Chapter 71
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 71
In the whirlwind of business and the pursuit of wealth, Harriet had momentarily lost sight of why she was doing it all.
Come to think of it, I still don’t know why Uncle traveled all the way to the convent to fetch me. It must have been for something important.
She was certain, of course, that his motives had been for his own benefit, not hers. After all, he was the sort of man who could turn his back on his own brother and sister-in-law as they lay dying, all to snatch their title and fortune for himself.
"…When the Viscount and Viscountess Listerwell’s ship began to founder, he steered his own vessel in the opposite direction."
"Forgive me for saying so, but it appeared as though he deliberately chose not to save them."
"…When his brother and sister-in-law faced mortal danger, I suspect he resolved then and there to seize the family estate. Leaving the Young Lady at the convent and severing her guardianship was likely the final stroke of that plan."
Baron Billay’s testimony muddled her mind, and the hatred she had buried for a time reared its head once more.
Indeed. Harriet hadn’t returned to Genoa merely for independence. She had come to avenge her parents.
"Yes, I’ll keep that in mind."
Harriet nodded, accepting Trisha’s advice.
As if sensing her mood, Trisha added a softer note to give her some breathing room. "If you’re truly disappointed, then celebrate quietly on your own. A glass of champagne, perhaps?"
"Yes, I suppose I should."
Though a pang of disappointment lingered, Harriet thanked Trisha. What she needed now was practical advice, not empty comfort.
*
Feeling somewhat melancholic, Harriet gazed out at the brilliant afternoon sun and impulsively prepared to go out. She thought she might take Trisha’s suggestion—buy a fine bottle of champagne and celebrate by herself.
"To Seviol Street, milady?"
"No. Take me to Peyton Street today."
"Oh? Do you have an appointment, milady?"
The coachman, caught off guard, looked at Harriet with a surprised expression. She rarely chose any destination other than Seviol Street.
But today, she didn't want to go somewhere she might be recognized. There were plenty of excellent wine shops on Peyton Street, after all.
Watching the skeletal trees drift past the window, Harriet blamed herself for momentarily forgetting her parents' deaths. As the entrance to Peyton Street came into view, she tidied her dress and took a deep breath.
Wallowing in depressing thoughts is useless. I just need to pull myself together. It’s fine.
She offered herself a small word of encouragement. Since she couldn't expect comfort from others, she had to provide it for herself; otherwise, she wouldn't be able to endure.
By the time Harriet stepped out of the carriage, her face was set in its usual mask of confidence and dignity.
She entered the wine shop her father used to frequent. The owner had changed, but the shop itself remained the same, allowing Harriet to briefly recall her childhood, playfully darting around her father’s legs.
"Welcome. Are you looking for a particular vintage?"
A young man emerged from behind the counter and asked cautiously. His face bore a striking resemblance to the previous owner.
"Did your father used to run this place?"
"Oh? Yes, that’s right! Have you been a customer here before? I’m afraid I don’t recognize you…"
"Ah, I came a few times when I was very young."
Harriet smiled and looked around the shop again. In truth, she knew little about wine and had no idea what to buy.
"Excuse me, I have something to celebrate. Could you recommend a good champagne?"
"What are your preferred tastes and aromas?"
"I like sweet and fruity ones. Is that too childish?"
"Not at all, milady! Many people prefer a sweeter profile. What price range should I aim for?"
Harriet knew well that wine prices varied greatly, but she didn't know what those differences entailed, or what price range would be appropriate for her current status.
"Which is the finest champagne you have?"
"Hahaha! Well, that’s difficult to say, as the standard for 'fine' varies from person to person. However, if you’re asking for the most expensive bottle in the shop, I can answer that. It’s this one."
He pointed to a bottle carefully displayed in a glass case.
The dark green bottle was wrapped in gold foil from the cork to the neck, adorned with a simple orange label. Even Harriet, a novice, found the name Van Rivel familiar.
"How much is it?"
"40,000 Dirham."
"What? For a single bottle?"
"Yes. To be honest, this isn't even an ultra-high-priced collector's item. We sell products meant to be enjoyed, rather than just displayed."
Spending 40,000 Dirham on a single bottle of something meant to be consumed was utterly unimaginable to Harriet. Even when her father was alive, he had never spent such a sum on wine.
"Honestly, I wouldn't recommend the Van Rivel to you, milady. You mentioned you have something to celebrate; in that case, the event itself should be the focus, shouldn't it? A Hastings or an Othello would be excellent—they taste wonderful and are priced as a lovely treat..."
The shop owner’s recommendation was sincere, but Harriet’s gaze remained fixed on the bottle behind the glass.
It wasn't because of the price.
It was because the vintage happened to be 1866.
The year she began to lose her parents—no, the year she lost everything that had ever protected her.
It wasn't something she should dwell on while buying wine, but Harriet boldly pointed to the bottle.
"I’ll take that one."
"Pardon? You mean the Van Rivel?"
"Yes. That one, and the Hastings you mentioned earlier. I’ll take a bottle of that as well."
"Milady… are you serious?"
"Of course. I can afford it, so please, wrap it up. Oh, and please wrap the Van Rivel as a gift."
At Harriet’s calm order, the owner—looking as if he couldn't quite believe his luck—carefully removed the bottles from the display.
Scribbling the number 40,250 into her checkbook and signing her name was a novel experience.
To think I just spent 40,000 Dirham in one go.
(Of course, the champagne for herself was only 250 Dirham.)
Great-aunt Trisha told me to spend money on productive things.
Harriet, cradling the well-wrapped champagne in her arms, returned to the carriage.
"Are we returning to the mansion, milady?"
"Yes. But on the way, please stop by the Kailas Mansion for a moment."
The coachman’s surprised gaze returned, but without another word, he obediently drove the horses toward the Duke’s estate.
*
Inside the quiet office, the only sounds were the occasional rustle of paper and the scratch of a fountain pen.
Cedric, having finished reviewing the latest estate reports, reached for a glass of water to soothe his parched throat. He was about to reach for the next document when a knock sounded.
"Enter."
The butler entered, his expression troubled.
"Your Grace. There was a minor disturbance at the gate. Someone insisted on delivering a package of unknown contents to you and was refused."
"Is that something that requires my personal attention?"
"Well, you see…"
At the butler’s uncharacteristic hesitation, Cedric finally looked up.
"The individual responsible for the commotion is Miss Harriet Listerwell."
Cedric’s hand, which had been raising the water glass, froze in mid-air.
"…Did Miss Harriet request an audience today?"
"No, Your Grace. She merely wished to drop off a gift and leave. However, as you know, all items entering the residence must undergo thorough inspection. The guards refused to accept it without a full search, and she took issue with that."
Cedric slowly set down his glass.
Even in defeat, the hardliners of the Firma Kingdom—those who still insisted Kifren should be annexed—were relentless in their attempts to assassinate Cedric, the hero of the war. Therefore, security was absolute. All items entering the Ducal House had to be announced in advance, and their contents had to be checked and unwrapped completely.
Harriet likely had no idea such protocols existed.
"Where is she now?"
"Since she is not a stranger, we have escorted her to the reception room for the time being, but…"
Cedric glanced at his watch. "Do I have any remaining appointments?"
"Not today, Your Grace."
"Then bring Miss Harriet to the drawing room."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The butler bowed and quietly left the room.
His expression as he headed toward the reception room was one of quiet bewilderment. If it had been anyone else, he would have sent them away immediately…
It was exceedingly rare for Cedric to receive a visitor who ignored protocol. He rarely gave up his time unless it was an urgent matter, an Imperial affair, or a close acquaintance.
The butler found himself wondering if Harriet had somehow earned a place in the Duke’s inner circle.