Chapter 4
Seeing Vivian’s eyes widen in curiosity, Betty laughed playfully. Vivian, eager for an answer, pressed Betty with quick steps.
The news in today’s newspaper had already captured the attention of everyone in the mansion. The announcement that a minor duke, a high-ranking noble from the capital, was visiting had even sparked a quiet anticipation in Betty. And that noble was none other than Edmund Lockberg. A top-ranking aristocrat and naval officer in Argent, the minor duke was also renowned for his striking looks.
As Betty primly adjusted a towel and started to leave, Vivian hurried after her with short, quick steps.
“Who is it?” Vivian asked.
“I’m not telling you.”
“Why not?”
“This is your punishment for disappearing without saying a word today.”
“That’s not fair!”
Vivian watched Betty leave the room with one eye closed teasingly, then flopped onto the bed. She closed her eyes, enjoying the comforting embrace of the soft blankets.
Not fair.
Her curiosity about a secret she wasn’t allowed to know grew stronger. Restlessly, she tapped her feet, then opened her eyes fully and stared at the ceiling.
A guest at Forver. I must ask tomorrow.
With that resolve, Vivian’s eyes gradually closed, her cheeks tinged pink as she drifted into a sweet dream of cakes.
The next morning,
“Miss.”
“…….”
“Miss Vivian!”
“Betty…?”
“Wake up.”
Sunlight poured unabated into the room, filling one entire side. Vivian squinted against the brightness, pulling the blanket over her face. But Betty’s hand was quicker, tugging it away. Facing the sunlight head-on, Vivian pouted and reluctantly sat up.
“Mrs. Purrin has arrived.”
“….”
Ugh. Not good news.
Vivian quickly dressed and made her way to the garden, the location of today’s lesson.
At the garden entrance, she drew a deep breath and forced a tentative smile. As she stepped into the lush greenery, Mrs. Purrin came into clear view, holding a teacup with elegant poise.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Vivian greeted.
“You seem to be in a good mood,” came the sharp reply.
Despite her attempt at a bright voice, Mrs. Purrin’s gaze was piercing. Usually intimidating, she looked ten times more formidable today. Vivian quickly approached and sat down in a chair before her.
“Tsk.”
Mrs. Purrin’s displeased sound made Vivian shrink in her seat.
“I distinctly told you not to move around so carelessly as if being chased,” she scolded.
“I wasn’t making that much noise…” Vivian replied, hesitating and glancing around.
A sharp glare shot at her instantly.
“You never seem to improve,” Mrs. Purrin said.
“…Yes, ma’am.”
“Since you missed yesterday’s lesson, you’re far behind. You’ll have to work even harder today.”
“…Yes, ma’am.”
“Bring it in.”
With that, a meal was set on the table—a warm soup made from crushed tomatoes. Mrs. Purrin cleared her throat and began speaking. Today’s lesson was a review of table manners that Vivian had struggled with. The duke and duchess of Forver would, of course, host guests flawlessly—but would their daughter, Vivian, be up to par? Mrs. Purrin had no doubt: not yet.
“I hear a distinguished guest is coming to Forver soon,” she said.
Vivian’s eyes widened. It seemed she was the only one at Forver who didn’t know the guest’s identity.
“They are visitors of very high rank, not often seen in this secluded place. Vivian, you must be extra careful not to make mistakes in front of them.”
Mrs. Purrin straightened, signaling Betty to bring in the prepared dishes. It was time to mold another young lady—both for Vivian’s success and for the trust the Forver couple had placed in her.
After the lesson, Mrs. Purrin enjoyed the elegant aroma rising from the hot tea as she enumerated all of Vivian’s mistakes. Vivian’s heart flared at each correction, lifting her chin, her white ribbon bouncing with the movement.
Bad. So bad!
Vivian pouted, glaring at Mrs. Purrin, who smiled playfully behind her fan, teasing yet indulgent. The small mercy—allowing Vivian to swing her legs above the ground—was Mrs. Purrin’s gentle concession to the spirited young lady of the small estate.
Vivian’s narrow eyes studied Mrs. Purrin carefully, then relaxed, asking cautiously:
“Do you know who the guest is, ma’am?”
“The guest…?”
“The distinguished guest coming to Forver. Everyone here knows except me.”
Her curiosity had finally outweighed her pride. Since yesterday, she had been thinking about this mysterious visitor.
A ripple in the calm waters of Forver.
The adventurous Vivian, who roamed the estate as if she were the master, found this new guest to be a fascinating event—a pebble tossed into still water, sure to make a wave.
“So… could you tell me?” she asked.
“Well….”
Seeing Vivian’s earnest, open expression—the clearest she had ever seen—Mrs. Purrin hesitated. Then she smiled faintly, folding her ornate fan with a flick of her wrist.
“If you follow the lesson perfectly, I might tell you.”
Vivian’s eyes glistened, the purest Mrs. Purrin had ever seen. Though lacking in etiquette, she was the most brilliant student Mrs. Purrin had ever taught—an audacious girl dreaming of daring adventures while others dreamt of love.
Mrs. Purrin couldn’t predict how beautifully this bud would bloom, but one thing was certain: when Vivian finally blossoms, Forver would nurture one of the most beautiful ladies in the empire.
Her gaze settled on Vivian’s tightly closed lips, and slowly, she called Betty.
“Open the hall.”
For this spirited young lady, the reins had to be kept tight.
Meanwhile, at the harbor,
“Letter!”
The afternoon sun, thick with the salty tang of the sea, glinted off the spinning wheels of a bicycle, rattling the quiet port town.
Reckleman Harbor, the largest port of the Duchy of Leman, received a trading ship from Forver safely, completing a monopoly contract on the duchy’s specialty wine without issue. Everything was proceeding smoothly—except for the arrival of a late letter.
Hayden leapt up, running swiftly to the gate where the postman had arrived, eager for the letter he had been waiting for.
The postman, about to drop the letter into the mailbox, had it snatched away in a swift motion by the blond boy approaching. The postman watched dumbfounded as the letter was taken, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck.
The boy’s blond hair gleamed in the sunlight, perfectly matching the bright, fresh season of the seaside town.
A few days ago, the boy had first spoken to the postman, standing out with a striking appearance among the traveling merchants.
A month prior, the Argent traders had arrived at Reckleman Harbor. The boy was clearly part of their party, and though he spoke in hesitant Leman, traces of an Argent accent remained.
“Is there a letter for this address?”
The postman, checking his bag, confirmed there was none and shook his head. The boy’s disappointed lowering of his head sparked a pang of sympathy. Quietly, the postman reassured him it would arrive soon. Days passed, with the boy repeating the same question and the postman giving the same awkward shake of the head.
Finally, when the awaited letter was in the postman’s hand, the boy could read the elegant handwriting of his own name:
To Hayden Harper.
It was a warm, affectionate letter from someone dear.
Proudly, the postman mounted his bicycle again, delivering the long-awaited letter into the hands of its owner, before pedaling onward to deliver other mail waiting for its recipients.
