Obituary 6

Chapter 6

***

When Rose asked how such a mismatched marriage could have been possible, her father had said it was because he was politically useful to Crawford.

She hadn't asked further, having no interest, but now she found herself wondering what kind of help he could possibly offer that made this distinguished family decide to accept her.

And after spending a month at Orthuran, her presence proved more of a political liability than any real benefit.

When the servant tidied the fallen napkin and brought a fresh one, Agatha finally seemed to snap out of it, composing her face that had been betraying her confusion.

"Yes. You were a special case..."

Agatha unfolded the neatly folded napkin and took a deep breath.

"That's right, it was admirable. In that situation, yes, you had no choice. You did something brave and admirable. It couldn't have been easy."

Agatha's effort to resolve the situation with the kind of didactic words a school principal might use was almost tear-jerking.

Not easy? Teaching children who whine about boredom after just one or two practice sessions was far easier than understanding or enduring this situation.

"Don't you see? The opportunity of a lifetime has come to you, and you don't even realize how huge this chance is! You actually believe you can refuse it! I raised you that way. It's my fault."

Suddenly, she remembered her dead mother screaming at her once.

When Rose had tried to refuse this marriage, her mother had looked at her as if she were a madwoman.

That expression, as if staring at her own daughter like some strange monster, would probably never fade from her memory until she died.

Was there something wrong with her, as her mother had once said, and as Agatha claimed?

"But it's best not to mention that now. Things have changed, haven't they? Beth, you watch your mouth too. Rose, don't tell Beth anything about the family. As you can see, the child is still young."

So, these things were the problem.

Rose found it hard to understand why the fact that she had once taught piano to someone was considered 'something that shouldn't be said'. She hadn't committed a crime.

The things they took for granted as common sense were simply difficult for Rose.

"I didn't realize having a profession was such a problem. After all, Lord Crawford holds a ministerial position."

Agatha’s napkin fell limply to the floor again at Rose’s unguarded remark.

“Rose, what on earth are you talking about? A profession?”

Despite her efforts to compose herself, Agatha’s face was now completely contorted with horror and dread.

As if Rose had insulted her son.

Rose, startled by this reaction, dropped the cutlery she was holding.

"Servant!"

Agatha's shrill voice echoed as the silverware clattered to the floor.

The servants began moving to clean up the floor. Since working in this mansion, it was the first time they had to move so frequently.

"What?"

Now it was Rose who was confused.

Realizing Rose wasn't speaking out of defiance but genuinely didn't understand, Agatha swept a hand across her mouth with a look of utter exhaustion before letting out a long sigh.

"Do you think Ray spends his precious time obsessing over ministers and politics, doing such exhausting work, for my sake? Or for the money? That pittance?"

As if dealing with an uneducated child, Agatha continued patiently, as if lecturing.

"It's a service to this country, and we have a duty to do it."

Before they knew it, the table was once again set with pristine napkins and flawlessly gleaming cutlery.

The servants, who had accomplished this task with astonishing quietness, stood motionless against the wall as if they had done nothing.

Their excessively swift and perfect proficiency felt somehow intimidating, and Rose could say no more.

"Rose, let's not bring this up again."

With a deep sigh, Agatha firmly ended the conversation.

"Whatever life you lived before, forget it. You must live as if it never existed. You are Crawford now, and everything from before is null and void. You needn't tell anyone."

Rose had thought so too.

She had abandoned everything from her previous life, so now she would live only by following orders.

But every time she saw people shocked by her thoughtless words and actions, she realized she hadn't completely erased her former existence.

"Mark my words, Rose. Bolton, and everything that happened there, is gone now."

Those eyes, so blue they were intimidatingly cold, eyes identical to Ray Crawford's, stared at her relentlessly, demanding an answer.

"...Yes."

Even in that single, forced word, Rose could feel her own foreign accent, the unmistakable trace of an outsider she could never hide.

She worried how she could ever erase such vivid traces of her past.

Satisfied with Rose's compliant answer, Agatha finally accepted the dessert brought by the servant with welcome.

"Elton. Tune the piano in the drawing room. Countess Greenwood will surely wish to play."

Agatha's voice, commanding the sternly standing butler, had softened considerably.

Come to think of it, there were two pianos in this enormous mansion. One was in the room next to Beth's, and the other was in the drawing room.

The piano in the drawing room was always covered in a cloth. As if no one ever played it.

Then why was it there in the first place?

Only now did Rose become curious about it. About the owner of that piano, which no one played or even glanced at.

* * *

"My apologies for the late greeting. I'm Sophia Greenwood."

A woman with rosy cheeks, reminiscent of midsummer peaches, beamed at Rose.

Even before meeting Sophia Greenwood, Rose felt she already knew everything about her. Agatha and Beth had talked about her endlessly.

The eldest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Harland, she had three older brothers and had married the Countess of Greenwood, becoming the Countess.

She was beautiful, intelligent, kind, excellent, and bright-natured, and had been friends with this family since she was very young.

Everyone liked her, she played the piano beautifully, and so on.

"Oh, truly, how fortunate I am to meet someone my own age! All my friends have married abroad. Or live too far away."

Her thick, beautiful curls waved lovingly from her forehead every time she spoke. The glossy black hair complemented her rosy cheeks perfectly.

She was only a year younger than Rose, but she certainly didn't feel like Rose's peer.

She'd married young and already had two children.

"But Beth's too little to play with, isn't she?"

Sophia giggled softly, whispering as if sharing a secret.

Rose didn't know how to respond to this remarkable sociability, which made her feel no distance at all despite meeting for the first time today.

Above all, Sophia seemed utterly unfazed if her counterpart didn't respond.

Despite Rose having said nothing beyond "Hello," the conversation flowed.

"Anyway, marrying a man like Ray? How did you manage that? That's incredible. I couldn't do it."

Rose was struck twice: first by Sophia’s boldness in casually crossing her arms, and again by the intimacy with which she used her husband’s unfamiliar name—a name Rose herself hadn’t even managed to pronounce properly.

“Agatha would say something if she heard… but Ray really is boring, isn’t he? He’s been like that since he was a child.”

And then, just as naturally, the name of her mother-in-law slipped out.

Sophia Greenwood appeared at Crawford Manor, her sunlit smile warming the faces of Agatha and the servants.

Truly unfamiliar faces.

The Crawford servants treated Rose with respect, but there was always a sense of distance. And worry.

She could feel their apprehension, fearing the foreign duchess might bring harm to the household.

It was strange, really, that those who worked in the mansion felt the same pride and attachment to the family as the owners themselves.

Sometimes, the Crawford family felt as much like the servants' as it did Agatha and Ray's.

For Rose, who had worked as an organist at the cathedral while living in Bolton but hadn't particularly wished for the cathedral's prosperity, it was a feeling she didn't quite understand.

The servants, whom she still found awkward, greeted Sophia Greenwood warmly, as if she were a long-lost relative.

Even Ray Crawford's face, usually as cold as the north wind, softened into a brief smile.

As Beth had said, she was undoubtedly very close to the Crawford family and a woman everyone loved.

"I was four, and Ray was... what was he, eleven? He'd sternly tell me to stop whining. To a mere four-year-old. Can you imagine?"

No, even a Bolton's imagination couldn't conjure that.

Ray Crawford at eleven.