Chapter 4
Frantes’s aunt was a difficult person, not one to allow others easily by her side.
Not even blood relatives were exceptions.
Even Frantes’s father, a Grand Duke, could not control her. In fact, he was the one often swayed.
In his aunt’s palace, only those she chose were allowed entrance.
Yet once someone became “her person,” her generosity extended to them for life, even beyond death.
“That young lady might be a magician. It would have been impossible to trick Aunt.”
Randolph shook his head.
“She isn’t. The servant who brought the message emphasized that Lady Luniria had no particular talent.”
“That servant needs retraining. No talent? She has an extraordinary one.”
“What talent is that?”
Randolph’s eyes widened.
“She endured in Aunt’s household for half a year.”
“Ah, yes, of course! That is indeed a remarkable talent! Even in the Grand Duke’s estate, very few attendants ever won Aunt’s favor.”
“Aunt treated everyone but her butler like fools. Including us.”
“And… unfortunately, the money Lady Luniria worked so hard to earn has been squandered by her family on luxury and vanity. Even her fiancé ran off with her younger sister. The poor young lady is the only one who doesn’t know.”
“Are you suggesting I take pity on her and play the philanthropist? Randolph, didn’t you say you’d tell me how to obtain Aunt’s heirloom?”
Frantes turned his weary gaze forward.
“No, no. The method I spoke of is that young lady. You just said yourself—Lady Luniria lasted half a year in Aunt’s household. Half a year! She’s practically Aunt’s person already. Persuade her, and she can get the heirloom for us. Winning over a lady’s heart—that’s as easy for you as breathing, isn’t it?”
“Exaggeration. When did I ever treat it like breathing? The ladies came to me first.”
“There you go again, puffing yourself up till my head boils over.”
Frantes let out a small yawn. Days of relentless travel were catching up with him.
There was no helping it; to escape the Emperor’s gaze, they had to leave the capital as quickly as possible.
He didn’t know the exact character of Aunt’s maid, but from Randolph’s account, it seemed she was the type who would fall easily for a kind word.
This sort of tale isn’t rare.
An eldest daughter, bullied her whole life by a stepmother and stepsister after her real mother left.
By Randolph’s telling, she had no remarkable qualities compared to her “perfect” younger sister. Surely she bore feelings of inferiority.
A little kindness, some sweet words to fill her hollow self-esteem, and she would quickly surrender.
Especially if she was a naïve country girl. All he had to do was touch the wound left by her faithless fiancé.
But Frantes would never do such a thing.
“Whatever it is, that method won’t do.”
Frantes released the reins and stretched his arms wide as his horse galloped. Randolph eyed him nervously.
“If we go back from here, Regen will have already drawn up a list of brides for me. If I leave room for scandal, he’ll want me dead. It would be trouble if that woman chased me all the way to the capital.”
“Now that I think of it, you really are strange. I could understand fetching the heirloom as a loyal retainer’s duty. But marriage? Just because you owe the Crown Prince your life?”
“Marriage is no big deal.”
Frantes did not believe in love.
His time with ladies was light amusement, never to become love.
Marriage was neither here nor there, something that could happen—or not.
The ducal title, to him, was a burden he longed to cast aside as soon as possible.
For now, he simply guarded it to keep ambitious relatives from coveting it. What happened after his death, he did not care. Some cousin would inherit eventually.
“Anyway, Aunt must give us the heirloom this time. I can’t come all this way again, leaving Katrin behind.”
Randolph sighed. He had been dragged away in the midst of enjoying sweet newlywed days.
Pure-hearted since childhood, Randolph played the role of awakening Aunt’s nostalgic affections.
“And Emily… she’s frightening.”
His voice quivered slightly as he mentioned Aunt’s caregiver.
“I feel the same.”
Frantes agreed gravely.
They passed a wooden sign marked Tilbury and entered the edge of the village.
“Whoa.”
Someone was coming from the opposite direction.
They pulled on their reins, slowing their horses.
Frantes smiled lightly, meeting the passerby’s eyes—a habit ingrained since childhood.
Green eyes, like sunlit leaves on a summer day, reflected in his gaze.
Hair of golden waves down to the waist, parted lips…
There was something ethereal and lonely about her, like a fairy lost in the human world.
The image blended perfectly with the lush green surroundings, making him imagine even the fragrance of blooming flowers.
A dreamlike moment that passed in an instant, leaving her afterimage in his eyes.
Frantes thought to glance back but stopped himself.
“Had she never seen a man on horseback before?”
Her surprised expression puzzled him—it was not the usual look of awe at his handsome face.
Moist eyes, as though trying to speak to him.
“Don’t look down on country folk too much, Frantes,” Randolph chided.
“That lady just now—that was Lady Robelia’s sister I told you about.”
“The one who bewitched Aunt?”
“Yes. The fortunate young lady Aunt chose, and the unfortunate one forever judged lesser than her younger sister.”
Frantes had imagined the tragic Lady Luniria as powerless, gloomy, shoulders slumped.
But the woman he just saw—
Without realizing, he murmured:
“The elder sister is more beautiful than the younger.”
Randolph, not hearing him, sighed, assuming Luniria must be very young. “Poor girl… what cruel people.”
Their appointment with Aunt was in the evening.
The plan was to lodge at an inn first, eat a simple meal, wash off the road’s dust, rest well, then visit the estate.
At least, that was the plan.
“Let’s stop by the Beyla estate first,” Frantes suddenly declared.
Randolph dropped his spoon into his soup.
“We promised to come in the evening!”
“Afternoon or evening.”
“That’s completely different! Why now?”
“There’s something I want to confirm.”
“What? No, forget it—don’t tell me. It’ll be one of your incomprehensible whims, meaningless as ever. Even if I refuse, you’ll drag me along anyway. …Emily won’t let us off easy.”
Randolph’s spoon trembled as he pointed it at Frantes.
“You take the blows for me this time. I’ve told you—I plan to have three daughters, and I won’t risk injury in some rural backwater!”
“All right, all right, put the spoon down and finish your soup.”
Frantes smiled crookedly.
He couldn’t shake the image of the fairy-like girl in the woods.
He wanted to know more—her voice, her laughter, her expression when teased.
Perhaps life in the countryside would not be so dull after all.
The old lady’s estate lay on the outskirts of Tilbury.
One day she had appeared suddenly with a caregiver, and since then she had lived quietly in the Beyla estate, known only as “Madame Mezen.”
The villagers were intrigued by their new neighbor. They pestered Mr. Barna, who had sold the estate, for details.
But the chatterbox Barna clammed up firmly whenever Madame Mezen was mentioned, refusing all persuasion.
So people assumed she must be a great noblewoman.
There were endless attempts to uncover her identity—sudden visits, begging for invitations, even parties arranged in her honor.
Every effort was politely but firmly declined.
Time passed, curiosity waned, and at last no one bothered Madame Mezen anymore.
So she really was someone extraordinary.
She was Frantes’s aunt, after all. Of course she wasn’t ordinary. She might even hold a title herself, though Luniria never knew it.
Luniria vaulted the low fence and entered the Beyla estate’s garden.
Though she had walked a long way, she felt no fatigue. At nineteen, her body brimmed with health and vigor.
The spring garden she tended exuded its familiar fragrance.
White daffodils and blue hyacinths greeted her from the neat lawn.
At the sight of the hyacinths, a sad smile curved her lips.
I should plant new flowers instead of these.
They had bloomed everywhere when her fiancé confessed his love, and she had cherished them as his flower.
But with his betrayal, her affection for hyacinths had turned to ice.
The flowers were blameless, yet—
She vowed to clear them away. Raising her eyes, she looked at the little house with its reddish-brown roof.
A simple, warm building draped in ivy.
Though she had spent only half a year here with Madame, it felt more like home than her own house ever did.
She had loved coming here so much that each night she longed for morning to arrive.
Before she came, Madame and the caregiver had lived sloppily—barely cleaning, barely eating, with no doctor or servants.
After her family’s fortunes declined, when Luniria could find no work in the village, the Beyla estate had been her last refuge.
When she first came, she waited two full days at the gate.
Finally, when the caregiver stepped out on a walk, Luniria pushed her way inside.
Then, unbidden, she cooked, cleaned, and tended the garden. Thanks to her, the desolate house became a home again.
Madame Mezen at last spoke to her.
“You’re skillful.”
“It’s what I’ve always done at home.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t you need a maid? As you see, I can cook well and keep everything in order.”
“So it seems.”
Then Madame suddenly asked:
“By the way… are we meeting for the first time?”
