Chapter 40
Chapter 40. Trial
Ever since the Grand Duchess had spotted them during their previous encounter, slipping into the Grand Duke’s estate had grown far more difficult for Meisel. In the end, Marzella had little recourse but to request time off and journey to the Count of Avoir’s estate in person.
The moment the parlor door clicked shut, Meisel’s feigned enthusiasm—displayed so convincingly before the maids with tales of her nanny’s arrival—vanished in an instant.
This, naturally, was the Meisel Marzella knew all too well.
“You should have warned me they were selecting a lady-in-waiting!”
“I only learned of it myself a short while ago…”
“This so-called nanny is about to destroy everything!”
Her own outburst ignited fresh fury, and Meisel hurled her pen across the desk in a fit of pique.
Well, who’s to blame for your insolent tongue?
Marzella dipped her head, lips pressed tight to stifle a retort.
For a noblewoman to blurt such improprieties in the Grand Duchess’s presence—what folly.
The Grand Duchess isn’t naive. She’d never select Meisel as her lady-in-waiting.
Marzella herself rued her prior conduct.
She had sorely misjudged the young Grand Duchess.
“Did you orchestrate this just to sabotage me?”
Marzella shook her head vigorously at the edge in Meisel’s voice.
“I truly had no idea.”
“How could the head maid remain oblivious?”
“The Grand Duchess relays her directives solely through the chief butler…”
“Then you should have pried it from him! What use are you if you can’t manage even that?”
Meisel muttered, her neck reddening with ire.
The head maid’s duties at the Grand Duke’s estate diverged sharply from those in typical noble homes.
Marzella oversaw the maids but received no direct commands from the Grand Duke or Duchess.
Thus, beyond supervising her staff, she wielded scant influence within the household.
And the cunning chief butler, conduit for all the Grand Duke’s orders, guarded his secrets jealously from her.
I only discovered the new lady-in-waiting when the maids were brewing tea.
“Did you forget who secured that post for you? You lounge in luxury now, lording it over everyone?”
Marzella swallowed her rising annoyance.
Secured it for her?
She had toiled relentlessly to ascend those ranks herself.
Meisel loved to claim credit for ushering Marzella into the estate, though it had merely been a recommendation amid a staffing shortage.
Yet, having accepted coin and trinkets from Meisel in return for castle gossip, Marzella held her peace.
“Why hasn’t the Grand Duke banished that wench already?”
As Meisel vented her rage, Marzella replied with measured poise.
“Perhaps he’s wary of repercussions from the Marquis’s kin.”
“That spineless marquis’s spawn? Once I’m Grand Duchess, they’ll be the first cast out.”
Marzella stifled a scoff.
As if.
A petulant noble miss convinced the universe orbited her alone.
No one—not even her parents, who had discreetly dismissed her fantasies—credited Meisel’s delusion of becoming Grand Duchess.
Save Meisel herself.
Thank goodness it’s unattainable.
Marzella savored her present existence.
For years, she had reigned unchallenged as head maid, save for vigilance against the butler.
The Grand Duchess’s abrupt arrival posed a snag, but she showed no inclination to usurp Marzella’s domain—for now.
Order will resume shortly.
In the interim, Marzella intended to placate Meisel and extract every advantage.
Or perhaps… sow a spark between the pair? She itched to see the blaze take hold.
That notion sparked a sly glint in Marzella’s gaze.
“No need for such restraint, my lady.”
“What?”
“With matters as they stand, why not demonstrate true sway in Blenheim? Regardless of the Grand Duchess’s pick, without your blessing, she’ll wither in society.”
The suggestion delighted Meisel, who eased back into her seat with a languid stretch.
Exerting command over Blenheim’s elite circles thrilled her far more than currying favor with the Grand Duchess.
“She holds no real options regardless.”
“Precisely…”
The Grand Duchess remained the interloper.
To thrive amid northern high society, she’d tread carefully. She’d never dare elevate a baron’s or viscount’s daughter over a count’s.
Among the noble maidens, Meisel boasted the loftiest rank and renown. She was the inevitable frontrunner.
“She won’t choose Rozel or Karina.”
Meisel murmured, eyeing rivals among the invited.
Even with a throng of girls at tea, the Grand Duchess would yield to logic and select her.
Still, to forestall mishaps… best prepare.
The lady-in-waiting role tempted fiercely; some might defy even Meisel for it.
She’d caution the others in advance, quashing any rash moves at tea.
Dispatching a brooch to hasten Marzella’s efforts, Meisel turned to penning missives for the Grand Duchess’s likely contenders.
She’d make her stance unmistakable that day:
Bypass Meisel as lady-in-waiting, and oblivion awaited in Blenheim’s salons.
If only I can encounter the Duke…
Meisel brimmed with certainty.
She trusted that another glimpse would stir the Duke’s memory of their history, kindling love.
Owing to our profound, hidden bond…
Before the Demon War, when the Duke’s castle gates stood welcoming.
She recalled vividly her inaugural visit, beholding the youthful Duke amid the ornate greenhouse.
His gentle query as to her identity.
His refined elegance, flawless in every line.
Rather than chide her intrusion into his mother’s sanctum, he had offered a warm smile.
In that instant, Meisel vowed:
She would mature into a lady befitting Blenheim’s Grand Duchess.
The sole woman at that exquisite man’s side.
But the gates soon sealed shut.
Rumors of the Duke’s aversion to women proved a boon—
No rivals clamored at his threshold.
Even the betrothal to Princess Felianes scarcely troubled her.
Absent the princess’s arrival in Blenheim, she posed no true rival.
Until that cursed Fasie chit muscled her way into a proposal…
The audacity, leveraging family clout for a forced union?
When her father, the Count of Avoir, announced the Duke’s nuptials, Meisel barricaded herself away, fasting in tears for seven days.
None but I deserve the Duke’s hand…
Without Marzella’s steady drip of castle tidings, madness might have claimed her.
The Duke had snubbed the bride upon her arrival, skipping even the wedding night.
Meisel was convinced the upstart would soon face expulsion, shipped back to the capital in shame.
She drew a steadying breath.
All was well.
This chaos merely a divine ordeal, tempering her for Blenheim’s throne as true Grand Duchess.
Clinging to that conviction, Meisel composed her reply to the Grand Duchess’s summons.
Early afternoon found me savoring tea in the drawing room when the spectacle unfolded.
Trailing the head chef came a cadre of cooks, wheeling in not one or two, but three laden trolleys.
“Your Highness, it’s a profound honor. I am Berni, master of the Grand Duke’s kitchens.”
This was the head chef?
The figure before me evoked a battle-hardened sellsword more than a culinary artist—towering, broad-shouldered, his frame straining the seams of his livery.
He could rival the Grand Duke in sheer bulk.
Yet the trolleys’ bounty of pastries and confections seized my focus even more.
“W-what’s all this?”
As the cooks commenced unloading an avalanche of sweets onto the table, forgoing any decorous salutation, the words tumbled out.
“Mini lemon cakes, almond nougat, chocolate layers, Madeira sponge… sandwiches of cucumber, strawberry cream… pies with pear, cherry tart, apple tart… and petite cookies—vanilla, macarons…”
Berni recited with gleaming zeal. Frantic, I flapped my hands.
“No, I grasp the varieties, but… this is excessive!”
