Chapter 70
“Indeed, if you haven’t yet met anyone special in the west, perhaps it would be good to consider a lady from the capital. Lord Hannibal, how about Lady Thalia, daughter of Count Karl?”
At Count Arthur’s urging, and even Prince Daniel’s recommendation, Hannibal forced himself to smooth his frown and reluctantly gave a small nod.
“Thank you for your concern. Then, I’ll cool my head for a bit here and head inside later to greet the guests.”
“Yes, then I shall go ahead and speak to Lady Thalia first. Please join us at your leisure.”
The prince bid the two men farewell and disappeared from the garden. Count Arthur bowed to the prince’s retreating back, then turned with a wide grin spread across his face.
“Did you tell the prince to recommend Count Karl’s daughter to me?”
Hannibal immediately suspected him.
“What? Don’t like her? Then there are others. The second daughter of Viscount Caitlin, the eldest daughter of Baron Jones, and the six Smith sisters—all of them want to marry you. And—”
“Father!”
“Choose one of the women from the capital, Hannibal.”
“What did you just say?”
Even if society gathered with blunt purposes, no one spoke so crassly out loud.
But since only the two of them were present, Count Arthur laid bare his true intentions.
“Hannibal, you’ll be going to war soon! That’s why I must choose your bride today!”
“People are not objects to be picked from a shelf.”
At his refusal, Arthur shouted, looking at his son as if he were a naïve child.
“Hannibal, it’s marriage you’ll have to go through sooner or later anyway. This war is something His Majesty has long prepared for—it will not be short. How long do you plan to keep this lord’s castle without a mistress? Do you know how inconvenient that is? Even this very banquet—”
“So I’m supposed to marry one of these women, leave an heir, and then die on the battlefield? Would that satisfy the picture you want, Father?”
Barred teeth and a growl—the young man radiated killing intent, even in front of his own father.
“Yes, even so! Go and die if you must, but leave behind an heir!!”
Those wretched words only stirred new depths of disappointment and fury in Hannibal.
He already knew his father didn’t care whether he lived or died on the battlefield—but to have it confirmed so callously?
Not wanting to deal with him anymore, Hannibal turned to leave, but Count Arthur dogged his steps relentlessly.
“Hannibal Clyade, this is your duty as heir. If nothing else, then at least get engaged. I even invited a priest from the capital—hold a vow ceremony before God! Take a wife from the capital—”
“Capital, capital, capital—so long as she’s from the capital, she’ll do?!”
Back inside the banquet hall, Hannibal glared at his father as if he might kill him.
“Yes! Different from the ignorant, barbaric west. A woman who knows the manners and laws of Edith Tara—I would approve of any of them!”
Count Arthur’s voice rang out, trembling as though cursed by resentment.
Most of the guests were indeed nobles from the capital, but this was still a banquet held at a western lord’s castle. Western nobles had also been invited.
Hannibal glanced around. From the whispering and staring, it was clear their quarrel had already drawn attention.
And yet, Count Arthur showed no concern as he continued to belittle his own land and people.
“Are you serious, Father? Any woman from the capital would do?” Hannibal asked with a cold sneer.
“Yes! If she’s from the capital, I approve of anyone!”
At that shriek-like answer, Hannibal shot back:
“Fine. Then I’ll get engaged to Ann Perot.”
The words burst out, fueled by anger. He didn’t regret them.
But he knew he could no longer take responsibility for this alone—and that Ann Perot would suffer greatly because of it.
That was what pained him most.
“What? Ann Perot? You mean the head maid?!”
Arthur’s shout was echoed by murmurs from the surrounding nobles.
“Didn’t you just say any woman from the capital would do? Ann Perot—she’s from Edith Tara. She’s skilled enough in noble etiquette to have taught Lady Victoria herself. And as head maid, she already manages the lord’s household. She needs no further training. Isn’t she the perfect mistress for this castle?”
“Hah.”
Was this defiance or childish obstinance? Count Arthur laughed in disbelief at his son’s stubbornness.
“Very well, then! Bring her here and get engaged at once. The priest is present tonight—let’s prepare the vow ceremony!”
Let’s see just how far he’ll take this, Arthur thought.
A mere maid as mistress of House Clyade? The entire west would laugh at them.
While father and son glared at each other, a sharp voice cut in:
“What utter nonsense!”
It was Viscountess Deruca, who had apparently been listening. She looked at them as one might at quarrelling children.
“Grandmother.”
She was one of the few western nobles present among the guests.
“I wondered where you’d gone, only to find you here—what’s this about an engagement with the head maid? Such outrageous nonsense!”
“What am I to do when he’s lost his wits over that maid?” Arthur shot back.
“Is it true, Hannibal??” The Viscountess turned to him, aghast.
He couldn’t deny it.
If he backed down now, Arthur would only shove another woman at him.
And more than that, he didn’t even feel the need to deny it.
“Yes, it’s true.”
“Ann Perot, that girl—”
“She knows nothing of this, Grandmother.”
“What?”
The Viscountess halted, caught mid-gesture.
“It’s one-sided. I simply… like her. That’s why, rather than be forced into engagement with one of Father’s choices, I said I’d marry Ann Perot instead.”
The explanation flowed easily.
After all, Ann Perot did meet many of the conditions Arthur himself had listed. More than that, she was competent, honest, diligent, and dependable.
If he had to choose a woman from the capital, Hannibal could think of no one else but her.
“…And she has no idea of your feelings?”
“No.”
“Even if she’s a maid, Hannibal, you cannot decide an engagement without her consent,” the Viscountess said calmly, urging him to retract.
“I will convince her.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes, studying his son.
Though they’d lived under the same roof, Hannibal and Ann had never seemed particularly close. Could it be real affection born from working together—or just words spoken in a fit of anger?
Either way, the fool clearly didn’t realize what disaster he was bringing upon himself.
“Fine. Then let’s make use of tonight’s banquet. Go and bring Ann Perot. Prove you weren’t lying. Surely the head maid won’t reject your confession.”
The idea that Hannibal Clyade—the son Sarah Clyade had cherished—would marry a mere maid filled Arthur with a twisted sense of triumph.
At best, he’d hoped to marry him to some minor noble’s daughter and reap small benefits. But this? This was deliciously humiliating.
“A maid as countess? Are you out of your mind, Count Clyade!”
The Viscountess shouted, but Arthur didn’t flinch.
“He refused all the noble ladies I suggested. What else can I do?”
“Because you keep pushing capital women while ignoring the fine ladies of the west! Hannibal, don’t fall into the count’s trap!”
“Viscountess Deruca, that’s too much!”
As the two older nobles clashed, Hannibal’s thoughts were only on Ann Perot.
She had no idea what was happening.
“…Understood. I’ll go prepare her and bring her.”
The die was cast. All that remained was for him to take responsibility. Hannibal clenched his fists as he met Arthur’s smug smile.
This battle of pride between father and son carried with it the weight of Ann Perot’s fate.
“Hannibal!”
Ignoring the Viscountess’s cry, Hannibal left the hall. Behind him, their heated argument echoed faintly.
He walked down the corridor until he caught a passing servant.
“Where is Ann Perot?”
“She’s in the kitchen, my lord.”
But she wasn’t there. Another servant, noticing Hannibal searching, spoke up:
“Are you looking for the head maid, sir? She’s organizing the food storage.”
“I see.”
Striding off, Hannibal soon found her weighing a heavy sack of grain.
“So this makes sixty batches of dough already used up. We’ll need to prepare several more—”
“Ann Perot.”
“My lord.”
At his appearance, the nearby maids scrambled to their feet and bowed.
“Let’s speak privately.”
“Yes.”
Ann followed him. Soon, they were in the second-floor study.
Click. The closing door sounded unusually loud. But it wasn’t the first time they’d been alone, so Ann merely waited calmly, wondering what the matter was.
“Ann Perot… I truly must apologize.”
The sudden words of apology made her tilt her head in confusion. Then Hannibal spoke again:
“Be my fiancée.”
…What? What had she just heard? Ann couldn’t believe it.
“Wh-what did you say?”
Her face showed naked shock and bewilderment, unable to hide it.
Watching her composed expression break for the first time, Hannibal bit his lip bitterly.
“Just as I said. I want you to be engaged to me.”
“Why—why suddenly… Me? Me?”
Ann stared at him with wide, startled eyes.
Her trembling hands and wavering pupils betrayed her unease. Her lips parted, but only sighs escaped instead of words.
None of this was the reaction Hannibal had hoped for.
Of course, he had expected that Ann, who served him faithfully as lord, would have no interest in him personally.
But still, her raw reaction stung more than he had imagined.
As his feelings for her had quietly grown, he must have foolishly hoped she might feel the same.
Pressing a hand hard against his chest, Hannibal spoke slowly:
“More than any woman from the capital, I thought you the most suitable. You already know this household inside and out, you are well-versed in noble etiquette, and—”
And above all… the truth was, you were the first person who came to mind.
But Hannibal could not bring himself to say that aloud.
