Chapter 64
When Agnes stepped out after finishing her lesson with Timothy, Carlo was waiting for her.
“You’re going on a picnic, I hear, Teacher.”
“It’s an outdoor class, Butler.”
“Yes, an outdoor class.”
Carlo reluctantly corrected himself, his elderly face creasing into a teasing smile that irritated her.
“Well, I suppose you could call it a picnic, as you say. After all, it will be a nice bonding time between uncle and nephew.”
“And you’ll be there too.”
“I’m just going along so Tim doesn’t feel uneasy. Whether I’m there or not won’t matter. Since you won’t even tell me what kind of lesson you have planned, perhaps you do think of it as a picnic, just like the butler says.”
Agnes spoke quickly—truthfully, she just wanted to get back to bed because of her headache. But her tone sounded curt and insincere, so she added hastily,
“I’m sorry, Butler. I didn’t mean it in a dismissive way.”
“Teacher, are you tired?”
“…Do I look it?”
“Your complexion isn’t good.”
“Thank you for your concern…”
Carlo studied her for a moment before speaking again.
“It’s already been three months since you came here. I know you’ve worked very hard, and so do the master and the young master. Anyone who knows you would see that.”
“…It’s simply what I had to do. That’s why I came here…”
“No. If it had been someone else, they wouldn’t have managed it. You know, neither the young master nor the master are easy people.”
Agnes let out a small laugh.
That much was true.
Three months already. But looked at another way—it was only three months. Not even a hundred days.
Who could deny that Timothy, when she first arrived, had been a little hellion no one wanted to deal with?
And the Duke of Batenberg, who had shown not the slightest interest in anything his nephew did, was hardly any easier to handle.
She admitted it readily—it hadn’t been easy for anyone, herself included. If she hadn’t regressed, she would never have been able to do it.
If she hadn’t known about the terrible future to come—one that would drag her to her death… and see those poor children sacrificed.
Without that knowledge, she wouldn’t have risked her fragile life like a candle in the wind, pestering the Duke of Batenberg, chipping away at the line between sincerity and overstepping, to reach Timothy.
But what if all that future was nothing but my own delusion?
Her head throbbed.
“I’ll have them prepare a warm cup of herbal tea with your dinner. You should go to bed early tonight.”
“I will.”
“The master won’t be home until late tonight, so do rest.”
She forced a weak smile and turned away. The lesson materials and a few newspapers she held in her arms felt as heavy as iron.
Is it that day? Why am I so weighed down with gloom and doubt?
It had started on the night of the ball.
The fleeting moment when she thought she saw someone who resembled the future Marquis of Reynold had, from the instant she awoke after regressing, planted seeds of anxiety and doubt in her head.
She must have been mistaken, but the unease had already taken root.
No… I’m not doing anything wrong. Timothy and the Duke of Batenberg’s relationship is definitely improving. That can’t be a mistake…
She could see Timothy on horseback, shouting and grumbling, while the Duke held the reins and replied to him. His face was indifferent, but he wasn’t ignoring him—and maybe even enjoying himself.
Watching the scene, Agnes felt something she couldn’t quite name.
A sense that the goal she had driven herself toward was nearly achieved… and an uneasy thought: perhaps even without her intervention, their relationship might have improved eventually.
Not a flood, but a drought…
Up until now, everything had gone according to plan.
She had never doubted.
Collapsing onto her bed, she scanned a newspaper headline.
One of the events she remembered clearly was that the summer she turned twenty-two, there had been a great flood. She couldn’t recall exactly when her ex-fiancé Bran had proposed to her again after breaking off their engagement, but she did remember talking about the flood with Lady Westwick.
It had been the last summer she’d spent at the Westwick estate. Before the next summer came, she had returned to her family’s lands—and lost her job.
No… it’s just a little late. Maybe I’m mistaken. Or maybe it just wasn’t reported in this paper.
All she remembered was that it happened “around summer.”
If Miss Martinez and the Duke of Batenberg build a happy family, and Timothy adapts without trouble, then it’s enough. That will mean I’ve done well…
She had to believe that. The more anxious she became, the more she clung to the idea of marrying Ethan off. She wanted to help sweet, earnest Dalia Martinez, but that wasn’t the only reason. If she could achieve that goal, she could prove to herself that everything had gone well.
Agnes rolled over and buried her face in the pillow.
You can call him Ethan. Just let me use your name…
It’s only a name, so why…
It felt like everything was going well, yet also falling apart.
“Teacher, ah.”
“…”
“Come on, say ah?”
“…Ah…”
She reluctantly opened her mouth, and Timothy, flushed with excitement, popped a fresh grape into it.
“You shouldn’t eat dessert before the main meal…”
“I know, stop nagging. We’re out here to have fun.”
“Tim, it’s an outdoor class, not a picnic.”
“Here?”
Timothy set down his fork and looked around. Agnes followed his gaze.
It was a beautiful day.
They sat beneath the shade of a large tree, with a carefully packed lunch—probably prepared from dawn—spread out before them, the breeze from the wide lakeshore brushing their faces. It was the perfect setting for relaxation rather than study. Timothy looked at her and asked,
“You didn’t bring anything for a lesson, did you?”
“I’m just an observer today…”
“Look at my uncle.”
“…”
“He’s as lazy as they come—what lesson?”
“True… he really is.”
She pronounced each word slowly and clearly, as if for his benefit.
From the grass where he lay sprawled, Ethan opened his eyes and looked at them. Both Agnes and Timothy stared coldly back.
Timothy didn’t even bother to hide his disdain.
“Isn’t this fraud?”
“More like a lie.”
“Either way, it’s cheating. You said it was an outdoor lesson, Uncle!”
“Learning how to rest is important too. Take a nap.”
“I’m not a little kid who needs daily naps. You take one. I’m going to eat lunch with Teacher.”
“…How stingy.”
Ethan gave a faint smile and sat up without any effort. The glossy ends of his black hair had bits of dry grass clinging to them. His usually neat clothes were rumpled in a comfortable way.
Even so, that light summer shirt probably costs more than dozens of my everyday outfits. I bet it’s stained with grass…
Her frugal instincts reared up—habits ingrained ever since she became head of the household after her father’s business failed. Without looking at him, she muttered,
“Your Grace, please, button your shirt properly.”
“Hm?”
“You should only have two buttons undone.”
Ethan blinked his blue eyes and looked down. Four buttons on his summer shirt were open, having come loose while he lay stretched out.
“It’s cooler this way.”
“Please mind your manners. Your nephew is watching!”
“I don’t mind, Teacher. Let’s just eat. If Uncle starts eating first, there’ll be less for us.”
“Tim, that’s not the point. I’ve told you how important a neat appearance is—”
“You did. You said to dress according to the time, place, and occasion. But Teacher, right now, we’re clearly just relaxing. Let him wear what he wants—or not wear it at all…”
Timothy didn’t even glance at Ethan, as if he were dealing with a hopeless case. It was proof of how comfortable he had grown with his uncle. When Agnes said nothing, Timothy finally looked at him.
That same impassive expression, once so cold, now just made him look like a bored layabout. Even the sharp eyes, like finely honed blades, had gone languid. Timothy scowled.
“What is this—indecent.”
“Indecent?! Tim, where did you learn that word—”
“Button your shirt, Uncle! Don’t show weird things to Teacher!”
While Agnes was busy debating whether “indecent” was an appropriate term for a seven-year-old to use, Timothy glared at Ethan, who made no move to fix his shirt. Clicking his tongue, the boy set down his lunch box and reached for his uncle’s shirt himself.
Agnes tensed for a moment.
But Ethan simply closed his eyes and let Timothy grab his collar.
“You’re an adult—act like it…”
With deft little fingers, Timothy fastened the buttons all the way up to his uncle’s throat before pulling back, satisfied. The sight was both comical and heartwarming.
Yes—these two would be fine now. Agnes felt certain.
No matter what misunderstandings arise in the future, there will be no tragedy of an uncle killing his nephew.
Her eyes prickled. To hide the tears that threatened to spill, she lifted the lunch box Timothy had set down and speared a piece of perfectly cooked steak with her fork, holding it out to him.
“Tim, ah~”
“Ah.”
“Ah.”
Uncle and nephew opened their mouths at the same time.
Agnes’s tone went icy.
“Not you, Your Grace.”
“Uncle, are you crazy?”
While Timothy stared at his uncle in disbelief, Ethan leaned forward and stole the piece of meat from her fork.
“Hey, Uncle! That was mine!”
“Tasty.”
“Aren’t you ashamed?! You thief! You shameless crook!”
Holding the now-empty fork, Agnes thought to herself—
She was going to have to teach Timothy some age-appropriate vocabulary.
