I Accidentally Revived My Deceased Husband

 

 

 

“Loan sharks, did they go easy on her just because she’s a woman living alone?”

 

Cliff had expected Judith to be trembling in fear after the loan shark’s visit, but she appeared surprisingly composed.

 

Just as expected from men.* Cliff shot a sharp glance at the mansion before turning toward the horse he had ridden in on.

 

His plan was to manipulate the frightened Judith into signing documents appointing his father as the acting Count.

 

Even if he lent her three thousand gold, the odds of Judith repaying the two hundred million gold debt were slim.

 

In that case, she would be dragged off by Smith, and Cliff’s father, as acting Count, would get to choose the next heir to the title.

 

Who would his father pick, if not his own son? While this plan required a significant investment of three thousand gold, becoming a Count was well worth it.

 

‘So, Miss Harrington, living too well doesn’t suit my plans.’

 

Cliff mounted his horse, handed the reins to his servant, and gave an order.

 

“Go to the gambling den and find Leon Harrington.”

 

***

 

“I’m starting to think Mr. Cliff might be the one behind this marriage. Sir Erne, didn’t you stay in touch with him?”

 

“If it’s Cliff, I know him well.”

 

Erne answered while examining the bottle of alcohol Judith had brought back from the Marchioness.

 

“He was a good guy.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“He always paid for the drinks.”

 

What a truly great man, such a wonderful person. Judith suppressed the urge to smack Erne on the back.

 

“Mr. Cliff might’ve been the one who tried to kill you, Sir Erne.”

 

“To marry you off and claim the Countship?”

 

“Or maybe he originally intended to kill you and later came up with a way to claim the Countship as well.”

 

The thought was infuriating. Cliff might’ve wanted to kill Erne, but Judith held back from voicing all her suspicions.

 

“But I’m curious about something else.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“This bottle—it seems like someone already drank from it.”

 

That’s because someone did drink from it.

 

“The neck of the bottle feels slightly empty.”

 

While we’re discussing the possibility of the very Cliff you admire having tried to kill you, you’re worried about the alcohol?

 

“You didn’t just pick this up from somewhere, did you?”

 

“How would I find such expensive alcohol lying around?”

 

“Then did you take a sip?”

 

“…Yes.”

 

Judith accidentally lied. For some reason, she thought Erne would just drop the subject if she claimed to have tasted it.

 

“Lie. You picked it up somewhere, didn’t you?”

 

Apparently not.

 

“I was given it.”

 

“By whom?”

 

“The Marchioness of Fernie.”

 

Judith explained that she had asked if there was any leftover alcohol, and the Marchioness had kindly given her this bottle. It had been a gift to the Marchioness, but since she didn’t like the taste, it had been left in storage.

 

“The source is trustworthy, so it’s safe to drink.”

 

Erne, ignoring her assurance, turned his gaze to the ingredients Judith had taken out to cook.

 

Wrinkled sprouted potatoes, hardened bread, and pork with a faintly bad smell.

 

“Did the Marchioness give you this too?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The Marchioness seems to think you’re a beggar wandering around asking for handouts.”

 

The state of the ingredients made it hard to see her actions as pure goodwill.

 

“Did she give you charity or something?”

 

Erne’s voice turned cold. Was he angry on her behalf for being treated like a beggar?

 

Maybe he had a bad personality but a kind heart—

 

“Did you seriously give me charity alcohol to drink?”

 

Of course not. Judith wanted to snatch the bottle out of his hand but held herself back. Unfortunately, in their relationship, Erne held all the power.

 

“I didn’t drink from it, so what’s the problem? Just drink it. Do you think alcohol grows on trees?”

 

Judith cut out the sprouted parts of the potato, peeled it, and tossed it into cold water.

 

“See? Once you cut it, it’s as good as new. And the pork—soak it to remove the blood, sprinkle plenty of spices, and it won’t smell anymore.”

 

“Is that really the point right now? The Marchioness treated you like a beggar—doesn’t that hurt your pride?”

 

Judith responded with a sly smile.

 

“Oh, my pride is quite flexible.”

 

“………..”

 

Erne had seen flexible joints and even flexible principles, but a flexible pride? That was a first. And she seemed oddly proud of it, too.

 

“I never thought I’d meet someone with flexible pride. Makes coming back to life worth it.”

 

“Don’t mock me. Do you think pride can buy a loaf of bread?”

 

For Judith, pride had no place when it came to money. That was her philosophy. Pride wouldn’t feed her, and in the face of hunger, pride was meaningless.

 

“You need to save every penny if you want to get rich.”

 

“Quite ambitious, aren’t you? Hoping to get rich with two hundred million gold in debt.”

 

“Everyone wants to be rich. Don’t you, Sir Erne?”

 

Not really. Other than when he was very young, Erne had never wished to be rich. Maybe it was because, after moving to the Rainland estate, he never went hungry.

 

In fact, Erne had never longed to become anything. He became a knight because he was told to, went to war because he was ordered to, and did little else because there was nothing else to do.

 

“What would you do with all that money? Wear gold on all ten fingers?”

 

Erne responded with a question of his own.

 

“I’d just live comfortably and eat well.”

 

“Eat well and live comfortably?”

 

What an unusual expression. Erne repeated it, and Judith realized her mistake. Such a phrase probably didn’t exist here.

 

“I mean, I want to live without envy or worry.”

 

Her dream life was modest. A house in her name, a horse and carriage—since she couldn’t drive the carriage herself, a coachman would be necessary.

 

One maid to help with the household chores and keep her company would also be ideal. And, for retirement funds, a small rental property in a convenient location would suffice.

 

“That’s not modest at all—it’s downright extravagant.”

 

Listening to Judith’s plans, Erne clicked his tongue and opened the bottle of alcohol. Judith would’ve clicked her tongue in his place. Didn’t he say he’d never drink charity alcohol not even five minutes ago?

 

“I’m only drinking this because I have no choice. But I’m not eating that.”

 

Fine, starve if you want. Judith pouted as she worked on a pork stew. She resolved not to offer him any until he begged for it.

 

However, as mentioned before, the power dynamic between them was clear—Erne was in charge, and Judith was not. After finishing the stew, Judith clung to his pant leg and pleaded until Erne reluctantly agreed to eat it, as if doing her a favor.

 

He complained about it being charity food, but after the first spoonful, he ate heartily. The first time was hard, but the second time was easy.

 

Judith decided she’d continue accepting the food supplies generously offered by the kind Marchioness in the future.

 

“It doesn’t even taste that great.”

 

After finishing the entire bowl, what an audacious statement, Sir Erne. Judith swallowed her retort as she cleared away the empty dish.

 

Rustle—

 

“Huh?”

 

What’s that noise? Creak— Where’s it coming from? Judith tilted her head curiously.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I feel like I hear something crawling around.”

 

“Not at all.”

 

Did I mishear? I definitely heard it. Judith rubbed her ear as if it were itching. Erne’s eyes narrowed as he watched her.

 

“…No way.”

 

It couldn’t be. It had to be impossible. There was no way that could be here.

 

***

 

“Did you visit all the places?”

 

Erne had asked Henry to investigate his last known activities. Since Erne was pretending to be dead, he couldn’t conduct the inquiries himself.

 

“Yes, I went everywhere and asked around. I’m exhausted.”

 

Henry’s first stop was the inn where Erne had been staying.

 

A few years ago, after the rebellion led by the Empress was suppressed, Erne had lost his knightly title and left the imperial palace.

 

Though he had served as a knight in the Empress’s palace and should have been executed, his efforts in saving the current Empress spared him.

 

Having lived in the imperial knight’s quarters until then, Erne found it too bothersome to find a new place to stay, so he settled for a long-term stay at an inn. That inn’s bed was where his last memory began.

 

“Do you remember the innkeeper’s son? A boy around fifteen who often ran errands for you.”

 

“Oh, yes, I remember.”

 

“That boy said you left the inn one day, saying you had an appointment.”

 

An appointment? Erne tried to recall it but had no clue what it might have been.

 

“So I went to the tavern you frequented.”

 

Although Erne handled most of his meals and drinks at the inn, he often went to a tavern for alcohol because the inn’s liquor was terrible.

 

“What did the tavern owner say?”

 

“I couldn’t meet him.”

 

“Why?”

 

“He died recently in a carriage accident. But I did hear something strange from one of the employees.”

 

According to the staff, the tavern owner’s spending suddenly increased one day, even though sales had been declining.

 

“My guess is this: either the tavern owner was paid to poison your drink, or he witnessed someone poisoning your drink and accepted money to stay silent.”

 

And then, when the culprit needed to destroy evidence, the tavern owner was killed.

 

“Give me that potion.”

 

Erne extended his hand to Henry, who hesitated before pulling out a small vial of truth serum from his jacket pocket.

 

“Are you really going to use it?”

 

“Didn’t you buy it to use on her anyway?”

 

“But your wife seems more like a victim to me.”

 

Erne had asked Henry to bring the truth serum after hearing about it, intending to use it on Judith.

 

“She does seem like a victim, but I need to confirm it for sure.”

 

The small vial of potion sparkled in Erne’s hand.

 

 

 

🍓;*In this context expresses a mix of exasperation and resignation toward men, implying that their behavior is predictable or frustrating in a stereotypical way. It suggests that the speaker (or narrator) finds Cliff’s actions or attitude typical of ‘men’ in general, based on common stereotypes.