What Does A Sad Face Look Like, Again?

In the dining hall, only Lucien and his mother, Lady Yumila, were seated. Alban, the Duke of de Broy, did not appear to be present.

Lucien’s expression was stiff. In contrast, Yumila’s was severe, and she glared piercingly at Marguerite as she entered the hall.

“Good morning, Mother Yumila, Lord Lucien.”

Marguerite bowed gracefully. It was the very posture that Lucien had acknowledged the day before.

However, Marguerite’s dress was an unadorned, outdated piece, and the only accessory she wore was the coral pendant her mother had given her.

At once, Yumila’s fan slapped down hard on the table.

“You show up late, and what is that outfit!? Are you trying to insult us!?”

“N-no, not at all!”

Marguerite hurriedly lowered her head.

No one from either House de Broy or House Clavel had prepared bridal attire for Marguerite—but that was beside the point.

“House de Broy is a noble family with a long history. Our origins trace back to the Battle of the White Lily that led to the founding of the kingdom, when our ancestors sided with the royal family and were granted land. In other words, your appearance is an affront not only to our house, but to the royal family and even to our ancestors!”

‘Mother, that’s turned into a history lecture rather than a threat.’

Her voice was loud and certainly grating, but the content did not pierce the heart.

Marguerite thought Yumila must be a kind person at heart. She wanted to respond in a way that suited her expectations.

“Poor Lucien, being forced to marry a woman like this. It stains his record.”

Even if the royal family later tired of the matter and allowed a divorce, the marriage history would remain. Finding the next partner would be difficult.

In truth, the damage would be far greater for Marguerite, a woman, than for Lucien—but that was of no concern to Yumila.

“If you had even a shred of conscience, you would never show your face here in such a disgraceful state.”

“……”

Marguerite remained silent, letting her shoulders slump slightly as if dejected.

What mattered here was that she appear hurt by the unreasonable scolding.

If that could relieve even a little of Yumila’s frustration—so Marguerite hoped.

‘Meek expression, meek expression… a pained, sad face… but what does that even look like?’

Unable to lift her lowered face, Marguerite went completely blank.

When she had been oppressed in House Clavel, she must have worn pained or sad expressions at first. But if she cried, she was struck and told not to play the victim; if she looked hurt, Isabella would explode, accusing her of shifting blame, and lecture her at length about how worthless she was.

So Marguerite had stopped showing any emotion at all. She had even forgotten how to make expressions.

‘That I managed not to forget how to smile—that’s something wonderful.’

Since coming to House de Broy, Marguerite had been smiling naturally. The reason she could not make a sad or pained face was simple—she did not feel that way.

She had forgotten how to shape expressions, but her emotions were still alive. By interacting with people, she could laugh, enjoy herself, and even shed tears of being moved.

Thinking about it that way, how fortunate she was.

Her lips loosened before she realized it.

Urged on by the happiness swelling in her chest, Marguerite lifted her face.

“…!! You—are you mocking me!?”

“Ah.”

She had forgotten that this would enrage Lady Yumila.

‘I failed…’

In her room beside the library, Marguerite reflected on her mistake.

Rather than relieving Yumila’s frustration, she had likely caused it to build up even more.

What Yumila wanted was for Marguerite to speak of divorce, or to feel so miserable she wished she were dead.

She should have been in tears, unable to swallow her food, acting weak and pitiful.

‘I did cry, though…’

Eating together with the servants in the kitchen was delicious as always, but that morning, the same dishes served to Lucien and Yumila had been placed before Marguerite as well.

It was the first lavish meal she had had in five years, since her mother’s death.

Overwhelmed by how good it tasted, she had finished it all with tears in her eyes.

In House Clavel, the soup given to Marguerite had been deliberately cooled and watered down, and the bread was stale from sitting out a day—served with meticulous cruelty at the same table as Maurice and Isabella.

‘They must have had an incredible amount of free time…’

She could imagine how much they had enjoyed watching Marguerite stare enviously at their food.

But Yumila seemed different. After seeing Marguerite’s beaming smile, Lucien’s expression had turned subtle, and he had not looked her way again, finishing his meal in silence and leaving immediately. He could not have enjoyed it.

‘What should I do so everyone can live comfortably?’

Living happily herself while causing discomfort to House de Broy felt wrong.

She pondered the question—but no answer seemed forthcoming.