Why Won’t It Get Through To Her?

When Lucien made it clear that he would stand on Marguerite’s side, a subtle tension spread through House de Broy.

What had once been a simple matter of a mother-in-law bullying an outsider bride escalated into an internal family conflict once Lucien, the heir apparent, stepped in.

“Mother, please accept Marguerite as a wife of House de Broy.”

“Oh, Lucien, how could you say such a thing as well?!”

“The royal family knows what our house has done to Marguerite. The only reason they are overlooking it now is because Marguerite herself has forgiven us.”

As long as tensions with the neighboring country continued, the royal family—eager to present an image of harmony between the two houses—would likely turn a blind eye.

But if relations with that country were to ease, and the marriage between House de Broy and House Clavel ceased to be essential—

‘Then all that will remain for House de Broy is the fact that we defied the royal command and treated the wife who came here coldly.’

Even if Emilenne’s words about “getting along” were meant only on the surface, such interpretations could easily be twisted afterward.

There was even the possibility that House de Broy would be punished.

More than that—if the marriage were to become unnecessary—

‘If Marguerite were to ask for a divorce, I wouldn’t be able to stop it—’

This was the truth Lucien had realized at Noel’s words, the realization that had drained the color from his face.

Yumila would never understand his feelings for Marguerite. Thinking this, Lucien had used the royal command as a pretext to demand better treatment for Marguerite, but—

“It’s all that girl’s fault! Lucien, you never talked back before—how could you now?!”

“That’s not true, Mother. This isn’t Marguerite’s fault—”

“Then why do you blush every time you see that wretched girl?! Why do you call her name so often?! Why do you give her gifts and dress her up?!”

“!!!”

—To everyone except Marguerite herself, Lucien’s love was perfectly obvious.

‘Then why won’t it get through to her…?!’

“See? Exactly as I said! Oh, truly, even you, Lucien…”

As Lucien stood there in shock, Yumila’s anger reached its limit, and at last she began to cry.

No one could step into the mother-and-son confrontation.

The servants, too, could only watch from a distance, faces pale.

The conflict between Lucien and Yumila was hidden from Marguerite’s sight, yet she too sensed a different kind of sharp tension mixing into the air.

‘It’s my fault, isn’t it…’

Every time Yumila came to the dining room, she looked at Lucien resentfully and wept softly.

Lucien ate with an expression that seemed to blend irritation, sorrow, and countless other emotions, and the servants all looked gloomy.

‘It really is my fault…’

The one who looked especially uncomfortable was Anna.

Anna, who had once taken the lead in harassing Marguerite, should have been Yumila’s most fervent supporter. Yet because she was not actually a kitchen maid but possessed the education to serve as a lady’s maid, she now had no choice but to act as though she were on Marguerite’s side.

Every time she accompanied Marguerite to the dining room, Anna kept her head lowered, avoiding Yumila’s gaze.

‘What should I do…?’

Marguerite thought it might have been better if they had all united and continued harassing her instead—anything would be better than the household being filled with hostility because of her.

After all, to Marguerite, their harassment had never seemed more serious than a kitten’s futile struggle.

But she could not tell Lucien to turn against her.

Lucien, too, was doing his best to meet the royal family’s expectations and treat Marguerite with care.

Both of them were acting out of concern for their house—or so Marguerite believed.

Still without an answer, Marguerite headed to the dining room once again that day, Anna in tow.

As usual, in the dining room Lady Yumila was already at lunch, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes, while Lucien sat with his arms crossed, looking sullen.

Marguerite bowed and passed by Yumila’s side.

“How can you show your face here as if nothing were wrong?”

Yumila said in a voice thick with resentment. Marguerite’s chest ached, but since there was no real harm, it felt almost like a set greeting to her.

What differed from usual came next.

“—Anna.”

Today, the sharp name Yumila called was not Marguerite’s, but that of her maid, Anna.

Anna jerked her head up as if struck.

“M-Madam…”

“To forget the debt of being raised and defect to the enemy’s daughter—”

“Mother! I ordered her to serve as a lady’s maid. It was you who made her pretend to be a kitchen maid—”

“That was what Anna herself wished. To claim she serves House de Broy, and yet feel no shame at all.”

Tears spilled from Anna’s wide-open eyes as she looked at Yumila. The accusations were ones Anna herself felt keenly.

When Lucien had ordered her to serve as Marguerite’s maid, Anna had been unable to tell him that she had once opposed Marguerite. If she had, Lucien would surely have shunned her—despite the fact that she had despised Marguerite and repeatedly behaved cruelly while serving her.

“I-I’m terribly sorry…”

“What are you doing? Don’t just stand there. If you truly mean to apologize, then kneel on the floor.”

Anna bowed her head, folded both knees, and pressed her forehead to the floor.

“Please forgive me, please forgive me, Madam…!”

That posture gave Yumila a dark, quiet pleasure.

Unable to divorce Marguerite and having even lost Lucien, Anna’s tears were proof to Yumila that she still held authority—that she was still the mistress of House de Broy.

Rising from her chair, she strode forward and raised the fan she always carried.

“Look at me. I must administer punishment.”

“Mother!”

Ignoring Lucien’s attempt to stop her, the fan swung down toward the trembling Anna’s face—

A heavy impact echoed through the dining room.

The sound of metal fittings and embedded jewels striking flesh.

Yet the blow never reached Anna’s cheek as she waited with eyes shut, unable to flee.

“…?”

When she cautiously opened her eyes, she saw an outstretched arm blocking the fan.

“—!!”

It was Marguerite’s arm.