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Chapter 21
“Tell Dr. Hadewyn that everything is ready.”
Spencer opened the parlor door and quietly instructed the waiting servant. The servant quickly departed to carry out the order.
Once the servant had disappeared with hurried steps, Spencer turned around and approached Freya. She was absentmindedly fiddling with Nancy’s bracelet, her expression half vacant.
“Don’t worry too much, Freya. Just because it’s an asylum doesn’t mean it’s all bad.”
“Release Nancy as promised. Once I’ve confirmed that she’s safe, I’ll go in on my own.”
“Oh, Freya… you truly take after Elena more than my brother. You’re far too softhearted! To throw away your life over some mere maid—are you really of the Swan family?”
“Then where is Nancy right now?”
“I’m sorry, Freya, but from the beginning, Nancy was never in our hands.”
“What?”
“That maid overheard a conversation between Jacob and Rachel. We couldn’t let her live. But the quick-witted girl had already prepared to run away. This bracelet—I got it while trying to catch her as she fled.”
“Then Nancy is…”
“We don’t know where she’s gone. Maybe someday she’ll testify against us, but what power does a little maid have? Since things worked out, I’ll spare her life—for your sake, to save your face.”
At his words, tears suddenly streamed down Freya’s cheeks.
“Ah… thank goodness, thank goodness.”
They weren’t tears of regret at being deceived, but closer to tears of relief. Spencer looked at her in disbelief.
“You’re worrying about a maid in this situation? Sometimes I can’t believe you’re my brother’s daughter. Though I suppose that’s why I had a special fondness for you—you were so unlike him. I hated my brother to death. But in the end, I benefited from him.”
He studied Freya for a moment before continuing.
“My brother must have lost his mind in his old age. He was far too hasty in choosing an heir. To place such a half-baked person by your side… And once he had chosen, he should have hurried the wedding. What was the point of delaying, dreaming of some grand wedding of the century?”
“……”
“The more I think about it, the stranger it seems. You were supposed to become the lady of the house, yet he stripped you of control over the household budget. And in his will, there were countless clauses disadvantageous to you. Did you do something to earn his resentment?”
Of course, Freya knew the reason. After learning her secret, Count Lancelot must have felt uneasy—afraid that she would abandon Jacob and squander the Swan family’s fortune.
He must have feared she would ruin the beautiful future for the Swan family that he had planned until his dying breath.
But did he now regret, in the afterlife, that his excessive caution had only given wings to Jacob’s betrayal? Freya stared steadily at Spencer and asked:
“Why tell me this now? Are you trying to say, unlike Father, you were the one who protected me?”
“Of course. Did you see the look in that wench Rachel’s eyes? If you had become countess as planned, she might have poisoned you eventually. Losing that position may have saved your life. Three years isn’t so long. After your release, you’ll be free to do whatever you want. I’ll see to it that your stay there is comfortable, so don’t worry.”
His voice was far too gentle for someone about to consign his niece to an asylum. Freya let out a hollow laugh at his condescending kindness.
She wanted to tell him that had she become countess, she would have gladly supported her uncle without resorting to such vile schemes. But now, what was the point?
Her gaze drifted to the noisy crowd. Soon she resigned herself. Resignation was the feeling most familiar to her—it wasn’t hard to accept.
“Come with us.”
Dr. Hadewyn entered with two attendants to escort her. Freya shook off their hands and rose by herself.
With a calmness unlike her usual self, she followed Hadewyn. Bewildered eyes trailed her subdued composure.
Before leaving through the front door, Freya paused to take one last look around the mansion. The Swan townhouse was not a place of fond memories.
The only memories here were of being scolded and weeping. With a bitter smile at the recollection, she walked on. For some reason, she felt certain she would never return.
Jacob, hiding in the library, heard the pop of champagne and knew the plan had succeeded.
But it wasn’t entirely over yet. Smoking nervously, he leapt up when the sound of a car engine rumbled outside.
Peering discreetly through the window, he saw Freya being led into a transport carriage by the asylum staff.
Only then did he let out a sigh of relief. He was glad he had insisted on not being directly involved. Just catching a glimpse of her gaunt face made his heart pound—if he had witnessed her cries firsthand, he might have faltered and ruined everything.
“This isn’t the time for that.”
He quickly picked up the receiver. He had to report to the man who had made all this possible.
“Hughes Tavern, please.”
After a moment, a loud melody and a deep, weighty voice came through. Though he was alone in the library, Jacob lowered his voice as though someone might be listening.
“She’s departed.”
No reply came, only the line cutting off.
“Whew…”
But Jacob was used to such terse exchanges. Relief washed over him.
This mysterious man had approached him just days before he met Lancelot Swan. Claiming to be a philanthropist seeking Elbador’s prosperity, he had offered to make Jacob the next Count Swan and Rachel his countess.
At first Jacob thought him a fraud. But the man asked for no money—instead, he gave Jacob a huge sum to cover expenses.
And just as promised, not long after, Count Lancelot sought Jacob out. Jacob, who had been no more than a distant cousin not even invited to family events, was suddenly offered the position of heir. A miracle.
With his father’s button factory on the verge of bankruptcy, Jacob accepted without hesitation.
Somehow, the man had completely concealed Rachel and their son from Lancelot. Thanks to that, Jacob, once a mere factory owner, became heir to Elbador’s largest domain.
It was also the man who had suggested how to expel Freya from the household quietly. Committing a sane young woman to an asylum had seemed unsettling, but seeing how smoothly things had gone today, Jacob felt it was indeed the surest method.
Sinking into a leather chair that embraced his body, he smiled in satisfaction and raised a glass.
It was an expensive wine Lancelot had saved only for special occasions. No wonder its aroma was exquisite.
“Jacob, Count Swan…”
He licked his wine-darkened lips and murmured greedily. As he sipped again, a blood-red sunset spread slowly behind him.
“Let’s depart.”
Once Freya boarded the carriage, the staff shut the doors. As the rumors had said, there was no violence—no gagging, no binding. They treated her politely.
“Ha! Dr. Hadewyn, if you’re not too busy, let’s have a toast to celebrate.”
“Well, if you insist…”
Spencer laughed heartily after confirming Freya had boarded quietly. Dr. Hadewyn sounded equally pleased.
Everyone was happy—except Freya. With a rattle of gravel beneath the wheels, the carriage jolted into motion.
Alone in the wide compartment, she stared at the barred little window. The sunset glow painted the world blood red, as though the end had come.
“So peaceful…”
She laughed at the words that slipped out. Hardly fitting for someone betrayed by her kin.
Perhaps, as Hadewyn said, she truly wasn’t in her right mind.
Truthfully, she didn’t care if her life ended now. The night she lost Atul, she had already died inside.
Closing her eyes, she exhaled. The day had been unbearably exhausting.
She recalled the baseless rumors about the asylum—how it could drive even the sane to madness. Yet she felt no fear.
Maybe if she caused trouble there, they would give her a shot to help her sleep. She wanted nothing more than rest. The box of sugar cubes she’d left behind shimmered in her mind.
“No.”
She shook her head. She had to live until her penance was complete. She had no right to die in peace.
She counted the days in her head. The date she had promised to send money was near. Had Mr. Dylan received her letter? She still had to send the money soon…
But she abandoned the thought of how to raise it. Her head was too heavy, like stuffed with wet cotton.
‘Just for a moment—let me rest for just a moment. Can you allow me that much, Atul?’
As sleep took her, a tear slipped down her cheek. Strange—it wasn’t sadness she felt, yet the tears wouldn’t stop.
She let them flow. She didn’t even have the strength to wipe them away.
