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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 61
Chapter Title: A Surprising Discovery
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Madam Margaret Beaufort.
Despite the constant smile on her face, she exuded a certain rigid air.
It was in the way she held her back ramrod straight despite being sixty years old, or the way her eyes narrowed as if to say, ‘minus one point,’ whenever I made a mistake, unfamiliar as I was with high society etiquette…
This wasn't the stubbornness of the old men from the Senate, of course. It was a more sensitive, sharp rigidity, like that of a well-honed blade.
The atmosphere was so different from when I had dealt with the senators that I felt like I was suffocating.
Moreover, perhaps because I had referred to Anthony’s painting as being from the ‘nude school,’ Margaret’s gaze seemed to grow even more exacting whenever it landed on me.
Having been disliked for most of my life, I was slow to recognize affection but quick to sense animosity.
*She definitely doesn't like me…*
Margaret asked.
“Then what kind of paintings do you enjoy, Madam?”
“I, uh… I don’t really have a hobby of looking at paintings…”
I could feel Vivian watching me with a smug look, but I didn’t have the energy to glare back.
Ah, this feels like… I messed up from the very beginning. If I’d known, I would have brought the butler.
I glanced over at Lily.
But far from being any help in my predicament, Lily stood at a distance, as motionless as a machine with a blank expression on her face.
“Oh, what a shame. I was hoping to invite the Young Lord of Orleans and his wife to the party at the art salon in a week.”
Margaret said in a low voice, fiddling with an invitation on the table before setting it down.
An art salon?
Ah, now I remembered. The butler had mentioned that Madam Margaret was a famous art enthusiast.
*‘Her hobby is collecting beautiful things,’ he had said.*
You didn’t say this party was at an art salon, you damn butler!
…Then again, he’d been so busy taking care of me lately, he probably didn’t have time to find out where Margaret’s party was being held.
*Damn it…*
The butler had told me to get an invitation, but Eric telling me to deliver the letter to Margaret Beaufort in person must have also meant I was to secure one for her party.
I needed to establish some standing in society so that I would have some measure of safety, even if the Senate or the Duke were itching to kick me out of the ducal residence.
But of all things, Margaret’s party had to be held at an art salon…
And with my recent slip of the tongue, that invitation was as good as gone.
Unable to even take out Eric’s letter, I could only clutch it tightly and watch as Vivian produced the painting of naked people she’d brought as a gift.
*Why do these damn nobles love naked paintings so much!*
“I find that most of the paintings you collect suit my tastes so well, Madam Margaret. That’s why I rushed over, wanting to gift you one of the paintings my father won at auction last week.”
*You didn’t rush over. You aren’t even sweating!*
Faced with Vivian’s pretense, I felt a petty rage boiling up inside me.
Vivian’s standing in society might have fallen slightly after her mistake at the last royal party, but it was still higher than mine. She must have known Margaret’s party was an art salon party.
Margaret’s face lit up as she saw the painting Vivian presented.
“Oh, my! You must have paid a fortune for this. Are you sure I can accept it?”
“Of course. I, too, have a great interest in the paintings of the new somaticist artists…”
And so on and so forth.
For a long while, I could only watch as Margaret and Vivian engaged in a conversation that showcased their deep knowledge of art.
“Ah, I’m so delighted to meet someone with such compatible tastes, Madam.”
Vivian tried desperately, in a syrupy voice, to find common ground with Margaret.
All the while, Margaret kept picking up and fiddling with the invitation. Vivian kept glancing at it, her ambition for it plain to see.
It made sense. After our little showdown at the royal party, it must have become difficult for Vivian to get invited to the ladies’ parties.
*The same goes for me…*
As I stewed in my thoughts, Margaret, perhaps feeling awkward about me sitting there like a mute, spoke to me.
“So, Madam, what is it that you like?”
“Ah, me… I…”
Art, architecture, music—none of them were to my taste. If I had to choose something…
“Novels?”
Just as Margaret’s expression turned peculiar, Vivian snorted and set down her teacup.
“Of course. I know her well. She loves those pulp serials that run in the newspapers. She also likes to buy the revised editions that come out after the series ends, the ones with the racy descriptions added in.”
*That’s Philip, not me! I like action-packed adventures!*
“…Do you remember getting caught by the teacher for reading one of those in our class?”
Vivian narrowed her eyes and carefully spun her lie. Just as I was about to retort, Margaret spoke in a low voice.
“I enjoy serial novels myself. Of course, the racy ones are a bit much, but sometimes you can find ones with literary merit. For instance…”
Margaret enjoys serial novels?
A sixty-year-old woman reads romance novels?
*Well, I suppose she could.*
Considering all the heads of noble families her age who sire illegitimate children left and right, it’s clear people that age still have their passions. Liking romance novels is a hundred times better than siring bastards.
“Right. Of course, I wasn’t lumping all pulp novels together.”
Vivian flipped her opinion as easily as one might flip their hand.
“In fact, there are many high-quality novels that someone like you, Madam Margaret, would enjoy. But when you look at the novels by that woman Scarlett, the ones some people are obsessed with these days, they’re a bit…”
She made a look of contempt.
*A novel is a novel, what’s the big deal… Nobles just love to rank everything, whether it’s art or life.*
Anyway, Scarlett… I seemed to recall hearing that her next novel would be on sale in a few days.
In my dream.
*This time, it’s a love story about a mute princess and a prince…*
I remembered something Philip, a particular fan of Scarlett’s novels, had said.
*‘Pristine. Pristine. Why does this woman use the word ‘pristine’ so much in her novels?’*
*‘And yet you read them all. Haven’t you read every single one of her books?’*
My own blunt reply.
Anyway, just as Vivian, who had been critiquing Scarlett’s novels in a contemptuous tone, muttered this,
“They feel so… vulgar…”
*Clatter!*
Margaret set her teacup down with a bit too much force, sending hot tea splashing everywhere.
“Aah!”
Vivian shrieked and jumped back. But it was Margaret and I who were soaked in tea.
*But why is she the one screaming…*
I stared at Vivian, dumbfounded.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, my lady. I’m sorry, Madam. Madam, you’re quite drenched. You must go upstairs and change.”
Margaret said, dabbing at the tea that had splashed on my dress. Vivian shot up at her words.
“Yes, please give me some clothes quickly!”
Margaret chided Vivian with a gentle smile.
“I think a towel will suffice for that much. …Butler?”
✵ ✵ ✵
Apologizing profusely, Margaret offered me one of her most treasured dresses. It looked a little big for me, but it also seemed incredibly expensive, so I said it would fit just fine and entered the changing room to put it on.
Her dressing room was even larger and more spacious than the drawing-room.
If the drawing-room was where she collected works of art, the dressing room, filled with clothes, bags, and shoes, truly marked her as a ‘collector.’
From inside the changing stall, I asked Margaret.
“Your dressing room is enormous.”
“It wasn’t originally a dressing room, but another guest room. I just turned it into my closet. Right after the old man died.”
Now that it was just the two of us, Margaret spoke quite frankly.
It seemed the animosity in her tone had faded slightly after I’d mentioned I liked novels. Was this the power of a shared interest?
In any case, Margaret smiled gently and said.
“The old man never understood why I bought so many clothes. Even as he was losing hundreds of thousands of gold on his business ventures.”
“Of course. At least clothes are something you can keep.”
When I nodded as if she’d spoken the gospel truth, Margaret laughed, seemingly quite pleased with my response.
*Phew… I think I may have recovered from my earlier mistake a little…*
Even if I don’t get invited to this party, I might be able to aim for the next one.
Listening to her laughter, I started to pull the dress on over my petticoat…
Only to stop and pull out a book from the shelf next to the changing stall.
The book, which appeared to be a galley proof, had a flimsy cover.
But flimsy as it was, it had a title written on it. And that title was…
*This time, it’s a love story about a mute princess and a prince… what was the title again? ? Oh, right. That’s it.*
I picked it up.
Could this be the book I saw in my dream? If so, then that meant…
“Are you dressed?”
“Ah, no, not yet!”
I surreptitiously parted the curtain and peeked at Margaret Beaufort standing outside.
So, if this book was that book, then that woman—the grand dame of society, the wealthiest person in the capital, the one with a brilliant eye for business—was…
I quickly threw on the dress, hastily tied the laces, and opened the galley proof of .
*Pale skin and red lips, his face overflowed with sensuality even in repose. A pristine lily. Those were the words that best described his face!*
Pristine.
I found the word ‘pristine’ about ten times on that one page.
What’s more, the protagonists were a mute princess and a prince. So this had to be Scarlett’s unpublished new work.
Now, for a quiz.
Who is likely to have a book that will be released in a week?
A. The editor.
B. The author.
Which of the two is Margaret?
I pondered the answer, recalling the things Philip had said.
*‘The way I see it, Scarlett has to be a married woman.’*
Philip had loved to speculate about Scarlett’s identity.
*‘I know women better than you do, and you’re a woman, right? In Scarlett’s novels, the male lead always marries the female lead and then dies. What do you think that means?’*
*‘…That she’s an author who likes tragedies?’*
*‘It means she’s either a married woman itching to kill her husband, or a widow! Scarlett has already discovered the joys of living alone! Her authorial ego simply cannot be satisfied with a monogamous ending!’*
*‘…Does that even make sense?’*
*‘Hmph! You don’t know women, Imeline!’*
Ah, I know the answer.
B. The author.
