Chapter 11
Chapter 4. The Great Escape
The age of twenty-two is reached only after experiencing more than people think. At least, that’s what Annette R. Bonnel believes. Individuals naturally have different experiences and pasts, but the total amount of joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure is not vastly different.
For instance, consider this: When her friend Vanessa was suffering the fever of first love after instantly falling for Gautier Mallet, Annette R. Bonnel nearly went mad because she couldn’t get the season bag from Gerin-Lajoie. When Vivian Montail’s family business failed and Vivian was plunged into despair, Annette R. Bonnel’s family had their assets forcibly frozen and had to undergo police investigation, accused of being the ringleaders of a mass strike in Ponce. When Nina’s grandfather passed away, Annette R. Bonnel’s cat, Donut, whom she and Benedict Bonnel had raised from a kitten, almost died from enteritis. The things people experience are mostly all the same.
However, the current incident might be slightly different.
Few women in the world would likely experience something similar to what she is going through now. This experience of squeezing through the kitchen storage and escaping like a stray cat, trying to avoid a man who is the most popular, undeniably handsome, but a criminal in this country.
It was miserable.
The chefs gathered to peel basins full of onions gave her suspicious looks.
It was embarrassing, too.
“Please continue your work.”
“But… this area is restricted to outsiders…”
“It’s a private matter.”
Her best attempt at evasion seemed to be useless on the masters of the kitchen, as the chefs stopped what they were doing, one by one, with disgruntled expressions. One thick-armed chef with a particularly unpleasant look even threw his paring knife on the floor.
“What in the hell is this?”
She felt bad, but she understood. She didn’t even understand why she was running away like this, so how could total strangers understand?
…Still, to explain the situation, the reason she was passing through this cramped food storage room was that a person who shouldn’t be in her day had appeared.
That utterly inscrutable man, Lionel Yorkshire.
To explain the whole situation, one must go back ten days.
The days Annette R. Bonnel spent after the Cheboteteu party could be summarized as ‘a vacation spent on a wave of fire.’ She judged that minimizing her external movements was the best course of action since she couldn’t predict how Lionel Yorkshire, who knew his criminal conspiracy had been overheard, would react.
She only went out minimally when the new real estate purchase on Soles Street began, delegating most of the rest to Riebner. Riebner looked at her with suspicion regarding her uncharacteristic declaration of self-imposed confinement, but Riebner was the type to conduct a private investigation rather than pry.
On the other hand, a miracle occurred for Benedict Bonnel. Whether he was struck by a carriage on the eight-lane Gautier toll road, or whether his conviction was never tougher than a single sheet of paper, the Earl Peregrine had fallen in love with Benedict Bonnel. This required the valuable sacrifice of one bottle of Valtié Sommeneuve 33-year-old wine, which was carefully stored in the La Collection cellar—in short, an astronomical price. He was even planning to go to Earl Riederolf’s hunting party in a few days to court the Duke Du Jardin.
Meanwhile, there was still no news of Baron Cobain, so it should be clear enough how frantic Annette R. Bonnel was.
So that week, Annette R. Bonnel threw herself into the written word as if in flight.
Excluding time spent riding or strolling, most of her waking hours were dedicated to devouring various newspapers, magazines, and miscellaneous books. She made sure to read even quite old newspapers. This was to find any articles written about the man named Arch, who was presumed to be dead recently, and Viscount Emmet J. Milton or the Milton family.
Her efforts paid off; it wasn’t a meaningless waste of time.
While usable articles about Viscount Emmet J. Milton didn’t appear in famous newspapers like the Lenore Post, Buchanan Times, or Romerto Journal, she unexpectedly found information about the man named Arch in the corner of a Kiwi Party information bulletin.
Archivolt Requeti. A self-employed farmer of Kiwi Party affiliation, over sixty years old. He seemed quite famous among his peers for having contributed several articles to the party bulletin urging the Yeoman class of self-employed farmers to unite. He was tried for embezzlement and corruption two years ago, served time, and recently died.
This person was clearly the man named Archivolt Requeti that the other man had killed. She needed to investigate further.
Anyway, after going through all those magazines and newspapers, whenever she had spare time or needed a break, Annette R. Bonnel immersed herself in another world of the written word. By starting the process of sending cards for relationship management.
In Chavin, the Bonnell influence was strong enough to overturn a mountain, but Lenore was not a city friendly to the Bonnells. If the foundation for the financial reform bill was successfully laid, the Bonnells would make a more spectacular debut in Lenore than any other family, and then these people would become friendly towards them.
But until then, effort was required.
Though it might seem trivial, the basics were letters and cards of greeting. She sent cards with a bit more enthusiasm to those known to have poor relations with Lion Party members and to the Red Platypus Party members, and with an appropriate level of cordiality to some Kiwi Party members and other propertied classes with a vested interest in capital growth. The list of card recipients was managed by Riebner, so the mechanical task of writing the cards was not difficult.
Then, if a sudden adolescent fancy arose in her heart, she would turn her pen to write letters to her friends back home. The content was, naturally, not embarrassing beginnings like, ‘How are you? I miss you all.’ The main content was things like, ‘Just keep badmouthing me now that I’m in Lenore.’
And in yet another sense of ‘assault by the written word,’ a letter arrived from Laetitia. The content was nothing special. It was a mundane daily account of greetings copied straight from a textbook, offers to hang out, the weather (which was equivalent to a waste of paper), the gossip in society that changed daily, a popular play in the city, and lavish praise for a handsome actor.
Ah, why was it an assault? Nine letters had arrived for her within a week. That was a phenomenon that defined the woman named Laetitia. The woman with the saucer-like eyes lacked even one day’s patience to wait for a reply after sending a letter.
After replying only the first couple of times and ignoring the rest, Gervais felt pity for Laetitia. He even said the stupid thing of, ‘If you’re busy, should I reply on your behalf?’ It wasn’t that Annette R. Bonnel disliked Laetitia, but she had too many things to worry about. Irritated, Annette R. Bonnel snapped at Gervais, “Isn’t the red mailbox of this mansion with eleven acres of garden and woods, which is about to get indigestion because of Laetitia, not pitiful?” Gervais sulked for about an hour and then recovered on his own, and Annette R. Bonnel didn’t even notice he had been sulking.
It was the second day since Benedict Bonnel had left for the hunting party hosted by the Riederolf family.
She wondered if it was simply a bright summer or if Lenore’s summers were always this bright. The sky was an eye-stinging blue, and the white clouds, brushed across like a painting, felt denser than in previous years.
Annette R. Bonnel settled down in the garden to read the newspaper. Since she had maintained minimal outings for nearly ten days, she figured she should at least get some fresh air this way. She was getting restless. As everyone knows, when a person’s thoughts start to gravitate towards dissatisfaction, objectivity fades, and complacency sets in.
Annette R. Bonnel stared sulkily at a page of the Buchanan Times. This newspaper, which regularly publishes content about Lionel Yorkshire‘s good deeds and heart-warming stories as if it were his positive representative, featured another short article about him today. It claimed that Lionel Yorkshire, the “White Angel,” had gone to Piaget for two days last week to volunteer at a private orphanage there.
Her first impression was honestly absurd. The man with that temper volunteering at an orphanage with a kind smile was laughable enough, but she was annoyed that this man was carrying on with his life, doing everything he pleased, while she had chosen voluntary confinement.
The articles are always only one side of the story and are certainly not the whole truth. And given the fairly accurate intel that Lionel Yorkshire was looking for someone, her decision wasn’t necessarily wrong. However, a unnecessary speck of doubt, ‘Was I too overly sensitive…?’ began to form.
Perhaps the bright, clear day was touching her emotional side, as Maeva, who was sitting across from her with her chin propped up on her hand, was particularly full of complaints today.
“I wonder if the Young Master will even catch anything. I wish you had gone with him, Miss. Many women participate in the Royal Hunting Competitions these days, you know?”
“He may not have the courage to catch a single rabbit, but he definitely knows how to get attention. If all else fails, he’ll probably just jump in front of an arrow.”
Annette R. Bonnel, resting both elbows on the table, folded the newspaper and tossed it aside.
