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Chapter : 3
“Oh, no wonder you spoke so skillfully with the Antakan ambassador earlier. I have connections in Antaka as well. What was your mother’s maiden name?”
Someone asked with friendly curiosity.
“Dutois.”
Rose responded to the man’s familiar reaction with a formal smile and polite agreement.
Her mother had been from Antaka, but calling her a noblewoman would have been a stretch.
Her maternal grandfather had been the third son of a minor Antakan noble family, which meant he inherited neither title nor fortune and passed neither down to his children.
What he did pass down was a vague pride as uncertain as his own position.
And her mother, who resembled her grandfather—
No.
She could not think about that.
Rose ruthlessly cut off her wandering thoughts.
She did not want to think about her mother. Especially not in a place where everyone was busy watching for her next mistake.
“But then, how did your mother end up living in a place like Bolton?”
Questions like these, spoken without obvious malice, no longer surprised her. Nor did comments that treated living in Bolton as though it were the same as choosing the lowest point in life.
When she first arrived here, she had been shocked by how excessive Orthuran’s contempt for Bolton truly was.
But hearing such remarks every day had slowly made her used to them.
“I heard there was another massive strike in Bolton recently. And women participated in such anti-social group actions too! I had heard Bolton women were unusual, but… such a thing would be unthinkable in Orthuran. Honestly! I can’t even imagine it.”
“Oh, don’t feel disappointed.”
Rose smiled easily.
“Orthuran people already have many things to be proud of. There’s no need for them to possess imaginations as rich as Bolton’s.”
Having to phrase a simple thought like, “Your imagination is just terribly poor,” in such a long and indirect way was frustrating enough to drive her mad.
For a country with such advanced machinery, Orthuran certainly had an inefficient way of speaking.
Ray Crawford was now staring directly at her.
Perhaps it was his way of telling her to stay quiet.
Rose smiled at her husband and calmly continued speaking.
“And what about King Catherine? I heard you had an audience with His Majesty recently. Please tell me about it. I’m always curious since I rarely have the chance to see him.”
Whenever she wanted to change the subject, bringing up Orthuran’s monarch worked every single time.
Orthuran people found her fascinating—and sometimes pitiful—for coming from a country without a king, and they would eagerly launch into long speeches about their monarch.
Their arrogance in interpreting her simple curiosity as admiration mixed with envy was remarkable.
“His Majesty is incredibly healthy for his age. Though the rulers of this country have always been strong, he truly is exceptional….”
While listening to what felt like the most boring story in the world, Rose stared at the pianist performing in the corner of the hall.
The pianist’s hands slowed as the nocturne neared its end.
The piece he had chosen was famous, excellent, and flawlessly performed.
The lingering taste of the wine she had swallowed earlier suddenly felt bitter.
<We could find no special reason to publish Miss Davis’s compositions.>
As the contents of the short, depressing letter she had received before the marriage came back to mind, Rose clenched and unclenched her fist for no reason, feeling a dull ache in her wrist.
Suddenly, everything felt meaningless.
In a life already lacking meaning, did this fake marriage and this country that looked down on her truly matter so much?
Just as the publishers had said, there was nothing particularly special about her.
And if that was true, then there was even less reason to protect her pride or value herself.
In this vast world, she was nothing.
No one.
The moment she realized once again the truth her mother had desperately tried to force her to understand before dying, Rose’s smile deepened slightly.
Orthuran was a country where the sun rose late.
After preparing to leave for the day, Ray Crawford descended into the main hall of the estate and looked out at the pale blue morning sky beyond the window while receiving greetings from the head butler.
The same scenery every day.
The same servants every day.
He wanted to believe it was another ordinary morning, just like always, but—
“Where is Mrs. Crawford?”
He successfully forced the words out despite the discomfort that felt like chewing sand.
The head butler looked rather surprised that Ray was asking about his wife so early in the morning.
And reasonably so.
Unless absolutely necessary, Ray neither mentioned nor searched for her. The couple had astonishingly little interaction.
“She is taking a walk in the garden.”
“At this hour?”
Ray quietly repeated the words.
It was seven in the morning.
“She has been out there for quite some time already.”
What a ridiculous woman.
Ray was not careless enough to openly express irritation about his wife in front of the servants, but he could not stop the criticism from naturally forming in his mind.
“She appears to have something troubling her.”
The butler lowered his voice and spoke cautiously.
Ray did not agree in the slightest, though he merely nodded.
The previous day’s newspaper had printed an article about the woman’s father wandering around meeting city officials under the excuse of business matters.
The butler, who had obviously read the article, seemed to assume that was the reason for her early walk.
Troubled because of that?
That woman?
As if.
It was not a very convincing guess.
As far as Ray was concerned, Rose Davis was rather shameless, much like her father.
He could still clearly remember the expression on her face in the embassy gallery room a few days ago.
All sorts of insignificant people had been mocking him because of his disgraceful marriage.
It was absurd to react to every bit of gossip from pathetic people with too much free time, so he ignored it.
But shouldn’t that woman at least react a little?
She had witnessed the entire scene caused by her existence and simply stood there silently watching him.
So that woman…
How should he put it?
She was far too confident.
There was no proper sense of guilt about her.
No shame, either.
Always that doll-like expressionless face.
“I’ll go out myself.”
He did not want to, but today there was something he needed to confirm with her.
Trying to forget the humiliation he had experienced for the first time in his life—the unpleasant feeling his wife kept reminding him of whenever he almost forgot it—Ray Crawford headed into the garden.
“There’s no need for them to possess imaginations as rich as Bolton’s.”
Yet the moment he remembered the woman saying those words in a soft voice that sounded almost like singing, gentle enough that it barely resembled mockery at all, his disbelief returned instantly despite all his efforts.
After witnessing the kind of things people said because of her existence, he had thought she might at least stay quiet for the rest of the evening.
Clearly, that expectation had been far too optimistic.
The woman would stay perfectly calm and then suddenly say something wildly inappropriate.
Was she even sane?
Changing the topic from Bolton’s labor strikes to the king of Orthuran was not merely bold—it was dangerous.
Within that short conversation, Orthuran’s king had been placed on the same level as Bolton’s labor strikes.
The woman casually brought up the king of this country whenever she pleased, as though the monarch were some light topic for drinking conversation.
Fortunately, the Orthuran people seemed convinced that she was merely fascinated and envious of monarchs because she came from a kingless nation.
But still.
A woman born in a country without a king.
A woman who had lived there her entire life….
“Do you really think winning the war will save us? Do you think we’ll last long?”
Ray suddenly remembered words his father had muttered from his sickbed long ago.
Back then, he had not understood why his father had feared the fall of the monarchy as though it were imminent.
But now, he could no longer dismiss those fears as excessive.
The king of Planto had won the war and still ended up with his neck on the execution platform.
That woman constantly reminded Ray of things he did not wish to think about.
Annoyingly so.
With irritation rising to his throat, Ray finally stopped walking.
The woman sat on a bench with her head lowered.
There was nothing on the ground, yet her face and gaze remained completely fixed downward.
She was already small in build, and sitting like that made her look as though she might collapse.
Was she crying?
Taking a cigarette from his pocket and placing it between his lips, Ray absentmindedly watched Rose.
Well, even if she did not care that her husband suffered criticism because of her, perhaps she could still feel upset about her father’s reputation—or her own.
Honestly, judging by appearance alone, she looked like the type who could burst into tears at any moment.
She looked like someone who cried easily.
And even aside from that, he thought it was about time she cried.
Ray was not unaware that Orthuran people treated her like an animal trapped in a zoo—or an attraction in a circus.
Even when Ray or his mother stood nearby, people occasionally made cutting remarks, so it must have been far worse when they were absent.
But…
That empty expressionless face annoyed him, yet the thought of her crying was even worse.
Comforting her sounded exhausting.
Just as he wondered whether he should simply turn around and leave, Rose lifted her head.
And yawned.
Long and wide.
