s, so Hannibal’s ancestors made the pragmatic choice.
They accepted the unwanted count title, pretended to bow to imperial authority, and lived independently in the West.
For generations, it stayed that way—until the first “black sheep” emerged: Count Arthur Clayde.
The Empire clearly saw him as an opportunity.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—for them, Hannibal Clayde’s presence would make that opportunity hard to exploit.
“They weren’t always at odds, but the Emperor of Haiman has always wanted to solidify his control over Clayde. He didn’t care what methods it took. That’s why we’re wary.”
Patrick’s words carried barbs—regret and reflection over bitter mistakes.
Anne wanted to ask what had happened in the past, but doubted he would answer, so she kept her silence.
