1. The Meaning of the Name (9)
"You said you wanted tomato soup, didn't you?"
"I did."
"So I made it for you."
"That's not what I want to eat."
Then what? What kind of tomato soup do you want? I asked, wondering if I needed to add some special ingredient, but the old man returned a frigid answer.
"Isn't that something you should find out for yourself?"
In the end, I left the room quietly without gaining anything.
But the tomato soup I made next was also rejected. The reason was that the potatoes in the soup ruined the taste. After that, I boiled soup again and again and brought it to him, but the old man only took a single bite before pushing it aside. And every time, he said the same thing.
‘It's tasteless. Make it again.’
The silverware clattered loudly against the bowl. Steam still rose steadily from the soup inside. However, the old man coldly pushed the bowl aside and wiped his mouth with a cloth. As if he had finished his meal. Yet, the soup in the bowl hadn't decreased at all.
John, who had been watching my reaction, offered a helping hand.
"You need to at least eat this to regain your strength."
"Hmph. Empty words. I know my own condition well. Besides, who benefits if I eat this rubbish and get sick?"
But the old man was cold. He waved his hand once as if telling us to leave, and immediately lay back down on the bed.
John looked at me in embarrassment, holding the soup bowl. I stared at the old man, my lips twitching as I forced a smile.
The old man was picky. To put it nicely, that is. I'd lost count of how many times I'd made tomato soup.
Just yesterday evening, he had scolded me, saying the seasoning was too strong and asking how anyone could eat such stuff. Since he hadn't been able to eat properly due to his poor health lately, I thought the flavors might have felt too overwhelming, so I reduced the seasoning this time. And what do you know? He pushed it far away, saying it was tasteless.
He said he wanted tomato soup, but when I actually made it for him, he refused to eat it properly. In the end, I had no choice but to leave the room after having the soup I worked so hard to boil rejected once again.
In the afternoon, Ethan sent a letter saying he was doing well. After exchanging lengthy letters, Ethan had sent me tomatoes of the finest quality, but the old man took one bite and pushed them aside again.
I had learned the recipe from Emma and boiled it diligently, only for my efforts to be dismissed in an instant. Seeing me like that, the old man just snorted and turned his body away. It was his resistance against me. I tried my best to gather all of my scarce patience. That wicked old man!
The next day, as I boiled the soup again, a deep sigh escaped me. I felt like I'd be sick to my stomach if I saw another tomato. I glared at the thin soup and let out a heavy sigh. Emma approached me hesitantly.
"Did he not eat it again today?"
"Yes. I'm sorry, especially after you helped me."
"It's fine. Actually... I debated for a long time whether I should tell you this or not."
Uncharacteristically, she couldn't even meet my eyes and hesitated. I waited curiously for her to continue. Soon, Emma looked at me as if she had made up her mind.
"The Master doesn't like tomatoes."
"Pardon?"
"Since the first time he tried a tomato, he said it upset his stomach, and he hasn't touched one since. It's the same even when he goes out."
"......"
Just then, the soup in the pot made a bubbling sound as it boiled. Intense heat radiated from the pot. But my mind went completely cold.
I know he hates me. I know very well he finds me disagreeable. I didn't even retort when he told me to know my place. But I truly wanted to do well. I willingly offered to make tomato soup because I wanted to please him. I put my heart into it and made it with all my effort. My fingertips turned red from the tomato juice, and I grew sick of the smell of tomatoes morning and night, but I still tried my best. But the old man ruthlessly threw my efforts back in my face.
I knocked lightly on the old man's door before pushing it open. The old man, sitting on the bed, set down his book and greeted me with familiar indifference. I approached him, feigning composure.
I raised the small dining table that had been placed beside the bed. Since the old man had difficulty moving around, he spent most of his time in bed and usually ate his meals there. I placed the tray I had brought on the table prepared for that purpose. On the tray sat a bowl filled with thin bean soup, steaming warmly.
"It's bean soup."
"I suppose you've given up now."
Seeing me bring a different soup today after continuously serving tomato soup, the old man spoke as if mocking me. I looked at him, then sat down on the chair beside the bed.
"Why did you do that?"
"Whatever do you mean?"
The old man picked up his spoon, took a sip of the bean soup, and slightly grimaced. It seemed it didn't suit his taste this time either. Recently, I'd begun to think that the old man wasn't refusing to eat, but rather couldn't eat. It was as if his body was rejecting the food.
"The tomato soup. I heard you don't even touch tomatoes. So why did you say you wanted tomato soup? I didn't know anything and kept making only tomato soup."
"I said it because I wanted to eat tomato soup."
I couldn't hide my disappointment at his nonchalant words.
"How could you want tomato soup when you hate tomatoes?"
"I've never lied."
A lie. The old man was shameless, spouting lies right to my face. Making a dish he hated a hundred times would never suit his palate. Unless I brought the greatest chef in the world, it was impossible with my skills.
"Do you really dislike me that much?"
It was unfair. It was infuriating. So I asked honestly. Even though I already knew the answer.
"I dislike you. Very much so. I dislike you so much that I can't even stand the sight of your face, brazenly asking for a chance to become my granddaughter."
"......"
As expected, the answer I had anticipated came back.
"Why. Did you think that if you made an effort, I would at least treat you like a granddaughter?"
The old man continued, his words digging into my heart. I no longer wanted to respond as if it didn't matter. My clenched fists trembled. I felt like I would commit an act of disrespect if I stayed any longer. I rose from my seat and fled the room.
Perhaps sensing the unsettling atmosphere, Emma and John, who had been waiting outside the room, looked flustered when they saw me. I brushed past them and headed down the stairs.
I was the one who first offered to make what he wanted to eat. I was rejected, but I asked again. Only then did the old man tell me what he wanted to eat. In truth, the old man was not at fault. Even if he had named a food he hated, it was largely my fault for failing to grasp that. Questioning him about why he did it was no different from throwing a tantrum. I was just upset that my efforts had been betrayed.
As soon as I left the mansion, I headed to the back. I crouched down and leaned my back against the wall. I calmed my ragged breathing and looked up at the sky. Seeing the blue sky made me feel a little better.
I looked at the sky for a long time, gathering my wits. Once I regained some composure and lowered my head, a modestly sized flowerbed across from me caught my eye. I shuffled over and sat in front of it. I needlessly sifted through the sand. Dry sand crumbled between my fingers.
It happened as I touched the edge of the flowerbed. Suddenly, footsteps approached from the side.
"You were here."
It was Emma. She caught her breath as she approached my side.
"I didn't know you were here and looked for you for a long time."
"Ah, I'm sorry."
Did she follow me? I had come out impulsively because I didn't want to show my unsightly state, but I felt sorry for making her worry. I fidgeted and stood up. Emma looked at me, smiled as if she were the apologetic one, and then suddenly turned her gaze to the flowerbed.
"This is a vegetable garden."
"Pardon?"
Emma pointed with her hand and spoke. Only then did I realize the true identity of the flowerbed. It was too small to be called a vegetable garden, and with nothing but dry sand, I hadn't expected it at all.
Emma crouched down next to me.
"It's the vegetable garden the Young Lady made when she was young. She used to plant and grow vegetable seeds like eggplants and carrots and eat them. Even after the Young Lady passed away, we took good care of it, but last year, a heavy rainstorm swept away all the crops, and it ended up like this."
Emma smiled bitterly and picked up a dried leaf sitting forlornly in the garden. Her face was steeped in memories. I looked at the chair placed behind it. And I recalled the old man sitting there last time. Come to think of it, the old man seemed to sit there often.
‘It was best seen from here.’
Was the old man sitting in that chair, reminiscing about Florence, who used to tend this garden while she was alive?
"The Master is acting too wickedly, isn't he? I'm sorry. His heart is deeply wounded, so please understand him generously."
"No, it's fine. Even if it's a food he hates, he might have really wanted to eat it at the time. I think I was just too impatient."
"I'll try to talk to him as well. So that I can be of help."
I immediately understood what she was talking about. She was referring to 'Ethan's request'. I was startled and waved both hands frantically.
"No. You don't have to do that."
She really doesn't have to. That's not why I was here. I followed Ethan and came here by chance, circumstances led me to stay a night by chance, and by chance, I ended up staying a few more days. I was definitely not staying here to live as Florence Christopher. I had no such intentions whatsoever.
"What do lowly servants like us truly know? As you live, you experience many things, and before you know it, you come to accept whatever happens. When the Master passes, the Young Lady will be left all alone anyway, so the Master had deep worries as well. Perhaps this too is fate."
"......"
"Please don't give up."
She asked me politely. I couldn't say anything in response.
Emma coaxed me and brought me back to the mansion. John, who had been pacing in front of the main gate, looked relieved when he saw me returning with Emma. He was also breathing heavily, having apparently searched for me. I felt even more apologetic and bowed repeatedly.
I shouldn't have just walked out like that. I reflected on my impulsive actions and headed to the old man's room with them. After knocking, I politely called out and opened the door, only to find the old man collapsed on the floor, clutching his chest.
"Sir!"
The thing I had dreaded had finally happened. John immediately went to call the doctor, while Emma and I stayed by the old man's side. Soon, the doctor arrived. He must have run in a hurry, as his clothes were disheveled; he adjusted his glasses and examined the old man's condition.
"It seems he experienced temporary pain. His body has weakened significantly over the past few days, and I'm afraid you should prepare your heart."
At those words, Emma burst into tears. John held her in his arms and comforted her. I stood behind them, reflecting on myself for having left the room just a moment ago, blaming the old man.
The collapsed old man did not open his eyes even after a day had passed. I stayed by the old man's side all day with Emma and John.
When night fell, Emma suggested I return to my room. She insisted firmly that they couldn't make a guest suffer, so I had no choice but to walk away.
But even after returning to my room, I tossed and turned. Unable to sleep, I eventually headed back to the old man's room in the early dawn. The lamplight softly illuminated the room, where the sun had yet to rise. John and Emma had fallen asleep sitting on the sofa.
I covered them with a nearby blanket and sat on the chair in front of the bed. His sleeping face, eyes closed, was serene, but so devoid of color that just looking at it made me anxious. His chest, covered by the sheet, rose and fell.
Then, the old man let out a small groan. I urgently rose from my seat.
"Sir. Sir."
I grabbed his shoulder and shook it, and the old man opened his eyes. His eyelids seemed heavy, making it difficult for him to even open his eyes.
"Are you in a lot of pain? Should I call the doctor?"
"......"
"Can you recognize who I am?"
At my question, the old man moved his lips. He seemed to be saying something, but the sound was faint. I lowered my head and brought my ear to his mouth.
"...My child."
"Pardon?"
"Florence... Young Lady..."
I closed my mouth and looked at the old man. The old man called out for Florence with dry, halting lips. What was contained in that faint voice was a cry of longing. As if trying to grasp something, the old man reached his trembling hand into the air. I watched it blankly for a moment, then carefully took his hand. The grip holding my hand in return was incredibly weak, but a will to never let go was visible in it.
A single tear rolled down the old man's wrinkled eyes. The old man blinked. It felt unsettling, as if he might close his eyes at any moment.
"I'm sorry..."
It sounded almost like a confession of repentance, forced out with great difficulty.