Chapter 27: Kicking Away a Friend’s Care.
After Florence moved to the room and chatted away to her heart’s content before leaving, Classie stood still for a long time, just holding the invitation from the Grand Duke Siwil’s household in her hand.
‘I really am blessed with good friends.’
With that thought, Classie felt a sudden swell of affection for Florence and let out a sigh.
When her eldest sister died, everyone pitied Merran, left alone at just eleven years old. Even Classie herself did.
Even Classie had thought Merran’s pain was so great and overwhelming that she had to prioritize the child, and compared to that, her own circumstances weren’t worth mentioning.
But Classie was still just a sixteen-year-old girl. And the only one who truly recognized that and tried to comfort her was her friend, Florence.
“Is that woman gone? What about Auntie? Is she in the room?”
Immersed in the warmth of that deep friendship, Classie suddenly snapped out of it when she heard Merran’s voice in the hallway. She quickly shoved the invitation into her pocket.
— Don’t let Merran snatch the invitation again!
Florence’s warning echoed in her ears. Classie shivered and rubbed her arms.
‘It’s a party at the Grand Duke’s, so everyone will be dressed properly. No one’s going to show up in casual clothes. That means I have to get ready too. If I prepare the carriage and start getting ready from morning, there’s no way Merran won’t notice…’
Before she could even finish that thought, Merran banged loudly on the door.
“Auntie, is your friend gone?”
When Classie opened the door, Merran’s cheeks were flushed like strawberries, and her face appeared like the rising moon. She glanced around the room, then pouted.
“Why does your friend always come to our house? Isn’t that really rude?”
“If you’re going to say that—did you ask for permission to come here?”
“I’m family with you. Your friend isn’t.”
“If you’d stayed in your hometown, we wouldn’t be family either.”
Anger started to rise on Merran’s face. Classie pulled her lips like a duck’s beak and let go, changing the subject.
“But why did Florence suddenly come anyway? Did she come to pick a fight?”
“I need to know enemy movements well. Just came to check something.”
* * *
That evening, Classie sat by her bedside lamp, carefully examining the invitation.
The date on the invitation was the 20th. Today was the 17th, but since it was already past midnight, that meant there were only two days left to prepare for the party.
‘The date is really tight. Florence must’ve gotten this invitation in a rush too.’
Classie scratched her forehead with the corner of the card and furrowed her brows. She had mulled over it all through dinner, but she couldn’t come up with any good way to attend the party without Merran finding out.
‘This party is strictly invitation-only. If I go first and Merran somehow follows me later, things will get really complicated.’
At the last party, Merran could attend even without an invitation. As long as she mentioned Classie’s name and said she was part of the same party and just arrived late, no one would send her back.
But if she pulled something like that at this party, Merran would definitely be turned away at the door and have to walk away in shame. She would be humiliated.
It was a predictable pattern.
—“Oh my, she went to a party without even telling her niece? What a terrible aunt. Was she trying to embarrass the poor girl on purpose? Of course, not that she actually meant to…”
—“Well, who knows? Maybe she really did. There’s that rumor going around that Miss Classie was the one who killed Merran’s mother…”
She had heard that kind of talk for years back in her hometown.
Classie had always channeled her love, guilt, and pity for her older sister into tolerating Merran. But whenever people gossiped so ignorantly, there were times when her anger and resentment flared up so strongly that it almost drowned out the guilt—and she had to fight the urge to just blurt everything out.
Classie fell into a deep, sickly turmoil of worry.
* * *
“Aunt is acting weird.”
Morning of the 18th. Merran, who had gotten up earlier than usual, muttered as she paused mid-face wash.
Karen, who was handing her a warm towel, burst out laughing.
“Now, now, miss. What’s gotten into you? Why are you dragging Miss Classie into this all of a sudden?”
“She’s being weird. Ever since Florence visited, she’s been totally off…”
“What, are you worried those two will do something fun without you again?”
“Yeah. I’m sure they’re trying to ditch me and do something fun together.”
Merran narrowed her big eyes as she handed Karen the now-cooled towel. Karen shook her head but didn’t actually deny it.
“Well, Miss Classie has done that more than a few times.”
“Is she going to sneak off to another fancy party without me? A big one? Or maybe a small tea gathering with some important noblewomen?”
As Merran pondered aloud, her expression grew increasingly irritated. Even when Karen returned after dumping the washbasin water, Merran hadn’t moved an inch.
Seeing Merran so dejected made Karen’s heart ache, and she grumbled softly.
“No matter how good she tries to look in front of others, Miss Classie will never be like Madam. If Madam were still alive, do you think she’d go to a party or gathering without taking you? Even if you pouted and refused, she would’ve talked you into going. Because it would’ve been good for your future—helping you meet a suitable fiancé and build connections in high society.”
Though officially employed as a maid now, Karen was originally Merran’s nursemaid, hired personally by Mary. Even after Mary’s death, Marquess Omer had kept Karen by Merran’s side. So when Merran moved into the Count Kalashi estate, Karen naturally followed.
But technically, her loyalty was to the Omer household. And when it came to making judgments, Karen only ever considered one thing: Merran’s well-being.
To Karen, Classie wasn’t someone from the household she served—just a relative of the girl she had raised like her own daughter.
Merran flopped sideways onto the long sofa. Her soft, golden hair spread out around her, flowing like silk in all directions.
“You’re right. If it were Mom, she would’ve never left me behind to chase after some guy.”
“Madam would never do that! She treasured you more than her own life.”
Merran absently toyed with a feather decoration on the edge of a cushion as she murmured,
“Anyway, I’m keeping a close eye on Aunt from now on. Whatever she’s plotting without me, I’m going follow her too. If she wants to play the mom, she better act like one.”
* * *
Afternoon of the 18th.
Clad in a thick cloak that could make a person look like a penguin, Classie rode out in a carriage with deliberate grandeur. It was all to test Merran.
Whenever Florence visited, Merran became more alert than usual. That was probably because most of the parties Classie went to without her were ones arranged by Florence.
‘Knew it. Just as I expected.’
Looking behind as the carriage moved along, Classie saw a carriage following—Merran’s. She clicked her tongue and shut the rear window.
Coachman Ledon, who also noticed the familiar carriage tailing them, asked:
“Milady, someone from the manor seems to be following. Shall I stop for a moment? It could be Lady Merran.”
“Don’t bother. Just keep going.”
Classie gave the order while resting her temple against the cold wall of the carriage. The coachman obeyed and didn’t stop until they reached the destination Classie had first mentioned.
The carriage stopped in front of a large patisserie on Balroire Road. With a dramatic flutter of her eye-catching cloak, Classie entered the shop and returned with two cakes, each the size of a person’s head.
When she told the coachman to head to the plaza next, he again followed orders. As she munched on a complimentary bag of sugar candy, she opened the rear window a bit.
Sure enough, Merran’s carriage was still tailing them. Classie shut the window and gazed down thoughtfully at the two large cakes.
‘Merran likes Dernick. What if I invite him to our house on the day of the party? Then even if I leave, Merran won’t follow me—she’ll want to stay beside him. No, she’d probably want me to go out. This might just work!’
With a new plan in mind, Classie instructed the coachman:
“Ledon, head to Driblu Street.”
“Not the plaza, milady?”
“Take me in front of the Guard Station.”
When the coachman stopped in front of the Guard Station, Classie grabbed the cakes and got off the carriage.
As she walked toward the building, one of the guards recognized her and grimaced awkwardly.
“Milady, what brings you here this time?”
It seemed Kishin had firmly instructed them to never let her in again after rejecting her last time.
Classie felt her stomach twist with irritation.
‘He really made sure I wouldn’t show up again, huh! And he had the nerve to get upset that I “changed my mind” too fast? Shouldn’t it be a good thing for him if I moved on quickly?’
But this time she wasn’t here because of Kishin—she came to use him. A little humiliation was worth it.
“Could you pass these on to Sir Kishin?” she said in a pitiful voice. “One’s to say I’m sorry, and the other’s for his friend, Sir Dernick.”
The guard, flustered, replied,
“I will. That much is fine.”
He’d probably misunderstood, thinking Classie was just another desperate noble lady hopelessly clinging to a man who rejected her.
Having grown up in her hometown burdened by false accusations about killing her sister and constantly being turned away, Classie had long since learned to scoff at such misunderstandings.
She thanked the guard sweetly and climbed back into the carriage. Upon returning home, the moment she stepped into the entrance hall, Merran came rushing up to confront her.
“Aunt! Aunt! Why did you send a gift to Sir Dernick?!”
It seemed Merran had been chasing after Classie all day. Classie was delighted, like she’d caught a plump fish that had bitten the bait.
Hiding her true feelings, Classie turned to Merran with a surprised expression and asked,
“How do you know about that?”
Merran glared at her, visibly angry.
“Is how I found out really what’s important?”
She looked so serious that tears were welling up in her eyes. Classie teased her, pulling at her cheek.
“You dummy. It’s almost the end of the year. I used that as an excuse to invite him to the house.”
Merran ’s tears disappeared instantly.
“Invite? You invited Sir Dernick? Then… why did you send a gift?”
“You dummy. We don’t know where he lives or which family he belongs to. I told you to find out, but you didn’t.”
“Oh.”
“So I gave the gift to Sir Kishin and asked him to pass the message along to Sir Dernick. But it would’ve been weird to only give something to Sir Kishin, so I sent gifts to both. Got it?”
Merran ’s face turned red, and she nodded quickly, her anger melted away. Classie felt proud.
‘Good. Now I can keep Merran at home on the 20th.’
* * *
Later that day, Viscount Heimer returned home and handed his wife a sample album of fabrics he’d picked up at a tailor’s shop along the way.
“These are the ones you asked for, right?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Florence gave her husband a tight hug, then took the album and flipped through it cheerfully, humming as she did.
Taking off his coat, Viscount Heimer watched his wife tilt her head with joy and felt a wave of pride.
Most people in arranged marriages didn’t think much of their spouses—especially early on, when they still clung to their romantic ideals. Viscount Heimer had felt the same before getting married. He’d resented being forced into marriage by his parents.
Especially since Florence Amite was known as the infamous Classie Kalashi’s closest friend.
But it hadn’t even been a month before he’d fallen completely for his wife. She wasn’t a terrifying woman who ran wild with a notorious friend.
She was brave, loyal, and strong—someone who stood by her wrongly accused friend without hesitation. And she was the most lovable person in the world.
“Don’t stress over it. You’re the one making the choice. The fabric’s just waiting to be chosen. You’re already perfect.”
Unable to contain his affection, he walked over and showered Florence’s cheek with kisses.
Florence laughed and pushed his shoulder playfully.
“Thanks! But I’m not picking fabric for myself. I’m choosing one to gift Classie.”
Viscount Heimer’s expression turned a little sour.
“Why Miss Classie?”
“Something good might be happening for her soon!”
“Something good?”
Florence snapped the album shut, then held it up to cover half her face and smiled proudly.
“There’s a man who seems interested in Classie. And… he might be the only son of Grand Duke Siwil!”
* * *
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