A Calculated Mercy
Elizabeth Lauderdale was restless. Even the small, habitual smile she usually wore had vanished without a trace. Her red lips pressed tightly together.
I never imagined it would come to this.
When she had first heard of the marriage talks with Mikhail Sokolov, misery had kept her awake at night. A commoner. Worse—a coarse, uneducated man who had grown up doing odd jobs at the harbor. No matter how much money he possessed now, a person could never truly hide their origins.
Elizabeth thought back to the summer she turned sixteen, the year of her debut into society. Each year the social season selected one newly debuted young lady as the Rose Queen. That year, of course, it had been Elizabeth. Noble blood from Ils. A father active and well-placed in the Senate. The family’s businesses running smoothly. And atop it all, the flawless etiquette and bearing that the Countess had drilled into her with such care.
Add Elizabeth’s own beauty to those advantages, and the result had been only natural.
Every woman chosen Rose Queen went on to a wedding that people still talked about—for the right reasons. Their names filled the front pages of the newspapers; the sums spent and the flowers chosen became subjects of endless conversation.
Elizabeth had been certain of herself. It was not arrogance. Everything she desired was simply her due. Yet when serious courtship began, the suitors who appeared were all disappointments. Offers from honorable houses did come, but most of the men were far too old or carried some glaring flaw.
Elizabeth wanted a perfect husband. Only then would her future be perfect as well. So she turned her eyes toward Ils.
Novgord called itself an empire, yet on the map it sat skewed to the west. The culture it admired had always flowed from the heart of the continent—from Ils itself, and even from the ancient kingdom of Cleringia that Ils, in turn, looked up to. Elizabeth threw herself into the Ils language she had previously neglected. Among the nobles of Ils, surely, there would be a man who pleased her.
All of it proved useless. Her father’s death killed her future along with him.
Elizabeth allowed herself a brief memory of the Count.
He had never been a warm father. Like most daughters of noble houses, she had never expected great affection from him. A man who fulfilled his duties as head of the family was already a good father. That was why she had not been surprised when he brought Anastasia home. Only when he announced he would give the girl the Lauderdale name did she think he had crossed a line. Bestowing the family surname on a bastard was unthinkable.
And yet…
The first time she saw Anastasia, Elizabeth had been puzzled. The child looked nothing like their father. Why, then, had he fought so fiercely with their mother to keep her under his roof?
A chill of suspicion had run through her. What if he had brought the girl not to raise as a daughter, but for…
Elizabeth had stationed one of her trusted maids in the room next to Anastasia’s, determined to settle the ugly doubt. Fortunately—if one could call it that—nothing of the sort she feared ever occurred before the Count died.
She remembered the day of his death.
He had ridden out that morning to the hunting grounds of Edenhurst and still had not returned by evening. Sensing something amiss, the Countess sent every servant to comb the grounds. Before long they found the Count collapsed beside a boulder, blood already dried on his head, long past saving. His horse was discovered some distance away, still gasping for breath.
Edward killed him.
Her brother was usually called angelic, but not that day. When Edward appeared with a gun, the horse seemed to understand its fate and tried to bolt. Edward shot it without hesitation.
The successive cracks of gunfire dropped the animal where it stood. The Countess fainted again at the sight. Edward ordered the carcass cleared away at once, saying he could not bear to look at it. A stable hand had knelt beside the dead horse, weeping.
“It can’t be… She was such a clever girl…”
What did cleverness matter? The horse had thrown the Count and killed him. Ending its life with a bullet could almost be called mercy. And that night…
Elizabeth shook her head hard, banishing a past only she was meant to know.
In any case, that day marked the beginning of the family’s long decline.
So I decided to accept everything.
Elizabeth had been forced to choose: crawl into a relative’s household and live like a servant, or marry a wealthy commoner and keep the same luxuries she had always known. She chose the latter. Working with her own hands was unthinkable. Even if she never again showed her face in society, she still needed maids to attend her, a comfortable mansion, and rooms full of beautiful things.
That was why she had summoned Mikhail, telling herself it was a sacrifice. Yet…
He was nothing like I imagined.
She had pictured a vulgar man—thickset body draped in expensive cloth, crude speech, ignorant opinions. Even Catherine had fretted that he might spit on the floor during meals. But Mikhail had been more perfect than any man Elizabeth had ever met.
A striking face, a solidly built frame, and manners without a single rough edge. Their mother had not noticed, but when the housekeeper poured tea he had smiled faintly, clearly aware of the woman’s shortcomings. Still he said nothing. He was considerate enough not to embarrass anyone.
Once conversation began, Elizabeth could only be more astonished.
His Ils was flawless.
She herself had studied hard for the sake of marrying an Ils noble. Wanting to display her own accomplishments in front of him, she had quoted a line of Ils poetry.
“You who would gain wisdom, fill your storehouses and stack your firewood. Then…”
“…you will see beyond the winter.”
Before she could finish, Mikhail completed the verse—in perfect, fluent Ils. When everyone stared in surprise he remarked mildly,
“In my line of work one has little choice but to learn the language.”
Impossible. A merchant had no reason to memorize Ils poetry. Even among the nobles who frequented the imperial palace, few who spoke the language well could recite verse. That he had finished her quotation without pause decided her: she would test his culture no further. She was the one whose shallowness would be exposed first.
After the meal, when they rose to move rooms, Catherine hurried to their mother’s side and whispered urgently. Would it not be better if she herself married Mikhail, succeeded to the Lauderdale title through him, and let her elder sister take a generous dowry—funded by Mikhail—to some noble in Ils?
Elizabeth watched their mother’s eyes waver. Catherine’s plan would indeed bring greater practical gain. Before Mikhail’s arrival Elizabeth herself had privately hoped for something similar. But it would not happen.
Catherine could not have him. Elizabeth had already decided he would be hers.
A knock sounded and a maid entered. Elizabeth returned from her thoughts and smoothed her dress.
“Miss, everything is ready.”
“Very well.”
She rose. The mere thought of Anastasia brought a fresh surge of irritation. Appearing in that wretched state—what had she been thinking? Because of her, the Countess felt her own shame had been laid bare and was fretting herself sick, while Mikhail’s attention had swung entirely in that direction.
Still, there was one mercy: at dinner he had seemed ready to leave soon, yet by posting his physician-secretary at Anastasia’s side he had extended his stay. For that reason Elizabeth decided she could afford Anastasia a little leniency.
The maid led the way. A short while later Elizabeth stood before the newly prepared room on the floor above her own. Everyday objects had been brought up to give it a lived-in air; among them lay the shabby clothes taken from the basement.
Until Mikhail left, this would be Anastasia’s room.
The marriage talks would not take long to settle. Mikhail was the one in a hurry, and once the engagement was fixed there would be far more preparations to make in the capital than here at Edenhurst. So for the present Elizabeth would be generous. Afterward there would be no need.
“No trouble moving your fingers?”
“…….”
“The wounds on your feet were badly inflamed. You must take the medicine I left three times a day without fail.”
“…….”
Anastasia answered none of Igor’s questions. She merely lay buried under the covers, only her eyes peeping out. The sight reminded him of women in distant lands who veiled themselves completely. Igor turned toward Mikhail and shrugged, signaling that there was nothing more he could do.
When Mikhail looked at him, Igor rose. Mikhail took the vacated seat and smiled as he asked,
“Why were you in the garden at that hour?”
“…….”
Naturally Anastasia gave no answer and averted her gaze. Watching her look ready to flee at any moment, Mikhail stroked his chin briefly, gestured for Igor to step back a little, then repeated the question in a lower voice.
“Is there something interesting in the forest?”
“……!”
Anastasia’s eyes flew wide and locked on him. Mikhail’s smile grew brighter still.
He had only been guessing, yet her reaction could not have been clearer. He was beginning to understand how to handle her.
“So that time we met in the woods—”
Before he could finish she had already scrambled closer and seized his sleeve.
“Please don’t tell the Countess… I beg you…”
Mikhail looked down at the thin hand gripping him so tightly the knuckles had gone white. The bandaged, ruined fingers clutching at him were not unpleasant. Pretending not to have heard her plea, he smiled and said,
“My name is Mikhail Sokolov. That gentleman is Igor. Igor Vasilyevich Yakovlev, though Igor will do.”
Listening, Igor pressed a hand to his forehead. Why on earth did the man insist on announcing other people’s full names?
“I… I’m Anastasia…”
She could not bring herself to add Lauderdale, and her head dropped again. Having given her name, she had no idea what else to say. More than that…
She lifted her face a fraction. The same smiling expression waited for her—blue eyes free of contempt. Smiling… beautiful…
Without realizing it, Anastasia laid her hand against his cheek.
“Hm?”
Mikhail did not draw back. He merely rolled his eyes in mild amusement. At the sound of his voice she jerked her hand away as if burned.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I only…”
Prostrate, Anastasia could not believe what she had done. She must have gone mad. Or perhaps a devil had briefly possessed her. To reach out and touch a guest—a man—simply because he looked beautiful.
While she repeated the same apology like a parrot, Mikhail said nothing at all. He only traced the place on his face where her fingers had rested.
A knock came, followed by a maid’s voice announcing the Countess. Igor opened the door and a crowd poured in—the Countess first, then Elizabeth and Catherine, the housekeeper, and a train of maids.
So everything is ready now.
Mikhail rose and went to meet them.
“I came as soon as I heard Anastasia had woken. Thank you for looking after her. The doctor from the village has arrived as well, so I believe it is time she returned to her own room.”
Mikhail glanced briefly behind him. Anastasia was already rolling herself tightly into the covers again. He looked away at once and offered the Countess a courteous bow.
“Of course. Although it was for the sake of treatment, we sincerely apologize for the liberty we took with a young lady of Lauderdale.”
“…Liberty? We are the ones who should thank you for your help.”
Faced with Mikhail’s ready humility, the Countess could find no words of blame. He left the room as though he now had no further business with Anastasia. Igor, who only moments earlier had watched him chatting easily at the bedside, followed in mild confusion.
The Countess gave Elizabeth a significant look, then caught Catherine’s arm as the younger girl tried to trail after Mikhail. In that interval Elizabeth stepped out into the corridor first. Soon her voice floated back, inviting him to tour Edenhurst; Mikhail’s reply that he would be honored followed. Only then did the Countess release Catherine’s hand.
Ignoring the sulky set of Catherine’s mouth, she turned to the girl on the bed.
Everything was going well. Therefore…
“Wash her thoroughly and send her upstairs. See that she lacks for nothing.”
The Countess, too, had decided to grant Anastasia one final measure of mercy.