Episode 62

Marcus doubted his own eyes. Was this a vision? A mirage?

He couldn’t make out the baby’s face clearly. But in that afternoon sun—those thick brown curls and brows, those green eyes.

And the age matched the timeline that had long haunted his thoughts.

He urged himself to be rational. That child couldn’t possibly be his. Juliet had clearly said the baby belonged to “Uncle Alby.” Without knowing who that was, he couldn’t afford to jump to conclusions.

But the moment Elouise spoke—calling herself “mama”—his determination shattered like glass.

The dam broke.

Tears fell in heavy drops.

He did not know why. The woman before him seemed so unreal—and the child in her arms even more so.

For three years he had searched for her like a madman, and now, there she stood—holding a child, staring blankly at him mid-laundry. The two of them stood, a single fence between them, simply gazing at one another.

It felt as though time had stopped.

To Marcus, this moment was pure joy—the very moment he had yearned for with every fiber of his being. Yet that same yearning also made it feel unbelievable, too dreamlike to act upon. So he stood frozen, watching the woman holding the child.

To Elouise, it was nothing but surreal.

She studied the man standing on the other side of her fence. Perhaps she was dreaming. Only this morning, she had been thinking of him while replacing the bedding—shaking the straw loose as if to shake off her lingering regrets about Marcus Hanger, who surely had forgotten her and gone on with life in the capital.

And yet, there he stood.

“…A dream?”

She spoke aloud, testing the sound.

The man before her simply let his tears fall, which only lent the scene more credibility.

The Marcus Hanger she knew—if he were to see her again—would simply smile, call her name like they'd met just yesterday, and treat her as no more than a friend. Or, perhaps, he’d pretend not to know her at all, with those piercing, frigid eyes.

But Marcus Hanger crying before her?

That, she had never once imagined.

And yet—

It was strange. If this were a dream, the man before her should have looked exactly as she remembered.

The well-tailored linen jacket and trousers, the summer shirt, the neatly combed brown hair, the noble forehead, and even those sharp yet well-fed cheeks—Marcus Hanger, with his self-assured smile against the backdrop of white sands in that beautiful seaside city, still lingered in her retinas like an indelible painting.

But the man standing before her now was worlds apart from that memory. His eyes were sunken, and his cheeks likewise hollow. His throat seemed more shadowed than before, perhaps because he had lost weight. Though his shoulders remained broad, the impression they gave was now one of leanness rather than strength. His wrists were gaunt, and his once-long and manly fingers appeared more slender. And his suit—creased and disheveled beyond measure.

It was only natural, considering he had traveled three days by train. And yet, the Marcus Hanger in Elouise’s memory had always worn crisply ironed suits like a man of impeccable taste. So, she furrowed her brow slowly.

“…No way.”

“El…ouise.”

The man couldn’t even utter her name in one breath. His voice caught in his throat.

But Elouise flinched in shock. This is a dream—yet he speaks! Reflexively, she tightened her arms around the baby. The child, startled out of sleep, burst into tears.

“Waaah!”

“Oh, oh—Quincy,”

The sudden outburst startled Elouise as well, and she hastened to soothe Quincy.

At that moment, Marcus swiftly moved around the fence and approached her. A sudden fear gripped him—that if he didn’t seize this very moment, he might lose Elouise forever. In the next instant, Elouise gasped.

The man’s eyes, stormy and dark as a sky ready to break into rain, were right in front of her face.

“…Ah.”

Elouise let out a short, involuntary gasp. It was then she realized—what stood before her was real.

But by then, it was already too late. The man was gripping her arm tightly.

“Elouise, truly…”

“…”

“Is it really you?”

It was strange. He showed none of the reactions she had imagined he might have upon seeing her again.

Instead, it was a version of him she had never even considered.

With thick tears falling from his eyes, biting at his lips, looking at her again and again as though he couldn’t believe she was truly before him.

Meanwhile, the baby wailed relentlessly. Wahh, waaahh. Her skirt, which she had tucked and tied up earlier, was nearly unraveling as she tried to calm the child, and right in front of her stood Marcus Hanger.

Poor Elouise was now completely unmoored. She had no idea what to do first.

“Please… say something.”

While she was still flustered, another fat teardrop fell from the man’s large, warm green eyes.

Elouise unconsciously traced the path of that tear.

It fell between their chests and landed inside the wooden basin, leaving a fleeting impression.

And at the same time—fwump. Her skirt unraveled and fell into the basin. With a fluttering sound, the edge of the skirt soaked up the lye water.

The skirt wasn’t made of good material. It was muslin, and a cheap kind at that, with visible impurities woven in. Undyed, it was a dull yellow, similar to raw linen. She and Abigail had painstakingly embroidered it just enough to make it look somewhat presentable. But now the hem was slowly being consumed by the lye water.

The filth rinsed from winter-stained blankets seeped into the skirt.

Even if she were dressed in a fine gown, her face delicately made up, she would still feel inadequate to stand before him.

And yet of all times—like this…

Elouise, blank with shock, slowly lifted her head.

Before her still stood the man—emaciated, weary… and shedding tears as he stared at her unblinkingly. Her mouth opened before her stunned mind could catch up.

“…Yes, Sir Hanger.”

“…”

“It’s been a long time…”

Marcus could no longer hold himself together. Tears poured freely from his eyes.

He had so much he wanted to say to this woman.

But in this moment, none of it mattered.

What he truly wanted—was to kiss her. But even a sinner must beg forgiveness countless times before being allowed to kiss the feet of a king.

So he released her arm and knelt. Elouise visibly startled. The child wailed louder and more forcefully. Marcus bowed his head, trying to speak. But the words would not come.

Where could he even begin?

Should he say, I love you? I’m sorry? Should he ask, Why did you leave me? Should he promise, I’ll take responsibility for the child? Should he confess, I can’t live without you? Should he swear, I understand everything now and will repent for the rest of my life? Should he ask, Do I look pitiful now that you see me like this, ruined without you? Should he express, You must have suffered so much raising our child alone?

He had so much to say, but not a single word escaped his lips.

He wept, hideously. Huhh, huuuhhh. A grown man, long past adulthood, crying this way must look grotesque. He wondered fleetingly what she must think—seeing the man she hadn’t met in years fall to tears before saying a word. Would she be disappointed?

But he could do nothing else.

Bitter tears slid down his cheeks and fell endlessly to the earth.

All he could see was the gray lye water and her skirt soaking in it. That pitiful sight seemed entirely his fault, and it made him cry harder. She was a woman who deserved to wear the finest clothes, smiling joyfully in the most beautiful places.

And yet, curiously, in that moment, he finally understood the love he had once found so incomprehensible.

He existed solely to love her. She was a creation of divine perfection, sent to punish him. And Marcus, upon meeting Elouise, felt a deep remorse and sorrow for all the sins his impatient former self had committed.

She looked down at him, beastlike in his weeping, and said nothing.

She didn’t even seem capable of soothing the crying child. Marcus couldn’t bear to look up at her.

What if, when he did, she would be gazing down at him with the coldest eyes? If she wore a face utterly devoid of mercy and told him she had found happiness without Marcus Hanger—what then?

Fortunately, at that moment, someone else broke the ice that had frozen between them. The door opened and Abigail stepped out, yawning.

“Good grief, who’s crying like a grown man… Elouise, what—oh my.”

“Oh my, Abigail.”

Abigail’s eyes widened. Only then did Elouise call to her in panic.

Marcus turned, his eyes still red, and staggered to his feet.

“…It’s been a long time, Lady Rependers.”

“Well now, that title—I haven’t heard it in a while.”

Abigail replied with a wry smile. Only then did Marcus show signs of embarrassment.

Truthfully, after hearing the situation from Juliet, he had guessed Abigail might be with Elouise, but he had paid so little attention to Cliff that he had no idea what Abigail’s current circumstances were. He didn’t even know whether she was still married to Lord Rependers—or divorced. If it were the latter, then he had just made a grave mistake. Marcus hesitated as he spoke.

“M-my apologies. Forgive me—I wasn’t sure what your current relationship with Lord Rependers was…”

“Oh? You didn’t know? Should I tell you?”

“Pardon?”

“Worse than strangers.”

That curt answer cut off any further tears. Marcus stood frozen, mouth agape, as Abigail walked over to Elouise and took the baby from her still-dazed arms.

“Oh dear, Quincy. You startled me out of sleep, wailing like that. I thought your voice had already deepened from puberty… But it turns out you both were crying!”

“…His name is Quincy?”

Marcus asked, struggling to keep his voice steady. Abigail blinked, then smiled brightly.

“Yes. I named him. Lovely, isn’t it?”

“It is…”

“Oh my, that doesn’t sound like someone who thinks it’s lovely.”

The man hesitated, and Abigail studied him silently before reaching out to wipe his cheek with her sleeve. It was the reflex of someone used to caring for infants, now extended to him—though Marcus couldn’t have known that. He was slightly moved.

“…Thank you, Abigail. I didn’t mean to…”

“No need. I imagine it might not sound so pretty to you, Sir Hanger.”

“No—it’s a beautiful name. It’s just… the thought that my own child had already been named and called by that name for two years, without my knowing…”

Abigail slapped his back—smack! The sound echoed sharply.

“What utter nonsense!”

Birds took flight from the trees in the distance. The poor man stood there, stunned, frozen in place.

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