In Other Territories... (2)
In other territories… (2)
Lowelldriger set down his knife and fork, leaned over, and pressed a kiss to Libilla’s cheek before pulling her into his arms. Mrs. Chatley, who had witnessed their excessive displays of affection far too often of late, felt as though she might choke on her meal.
“I know you’re newlyweds, but can’t you restrain yourselves at least while eating?”
“Why? Is it a crime to show affection to the one you love whenever the mood strikes? It’s not as if the gods would be offended. What’s the harm? Isn’t that right, darling?”
Lowelldriger gazed at Libilla with tender eyes, and she responded with a bright smile.
“Dear, I think it would be best to show some restraint in front of Mother. She’s not wrong.”
That sly little vixen. Mrs. Chatley found Libilla’s act of taking her side even more detestable than her own foolish son.
“If that’s what Libilla wants, I’ll restrain myself from now on. Though I can’t promise how long I’ll be able to hold back.”
Lowelldriger winked at his wife. Watching the spectacle, Mrs. Chatley felt her stomach twist with irritation. She nearly sprang to her feet to slap her son across the face.
After dinner, she returned to her room and unleashed a torrent of complaints about the young couple in front of her favored maid, Cyrilla.
“I never should have allowed that marriage! Ever since he wed that Herrera girl, my son has completely changed!”
“They’re still in the honeymoon phase, my lady. Once he grows tired of her in bed, he’ll surely listen to you again. Blood is thicker than water, after all.”
“It’s not just that he ignores me—it’s the thought of spending the rest of my life with a woman who talks back to me at every turn that drives me mad. The more I think about it, the more I realize what a fool I was. I should have opposed the marriage back then!”
Cyrilla poured a glass of wine and offered it to Mrs. Chatley to calm her.
“Getting angry will only harm you, my lady. The young mistress will one day receive the same treatment she gives you now. Once she bears a son and takes in a daughter-in-law of her own, she’ll understand your feelings and regret it bitterly.”
“Lowell was never like this before…”
Despite Cyrilla’s comforting words, Mrs. Chatley grew melancholy.
“He was such a good, polite boy who always listened to his mother. But now he’s become a wretched child, buried in his wicked wife’s skirts and unable to recognize his own mother.”
“I’m certain the young lord will soon come to appreciate how precious his mother is.”
“I only hope that day comes quickly…”
Mrs. Chatley sipped her wine in silence for a while, staring at the floor, before suddenly speaking.
“What is Sir Pasvachio doing right now? Has he retired to his room?”
“Yes. The maids finished preparing his bed a short while ago.”
“Keep a close watch on him. Until we know what the Richard family is plotting, we must be cautious on all fronts. After the Cluiston family, ours may well be their next target.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Cyrilla refilled the empty glass. Mrs. Chatley lifted the full cup.
“Rumor has it that before Lord Richard became a noble, he ran a mercenary company—and before that, he was the leader of a bandit gang. If that’s true, his crude and cruel habits from those days likely remain. Nobility doesn’t change one’s true nature.”
“Is that so?”
The mention of Lord Richard having been a bandit leader piqued Cyrilla’s interest.
“Which region did they say he operated in?”
“Nobern, I believe…?”
“Nobern…”
Mrs. Chatley glanced at Cyrilla, who had murmured the name absentmindedly.
“Why? Do you know something about Lord Richard?”
“Oh, no. It just reminded me that I heard my younger brother, whom I was separated from as a child, lives in Nobern.”
Cyrilla tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“The one you said was built like a mountain?”
“Yes. He was incredibly strong. Like an ogre.”
Cyrilla smiled softly without realizing it, picturing her brother’s face from childhood.
“How old would he be now?”
“He’s two years younger than me, so thirty-four.”
“If he’s doing well, he’s probably married by now. Maybe even has children.”
“I hope he’s found a good woman and is living happily with a family.”
Mrs. Chatley took a sip from her glass, then looked at Cyrilla’s lower abdomen.
“Shouldn’t you think about marriage before it’s too late? I didn’t realize you were already thirty-six. At that age, pregnancy becomes difficult. Finding a man and starting a family would be best for you. Pick one of the servants in our household. If you like him, I’ll arrange the wedding tomorrow. You have wide hips—men will like that. Though they care about looks, they especially favor women who look like they’ll bear many children.”
“No, I…”
Cyrilla recalled the countless times she had been violated after being kidnapped by the moneylender. After a cruel and harsh life, she had finally ended up in the Metis household.
“I’m content living alone.”
No man would ever understand my past.
“If that’s what you want, then so be it.”
Mrs. Chatley nodded, seeming to have given up on the matter.
“To be honest, I prefer that you remain unmarried as well. I’m afraid that if you wed, you’ll become infatuated with your husband like my foolish son and start ignoring me and neglecting your duties.”
Mrs. Chatley rose from her seat.
“You may go now. I’m exhausted from worrying all day. I need a good night’s rest.”
“Yes. Sleep well, my lady.”
Cyrilla bowed respectfully and left the room.
The next morning, Cyrilla knocked on Pasvachio’s door early. Rustling sounds came from within, and after a moment the door opened.
“Come in.”
Pasvachio yawned widely, his eyes still heavy with sleep. It was a maid’s duty to wake guests each morning and tidy their rooms. Normally another maid handled Pasvachio’s room, but today Cyrilla had volunteered for the task.
She handed him a glass of water and set to work briskly—changing the bedsheets, emptying the chamber pot, and clearing the table of last night’s leftover wine bottles and snacks. Pasvachio watched her with an awkward, unfamiliar air, glancing at her repeatedly as though unaccustomed to such service.
Finally, Cyrilla gathered the laundry he had left out and placed it in the basket. Before stepping out with it, she turned to him. Pasvachio stood by the window, gazing at the distant scenery and breathing in the fresh morning air.
“Excuse me… if it’s not too presumptuous, there’s something I’d like to ask.”
Pasvachio turned to meet her eyes.
“What is it? Ask anything you like.”
“Thank you. It’s about Lord Richard. Did he live in Nobern before coming to Lanchester?”
“He did. Our lord lived in Nobern.”
Pasvachio nodded lightly. Cyrilla felt a spark of hope.
She wanted to ask if he had once been a bandit leader, but feared he might take offense or dodge the question. Instead, she asked directly.
“Among the people Lord Richard knew, was there anyone named Harry?”
“…Harry?”
“I know it’s an unreasonable request, but if you could write to the lord and ask, I’d do anything in return…”
Pasvachio waved his hand, cutting her off.
“No need to send a letter. Our lord often mentions the names Phelton and Harry. I can confirm this much myself.”
“Then… does that mean the lord knows Harry?”
“Very well. He values that connection so highly that he plans to erect a statue of Harry inside Lanchester Castle before long.”
“Good heavens!”
Cyrilla’s face lit up with joy as she covered her mouth with one hand.
“D-does that Harry’s surname happen to be Forsa? Harry Forsa?”
“I don’t know his surname. I only know him as Harry.”
Overcome with excitement, Cyrilla stammered.
“Th-then, if it’s not too much trouble, could you write to the lord right now and confirm for certain? I beg you!”
With that cry, she suddenly acted on impulse. She locked the door and yanked her undergarments down from beneath her skirt to her knees.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“I’ll pay with my body. I won’t tell anyone, so please embrace me as you wish.”
“Good heavens! M-maiden! This is improper!”
Pasvachio’s eyes widened in shock. He rushed forward and grabbed her hands as she tried to lift her maid’s skirt.
“Stop this!”
“Please, I beg you. Just write to Lord Richard and ask if he knows Harry Forsa!”
“A-all right, so put your clothes back on first! If anyone finds out, it’ll be disastrous! They’ll think I’m some kind of pervert!”
Before anything more absurd could happen, Pasvachio hurriedly summoned a literate servant. Being illiterate himself, he couldn’t write the letter.