I’ve Become A Bit Too Easily Moved To Tears

The servants’ discourteous behavior was, of course, something the people of House de Broy had ordered. Confident they would not be dismissed no matter what Marguerite said, they dared to treat someone of higher rank that way.

However, the scheme was not working. Rather than being unable to endure it and requesting a divorce, Marguerite was living quite happily.

“Today—today at last, I will say it clearly. You are not worthy of Lord Lucien!”

What greeted Marguerite when she came to the kitchen at dinnertime was the familiar maid’s furious shout.

Marguerite had learned from another maid that her name was Anna. At first, she had not understood why Anna behaved with such arrogance, but now she did.

There was surely someone from House de Broy backing Anna. Her loyalty had been inflamed by the family, and she had become the spearhead of the effort to torment Marguerite.

‘I understand. I really do understand how you feel, Anna…!’

Marguerite nodded inwardly.

‘You’re in love with Lord Lucien.’

When she had seen Lucien up close for the first time the other day, he had carried a dignified presence even in his subdued attire—black hair and a dark gray jacket. Until now, even when there had been banquets, House Clavel had avoided House de Broy and never exchanged greetings, so Marguerite had not known.

“Are you even listening!?”

The sharp bang of Anna slamming the table echoed through the room. At the sound, Marguerite raised her face.

Anna’s freckled cheeks were flushed, her gaze fierce; her drawn brows and bared mouth alike radiated anger.

“I am listening. You’re saying I’m not worthy of Lord Lucien, right? I met him the other day, too. He truly is of higher standing, and he was kind, and he has a more beautiful face than mine. So I was thinking that I could understand what you mean.”

It was an evaluation that sounded detached, unbecoming of a wife—but it was Marguerite’s honest feeling.

“Kind…?”

With a puzzled look on her face, Anna felt her hand taken by Marguerite.

“…!?”

Anna was one or two years younger than Marguerite, about the same age as Isabella.

But unlike Isabella—who simply looked down on Marguerite and believed she could treat her however she pleased—Anna’s feelings, trying to drive out an enemy for the sake of the person she secretly loved, struck Marguerite as straightforward and dazzling.

Her methods were surely wrong. Yet despite her bold attitude, Anna’s hand was trembling. She was suppressing her fear as she tried to stand up to Marguerite.

“W-Why are you tearing up!?”

“I’m sorry. Life has been so enjoyable lately that my emotions rise easily… I’ve become rather prone to tears.”

Pressing a handkerchief to the tears welling faintly in her eyes, Marguerite shook her head.

“Trying to hide one’s feelings and watch over the master as he is joined with a suitable partner… that’s what I thought I should do. And then what arrives is a dull daughter from an enemy house.”

“What!? What are you even saying!?”

“Never thinking that she herself should stand at his side—only wishing for his happiness… yet seeing his expression sink into anguish, the devoted girl resolves to drive out the enemy, even if it costs her own position.”

As Marguerite spoke while wiping away the tears threatening to spill, Anna’s face turned bright red.

She had wanted to make Marguerite cry—but not like this.

“I understand. I truly do. What a pure heart.”

“That’s not it! That’s not it at all!! Haven’t you just been reading too many strange books while holed up in the library!?”

“Oh my, that might be true.”

The library, which occupied most of the detached wing, held an enormous collection—so many books that it seemed impossible to finish them all in a lifetime.

The contents were wide-ranging: natural histories, history books, encyclopedias, as well as fashionable adventure novels and romance stories. With so much free time on her hands, Marguerite would read them whenever she set aside her embroidery.

The novels that made her heart race and filled her with excitement had melted the frozen heart she had carried in House Clavel.

In exchange—just as Anna said—she might have developed a bit of an overactive imagination.

“I-I’ve had enough!!”

Anna shook her hand free and stormed out of the kitchen.

The servants left behind began eating with indescribable expressions on their faces.

The next morning, as Marguerite was heading toward the kitchen for breakfast, Anna came to her.

“The members of House de Broy are waiting for you.”

“…What?”

Even Marguerite could not help but cry out.

It seemed she was to go to the dining hall that morning and eat with the members of House de Broy.

Seeing how unruffled Marguerite had been, the servants had likely judged the situation beyond their control.

‘There really is no excuse for that…’

Marguerite herself understood that her attitude did not match what House de Broy expected of her.

‘Will I be reprimanded directly by them…? Even so, I can’t ask for a divorce, and I’ll only anger them further…’

Compared to Maurice or Isabella, their scolding would be mild—but at the very least, she resolved to receive it with a meek demeanor, in a somewhat misplaced show of consideration, and headed for the dining hall.