The Guest at Edenhurst
“You’re late.”
“I apologize. The young lady… broke a dish.”
At the Countess’s curt reproach, Sophie bowed her head deeply in contrition. A brief hesitation lingered in her voice, as though she could hardly bring herself to call Anastasia a young lady at all.
Sophie did not regard Anastasia as a mistress she was bound to serve. No—she thought of her as lower even than the meanest scullery maid. The only reason she used the title was out of loyalty to the Lauderdale name that clung to Anastasia like a brand.
Behind Sophie, Anastasia clutched her trembling hands tightly together and bowed even lower. In her frantic haste to scoop up the shattered pieces of crockery scattered across the floor, her palms were covered in tiny cuts beaded with blood. The sharp stinging told her that shards of glass still remained embedded in the flesh. There was no time to dig them out.
The Countess regarded the bowed Anastasia with a gaze as cold as ice. Then, suddenly, tears welled in her eyes.
“My lady.”
The housekeeper called to her in a voice thick with pity and started forward. But the Countess waved her back, drew out a handkerchief, and dabbed the moisture from her lashes.
“It’s nothing. I merely thought of Edward for a moment…”
Edward. At the name the air in the room grew heavy. Even the housekeeper, who had meant to offer comfort, found her own eyes reddening.
Always gentle, always kind to every living soul—the heir of Lauderdale.
His brilliant golden hair, so like the Countess’s own, had glittered beneath the sun as though he wore a halo; his tender, careful heart had been praised by all. Even the Countess, who had sometimes fretted that so soft a temperament ill-suited the next Count, had never truly minded.
“If only that child were still alive, none of this would have happened.”
They had waited only for the war to end and for him to come home. Who could have imagined that so noble a life would be snuffed out so meaninglessly—not by enemy hands, but by a blunder of their own side?
As the Countess dwelt on the memory of the son she had always found so lovely and so proud, her eyes settled once more on Anastasia, head still bowed low. The thin lips that had remained composed even while she wept now pressed into a hard line. Eyes that had been soft with grief sharpened to a keen edge.
That thing. That snake of a girl.
Why did Edward have to cherish her so?
Had her son not begged her, before he left, to look after the girl, the Countess would long since have cast her into the gutter. Even in the letters Edward had occasionally sent home he had asked after Anastasia’s welfare, and so the Countess had been forced to keep her inside the house.
If the girl were gone when Edward returned looking for her, it would break his heart. He had treasured her so. And yet that creature… throughout the entire period of mourning she had not once appeared to weep or lay flowers; not a single strand of her hair had been seen.
For that the Countess found Anastasia detestable. Still she kept her, because every glimpse of the girl summoned memories bound up with her son. A doll she herself loathed yet her son had cherished—that was what Anastasia was to the Countess.
With an effort she folded away the lingering image of her boy and cleared her throat. She had no wish to leave the wretch in this room any longer. The mad, uncouth figure she cut only strengthened the resolve.
Ever since Edward’s death the girl had gone about looking like some grotesque specter, as though she had lost her mind. The Countess had nearly ordered her to stop, then decided to let it be. Such a face suited the creature. But she could not possibly allow an important visitor to set eyes on her.
Pointedly covering her nose and mouth with her handkerchief, the Countess spoke.
“An important guest will be coming to Edenhurst.”
“……”
Anastasia listened as meekly as a well-trained dog.
“For as long as that guest remains, you will not show yourself. If you disobey me…”
The Countess knew perfectly well what Anastasia feared most.
“I will cast you out of Edenhurst altogether.”
The body of the girl who still kept her head bowed gave a violent start. Expecting no answer, the Countess turned to the housekeeper.
“Have her sent down to the basement.”
“Yes, my lady.”
As the housekeeper turned, Anastasia bowed again and again and followed her from the room. A maid who had been waiting in the corner immediately swept and scrubbed the place where Anastasia had stood.
“Open the windows wider.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Only when every last trace of Anastasia had been erased did the Countess order tea. A short while later the housekeeper returned, pushing a cart that held simple tea cakes, hot water, and a teapot, and set them before her mistress.
Watching the housekeeper pour, the Countess’s eyes narrowed slightly. In every other duty the woman was competent, yet for all the years of training her pouring still fell short of perfection. And while the Countess had shut herself away mourning her son, the skill seemed only to have grown worse.
Thinking of the guest who would arrive in a week, she wondered whether she ought to begin a strict new course of instruction at once.
Then she shook her head.
Mikhail Sokolov would never notice such a thing.
An unblessed bastard who had spent his childhood in a shabby portside inn. When would such a man ever have acquired noble refinements? He would gulp down whatever was set before him without even knowing what sort of tea it was.
While she was still picturing that vulgar, ignorant spectacle, a knock sounded and her two daughters entered. They curtsied with faultless grace.
“Mother. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes. Sit down.”
A few days earlier she had explained the family’s present circumstances and the reason Mikhail Sokolov was coming to Edenhurst. Perhaps that was why both girls’ faces seemed to have grown pale and thin in so short a time.
She had lavished love on Edward as the heir, yet she had never withheld affection from her daughters either. However carefully one raised an heir, the credit usually went to the father.
If a noble wife wished her reputation to endure, she had to raise her daughters well. When a daughter made an advantageous marriage, other mothers flocked to her with respect and endless questions about how she had educated the girl so finely. That was the surest way to secure one’s place in society.
And so the Countess had devoted considerable care to both girls. Especially the elder, Elizabeth, who was the very image of herself and had grown up every bit as much to her liking as Edward had. Beauty, culture, deportment—there was not a single flaw for high society to seize upon.
That was why she had turned away every proposal that poured in. To the Countess, Elizabeth was a girl who must marry into a house at least equal to the Lauderdales—into royalty, or into the nobility of Ils.
Mikhail Sokolov will choose Elizabeth, of course.
However base his own origins, he could not fail to recognize her daughter’s nobility. Or rather, being base himself, he might be all the more eager to seize the brightest jewel he could.
The Countess glanced at Catherine seated beside Elizabeth. Though she did not equal her sister, Catherine too had inherited her mother’s beauty. At twenty she still looked younger than her years, which was a mild concern, yet she possessed a healthy color and a sturdy frame. Perhaps Mikhail Sokolov would prefer a young, robust woman who could bear him many children. Like the common folk for whom children were assets, he might want a wife who produced an heir every year.
Whichever girl he chose, the thought tore at the Countess’s heart. She had not raised them with such care only to hand them over to a creature of that sort!
“As I told you a few days ago, Mikhail Sokolov will arrive here in a week. I hear he is staying at the inn in the next village for the present.”
“……”
“……”
Elizabeth and Catherine kept their lips sealed and said nothing.
“I have already spoken to the maids. Have the gowns you will wear that day prepared.”
After a moment’s hesitation Catherine ventured carefully,
“But… they’re all things we’ve worn before.”
“It can’t be helped. Mikhail Sokolov announced his visit so abruptly.”
The Countess did not say the words, yet Catherine somehow heard the unspoken and so rudely hanging behind them.
Elizabeth looked at her younger sister.
“He holds no title, so there is no need to observe those niceties. Don’t worry about it—just go and choose something.”
Having lightly rebuked Catherine, she turned to their mother.
“Then we shall go and prepare.”
“Yes. Off you go.”
Elizabeth rose, curtsied, and shepherded her sister out into the corridor. Once they had walked a little way from the drawing room, Catherine burst out in a sulky grumble.
“As if I want to impress some commoner! I only wanted a new dress made…”
“Endure it. Besides, even if we summoned the capital’s dressmakers it would be a scramble to finish anything in time.”
“Still…”
It had been more than two years since she last had a new gown made. For a girl who had ordered piles of clothes every season since birth, Catherine felt as though she had become the poorest, most pitiable young lady in the world.
When Elizabeth still said nothing, Catherine pressed on.
“Mikhail Sokolov may be a commoner, but they say he’s handsome. I heard the capital’s women are lining up for a turn in his bed.”
“Catherine. Where did you hear such vulgar gossip?”
“At a ladies’ salon. It’s a fascinating magazine. All the women in the capital read it these days.”
Catherine spoke with open triumph, pleased to confirm that she knew more about Mikhail than her sister did. The period when the two of them had been unable to visit the capital had overlapped with the time Mikhail was frequenting the palace, so neither sister had ever set eyes on him.
Elizabeth, apparently unwilling to continue the conversation, simply walked ahead and disappeared into her own rooms. Catherine pouted several times, then lifted her chin.
However little interest she took in the family’s finances, even Catherine could not fail to notice how swiftly the house was declining. It began with the inability to buy new clothes; the tea leaves they drank every day grew steadily coarser; the cook brought from the capital had been replaced by a village woman and the meals had suffered accordingly. Water stains that would not scrub away marred every corner of the house, and the paint on the exterior had blistered and peeled into an eyesore.
But a great many things have already been put right.
A considerable sum must have been spent. They were not yet married—he had not even paid a visit—yet he was already offering such help.
He’s certain to marry my sister.
The thought improved Catherine’s mood still further. Her sister, who had always put on airs of lofty dignity equal to—no, greater than—their mother’s. Ever since childhood Elizabeth had declared she would marry only royalty or high nobility of Ils; to become the wife of a commoner would wound her pride beyond measure. Of course after the wedding she would be a Countess, yet for the rest of her life she would receive only pitying looks in society.
It won’t be much of a problem for me.
As a young lady of the Lauderdale house whose name would continue once more, she would take the enormous dowry Mikhail provided and marry into a respectable family. After that she could simply lean on her husband’s influence. Let her sister keep all the pity for herself.
In high spirits Catherine went to her rooms. She might not have a new dress this time, but when her sister married she certainly would.
“There—Edenhurst Manor is in sight.”
At Yury’s words Mikhail turned from his contemplation of the forest. On a slight rise near the river stood a large house. Before it stretched a broad meadow where sheep grazed; deep woods encircled the whole. Mikhail had already viewed the place once from a distance and ridden away again; the sight of the manor itself stirred nothing in him.
“Edenhurst. Whoever first named it must have been quite overcome.”
Edenhurst—did it not mean “forest of paradise” in the language of Ils? As the house drew nearer Mikhail clicked his tongue.
The outdated, ponderous style of architecture was the least of it; the place reeked of neglect. How much would it cost to rebuild and restore it in the current fashion?
I shall conclude the negotiations as quickly as possible and return to Sokolov.
Nothing here held the slightest interest for him.