BPOTWC Chapter 19

The first thought that came to her was, 'Could it be... the Duke?'

Even as she knew perfectly well that it couldn't be.

Then who could it be?

She had no friends.

The fellow maids who had known her as Brielle believed she was off working at some distant mine to earn money for her mother's medical care.

Since becoming Asella, she had been forbidden any social life in the capital at all, lest her true identity be discovered—so there had been no chance to make friends there either.

Which meant a letter addressed to Brielle, personally, was a rare thing indeed.

Unless, of course, it was the Darlington household nagging her again about when she meant to produce a child.

'I hope it isn't that.'

Brielle let her shoulders sag and opened the letter.

「A moment ago, I was in the wrong. I did not mean to blame you. You are free to share your heart with anyone you wish.」

Brielle read it over again. This time, though, it was closer to a careful study of the handwriting.

After that, she lifted her head and stared at the firmly closed door.

The one connected to Maximilian's room.

'The Duke... to me?'

It seemed almost unbelievable, but both the content and the hand were unmistakably his.

Brielle rushed straight to her desk and pulled out paper and pen.

For some reason, she wanted to write a reply right that instant.

「It was not a love letter. Nor do I have anyone to share my heart with.」

Would writing this soften his misunderstanding, even a little?

Brielle held the ink still wet on the page and stood before his door.

'How do I give this to him?'

By the time she finished agonizing over it and finally knocked, softly, her own heart had somehow begun to pound.

"...Can't breathe."

With the hand not holding the letter, she touched near her heart without meaning to—and only then did she realize she had knocked on his door still undressed.

'W-what do I—!'

And of all moments for it—right then, with a "Yes" in answer, the doorknob turned, just a little.

"Don't open it all the way!"

Brielle cried out, hiding herself behind the door at once.

"It's—"

She stretched her arm out far and shoved the letter she'd just finished through the gap behind the door.

"I only meant—to give you this."

Perhaps because of the presence she could sense just behind her, her cheeks felt unbearably hot.

Hot enough that she forgot it was winter at all.

"Ah... thank you."

Along with his low-voiced answer, the paper slipped from between her fingers.

She heard the paper rustle in his hand—he seemed to be reading it right away.

"I did not expect a reply so soon."

"You keep... misunderstanding. Your Grace."

"...A misunderstanding, then."

She thought the conversation might end there, but a careful voice came again from beyond the door.

"I had believed you were always thinking of someone."

"...Why would you think that?"

"You always looked like you were missing someone. ...My apologies. We had not met so often as that. I presumed beyond my place."

Brielle let out a long breath.

Some strange sense of being deeply moved made the end of that breath tremble, faintly.

Because he had truly, properly seen her.

"I did... miss someone."

"..."

"...My mother."

Brielle was grateful he hadn't asked, 'Do you mean the Countess of Darlington?'

He merely stood there behind the door, listening quietly to what she had to say. Somehow, she could tell, without even seeing him.

"She loved me very dearly."

"And you her...."

He said it low, after a pause.

"...must have loved her very much."

Brielle leaned her back against the door. That it did not close, even so, was surely because he was holding it steady from the other side.

The door, which ought to have been cold, felt somehow as warm as his arms.

Brielle found her thoughts wandering, unbidden, to the hard, steady arms that had caught her as she fell, the night before.

"Ah..."

At that moment, Brielle came to realize one sad fact.

'Her Ladyship likes the Duke.'

That the child's little words—they'd been right, after all.

Even while Rosalie dried her hair after the bath, Clarisse's feet fidgeted impatiently, her heart in too much of a hurry.

Once she'd put on her nightgown and lain down in bed, Rosalie finally left the room.

Clarisse crept quietly out of bed and pressed her hand to the inner wall.

〈Clarisse!〉

A cheerful voice called out to her at once.

〈Clarisse is a genius, if it please her! Goodness me, that these eyes should witness the two of them falling in love—quite overcome, I am, indeed! My heart, it races so, truly it does!〉

"I told you. There's a method Uncle Quentin taught me."

〈Quentin, the very god of romance, he must be, truly! That a love letter should be so sweet a thing, so fine a thing—who would have thought it!〉

From the way the inner wall spoke, it seemed the two of them had already exchanged love letters.

And ones absolutely full of lovely things, at that.

"I'm so glad. Did I make them a little happy?"

〈Of course, it is so! Why, before long a child shall be born unto the two of them, it will. And when the baby's cry is heard through this house, every wall shall rejoice indeed, it shall!〉

"Their child will build snowmen for us too, then."

〈And sunflowers, too, drawn so prettily upon the walls, they shall! No wall loves any picture so dearly as one drawn by a child's own hand. And all of it, all of it, the credit belongs to Clarisse, it does!〉

"Mm—it's because you tell me everything. I'm glad. It feels like I've paid back a little of my debt, at least."

At the end of her words, as Clarisse gave a great yawn, the inner wall hurried to make a suggestion.

〈Then, might it please you if I told you more, going forward?〉

"Hm?"

〈There are, if it please you, all manner of worries yet in this household—there are indeed.〉

"More... worries?"

〈Ah, don't even speak of it. Quite the bumper crop of sweet potatoes we've had—chokingly frustrating, if it please you to know it.〉

Clarisse couldn't quite understand why something as delicious as sweet potatoes kept being spoken of so unhappily, but she nodded anyway.

"If it'll help Sheridan, I'll do my best."

The inner wall showered Clarisse with praise once more.

And then, at the very end—

〈Might Clarisse give me a kiss too, if it please her? It would put strength in me, so that I might watch over the estate all the more closely—ah—gah?! Quentin! Have you gone and lost your wits, sir—?!〉

"...Hm?"

Along with that strange, sudden cry, the inner wall gave no more response.

Clarisse kissed the wall a few times and tried speaking to it several more times besides, but no answer came back.

It seemed the walls were much too busy talking amongst themselves to notice her.

'I wonder what happened—didn't it call for Uncle Quentin just now?'

Clarisse wondered about it, but returned to bed all the same.

She was quite sleepy, and so, even while still wondering, she fell asleep before long.

Having returned from dinner, Quentin had at last finished the task of packing away the old documents into boxes and hauling them off to storage.

"Ugh, thought I was gonna die."

He'd started the job with such enthusiasm, thinking to tidy the office before the new year arrived, but as always, it had turned out to be more trouble than it was worth.

"Why did I have to go and touch this, on top of everything else at the end of the year..."

And yet, the whole affair hadn't been entirely something to regret.

Quentin chuckled to himself—heh-heh—and then, with a light step, made his way toward Maximilian's room.

He meant to keep his lord's order to report the moment he'd finished tidying up.

And, as it happened, he had something to say besides.

While sorting through the documents that day, he had come across something quite interesting—a schedule, written down by the attendant who had once served Maximilian back in his days as a prince.

The daily life of the crown prince the King so cherished had been far more grueling than any ordinary person might imagine.

Lessons from morning into evening, attendance at council meetings, sword training.

Amid a schedule one could scarcely believe belonged to a child, Quentin had discovered something quite fascinating indeed.

He wanted so badly to tell the Duke right away that he knocked on the door and, without even waiting for permission, threw it wide open.

Maximilian, as a rule, tended to let ordinary breaches of manners slide, so Quentin gave it little thought.

"I found out everything, my lord! About your first love!"

He raised both hands high and shouted in a bright, cheerful voice.

At that exact moment, somewhere inside the room, a door slammed shut with a thud—but the excited Quentin did not hear it.

"It was all right there in the old documents!"

Quentin, without so much as checking Maximilian's face, bounced about the room in delight, hopping and skipping, springy as a rabbit.

"When your betrothed was coming to visit, you personally chose the drinks and cookies for her, they say! When you never once did the same for any other guest! Ah, precocious from the age of six! So when I said "first love" just now, and you looked so strange, so..."

The odd little dance and the teasing words came to a halt somewhere in the middle of that sentence, because Quentin had only just now gotten around to checking Maximilian's expression.

"...Gk," he choked.

His superior—frightening enough by face alone, though rarely one to anger over ordinary things—had, for some reason, eyes now lit with a dangerous glint. Just like... on the battlefield.

"Eek."

For the sake of preserving his own life, Quentin hurriedly took some five steps back.

"J-joke! Just a joke!"

He bent deeply at the waist to offer his hasty apology, and soon enough, Maximilian began advancing toward him with slow, deliberate steps.

'Ah, I should have just pretended not to know.'

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his very life threatened.

'God, this cursed, flapping trap of mine!'

So six-year-old Maximilian picked his own clothes for his betrothed's visit, ordered the drinks and cookies himself, went and picked a few flowers from the garden—so what?!