Episode 53

A few days later, Archibald had Logan deliver the pass that the agents of the Hanger family usually carried. In effect, it was permission for Marcus to travel beyond the capital.

Logan had no intention of telling Archibald, “The young master accepted the pass while completely drunk.” So, before handing it over, he headed to the well in the backyard of the estate. A thin layer of ice had formed atop the water. Logan gladly drew up a bucketful and dropped the metal pass inside.

When Logan splashed the cold water on drunken Marcus, the man couldn't even tell whether the sharp hit to his head had come from a shard of ice or the metal pass. Even after sobering up, Marcus couldn't tell if the pounding in his skull was from a hangover or from being struck. That said it all.

Logan was slightly taken aback. He’d thought Marcus would be at least a little pleased to receive the pass. But Marcus only stared down at it, let out a deep sigh, and held out his hand to Logan.

“…What more do you want?”

“A cigarette.”

“Didn’t you quit?”

“Let’s see if this worthless tobacco can do anything to settle my nerves.”

Logan raised a brow. Those were words he himself had once told Marcus.

"So what? If burning up some lousy tobacco can bring peace of mind, that’s probably for the best."

Shaking his head, Logan stepped out and returned with a pipe.

He packed it neatly with the tobacco, placed it between Marcus’s lips, struck a flint to light it, and then stepped back. Marcus inhaled a deep draw—and immediately started coughing. Hacking violently.

The fit was loud enough that a passing maid peeked in, alarmed. Eyes red, Marcus shot Logan a sharp glance. Logan, expressionless as ever, replied,

“They say drinking heavily leads to dementia. It seems they weren’t wrong.”

“…I haven’t forgotten how to smoke, alright?”

Marcus offered a feeble retort and cautiously inhaled the smoke again. Rubbing his aching head a couple of times as he savored it, he eventually shook his head and tossed the pipe into the fireplace.

“It tastes awful.”

“It’s premium tobacco from Allanque. There is no way it tastes bad.”

“Take it all.”

“Thanks, but I don’t smoke. I’ll sell it and invest the money toward household expenses.”

Marcus didn’t even smile at Logan’s rare joke—just sank deeper into the sofa.

Logan glanced toward the floor. That pink piece of fabric tossed into the corner of the room had been bothering him all morning. It was obvious why it had ended up there—this wretched young master had probably tossed it aside after another drunken night, even though he used to carry it around like a beloved comfort blanket, chewing and clinging to it, even staining it with his touch.

“Logan.”

“Yes.”

“I should go to Maine.”

“You’ve already sent the staff, sir.”

“I know. But…”

Marcus hesitated for a long time before speaking.

“…Winter makes you want to go home.”

Logan said nothing. So, that’s what this was. This young master was holding on to the hope that the lady might have returned to the Starwood estate in Maine.

As soon as Marcus returned from Cliff, he’d sent people to Maine.

He had wanted to go himself, but Archibald, furious, wouldn’t allow him to leave the estate. The staff sent to Maine had returned with their report to Marcus and Archibald.

A woman named Elouise Starwood had indeed lived there, they said—and the Starwood estate she cherished as her own life was also located in that region.

But the house had been empty.

Archibald, face twisted with some unreadable emotion, ordered the staff to assign a steward to the place to oversee its repair and maintenance. He sternly warned them to spread no rumors, even if the locals grew curious.

Marcus, disregarding his father, sent more staff several more times, even Logan on the third trip, but nothing came of it. From autumn into winter, not even a rat had shown up at the Starwood estate.

“No matter how captivating the scenery, how strange or exotic the trinkets, once the weather turns cold, everyone longs to return to a warm home. And she… she was a homebody. Wouldn’t the cold make her yearn for her own house?”

“I hesitate to spoil the mood, sir, but…”

“Ruining the mood is your entire job. Speak.”

“The Starwood estate is extremely cold.”

Marcus groaned. Logan, unfazed, laid out the facts.

“With respect, it looked to be nearly three hundred years old. Not just old with history—simply old. I didn’t step inside, but even from the outside, the wind was whistling through the cracks in the stone. It was early autumn, but it felt like mid-winter.”

“…”

“If that were my home, I wouldn’t want to go back either.”

“…I see.”

Marcus leaned his chin on his hand and sank into thought. A foreboding swept over Logan. And sure enough, his instincts were correct—Marcus left for Maine the very next morning.

---

Maine was a full four days' journey from the capital. One had to take a train for a day, transfer at a stop that only ran two trains per day, take another full day on the next train, then finish the trip by carriage. That alone said all one needed to know about how remote Maine was.

“…You’re telling me the main shopping street only has three bakeries?”

“One of them doubles as a general store, and another sells shoes.”

Logan, who had been to Maine before and knew the lay of the land, guided Marcus.

Maine referred collectively to a small commercial strip, three villages, and a dozen or so scattered estates around each. As Marcus walked through the commercial street, he glanced around. The fountain had been turned off for the winter and appeared bleak. The cold kept even the children indoors. Signs outside the bakeries were chipped and flaking.

“It’s rural enough as is, but winter makes it look downright desolate.”

“Wasn’t it always like this?”

“When I came in late autumn, it felt like a decently quaint countryside village.”

Marcus took in the entire stretch of the commercial strip. It wasn’t much—one could cross it in a few hundred steps, at most.

Even the dress shops were small, and there wasn’t a single large jeweler in sight. The roads were well-kept, but dust danced in the air.

Still, it's cleaner than the back alleys of the capital where sewage flows freely.

Standing in the center of Maine's tiny commercial street, Marcus imagined the steps his beloved might have taken.

Outside one modest dress shop hung a green dress, its style clearly several seasons out of date. Marcus paused before it and thought of Elouise.

Her delighted face in front of dozens of fabric samples, her wide, surprised eyes looking up at him. Those round, blue eyes were what prompted him to order every single fabric in the shop.

Ah.

Marcus closed his eyes. He remembered claiming his desires boldly as she hesitated, unsure how many to choose, amazed and overjoyed.

It made no sense to gift such an abundance of dresses to a fake bride.

Logan and Elouise had both chalked it up to Marcus simply being eccentric and careless with money. Marcus himself had thought it was out of pity or bravado—but now he realized.

All he had wanted was to see her happy.

With that, the man gazed down at his left hand. On it was the tourmaline wedding ring they had chosen together. Marcus gave a bitter smile.

Elouise had taken more than just dresses and diamonds when she left.

She had taken the six-carat tourmaline ring they’d matched, and a copy of the marriage contract. Whether she had done so intentionally or packed it without thinking, Marcus didn’t know. But at the very least, he hoped it meant she had thought of him—if only for a moment.

Because otherwise, he didn’t think he could bear it.

“Logan.”

“Yes.”

“It’s strange.”

“What is, sir?”

“Why hasn’t my heart let go?”

To that question, Logan had no answer. It was the one thing that most tormented those around Marcus—and the one question even Logan couldn’t respond to.

Marcus’s feelings had not faded.

To those around him, that was the strangest and most bewildering part. Everyone had assumed Marcus would forget her soon.

The reckless flirt who’d been dragged back from Cliff by the collar had never stayed in love with any woman for more than two months. Sure, this had been his first time getting dumped, but everyone still believed the infatuation would pass—just like always.

Even Archibald.

Despite tying his will to Elouise, Archibald believed Marcus would cool down and come crawling back.

He had never imagined Marcus would go so far as to chase her to Maine in the dead of winter.

“Young master.”

“I don’t know anymore, Logan.”

Marcus spoke like someone reciting a line.

“I came all this way, but I still can’t get a grip on my heart.”

“…”

“I’ve never been to Maine. When I first heard about it, bathed in early summer sunlight, I thought it must be a beautiful place. But without her, it’s shabby, provincial—nothing like the capital.”

Marcus looked up again at the dress shop.

He imagined Elouise walking past that outdated green dress. Imagined her pausing to look at it. Wondered how many steps she had taken down this modest little street in the thirty years she had lived here.

“But Logan, isn’t it strange…? The idea that she walked these very streets makes me like them—though I’ve never seen them before.”

“Is that so, sir.”

“Why hasn’t my heart cooled?”

Marcus sighed.

“I told her four months would be enough. And yet… it’s been six, and here I am, still hung up on her like a fool.”

Logan said nothing as his master covered his face with both hands, rubbing it dry over and over.

“Will this ever end?”

“…”

“Will she ever come back?”

“…”

“Or… can I even find her again? I still love her. But has she already forgotten me?”

Marcus mumbled for a long time. Seeing two men who were clearly outsiders loitering in front of the boutique, the shop owner cautiously peeked out—only to shut the door again after catching sight of Marcus muttering like a madman.

“Logan. She left the hometown she’d lived in for thirty years. If she could give up such a charming little town like this… then leaving me must’ve been easy for her….”

“…”

“Damn it, what the hell have I been doing with my life…? Logan, why did you let me commit something so awful? Why did I do it?”

If the women who once cried because of the capital’s most notorious playboy had witnessed this scene, they would’ve been utterly delighted.

Logan quietly watched Marcus, silently thankful they were in Maine. He didn’t offer a handkerchief like he had for Elouise. His young master didn’t deserve one.

---

Marcus did have one solid excuse to visit the Starwood estate. Before she left, Elouise had accepted her aunt’s offer. Madam Noskina had assured Elouise not to worry—she would send people to maintain the estate in her absence.

Archibald Hanger had told Madam Noskina he’d repay the debt his son had incurred.

Though she didn’t seem thrilled about it, the truth was Madam Noskina was more than willing to allow her brother—who owned a fortune hundreds of times greater than hers—take over that responsibility.

On top of that, Marcus had sworn to return Madam Noskina’s jewelry no matter what. Of course, she had scoffed at his promise.

Still, it was enough to grant him access to the Starwood estate. And the moment he saw that dreary, forlorn mansion, Marcus was struck with surprise. Logan, with an expression that said I told you so, remarked:

“I said it looked at least three hundred years old, didn’t I?”

“No, it’s not that.”

Marcus frowned and studied the house.

It wasn’t just familiar—it was deeply familiar. He circled the mansion once, stepped back several paces to get a wider view, and then it hit him. The house looked exactly like the miniature mansion he had witnessed in Madam Noskina’s forest.

Marcus rubbed his forehead. He hadn’t disliked that tiny, adorable girl. In fact, he’d found her rather charming.

Juliet hadn’t been particularly friendly toward Marcus, but she hadn’t shied away from him either. Still, he had never—never—imagined that the miniature house in the woods had anything to do with Juliet.

I’d thought it was just something my aunt had commissioned for her garden…

Marcus now deduced that either Juliet had made it herself, or she’d asked someone to make it for her.

Which meant—Marcus allowed himself a sliver of hope.

That perhaps Juliet, at least, might be longing for this house.

When it came to Juliet, Elouise had acted like she would give her the world. One of the few things she’d been genuinely happy about after marrying Marcus, even if it was a sham, was that Juliet was finally receiving a proper education. She had even seemed a little jealous seeing Juliet get along so well with Abigail.

If the woman I love sees her precious niece yearning for this house… would she think of coming back?

And then, Marcus felt the weight of despair again—because Juliet wasn’t her daughter, but her niece.

He slowly walked toward the well in the back garden. Elouise had once mentioned, offhandedly, that Juliet loved yelling into the well—but because she was afraid the child might fall in, she’d had tall wooden stakes installed around it.

Just as she said. The old, small well was encircled by thin, jagged wooden slats. Crude work, but tall enough that a child Juliet’s size wouldn’t have been able to get through.

Did she build it herself?

The thought made even the shabby, dust-covered wood feel precious. Marcus gently ran his fingers over the tips of the stakes and let out a sigh.

A niece…

The list of things he regretted was endless. That day when he realized Elouise had disappeared—when Madam Noskina finally exposed her escape and revealed the truth—was the day Marcus learned that Elouise was not at all the woman she had claimed to be.

It was true the child’s father had passed away, but Elouise had never had a husband.

Juliet’s mother was her older sister. And Elouise—according to Madam Noskina—was a spinster who had reached the age of thirty without ever so much as holding a man’s hand. When Marcus found out, he wanted to stab himself in the throat.

The way her wet cheeks trembled as she awkwardly confessed her feelings. The way her eyes were always filled with fear, unable to trust his love…

That night they had spent together—only because she couldn’t bear to keep tormenting herself—haunted him. It made him feel utterly wretched.

And I—asking her how things were with her late husband!

Throughout their fake marriage, Marcus had asked Elouise more than once about her deceased husband.

At first it was out of curiosity, and later, out of jealousy. Elouise had never given him a clear answer, not because of discomfort or respect for the dead, but because she was exhausted—tired of making up lies.

And Marcus understood. Truly, he did. What kind of woman would reveal to a stranger in a foreign land that she was a penniless, unmarried orphan?

Among nobles, it was common courtesy to offer someone shelter in hard times, and to graciously accept it if needed. But Marcus wasn’t a noble. In hindsight, the only reason she had clung to him so meekly was because she had absolutely nothing—not a coin to her name.

So of course she had pretended to be a widow in front of Marcus, who must’ve appeared like a madman.

Everyone knew it was far more acceptable to be a struggling widow with a child than a destitute, unmarried girl. A dead husband, after all, still counted as a husband.

The private quarters Logan led him to were filled with Elouise’s belongings brought from the Noskina estate. As Marcus opened the wardrobe and looked through the neatly hung blouses and gowns, emotion welled up in his chest.

Among them, he spotted a green taffeta dress. One with ties at the back—ties that Marcus himself had once fastened.

Back then, he had whined like a child, begging her to match outfits with him.

She had sighed but played along. Not because she loved him—he knew that very well.

When did she start loving me, then?

He began to wonder if she had ever said she loved him at all—or if he had only dreamed it.

No matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t find a single reason why she would fall for someone like him. He had always been reckless and foolish—anything but charming.

Elouise, on the other hand, had seeped into him like a slow, quiet rain. She had clapped along with his joy, humored his whims, stood beside him while he acted like a child—and before he knew it, he had fallen for her.

But she was no longer by his side.

Marcus reached out carefully and touched the taffeta fabric. Thin. Crinkly.

It seemed to possess the same depth as the man he was—and that made him all the more miserable.

---

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