I Became His Personal Maid (1)
Not a single cloud in the sky, and the sun beat down without mercy. A brilliantly sunny day. Not that sunny meant warm — the biting wind peculiar to autumn blew just as cold whether the sun was out or not.
Shivering in a chill that steadily drained the heat from my body, I looked over my outfit. ...If they were going to make one at all, the least they could have done was make it warm.
The maid uniform, black and white and nothing else, was a four-season garment. And as the words "four-season" implied, it was a thoroughly ambiguous piece of clothing. It neither held in heat nor breathed well. In short: too hot in summer, too cold in winter. I'd wager it could give the school uniform I wore as a student a real run for its money — in the category of uniforms that couldn't commit to anything, at least.
If only I had a blanket. Perhaps because this was a woman's body now, I felt inexplicably colder than I should have.
Who was it that said hardship of body and mind always makes a person long for home? At this time of year, I'd normally be sprawled beneath a warm blanket, thawing out while peeling tangerines. It being autumn, roasted sweet potatoes or bungeoppang — those fish-shaped red-bean pastries — would have done nicely too. Or the little custard-filled delimanjoo cakes they sold in the subway stations. Foods that brought a wave of peace at the mere thought of them. And now they had become things no amount of gold could buy.
Ah, wait. I could probably still get roasted sweet potatoes here.
Goddamn Middle Ages. If I had to be thrown into someone else's body, I could have at least landed in some soft, cozy romance novel where the body got to live comfortably. Why did it have to be a medieval world where survival was the whole point of existence?
The one silver lining, I suppose, was that this era wasn't strictly medieval. From what I remembered, the novel hadn't been especially rigorous with its historical accuracy, so all manner of food did exist. Not that any of it amounted to more than a luxury — the kind of indulgence even wealthy nobles only tasted now and then. For a maid like me, it was a pleasure I wouldn't even dare dream of. It struck me anew just how unreasonable this world was.
Whoever had thrown me into this body, I wanted my comfortable, cozy modern life back. Now would be fine. Right now, in fact.
Even amid these idle thoughts, my gaze stayed fixed on the man working through drills with a practice sword on the training grounds. Rihardt de Line. The man responsible for keeping me shivering in the cold since morning. He'd insisted that now I was his personal maid, I had to remain at his side at all times — and what irritated me most was that he wasn't exactly wrong.
I knew the man had drive, but... I hadn't expected him to pull me out from under the head maid this quickly. I'd assumed he would at least watch how things developed until I had results to show. The novel had always painted him as cautious and methodical, hadn't it? Is he still green because this is years before the main story? Come to think of it, the Rihardt of the flashbacks — not the main narrative — had been on the emotional side. Which told me there was a small gap between him and the "Rihardt" I knew.
Not that becoming Rihardt's personal maid was without its perks. Exemption from the fussy, backbreaking grind of ordinary maid work, for one? I'd rather suffer in the body than in the mind, thank you very much. Would it kill anyone to consider my position, having to press my face against Rihardt's all day long? The mental fatigue alone was something else.
At any rate, his impulsive stunt must have set every manner of tongue wagging among the servants — mostly about the relationship between me and Rihardt, no doubt. What entertainment is there in an era like this, after all? Then as now, nothing fueled gossip quite like other people's business, and love affairs more than anything. Even sticking strictly to the facts, there was more than enough here to stoke the fires.
Rihardt, of sterling reputation. Lucifer, whose reputation was a wreck. Rihardt, born of noble blood. Lucifer, an orphan who didn't know her own origins. The two of us contrasted from every angle — a scandal tailor-made for the dopamine-starved people of this era to burn over. Plenty to chew on, too.
Even now, I occasionally caught maids shooting me glances thick with simmering jealousy. I didn't need to look into their heads to know the thought behind them: that shameless bitch who writhed her way into Young Master Rihardt's bed. Well, ladies, here is the tragic news: there is no such thing as a "Young Master Rihardt who is kind to everyone." That cloying sweetness he exuded, drawing in little insects for him to toy with at his leisure — all of it was the young master's cunning image-making. I only regretted that I could never bring myself to tell them the truth. Not that they'd believe a word of it.
Truly, though — if they envied this position so much, they were welcome to it. I had no particular attachment to the post myself. Not that that bastard would ever allow it.
About an hour had passed since he'd begun his training, I'd say. The practice sword slid smoothly back into its sheath, and I saw those crimson eyes turn my way. Despite all that exertion he showed no sign of wear — not so much as a pant, just a light, even breath. I hurried over and held out a towel for his sweat and a canteen of water.
"You've worked hard, Young Master."
"Thanks, Lucy."
Without warning, the corner of his mouth curled upward. He looked to be brewing some wicked mischief.
"But aren't you going to wipe it off for me, Lucy?"
Quite the thing to say, from a man who couldn't stand having others lay hands on his body. I answered in a perfectly flat tone, my expression unmoved.
"Don't you dislike people touching you without leave?"
"You shared my bed, Lucy. I can hardly call you a stranger, can I?"
My mind went blank for a moment. It was an answer I had never once imagined.
"Young Master, that joke goes too far."
"No, truly. I was thinking that if it's you, Lucy, it might not be so bad."
Pretending to leave the door open, are we. This, from the man who would trample me flat the moment I showed the slightest sign of crawling up in the world.
"Is that an order?"
"A mere suggestion."
"Then I must respectfully decline."
"You're no fun. Wouldn't it be better to give those people a little show? Reward their expectations, so to speak?"
Even with eyes as unremarkable as mine, I could spot those maids from time to time. As if Rihardt could possibly miss behavior that transparent. He saw it all perfectly well and simply let it be — presumably because he wanted to watch me squirm. You're the only bastard alive who takes pleasure in cornering his own candidate for accomplice.
"It makes no difference to me. I need only live up to Young Master Rihardt's expectations."
"And yet you were trembling so hard yesterday?"
My brow furrowed before I could stop it. Now that he had someone to share his leisure hours with, he didn't hesitate to raise topics he'd never have touched before. I gave a grudging reply.
"...It was my first time, that's all."
Merely recalling what I had done to Bianca made guilt lash the back of my skull like a whip. That sensation I had worked so hard to forget came flooding back with painful vividness, and my mood soured another notch.
"You can do better next time, I trust?"
"You taught me personally, Young Master. I had better not fail."
"Hmm."
At my unhesitating answer, Rihardt's crimson eyes simply stared at me, blank and unblinking. Merely holding that gaze was enough to drain the strength from my whole body. He drank from the canteen, then wiped the sweat from his face with the towel.
"Speaking of which, all that exercise has made me hungry. Shall we go have breakfast?"
"I shall attend you."
The moment I turned toward the mansion, Rihardt caught me by the wrist. You're the one who said he was hungry. Why are you grabbing me?
"...Young Master?"
When I asked, puzzled, he merely shrugged.
"Let's eat breakfast outside."
Outside — when the mansion kept its own dedicated chef? My bewilderment lasted only a moment before I worked out the reason for his behavior. It came down to the dining policy of Rihardt's father, Count Line. Unless something extraordinary arises, breakfast and supper are taken with the family — or words to that effect. In other words, Rihardt wanted no part of the morning meal shared with the Count and Countess. Why? Because he'd stirred up trouble worthy of it? No. Rihardt was not the sort to dodge a meal merely to escape a scolding. Which meant...
"Is it because of me?"
Rihardt gave me a look of mild surprise.
"And what makes you think that?"
This was, I admitted, pure conjecture. The Line family was a strict one. Their house creed held that the higher one stood, the more completely one must bear the weight of one's own responsibility. By that measure, Rihardt's conduct — sharing a bed with a maid — left ample room for censure. Even so, no matter how grave the offense against propriety, they could hardly subject the heir, eldest son and only child, to harsh corporal punishment. Who would dare risk harming the precious body of their one and only successor? And yet neither could the matter be waved away softly. This was a question of principle. If the household's order had been disturbed, someone had to shoulder the blame — that was how discipline was kept. And as it happened, a perfectly suited stand-in with a dreadful reputation was sitting right there. The debauched woman who had seduced innocent Rihardt and spent a night in his bed: a maid by the name of Lucifer. In short, the rod was bound to fall on me. Which was, most likely, why Rihardt was avoiding breakfast with his parents — nine times out of ten, the matter would come up there.
I laid this entire line of reasoning before Rihardt exactly as it had come to me, then added, "If my rash speculation has offended you, I apologize."
Fortunately, it seemed I had struck true. At my guess, the corners of his eyes softened.
"I'm not especially displeased. If anything, I'm only startled by how accurate you are."
Even with my conjecture confirmed, I felt no joy whatsoever. Because if it was true, the corporal punishment would land on me in the end. Seeing the gloom settle over me, Rihardt changed the subject with a question.
"You're startlingly perceptive, Lucy. I know full well you're not one, but sometimes you almost feel like a witch to me?"
"Do you so desperately want to treat me as a witch?"
"Well, you are one, aren't you? More or less?"
"How shocking. To hear such a thing from a young master whose tastes are more dreadful than a witch's."
"You read my every thought — surely you'd wonder what else you're capable of. Ah, but speaking of which. Can you tell what I'm thinking right now?"
"...I cannot."
"You're not just pretending not to know, are you?"
Frankly, I wished I did have mind-reading, just as he said. A talent that useful would guarantee I'd never starve, wherever I ended up. I let out a sigh.
"Young Master, running from it solves nothing. Isn't it better to take your lumps sooner rather than later?"
"Your spirit is admirable. But I have no intention, just yet, of ruining the accomplice candidate I only just acquired."
"...Is the punishment truly so severe?"
"What do you think?"
The moment I saw the meaningful look on Rihardt's face, I understood. The punishment waiting for me would be anything but a slap on the wrist. And since the matter involved Rihardt the heir, they might well punish me all the more severely for it.
".........Just this once, then, I shall indulge your whim, Young Master. Let us dine out."
"I've thought this for a while now, but you really are a remarkably shameless creature, Lucy?"
Look who's doing the threatening here. And so I found myself walking out of the mansion at Rihardt's side.