A purple sunset fell beyond the heads of people hurrying to and fro. The large leaves of the street trees, lush and ripe, rustled in the cool evening breeze, and amid the yellow lamplight rising like stars, laborers who had been waiting desperately for the night of Ejon spilled out into the streets.
But conversely, luxurious carriages carrying young nobles were swiftly leaving Ejon. They were all part of the procession heading to Katarina Biché’s mansion.
Since it took a good thirty minutes to reach the Biché mansion on the outskirts of Ejon, those wishing to see the risqué show even a moment sooner had hurriedly set out since the afternoon.
The Dampierre family carriage also joined the procession belatedly.
Having passed the cafés and restaurants and the golden statue in the central square, the carriage came to a complete halt by the time it passed before the massive triangular roof of the Ejon Assembly. The traffic jam had begun.
It was already the fourth traffic jam. If this hadn’t been a trip to fetch a maid in the first place, he wouldn’t have taken a single step!
Trapped on the road blocked tight in both directions, unable to advance or retreat, irritation slowly began to boil up.
“They say more people decided to attend because they heard the young master was coming.”
“How terribly tiresome.”
Olivier’s face scrunched up. Of all things, it had to be Katarina Biché’s party, notorious for being eccentric—he did not like it one bit.
For the sake of the rumors that would abundantly bloom, it was the better option, but the sticky show, the cloying perfume scent wafting in a sealed space… At the thought of having to endure all sorts of unpleasant things, irritation was already welling up.
“What on earth is Katarina Biché doing that all these carriages are forcing their way into that backwater?”
Henri, sitting opposite and looking through a notebook, replied offhandedly.
“Ah, well. They say cabaret dancers commute to the Biché mansion once a month, and Katarina Biché’s condition is that they dress a full half-span shorter than what they wear at the cabaret. That says it all.”
“How vulgar. It’s a wonder Count and Countess Biché simply let it be.”
“That’s certainly true, but… they say Count Biché, who had been stuck in the countryside all this time, has finally begun to invest in Ejon.”
“So they’re trying to gain notoriety through lewd parties? How foolish.”
“It’s better than having no presence at all. Thanks to their daughter, they’re attracting attention in Ejon’s social circles, so it seems they tolerate that unsightly spectacle to some degree.”
“Parent and child alike are mad for attention.”
“She’ll be all the more determined today. Be careful, lest Katarina Biché climbs on top of you before you even meet the maid.”
A terrible thing to hear! As Olivier’s face contorted, Henri chuckled.
“Ah, and there’s quite a pretty maid at the mansion. They say she has quite a figure, and her face is very beautiful.”
“…How pretty can a maid be, anyway.”
There was indeed someone who immediately came to mind, but Olivier pointlessly pretended otherwise and looked out the window.
“No, truly. They say she stands out. Her face is so small, and she’s slender… *sigh*.”
Suddenly, Henri let out a deep sigh. Olivier’s head turned straight toward his secretary.
“What?”
“So, rumor has it that the Biché young lady keeps that maid on a tight leash.”
“Keeps the maid on a tight leash?”
The face of Amelie Garnier, who had been bursting into tears filled with despair, came to mind, and his already foul mood took a sudden nosedive.
Why on earth is that girl working in that house?
If Katarina Biché hosted these shenanigans every month, there must have been no shortage of men pestering the maids of that household…
“I don’t know the details either. There must be some circumstances.”
In truth, it was obvious even without asking. A remarkably pretty maid serving a young lady going mad for the attention of high society…
Olivier, who had been about to turn his displeased gaze to the window, abruptly changed the subject.
“Henri. Do maids use perfume?”
“Well. Head servants or head maids might purchase luxury goods at department stores once their wages rise a bit. But generally, they can’t afford perfume.”
“What about young maids?”
“Scented soap might be possible. I thought that’s why you were separately hiring a maid from the start. You hate perfume.”
Henri made a puzzled expression. Olivier added after a brief pause.
“Young maids might use it. I smelled something like a faint perfume scent. So, a cozy fragrance with no dampness or moist feeling at all, well, something like that….”
“Did you have someone picked out in advance?”
Henri was an exceptionally quick-witted fellow; if Olivier asked about this and that, it would clearly become bothersome. Olivier roughly brushed it off.
“I didn’t know before, but I think that smell was coming from Gerbèze.”
“There is no maid named Gerbèze.”
No such maid? Blinking with an ambiguous expression, Olivier tried to smooth things over again.
“An older maid with a good build. Is she new? You know, with a large mark near this eye….”
As if he had expected this, Henri shook his head with a deep sigh.
“Goodness. You mean Simon. He’s worked for the House of Dampierre for thirteen years.”
“Absurd.”
“You think of servants as little more than shadows to begin with. Still, isn’t that too much? Her Excellency Grand Duke Elenore knows the servants’ names and years of service down to the smallest detail.”
“What can I do? I have no interest.”
“That’s exactly it.”
Henri launched a sharp retort.
“If our young master, who is like that, were said to be in a scandal with a maid, who would believe it?”
“Anyway.”
Olivier stared blankly at Henri, who was clicking his pen, then awkwardly cleared his throat.
“Then… what is that scent?”
“Could it be the smell of fabric? Properly dried in the sun.”
“What is that?”
“It’s the kind of smell you get when you dry clothes well on a sunny day—a cozy, warm scent.”
Without realizing it, Olivier sniffed his own clothes. Only a faint, lingering fragrance wafted out; he couldn’t detect at all the kind of scent that had come from Amelie Garnier.
“I don’t smell it.”
“Of course. All your clothes are separately scented by the maids. You demanded a sophisticated, barely-there subtle scent that wouldn’t offend your delicate sense of smell while matching a refined atmosphere.”
“…Did I?”
Olivier cast his gaze out the window.
He recalled the pleasant scent that had wafted in together with the hot forehead pressed against his nape. And while emanating such a good smell so strongly, what had she said?
Trash young master?
A scoff escaped him, but regardless, that scent had been phenomenally good. If anyone else had touched his body like that, he would have reflexively pushed them away.
Letting various thoughts drift away, Olivier buried himself in the seat and cast his gaze at the rapidly changing scenery outside the window.
In any case, if he could persuade Amelie Garnier tonight, this tiresome play would soon be over. And then he would be able to live quietly for a while.
He had a vague feeling that if it was Amelie Garnier, things would somehow work out.
* * *
The carriage, cutting across the wide fields on the outskirts of Ejon, only turned onto the road leading to the Biché estate after the sun had completely set.
“Nothing missing, Henri?”
Henri calmly took out his notebook.
“All servants working at the apartment have been granted paid leave until September, with additional allowances amply paid. I’ve also sent a telegram to the caretaker of the southern villa.”
“Well done.”
“Also, what I must do tomorrow morning: reserve a hotel for you to stay at until the villa is put in order, dispose of your stocks… Ah, I missed one.”
With an expressionless face, Henri made a gesture of writing something at the end of the notebook.
“Take the beating to death from Her Excellency Grand Duke Elenore in Young Master Olivier’s stead. Write a will in advance requesting that the death compensation be sent to my mother in my hometown.”
Slam. Henri shut the notebook and let his shoulders slump.
“Young master, we might truly die. Moreover, that card you left… Ah, I should also call the personal physician. If Her Excellency reads something like that immediately after returning from the New Continent, she will undoubtedly collapse.”
“What did I write?”
Olivier tilted his head.
“Really, our young master’s temperament….”
Shuddering as if he had expected this, Henri took out the draft of the card Olivier had written. Unfolding the note that had been crumpled in a fit of temper, Henri took a deep breath and read the contents.
Grandmother. I regret to inform you that I will not be marrying. Of course, I shan’t be whoring about either. I hope you will leave me be and set me free from this situation. I intend to clear my head for about half a year and then return. With love, Olivier.
“Wait… something’s missing, Henri.”
Henri calmly stuffed Olivier’s note away and said,
“The passage, ‘Even now, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a new, wealthy husband in my stead or look into remarriage,’ I arbitrarily deleted while copying it over. I have a weak heart.”
“Yes, well done.”
Olivier snickered and took out his wallet.
“You rest too, straight through September.”
“Me as well?”
As several high-value checks flowed smoothly from his master’s fingertips, color began to return to his sullen expression.
“There are dozens of servants at the main house; there’s no need for you to follow Grandmother all the way there too. Hand that card over to the main house butler, and go on that honeymoon you’ve been putting off.”
“Ha… if you do this, I really….”
“Send my regards to Anette.”
Olivier readily added a tip for his wife’s share as well, and Henri put on an act of wiping away tears.
“Loyalty. Thank you.”
A proud smile rose on Henri’s face, having secured a thick bundle of banknotes. He tactfully omitted that his wife’s name was not Anette, but Marianne.