Chapter 63
Hannibal’s sharp gaze made Count Arthur’s violet eyes cloud over.
Looking into those aged, hollow eyes, it was impossible to guess the lecherous old man’s true thoughts.
“Hannibal, as a Clyde, this is unavoidable. You must produce heirs. Only when you have children and see them cast aside as useless will you understand my heart.”
The words spilled out of the old man well past seventy—long-pent-up bitterness finding release.
But Hannibal showed no sign of catching it, and coldly kicked it aside.
“Father, you are the rare symbol of fertility in the Clyde family. Why don’t you just sire another son yourself? Ah, but seeing how there’s been no word in years, perhaps age has caught up with you, and it’s difficult now.”
“Hannibal Clyde!”
Mocking his father’s womanizing was no big matter.
Ignoring the old man’s flushed, furious face as he stormed away from the table, Hannibal gave an order to the servants over the cold food.
“Reset the table.”
And so, father and son clashed day after day, living as though on thin ice.
In the meantime, judgment was passed on Delo Sandor.
The outcome: a light sentence of house confinement.
It was too trivial to even call it punishment, but because of it, Delo had to leave for his southern hometown.
That result was possible only because the lord had personally confirmed with the witch that both the supposed accidental death and attempted murder of Anne Pero were true.
Or rather, perhaps the greater weight lay in the fact that he had dared to spit out reckless words against the Clyde family.
“Sir Sandor only made some youthful mistakes, and for a maid to meddle in such matters—that was the crime. How could he be at fault? And nobles aren’t imprisoned simply for killing a few commoners.”
Count Arthur had strongly defended Sandor, and the reaction of the western aristocracy was hardly different.
Thus, within a week, Delo Sandor was released.
Dissatisfied with such punishment, Hannibal personally exercised his authority and banned the Sandor family from entering the lord’s castle.
Meanwhile, Victoria had shut herself away for nearly two months.
She barely touched her meals, and some days her eyes were swollen as if she’d cried all night.
The man she loved had turned out to be a bad person, and he had never truly loved her.
Could there be anything more painful to acknowledge?
Wasn’t that why Anne, foolishly trusting until the very end, had gone as far as death?
Though she suffered in anguish, Victoria Clyde had made a wiser choice than her former self.
Anne decided to wait, giving her time to sort out her feelings alone.
Two months passed this way, until Anne could wait no longer. She sought out Victoria’s personal maid to ask after her.
“Thankfully, she hasn’t spoken a word about the young master since. …The problem is, lately, she’s hardly been eating at all.”
Hearing this, Anne immediately prepared breakfast herself and went to Victoria’s room.
Knock knock—she rapped politely on the door.
“My lady, it’s me. Are you awake?”
“Come in, Anne.”
Anne opened the door, pushing in a cart laden with a tray.
Crisp sausages and bacon, buttery croissants, fresh juice, tea, milk, and an assortment of creams and jams—
A lavish spread.
“My lady, I heard you’ve been eating poorly, so I prepared your favorites myself.”
“It’s fine, take it awa—ugh!”
Victoria shot up, clapping a hand to her mouth as she gagged.
“My lady?”
A chilling premonition struck Anne.
She hurriedly removed the food, returning only with a glass of lemon juice.
“At least moisten your throat.”
On any other day, Victoria would have scolded her and refused. But now, she gulped it down greedily.
“…Haa.”
Pushing back her disheveled hair, she pressed her brow.
No words were needed—the pallor of her face said everything. Anne, too, turned pale as chalk.
How could it be, in this situation of all times—her mistress was pregnant.
A thunderbolt out of a clear sky.
“…It’s Sir Sandor’s child, isn’t it?”
Anne spoke carefully, lowering her voice.
Victoria gave a small nod. Her face was haggard and wan, but her voice was filled with desperation.
“I won’t marry him. Never, not to that man.”
Her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles whitened.
“In fact, on the last day Delo Sandor was imprisoned, I went to him in secret.”
“…!”
Anne’s eyes widened in shock.
But Victoria gave a bitter laugh. Her face was full of betrayal and loathing, no trace left of the love she once had.
“That bastard laughed at me. Said I was so stupid and gullible, he could’ve kept deceiving me forever—if only he hadn’t been unlucky.”
“…That bastard.”
The curse escaped Anne before she realized it.
“Anne, if not for you, I would have kept believing him. Kept loving him.”
“My lady, you are far too good for the likes of him. Forget him.”
“Yes, I tried to. But then…”
Her hand pressed her stomach, and Anne’s face hardened. The wretch had been quick with his hands.
She should have stopped them from being alone together that very first meeting in the lounge.
Anne’s chest filled with belated regret.
“What do I do, Anne? If I confess the truth, they’ll force me to marry him. I’d rather die!”
“Don’t die. And you must not marry him either.”
A way—Anne needed to find a way.
Her heart pounded as her mind raced, but no solution came.
Victoria looked at her imploringly.
“Anne, they say maids can cure illnesses without doctors. Could you… end it? Could you get such a medicine?”
There were indeed many folk remedies poor maids used to cover up their mistakes.
But all of them endangered the woman’s own life.
“I can’t have that man’s child. I won’t. I refuse.”
Victoria seemed to have no intention whatsoever of giving birth.
Anne thought the same, but still she hesitated to voice it.
“Am I disgusting to you, Anne?”
Victoria asked softly, seeing her maid’s conflicted face.
“No child born this way can be happy, Anne. Such a child cannot be loved. I’m not fit to be a mother. Bringing such misfortune into the world is wrong—”
Curled up on the bed, she broke into sobs.
“I’ll find a way, my lady.”
Anne couldn’t bring herself to say the words—to erase the child.
“Maybe if I fall down the stairs? Or jump from the window—I wouldn’t die, just break my leg. Even if I limped forever, what of it? It’s not like I’ll be riding horses like my brother.”
Unsatisfied by Anne’s vague answer, Victoria suddenly stood and began pacing.
“A Clyde bastard’s child would be treated horribly. Look at me, Anne. This isn’t right. No—above all, I— I’m a woman who can think only monstrous thoughts.”
Lost in guilt and self-reproach, she muttered incoherently. Anne’s chest ached to hear it.
Sandor had killed, and yet returned home in a mere week.
If he learned of Victoria’s pregnancy, he might again seek the Clyde family’s power.
Forgetting his crimes, he would seize the child as a hostage to manipulate her to his will.
And the suffering would all be Victoria’s.
Anne exhaled heavily, haunted by the past.
She could still see that woman’s lower body drenched in blood, glaring at her with sharp, accusing eyes.
Did you love the unborn children? Did you grieve because you loved them—or because they couldn’t secure the Duke’s heir? You bore them when you needed them, and destroyed them when you didn’t. Wasn’t it resentment you felt then?
…I loved them.
Those nameless, faceless lives.
But because of that, I never repeated the same choice.
So what made her any different from Victoria now?
Children could be the fruit of love—or the shackles of women.
I am no longer a maid of House Benton.
I have no ties to Gray Benton.
I am not the Duchess of Benton, and never will be.
So I must judge coldly, harshly, realistically—Anne Pero.
Steeling herself, Anne came to a decision.
And then, like a spark, the solution struck her.
“My lady, let’s speak with the lord.”
Victoria’s face showed disappointment and despair—was that the best Anne could offer?
“No! Are you mad? My brother will marry me off at once—send me to the Sandor family!”
“No. He won’t.”
Anne believed she could persuade Hannibal.
And the Hannibal she knew now would surely listen to both her and his sister’s plea.
“Anne…”
Victoria’s expression wavered at the sight of her maid’s unwavering eyes.
“But if it doesn’t work—what then?”
Anne clasped her mistress’s cold hands tightly.
“I’ll make it work. I promise.”
After soothing her, Anne brought her some thin soup and soft, mild bread.
Seeing Victoria finally eat a little and then rest, Anne was able to leave the room.
Tonight, when she brought the account books, she would carefully broach the subject.
With that plan in mind, Anne strode firmly down the corridor of the lord’s castle.
