♡ TL: Khadija SK
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The Easton estate lay a day’s carriage ride south from Southwood’s capital.
It was a prosperous fiefdom, boasting vast plains sufficient to be dubbed the kingdom’s granary.
Viscount Easton, lord of that land, awoke to the rooster’s crow at dawn.
His brow furrowed deeply, for he’d slept late the previous night reviewing land documents.
Grabbing the pillow beside him, Viscount Easton covered his face with it.
As intended, the rooster’s raucous call dulled, but sleep had entirely forsaken him.
He lingered in bed a while longer, then flung the pillow aside with force and rose.
Since he was awake, he resolved to move briskly and lighten his workload, if only slightly.
He rang the bell, and a servant entered as if awaiting the signal.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Han, go down to the kitchen and tell them to prepare an early breakfast. And summon Frisby.”
Frisby was the chief steward of Viscount Easton’s household.
Han, with his lean frame, moved swiftly as befitted his build.
When Viscount Easton returned from the washroom, Frisby awaited him, impeccably dressed.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Do you think you would have slept well in my place?”
Unlike his tone with Han, Viscount Easton replied to Frisby sharply.
He treated Frisby with a unique familiarity, as they had grown up together in this house since childhood.
In that era, the role of chief steward was hereditary. Frisby’s family had served the Eastons for generations, so he had lived in the Easton household from a young age.
Four years older than Viscount Easton, Frisby had been like an elder brother caring for him in their youth, became his right hand in their prime, and now served as a skilled chief steward.
“Of course I wouldn’t have slept a wink. It’s about Miss Hazel’s marriage.”
Due to his closeness with Viscount Easton, Frisby knew Hazel’s story. He also knew the viscount held a special affection for her.
Frisby, too, loved Hazel more than anyone.
He believed she embodied the essence of the Easton family more than any current member.
Wise, brimming with intelligence, vibrant, and possessing a warm gaze.
‘If she’d been born a man, she’d have been the family’s heir.’
It was a regretful remark for Andre’s sake, but surpassing Hazel would demand immense effort.
“Any new correspondence?”
“Are you expecting a letter from the lady?”
“No! You know that. It’s Lady Michelle I’m waiting for.”
Viscount Easton’s reaction was excessively tense, revealing the strain he was under.
“Even mentioning her name disgusts me. How dare she humiliate Hazel, swayed by rumors!”
Frisby listened calmly to Viscount Easton’s anger-laden complaints.
He shared the same sentiments, so hearing the grumbling wasn’t hard. He even wanted to add a word or two. And he was curious.
“What exactly did the letter say?”
“That woman…”
Viscount Easton’s jaw muscle twitched as he recalled the contents of a letter that arrived at the Easton estate days ago.
Addressed “To the Esteemed Viscount Montblanc Easton,” it carried a faint perfume scent, and its costly envelope and paper showed respect for him.
But its contents were a blatant insult to the Easton family.
[Duke Bernier is involved with one of the Easton daughters. You can easily guess which, but sadly, it’s not the daughter you’re thinking of, Lord Viscount.]
Michelle feigned innocence while slighting Hazel.
[(Excerpt) As one with Bernier blood, I seek to confirm rumors about Miss Hazel. If true, this marriage must not proceed, no matter the cost.]
She brazenly mentioned rumors the Easton family had striven to dispel.
[(Excerpt) Miss Hazel’s unique tastes don’t suit the Bernier family, but Duke Bernier, with his generous heart, intended to embrace her flaws and teach her Bernier traditions.]
Michelle cast Hazel’s distinctive, bold character as a flaw.
Did she imply Easton traditions were inferior to Bernier’s?
[(Excerpt) If Viscount Easton brings the midwife present at Miss Hazel’s birth to affirm she’s truly of Easton blood, the marriage will proceed smoothly.]
It was an outrageously impudent demand.
Prove his daughter’s lineage?
It was like asking an innocent man to provide proof of innocence. Proof of what, exactly?
Hazel was born an Easton, raised an Easton, and is an Easton.
Viscount Easton had no desire to wed Hazel off under such humiliation.
The Bernier family might be grand, and its duke the finest groom, but to Viscount Easton, any family disrespecting his daughter was unworthy of dealings.
Moreover, didn’t the letter imply that if the marriage occurred, Michelle would treat Hazel harshly?
It was a declaration of war against Viscount Easton.
So what if Duke Bernier was exceptional? Our Hazel is exceptional too!
Viscount Easton breathed heavily with fury.
“Something you don’t need to know. I won’t deal with that family again. Arrange interviews with the land manager candidates we selected yesterday as soon as possible.”
His mind was fixated on wrapping up estate affairs swiftly and returning to the capital.
He’d appointed a new parish priest, visited his family, and met the tenants two weeks prior.
Viscount Easton had already attended two masses led by the new priest.
That sufficed.
He’d reviewed accounts with the financial officer and settled minor complaints, so all that remained was choosing a successor for the retiring land manager—aged out of service—then he could return to his family’s embrace.
“We can do it this afternoon. All candidates are competent, so no need to worry whichever you choose.”
Viscount Easton’s eyes lit up with joy at the good news.
“Really? Then you could just conduct the interviews…”
“Sir, that’s difficult.”
Viscount Easton’s plan to delegate to Frisby and rush back to the capital was thwarted.
“Frisby, I trust you. You’re capable and always prioritize the Easton family’s interests.”
“No matter my competence, there are things I can’t do, sir. There’s a clear line between chief steward and family lord.”
The lord must choose personally to instill greater responsibility in the land manager.
“Words I’ve heard before. Schedule the interviews as soon as possible.”
Frisby bowed and exited.
Soon after, a servant entered to assist Viscount Easton with dressing.
***
“Have you ever been hated by someone, Your Grace?”
A new week began.
Rain had poured all weekend, but with Monday’s dawn, the sun revealed its pristine face as if the deluge had been a lie.
This year was exceptionally rainy.
It wasn’t an exaggeration that newspapers spoke of unusual climate shifts.
Yet spring didn’t mirror the rainy season’s endless gloom.
Rain fell once weekly, or two days at most.
It felt like a divine arrangement to temper high society’s excessive zeal.
But those unwilling to dampen their fervor blamed the rainy days.
Then, when the sun shone, they flooded the streets as if they’d never see another day.
Parks, restaurants, and cafes—famous or not—teemed with people. So did the roads.
Thus, the carriage bearing Hazel and Theodore moved far slower than usual.
Time passed without specific purpose, leading to overthinking. This question was the fruit of those thoughts.
“Well, surely some hate me. I doubt anyone’s universally loved. Even God’s criticized these days, isn’t He?”
Theodore replied nonchalantly, without pause, prompting Hazel’s conclusion:
‘He’s never been hated.’
Had he faced tangible, real hatred, even the strongest would feel a pang in their chest—like swallowing bitter water—and couldn’t discuss it so casually as if it concerned others.
Hazel, who’d received both her family’s love and others’ profound hatred, knew this.
Of course, it was merely Hazel’s assumption, unaware of Theodore’s upbringing details.
“But why does that suddenly pique your curiosity?”
Theodore asked.
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