Chapter 52
"It suits you so well!"
Unlike her bright voice, her sunken eyes made her look like someone who'd pulled an all-nighter for ten days straight. Artemisia wiped tears from her eyes with a handkerchief while grinning vacantly at my outfit.
"I'm so proud right now."
It wasn't the debutante dress, but the outfit for visiting Marchioness Toten, who'd agreed to chaperone me. No time to make something new, so she'd altered a ready-made piece from the boutique to fit me perfectly. She'd explained something in detail, but I'd let it go in one ear and out the other, so I didn't remember well.
"Noble ladies like lively young ladies, but they adore demure, refined ones too. Plus, since Marchioness Toten sees you overlapping with her frail child, I removed all the lace, minimized decorations, and emphasized a poignant elegance!"
Honestly, it didn't seem much different from my usual clothes. But saying that would make her cry, right?
"I really like it. Good work, Artemisia."
"Pl-please call me Misha…."
Praise was the key, as expected. Our emotional distance had shortened now. Instead of five letters, I could use the two-letter "Misha" from now on.
"Thanks to Misha, I'll make a great impression on Marchioness Toten."
"Sniff. I have no regrets now. Have a safe trip…."
Misha staggered off to the fitting room again, probably to work on the debutante dress. She looked half-dead—didn't she need sleep? I wasn't even overworking her, but I felt like a tyrannical boss.
"My lady, it's time to depart."
Hena checked the time, gathered our things, and stood. Right…. No point lingering; I needed to focus on my tasks.
Today's outing was with Hena and Melek. The sudden arrival Melek was today's coachman.
After the previous coachman quit post-temple visit, Melek filled the vacancy. According to Mary, he'd shown incredible coachman talent from the stables. She sulked that all she could do was feed carrots and felt left behind.
"Gamigin, take good care of us."
Melek stroked the horse. Couldn't name himself, but named the horse? Melek boasted he'd show off a perfectly smooth ride and helped me into the carriage.
But driving blindfolded? Ghost perks? I trusted it knowing that, but others might find it scary. Hena boarded casually after me, though. Guess not. Only looks eerie to onlookers. Fine by us.
His talent earned the praise. Past carriages jolted painfully, but Melek's ride was so smooth I barely felt movement. Ghost-driven carriage quality?
Amazed, we arrived at Toten Marquisate already. The gate opened right away—Gabriel's message received well—as the carriage stopped before the mansion.
'Wow. Enormous.'
Embarrassing to compare to Rohanson Mansion.
"Lady Rohanson? Thank you for visiting Toten Marquisate."
"Thanks for the warm welcome."
An elderly butler with gray hair greeted us.
"Marchioness Toten awaits."
Hena and I followed the butler inside. 'He didn't drive wearing that, did he…? A servant directing the carriage gasped seeing Melek's blindfold.
I know nothing. Hurry inside.
Toten Marquisate's interior was quite unique.
All windows open for ventilation, furniture spotless without a speck of dust. Religious decorations everywhere. Meticulously maintained like a film set, not a residence.
Great lighting enhanced colors. Was I watching a movie? Reality faded like sitting before a screen until the butler's voice snapped me back. Right. Focus on the story.
"It's been ages since Madam last invited a guest."
The kindly smiling butler started chatting.
"Doesn't Marchioness Toten have wide renown?"
Huh, why? Gabriel said she had broad connections and great social graces—perfect for introductions as chaperone.
Gabriel wouldn't lie; just window-dressing relationships? Very noble-like.
"Haha. Noisy environments aren't good for mental and physical stability."
Aha. Referring to her sick son. Made sense not inviting guests with an ill child for lively chats. Wait, then I shouldn't have come?
That's why Gabriel suggested inviting her to Rohanson Mansion. I obliviously said I'd visit. Blame Gabriel for not stopping me firmly.
"Madam agreeing to chaperone is a first too. Probably influenced by what Knight Commander told her."
"About my illness?"
"Yes. Her exceptionally allowing a visit is likely for that reason."
The butler gave me a pointed look. Marchioness Toten invited and chaperoned me seeing similarities to her sick son. But I'd barged in oblivious to the favor.
Age-honed subtlety in shading me. My fault, though—no retort. Sorry for the lack of consideration.
"And if this old man's presuming, please don't give Madam false hopes."
False hopes? What?
"Madam only recently composed herself, but hearing of Lady Rohanson, she hopes Rider might improve too."
Isn't that good? I'd become a symbol of hope.
"But Rider has no hope even with Holy Water…."
The butler trailed off sadly. My thinking was shallow. Hope can be poison.
The butler bowed his head. Whoa, not crying? Condition graver than thought. No improvement with Holy Water—terminal?
Summary: Don't comfort saying he'll recover like me. False hope could shatter them worse if dashed.
"…Madam might ask how you recovered."
"No worries. Even if she called seeking hope, I have nothing to offer."
Evangeline died already; my "recovery" is just possession. No miraculous precedent in this world's order—no advice possible.
The butler visibly relaxed. Deeply devoted to Marchioness Toten. Model butler. Ours flees at sight of me. Evangeline's sins too grave for complaint.
"Unlike rumors, you're quite reasonable. Relieved."
The butler smiled in relief. But hadn't he been subtly shading me awhile?
Now it's 'Rumors painted you poorly, but you're better than expected.' Dolliné's rhetoric lessons paid off—I decoded it.
Fresh seeing someone boldly confront after constant flinchers at Evangeline's infamy. Highborn butlers have pride—this example.
Assuming I'd bow knowing my place before her chaperone marquess?
"You really revere Marchioness Toten, huh?"
"Pardon?"
The butler turned at my abrupt question.
"Spilling all the marquisate's affairs to a first-time visitor like me, fearing impact on her."
Sharp butler indeed. Spot-on. Not groveling. No pride anyway. Would I romance novel characters with pride?
To praise his loyalty and intel, I used Dolliné's 'indirect phrasing rhetoric.'
"One might think you're the marquisate's master."
Owner-level devotion. Employers' dream talent! Woo-hoo!
"……."
Overdid flattery; butler speechless.
Whoops. Romanta-sy rule: don't grovel to inferiors. Broke it unwittingly.
Actually held back retorting his shading earlier to avoid more rumors.
Snapping back risks him badmouthing to Marchioness. Who'd she trust—today's me or longtime butler? Backbiting means instant chaperone goodbye. Endured so far—keep it up. Chaperone first.
"Fine rhetoric. Same treatment to all marquisate guests?"
Lip service and hospitality top-notch!
If guestbook allowed, I'd write 'Butler kind, marquisate delicious' with five stars.
Overwhelmed by praise barrage, the butler sweated profusely.
