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Chapter 41
“…Exactly what did Betty say?”
Ian stopped flipping through papers and tossing the stack aside and asked Kane.
Work at the palace had been continuously delayed. Because of that, Ian had been wrestling with documents deep into the night even after returning to the Grand Duke’s mansion.
“She said she had something important to tell you regarding the young lady.”
“Nothing else?”
“No. She just said it was something that must be said in person to you, my lord.”
Ian’s gaze naturally drifted toward the drawers. He couldn’t help but think of the letters stored in the bottommost drawer.
‘Is what she wants to say… about the letters?’
A surge of emotion—whether anticipation or tension—began to rise within him.
If Betty had undergone some change of heart, he needed to hear it.
‘And it had to be today…’
If he had visited the Marquess of Prowell’s house as usual today, he might have gotten the answer immediately.
Thinking this, a faint irritation welled up, and ink splashed slightly on the documents.
It was largely because Duke Scharte had wasted time nitpicking over unnecessary troop deployments.
Had Ian Deivan intended to oppose anything he did, he would have done so relentlessly, it seemed.
“…Was this said after giving her the ticket?”
“I believe so. Yes, that’s correct. She said nothing at first after receiving the ticket, then suddenly mentioned it.”
Ian’s hand began tapping anxiously on the desk.
“The ticket given to Betty… when is it for?”
“The day after tomorrow, sir.”
Flipping through the papers again carelessly, Ian skimmed the contents and spoke in an indifferent tone.
“Keep that evening free. No matter what anyone says.”
“Even if His Majesty the Emperor calls?”
Ian glanced at his subordinate, noting the unusual hesitation in Kane’s tone as he tried to catch him on a minor detail. Normally, Kane gave clean, precise answers to orders.
He wore the expression of someone trying to tease his lord while flipping through a letter multiple times.
Ian narrowed his navy-blue eyes at him.
“Don’t entertain pointless thoughts.”
“I wasn’t thinking anything at all. It’s not as if Your Grace has ever cared for cultural events. You just happen, by sheer coincidence, to go to see a popular play in the capital on the same day the maid sees one. What else could it be?”
Ian let out a faint sigh internally but did not contradict Kane, deliberately maintaining a cold tone.
“That’s exactly the kind of thing I call pointless.”
“If there’s nothing else to command, I’ll take my leave.”
Kane knew exactly how to read the right time and place. Seeing the frown forming on his lord’s face, he quickly bowed and prepared to leave.
Then, Ian’s voice followed him from behind.
“…Even if His Majesty calls, tell him you’re unavailable that evening.”
“Pardon? Really?”
“I don’t say things twice.”
Kane turned back to confirm he had heard correctly. Ian, however, continued staring at the papers, expressionless.
“…Understood.”
Kane left, slightly dazed.
Afterward, the office was filled only with the soft rustling of papers for quite some time.
Yet the recent conversation made it hard for Ian to focus. He eventually put down the quill, let out a long sigh, and washed his face.
‘Once I get a definite answer from Betty…’
What would happen upon hearing it? In truth, nothing would change.
Even if, in a ridiculous scenario, the letter’s author wasn’t Betty, would he coldly turn his back on her?
Would he regret the help he had given or the conversations they shared?
No. He couldn’t deny that the person called ‘Betty’ had entered his life without him realizing it.
With that thought, it might no longer matter who the letter’s author was.
‘Then why… what am I hoping for…?’
Yet why did he wish so strongly for Betty to tell him directly—or at least give a subtle hint?
Perhaps what he wanted to know wasn’t the author of the letter…
“…I just want to know that I’m not the only one behaving so pitifully.”
Ian let out a self-mocking, low laugh, then cautiously opened the drawer and picked up the top letter.
The neat handwriting, full of warmth, immediately captured his gaze.
“Sometimes, when life takes its twists and turns, it’s the ordinary, monotonous days that become precious and dear. Your Grace, don’t you feel the same?”
Careful not to smudge the ink, he gently closed the letter. To an outsider, his fuss over the letter might seem utterly pathetic.
Who could be so obsessed with a simple exchange of greetings or information?
“You hope it’s not just that.”
He placed the letter back atop the others in the drawer.
All these letters, the moments when she listened intently to his words, sometimes revealing curiosity in her eyes…
If it was all merely “polite behavior,” then reality would feel utterly empty and hollow.
‘You don’t have to be so polite.’
‘I couldn’t possibly.’
‘I allow it.’
So, the words that seemed like consideration were actually rooted in selfish desire.
He wanted to confirm even the slightest trace of genuine feeling from her.
He wanted to know he wasn’t the only one so shaken.
He hoped that she, too, had left a small space near her for ‘Ian’—not merely a high noble to be politely served, but someone closer.
Betty, suppressing her trembling heart, stood alone in front of the theater to see the play.
She harbored a hope that seeing this play might provide clues about her parents’ youth, much of which remained unknown to her.
She had only faintly heard that her father, who had died when she was young and whose face she barely remembered, had been a mercenary knight.
Her mother never answered questions about the past, often looking pensive when asked.
“Mom, how did you and Dad meet?”
“He was a brave knight who saved me from danger. Your father.”
“Then were you a princess?”
“Well… I once wanted to be a beautiful princess. But being a maid beside the princess was my limit.”
Many of her mother’s answers were ambiguous and hard to interpret.
Then, mid-meal, she would playfully tug Betty’s nose and change the topic, saying her health and growth were the most important.
“Mom, what are you writing?”
“A story.”
“Like the fairy in the storybook you read every day?”
“Something like that.”
The image of her mother, sitting by the window, endlessly writing on old paper, seemed peaceful.
Betty didn’t want to disturb her, so she often just watched quietly.
This is how she memorized the famous lines from the play Roxellon. Her mother repeated the lines over and over, and when asked, said, “It’s a poem,” ruffling her hair before leaving.
This cherished scene faded as her mother’s illness worsened, and she eventually moved to the capital with her aunt.
“I’m sorry for bringing this up the moment we meet, but please take care of Betty.”
“Even though you said you’d leave all the painful memories behind and never return to the capital.”
“I can’t ruin my daughter’s future.”
Her aunt wept, lamenting how the once lively, vibrant older sister had come to this.
Only then did Betty realize that her mother’s suffering was not solely due to illness.
She refrained from asking further about her father or the past.
Yet, suddenly, clues about her mother’s past had led her here to the theater—as if it were finally time for Betty to know.
