BPOTWC Chapter 17

The inner wall said:

〈His Grace and Her Ladyship do hold each other dear—and yet neither will speak the truth of it to the other, if it please Clarisse to know it.〉

This was a worry shared by every single stone set into the walls of the Sheridan estate.

Only, until now, there had been no one to tell, so the stones of the inner wall could do nothing but fret amongst themselves.

The outer wall, its nearly sole conversation partner, had never shown the slightest interest in such matters.

But now the inner wall had Clarisse—someone who would listen to everything it had to say.

Just getting the trouble off its chest like this left the inner wall feeling as if some of the thick, dry lump of sweet potato crammed relentlessly between its stones had eased, if only a little.

"They like each other? But the Duke and Duchess are married, so naturally they—ah."

Clarisse stopped mid-sentence, pressing her lips together.

Her mother—that's who had come to mind.

The palace maids used to say, from time to time, that her mother had loved the exceedingly noble King.

And that the King, too, had once cherished her mother greatly.

'But even a mother like that… never married my father.'

That liking someone and marrying them—those didn't always go together. Clarisse knew that much, if only vaguely.

"Mrrph?"

Mallangie, worried, asked if she was all right, so Clarisse quickly put on a bright smile.

"Of course, I'm delighted. You have no idea how happy this makes me."

"Mrrph?"

"His Grace and Her Ladyship like each other. That's a wonderful thing."

Clarisse stroked the inner wall.

"Thank you for telling me. Tonight at dinner, I'll be sure to let them know how they feel about each other."

〈What?! Clarisse must not be the one to say it!〉

"I know that much! I've watched loads of prince-and-princess weddings since I came here—more than one or two, even?"

Clarisse proudly lifted her chin, pointing to the stack of storybooks piled in one corner of her room.

"A prince and princess who share their feelings with each other are always happy in the end."

〈That alone shan't suffice, I dare say. One must do something special for the one held dear!〉

"Of course I know that too—Uncle Quentin told me all about it! Leave it to me."

〈What? Secretary Quentin, dispensing counsel on matters of the heart, did he? Why, that is no different from asking the outer wall's opinion on needlework, if Clarisse will forgive the saying so...〉

The inner wall's story continued, but Clarisse had already dashed off at the sound of Rosalie calling her.

〈Oh, dear me—I cannot say whether this shall turn out well at all, if it please anyone to ask.〉 The outer wall, who had been listening to this fretting, answered in an irritable voice:

〈Say what you will, but set beside Quentin's love-counsel, even my knitting know-how—…….〉

〈It is the very same thing, I say!〉

The outer wall had no reply to that.

"Come to think of it, this will be your first time being properly introduced."

The Duke sat down across from Clarisse and made the introduction.

"The Duchess of Sheridan."

Rather than offer her greeting at once, Clarisse first checked the Duke's expression.

She was worried whether a mere criminal like herself even had leave to give her own name to the Duchess directly.

When the Duke gave a small nod, Clarisse relaxed and began to speak.

"Good evening, Your Ladyship. I'm Clarisse. It's an honor to greet you."

Remembering the promise she had once made with the Duchess, Clarisse offered her greeting as though meeting her for the very first time.

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well. I'm Asella Sheridan."

The Duchess's face, which had seemed a little stiff, finally warmed into a gentle smile.

'Just as the inner wall said—the Duchess really is such a wonderful person.'

Clarisse felt a growing confidence that she would be able to carry out the task the inner wall had entrusted to her tonight.

The dishes soon began arriving, one after another.

All three of them ate on, each showing off their finest table manners.

There was, however, one problem—namely: almost no conversation whatsoever.

"This tastes good," Maximilian would occasionally offer.

"Yes," the Duchess would reply—and no more than that. In a voice that had sunk rather flat, too.

'The whole atmosphere is so strange!'

Clarisse, watching them with a furrow forming between her brows, tilted her head.

'And more than anything—His Grace and Her Ladyship said they like each other.'

According to her storybooks, people who carried such feelings would blush, or stumble over their words.

Nowhere in any story had she read of a prince and princess exchanging conversation this blunt.

Clarisse lifted her head slightly and glanced at the wall visible behind Sir Benson, who stood guard over the meal.

The layered stones watched over their dinner without so much as stirring.

'The inner wall wouldn't say something untrue. It's been watching over things like this all along.'

Clarisse decided to carry out her plan exactly as intended.

"Are you all right?"

Just then, the Duchess, noticing Clarisse deep in thought, addressed her gently.

"There was a strongly flavored vegetable mixed in. Do you dislike it, by any chance?"

The Duchess kindly repeated a question Clarisse had missed the first time.

"It's fine. I like eating just about anything. With such a variety of food here, I always look forward to mealtimes."

"Still, you don't have to force yourself to eat something you find difficult. You can tell me anytime."

"No, really—I actually like it."

Clarisse popped the vegetable—its scent somehow cooling at the tip of her nose—into her mouth and chomped it down, good and thorough.

Eaten together with meat, it left her mouth feeling somehow refreshed, and she genuinely did like it.

"It's delicious. I really do like it."

"I'm glad, if you like it. As it happens, I like it too."

"And I like meat as well."

As if to prove it, Clarisse chomped down a piece of meat, swallowed it fast, and grinned.

"I like corn and potatoes too. There are so many things I like!"

"That's wonderful."

"Mallangie, who I'm very fond of, always says—"

Clarisse added, in a small voice, that Mallangie was "the pebble friend His Grace kindly allowed to come along with me."

Thankfully, the Duchess did not ask the terribly awkward question, "How can a pebble be a friend?" and simply nodded.

"They say if you like a lot of things, you become happy. Does Your Ladyship have many things you like, too?"

"……Ah, me?"

"Yes, I'd like to know. What do you like?"

"Ah, I… things like embroidery, and… um."

As she trailed off uncertainly, Clarisse quickly raised her hand to help her.

Because there was one thing she knew for certain the Duchess liked.

"And the Duke?"

"……Wh-what?!"

"Do you dislike him, perhaps?"

"Th-that can't be! I like him."

"Then I knew it! Your Ladyship really does like the Duke, then."

Just as Clarisse was thrilled to hear such a satisfying answer—

A "screech"—plate and cutlery grinding harshly together.

Given the flawless table manners all three had maintained, it was an oddly discordant sound.

Clarisse turned toward where it had come from. Which was to say, she turned to look at the Duke of Sheridan.

Despite his slip a moment before, he looked much the same as always.

Except that his eyes seemed to be trembling in some strange, subtle way.

"What is it, Your Grace?"

"No, it's nothing… hm."

"Could it be you're hearing that someone likes you for the first time?"

Slip.

His knife carved through empty air while Clarisse's merciless words stabbed straight through him.

"Her Ladyship says she likes you. Does Your Grace like Her Ladyship very much too?"

"……Why."

Maximilian meant to ask why she wanted to know that, but he closed his mouth instead.

The book Rosalie had shown him came to mind.

Conversation during meals, it had said, influenced the formation of a child's values.

And healthy values led to a healthy body. Which was to say: it would not be unreasonable to conclude that Clarisse's future health hinged entirely on how he answered now.

His wife's earlier answer, that she liked him, had likely been given based on that very principle. A wise woman, after all.

"I like… her."

"What?!"

Astonishingly, the fastest reaction to his confession came from behind him.

Maximilian turned around, his expression as blunt as ever.

The one who had shouted was none other than Benson.

"I-is that really true, sir……?"

He even pressed the question, as though demanding an answer.

For a knight on guard duty to suddenly interject into his lord's conversation was hardly appropriate behavior.

But since he had no wish to point this out in front of Brielle and Clarisse, Maximilian answered flatly, brow furrowed.

"Is there some problem, Sir Benson… with the fact that I like my own wife?"

"Never, sir! It's—it's wonderful, truly!"

Benson straightened himself and offered a salute.

The Duke turned once more to look at Clarisse. Her eyes were sparkling.

It seemed she was delighted that he had now said "I like her" twice.

He didn't know why, but seeing the girl, who had looked somewhat uncomfortable until just a moment ago, now looking so pleased, put him at ease.

'Come to think of it.'

Maximilian found himself curious, now, about his own wife's reaction.

They had, after all, only told a lie together for Clarisse's emotional well-being, so there should be nothing to react to in particular…

He forced his head, which had begun to turn to the side on its own, back down.

If their eyes met right now, he felt some unmanageable awkwardness might bloom between them.

"Do you know what people who like each other are supposed to do?"

Fortunately, Clarisse's story picked up again just then. He continued eating naturally and asked, gently, "What is it?"

"Exchange love letters!"