TMIAP Chapter 40

Hans, who'd been wiping the sweat from his upper lip irritably due to the heat, widened his eyes and smiled awkwardly.

"Good heavens, no. I only just came to pick some herbs for the mistress's dinner."

"Ah, I see."

Monica glanced at Hans's hands. They were empty, and he seemed conscious of her gaze, for he added with the air of offering an excuse:

"But there aren't enough herbs grown yet. So I was just about to head back."

His awkward manner suggested he didn't know quite what to say to Monica.

Maria's words came suddenly to mind. Perhaps she shouldn't have spoken to him. But there was something else she needed to ask.

"Now that I think of it, Hans, is there any mint in the garden plot?"

"Mint?"

There was a vegetable patch behind the laundry room, out of sight of the family. The Mollettes might or might not know of it, but the plot was quite large and grew all manner of plants.

The maids made good use of that land. They cultivated not only tomatoes and potatoes ripening throughout the summer, but also medicinal herbs.

"I don't think there is any."

His tone was oddly curt. She felt self-conscious. Perhaps he was annoyed at being interrupted while working in the heat... But Hans wiped his face and suddenly smiled quite differently—his usual smile returned.

"A friend of mine works at the neighboring estate. They might have some there. Shall I ask for you? You need fresh mint, I take it?"

"That's not necessary."

Oddly enough, she didn't want to be that indebted to this man. She could simply buy mint at the market.

Hans stood there uncertainly, about to say something, when the music started up again. Monica found herself looking up involuntarily at the second-floor hall, where the enormous window-doors stood wide open.

She caught glimpses of people moving beyond the balustrade. Why did she find herself searching, quite without reason, for a flash of golden hair among them?

"Do you want to go to parties like that too, Miss Monica?"

The abrupt question came from Hans.

Monica whirled around, startled. Hans was fanning himself with his cap, his gaze fixed on her.

"Those stuck-up maids talk about nothing but parties whenever there's one at the house. I suppose women do like that sort of thing."

"That sort of thing?"

"You know what I mean. Those fine gentlemen showing off their fancy clothes without a thought in their heads, and those ladies hiding behind their fans and laughing at nothing."

If she was honest, Monica sometimes found herself disliking the gentry for no particular reason.

Those magnificently dressed people who would never in their lives be associated with foul-smelling clothes or dirty bedding.

When nobles visited the orphanage to make donations, acting superior the whole while before disappearing, she and the other children had often spent days afterward speaking ill of them.

Just moments ago, Monica had privately condemned Luis for being impossibly naive—talking about proposals as though they were romantic when he couldn't possibly understand her position.

But strangely, hearing Hans say such things made her bristle.

Why? Monica understood the reason almost at once. Hans seemed to be mocking the nobles, but he was really mocking her.

The implication was clear: Why bother looking at such things when you'll never be one of them?

Yet Monica couldn't argue back rashly. Perhaps she only felt this way because of an orphan's inferiority complex.

Besides, she didn't want to defend the nobility, and she worried that doing so would make her appear vain.

The lesson from the orphanage:

Guard against vanity.

She bit her lip and simply shook her head. Hans smiled thinly.

"The truth is, without maids to help them, they couldn't even get into those fine clothes."

It was the same thing servants always said when disparaging the nobility. Common as dirt, and true enough. But hearing Hans say it made it disagreeable.

Oblivious Hans now launched into boasting about his grandfather.

"My family's been gardening since my grandfather's time, you see. The nobles heap all sorts of flowery praise on the flowers, but they don't know how much work goes into making them bloom."

I want to go back to my room. Monica shifted restlessly but couldn't bring herself to cut him off, standing there in silence.

"Scoundrels who sweet-talk innocent girls and then abandon them! You mustn't be fooled by people who don't understand the dignity of honest work. Though clever ladies never give such types a second glance..."

Hans's face, which had been sullen at first, now filled with another sort of emotion. A touch of anger, a hint of disgust.

And beyond that, Monica glimpsed in one corner of his heart a certain fondness directed at her, along with some species of expectation. Revulsion swept through her sharply.

But Monica didn't know what to do in such situations.

The orphanage had taught her how to accept others' goodwill appropriately and politely, but they'd never taught her how to decline it gracefully.

Moreover, Monica instinctively understood that such things weren't the orphanage's domain to teach.

That sort of lesson—well, mothers typically taught their daughters such things. Naturally, Monica had never once learned anything of the kind.

"Miss Monica?"

Lost in thought, Monica came back to herself with a start. Hans stood before her, reaching out his hand.

Without thinking, Monica gasped "Eek!" and stepped back. Hans stared at her in bewilderment, then looked positively wounded. Monica hastily apologized.

"I'm sorry, I was thinking of something else for a moment..."

"No, it was too much of me..."

Hans crumpled his cap in his hands, making an embarrassed gesture. But Monica noticed from the corner of her eye that his knuckles had turned white. She forced a smile and spoke.

"You were speaking for my benefit, weren't you? Thank you for the advice. I'll take it to heart."

"Ah, of course. Yes."

Monica no longer wanted to stand in the sun with this man. She offered a perfunctory farewell. Just as she was about to step away, Hans called after her again.

"Miss Monica. We're... all right, aren't we?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean, I hope I haven't just given offense..."

A multitude of words surged up from below her throat, but those waves never broke past the seawall. Monica smiled with effort.

"Of course. We're perfectly fine."

Hans's expression flooded with relief as he bowed. Monica looked at that expression and swallowed back the surging waves with difficulty.

The storm died before it could even form.

Liella refused dinner. She'd eaten several random pastries at the party, which had continued until sunset, and lost her appetite.

The heat was partly to blame. The hall had been well-ventilated and cool, but Liella, who'd even performed at the piano before all those people, could hardly have avoided feeling hot.

Becky informed her that Hans the gardener had arrived. Her suspicious expression made it clear she wondered what business a mere gardener had hovering around the young lady's room. Liella laughed quietly.

"Miss?"

"Never mind. Let him in."

Hans entered, cap in hand, shuffling awkwardly. As soon as he stepped inside, a peculiar smell spread from his sweat-soaked shirt collar.

Becky deliberately pinched her nose and fled the room. Hans turned scarlet to the back of his neck, bowing obsequiously.

"I apologize. I've been working all day in the sun..."

"It's fine. You were working for my family, after all."

Liella smiled with effort. Hans hesitated briefly, then opened his mouth and poured out everything he'd witnessed.

He told her about Monica Orphen, who'd had the brazen audacity to come to someone else's party, steal away her prospective suitor, and even dance with him in a corner of the garden.

Liella had to suppress her fury dozens of times.

"And then?"

"Well... after that they parted and went their separate ways. The young master returned to the hall alone, and Miss Monica went to her room."

"Nothing else happened?"

Hans seemed desperately anxious to gauge her mood. Small wonder—he'd just informed on a scene where the man who might become the young lady's husband had been making eyes at a household servant.

Yet even so, a peculiar contempt and sense of superiority toward Liella gleamed in his eyes. Her mood soured sharply.

"Miss Monica didn't seem to have any real feelings..."

"How would you know that?"

In the end, all her attempts to maintain composure proved useless as sharp words escaped. He stammered out an excuse.

"Well, I gave her a good talking-to!"

"Talking-to?"

'What on earth is he on about now?'

Hans shuffled and opened his mouth. He confessed that he'd delivered a sermon about girls who grew vain and dreamed of marrying nobility.

At first Hans had been entirely preoccupied with reading Liella's expression, but by the time he reached the part where Miss Monica had nodded at his sermon and promised to take his words deeply to heart, he'd worked himself up into a state of self-satisfaction.

Liella frowned.

"Making it quite obvious, isn't he."

"Miss?"

"Why not just come out and say it? That you were spying on her."

"Good heavens, I never did any such thing!"

Hans practically jumped. Liella's fury rose to her hairline. She wanted nothing more than to unleash a torrent of abuse on him right there, but she couldn't.

Pressing her throbbing temples, Liella gestured for him to leave. Rather than departing swiftly, Hans lingered, and Liella immediately understood what he wanted.

"Take it."

She extracted several ten-sing coins from her purse. Hans's expression darkened visibly. Clearly the amount didn't satisfy him.

"But I spent all day in the blazing sun keeping watch..."

All day, indeed. Liella stifled the urge to laugh and handed him a few more coins.

The man was finally satisfied and left the room. As soon as he'd gone, Becky entered, and Liella immediately told her to open all the windows. Becky threw them wide, chattering all the while.

"Why do you keep calling for Hans so much lately? Just let me run your errands!"

Errands, she called them—but clearly what really irritated her was Hans coming by repeatedly, jingling coins as he departed.

"It's complicated. You dislike Hans, don't you?"

"Of course I do! The servants' washroom exists for a reason, but he goes around reeking of sweat on purpose, pretending he's worked harder than anyone. It's disgusting to watch. The other gardeners aren't like that. And the way he talks down to everyone!"

"So?"

"Who does he think he is, lecturing the maids just because he's a bit older? It's infuriating! And the way he shows off—just because he's worked at the house for over ten years, so what?"

Becky rattled on, disparaging Hans at length. Liella fanned herself lightly, trying to settle her queasy mood.

What rose in her mind was the afternoon's party.

The beautiful man raising his glass in a defiant toast, and Monica clutching his sleeve.

The two of them disappearing together beyond the hall.

When the young man had finally returned alone, long after her piano performance had ended, his eyes had been sparkling with excitement and pleasure.

A world away from the indifferent, bored gaze he'd turned on Liella.

'Presumptuous little wretch.'

Fury surged up again.

'She must be doing this deliberately to spite me.'

Enrique Solivén hadn't told Liella what business he had with Monica.

What he'd given Liella instead were a few waltzes, as if in compensation, and permission to let others jump to their own conclusions about how well the two of them were getting along.

If it had been any other girl, it wouldn't have mattered.

Liella wouldn't have cared what women Enrique Solivén met before their marriage. She'd already resigned herself to tolerating his affairs even after marriage.

Mistresses were hardly uncommon among men of his class.

As long as she could escape the Mollette household, it would be acceptable.

But if that woman was Monica Orphen, the matter was entirely different.

That orphan girl had deliberately set out to bewitch him.