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“So, I’m not attending that luncheon?”
As they reached the doors of the mansion, Rose stopped in her tracks and asked.
It wasn't a pleasant feeling, being treated like a mere lapdog, but Ray didn't let it show. He lowered the arm he had used to escort her and offered a faint smile.
“Because you are ill, my lady.”
“I am?”
Without further reply, Ray gave a slight tilt of his head and turned around.
Then, without hesitation, he began walking toward where the carriage was waiting.
Well, it wasn't a lie.
By his standards—by the standards of the world he belonged to—not knowing one's place or status was considered a quite serious pathology.
“I’m starting to think I’ve moved a century back in time.”
“Why don’t you try checking a newspaper?”
Ray let out a short, dry laugh as he recalled that voice and tone, which had been so utterly gentle.
Ray Crawford had known it from the first day he met Rose Davis—on the day of that funeral, when he saw her stumbling to her feet beside a tree.
He knew he would come to dislike this woman.
Even when he learned of her father or her background—those unwelcome conditions—it was merely a nuisance; he didn't dislike the woman herself.
However, when he actually faced her, Ray realized he could never bring himself to like her.
Her small frame, which looked as if it might collapse with a single touch; her face, composed entirely of pale hues, giving an impression of fragility.
Her green eyes, devoid of any strength, looking as though they might fill with tears at any moment.
Overall, she was a woman who gave the impression of being utterly weak.
Everything about her was something he loathed. Every element of her irritated him in a most unpleasant way.
Ray's prediction had been correct.
However, where he had been wrong was in the degree of that emotion.
Ray Crawford truly hated the woman who had become his wife.
Far more than he had vaguely expected.
* * *
What an arrogant bastard.
As Rose chewed her food, she tried to imagine that what she was chewing was actually her handsome husband's face.
Despite branding a perfectly sane person as a patient, his expression remained utterly brazen.
Even when she asked if she was ill, Ray Crawford had done nothing but tilt his head to the side.
It felt as if he were asking her, ‘Why, is there something wrong with your head?’
If only she could have a single cigarette.
Because of the conservative Orturan climate, where a woman smoking was treated as if she were descending into hell, she had been forced to quit.
Since her younger brother, Ben, was still attending a boarding school in Orturan, she also wanted to avoid any unnecessary noise in the newspapers.
If she could just have one smoke after dealing with her insufferable husband or the people of this country, she would find it much easier to handle all of this.
“Rose, I’m sure you’ll like Sophia too!”
The voice of Beth, her husband's sister and perhaps the only person in this house worth liking, drifted from beside her.
Beth had already said those words more than ten times.
“Who could possibly dislike that child? There is no such person in the world.”
Rose, who had been forcing herself to eat a tasteless egg dish, looked up in surprise at Agatha's words. A gentle light, unseen in her usual demeanor, dwelt upon the face of her mother-in-law, Agatha Crawford.
Beth had been this excited ever since she heard the news that Count Greenwood and his wife were scheduled to visit the Crawford mansion today.
Since Rose had married into the family, the Crawfords had stopped inviting people to the mansion, which meant the Greenwoods must be exceptionally close to them.
Presumably, a relationship so intimate that it was acceptable to show them a flaw like Rose.
“Sophia plays the piano, too. She plays very well.”
Now fifteen, Beth brought up the subject of the piano whenever she felt like it, ever since she discovered that Rose had played.
Perhaps because she lacked talent herself, she seemed to have a great longing for those who played well.
For a month, Rose had diligently pretended not to notice the youthful face that clearly longed to see her play.
“Sophia too? What do you mean by that?”
Agatha asked, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin.
“Rose, do you know how to play the piano as well?”
“...I’m not particularly proficient.”
“Particularly.”
Abruptly, Agatha repeated the word she had used.
“Pardon?”
“It is 'proficient,' not 'pro-ficient.' Rose, you always pronounce it like 'fun.' Pay attention to it.”
Agatha often corrected Rose's pronunciation or vocabulary in the middle of a conversation. She was particularly sensitive to long and short vowels and could not let a mistake pass without correcting it.
“Mother. Rose's native language isn't Orturan.”
“Who doesn't know that? I am not scolding her, Rose. I am teaching you.”
“Yes, I know.”
Rose was well aware that Agatha harbored no particular malice.
She was simply diligently fulfilling her duty: to refine a daughter-in-law who did not fit the standards of this household as much as possible.
“Anyway, there is no need to be proficient. Just knowing how to play is enough. That is good. I hope you can play with Beth sometime.”
“Oh, Rose, you're lying, right? If you're not proficient, how could you have taught children?”
The atmosphere at the table, which had been proceeding relatively peacefully, shifted completely at Beth's last remark.
Agatha was staring at Rose with a look of shock.
“...What?”
“Pardon?”
Rose, surprised by Agatha's intense reaction, reflexively asked back.
“Who did you say you taught piano to?”
“I mainly taught schoolgirls.”
Despite it being a perfectly natural and simple situation, her mother-in-law seemed to grow increasingly confused.
“...Why? Was it volunteer work? I suppose the late Mrs. Davis asked you to do it.”
“Pardon? It was to earn money.”
The moment Rose finished her answer, the napkin Agatha was holding dropped to the floor.
“I mean.”
Agatha was so shocked that she didn't even notice the napkin she had held so carefully had fallen mercilessly to the floor.
“I mean. Are you saying that you worked, like Miss Gordon? In Bolton?”
Miss Gordon was the governess teaching Beth.
“Are you saying you did such work, like Miss Gordon, who teaches our Beth?”
Rose could not fathom why this was such a shocking matter.
Then again, considering what happened on her first day in this house, it wasn't entirely surprising.
On her first day here, when Rose tried to dress and undress herself, Agatha had clutched her chest and cried out:
“Good heavens, you are not a maid!”
Since then, whenever Rose did something, her mother-in-law said the same thing. That she was not a maid.
Even now, Agatha wore the same expression.
A look of shock, as if she were witnessing a maid—rather than a daughter-in-law—daring to sit at the same table.
“And what did your father do?”
“There were times when his business was struggling.”
It was true that there were times when the business struggled so much that he couldn't even provide child support, but later, he simply stopped giving money because he was maintaining two separate households. He had even threatened her mother, saying he would give her money only if she agreed to a divorce.
But if she told her that story, her refined mother-in-law would likely collapse on the spot.
“Is it so wrong to earn money through the piano? I heard Countess Greenwood plays the piano as well.”
Rose had never felt that earning money as a piano teacher was shameful.
On the contrary, at that time, it was the only escape that allowed her to endure life and kept her from falling into self-loathing.
“Good heavens, how can you compare yourself to her! Sophia—Countess Greenwood plays as a hobby! That is a matter of refinement. It is a basic accomplishment.”
“Then are you saying, Mother, that one must not work or earn money?”
At Rose's words, Agatha's expression hardened as she replied.
“A lady should naturally be so! Do not ever ask such a question again anywhere.”
“Mother, it's not like that these days. Mrs. Sullivan contributes articles to the newspaper.”
“Is that the same thing? To receive money for such work? And this is no place for you to speak, Beth.”
“What does it matter if she gets paid? One should be paid for their labor. I can write a letter to Mrs. Sullivan tomorrow to find out, right? Whether she gets paid or not?”
“Elizabeth Mary Crawford. That is enough. You need to stop reading so many novels.”
Despite Agatha's cold face, Beth tried to protest further, but she eventually shut her mouth at a quiet glance from Rose.
Rose did not want Beth to step in and advocate for her in this conversation. Agatha would only think that Rose was a bad influence on Beth.
“I wasn't a lady in Bolton. Didn't you know that?”
“But your mother, Mrs. Davis...”
“There are no nobles in Bolton. Even if one holds a title in Antakawa or Orturan, it means nothing in Bolton.”
Of course, as is the case everywhere, there were plenty of people in Bolton who admired such things.
“I am aware that your mother or maternal grandfather did not hold a title. That does not change the fact that the family was of noble descent. I heard your late mother was highly educated and had servants.”
“My mother had one maid, but that was all. I lived by handling my own affairs.”
Seeing how deeply shocked Agatha appeared, it seemed she had not been properly informed about Rose's previous life.
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