Chapter 52
It’s All Over

Riette von Lindmann arrived at the ducal estate in the late afternoon, along with the mountain of luggage belonging to the Marquis, who intended to stay in Arvis for a time.

“Welcome, Riette.”

Elise von Herhardt greeted him warmly, her face lit with a smile.

“It would have been lovely if your mother had come too.”

“She’s preparing for a trip, Aunt. She’ll be leaving soon.”

“Spending the winter in the south again this year, I suppose?”

“Yes. She can’t stand the cold, you know.”

Riette delivered news of his mother with his usual affable smile and easy manner.

“And where is the Dowager Duchess?”

“You’ll greet her later. She’s napping now.”

Elise guided him naturally toward the drawing room. To the Herhardt family, Riette was more than a cousin—he was practically family, welcomed and familiar. He treated them with the same easy closeness.

After finishing tea with his aunt, Riette wandered out for a leisurely walk in the Arvis woods. Matthias would not be back until evening, and the servants would need time to unpack the luggage. More than that, he was curious. Curious about the girl who lived in the woods. Layla—the one who had stirred ripples into the perfect life of Matthias and Claudine.

Of course, Riette already knew of her. He had seen her before, but never thought much of it. Just another servant. Pitiful in her circumstances, perhaps, and a rather pretty girl, but nothing more. That was why he had been so surprised to learn that the woman who had caught Matthias’s interest was Layla Llewellyn.

Scandals between nobles and maids were common, trivial things. But if the noble in question was the Duke of Herhardt—that was another story. Even if it was no more than fleeting desire.

‘The Duke lied.’

As the gardener’s cottage came into view, Riette recalled a certain evening near the end of last summer, when Claudine had quietly spoken those words.

‘He lied to separate Layla from the doctor’s son.’

Claudine had turned to look at him then, smiling with her lips alone, her eyes eerily calm.

‘Matthias von Herhardt, lying and scheming just to claim some low-born orphan. Can you believe it, Cousin Riette?’

She had even laughed lightly. No matter how he pressed her, she revealed nothing more—what kind of lie, how it had been carried out.

‘Honestly, I hope he claims her soon.’

Her voice had dropped to a murmur as she looked past the window toward the horizon. The long summer sun was setting beyond the Brandt family’s lands.

‘The sooner he has her, the sooner he’ll discard her.’

Her face then had been like that of a bored spectator at a cheap, tedious play. Not an ounce of jealousy for Layla Llewellyn, only mild disappointment and a mocking smile that her noble fiancé had stooped to such things. And Riette knew it was genuine.

If only Claudine had shown jealousy, if only she had been tormented—he might have said something then. Told her not to chain herself to a marriage that would make her unhappy. Told her that he could make her happy instead.

But Claudine’s idea of happiness still rested with Matthias. And Riette knew that as well.

That evening, they had sipped their tea and chatted as though nothing had been said. Dinner had been cheerful, pleasant. The next morning, Riette departed. Claudine had stood tall, poised, watching until his carriage disappeared from view.

Why was it that such memories lingered so vividly, turning into stubborn regrets?

By the time that thought escaped him in a hollow laugh, Riette had reached the cottage. With no fence, the hunter’s cabin blended seamlessly with the forest path.

The sun was sinking, the inside of the house already dark. Reluctant to leave, Riette decided to wait a while. Leaning against the porch railing, he looked up at branches already half-bare.

Riette von Lindmann loved a woman who would never be unhappy because of love. Even if his own unhappiness lay in that truth.

He was a man who cherished a simple, easy life, and so he accepted it simply too. Which meant there was no reason he couldn’t indulge in a small, harmless prank. One that would amuse him—and perhaps bring Claudine a measure of happiness.

When he grew bored, he lit a cigarette. Soon footsteps and voices drifted from the forest path.

He exhaled smoke slowly, watching the direction of the sound. Before long, a bear of a man appeared, alongside a girl so small she was scarcely half his size. They froze at the sight of him standing there.

Smiling, Riette strode forward. The gardener gave a curt, gruff greeting, and the girl at his side bowed her head.

“Hello, little bird of the forest.”

He greeted her as casually as he had the day he’d seen her crying, clutching the bird Matthias had killed, intent on giving it a burial.

“Or should I say… young lady bird? Or perhaps the bird-teacher now?”

Through her glasses, her eyes narrowed in puzzlement. She looked at him as if to say, What nonsense is this?

Riette’s opinion of Layla was unchanged. Pretty, yes, but not so extraordinary as to bewitch men entirely. Yet somehow, the doctor’s son—and his noble cousin—were both drawn to her. Perhaps there was something there after all.

“Either way. It’s good to meet you, Layla.”

“Be careful of Marquis Lindmann.”

Bill Remmer spoke darkly from his seat at the table, eyes fixed on the edge. Layla, setting a steaming stew down in the center, only laughed softly.

“This isn’t something to laugh about.”

“Uncle.”

“There’s no way that lazy idler came all the way out here just for a stroll. I don’t believe it.”

He tore a piece of bread with rough hands.

“And the way he cornered you with his nonsense talk—it stinks of trouble. Be careful.”

“Yeees.”

Layla answered quickly, knowing he wouldn’t drop it otherwise. Bill still frowned, displeased.

“You must remember, Layla. Not every nobleman is as dignified and decent as the Duke of Herhardt.”

“Yes… wait, what?”

Layla’s brow furrowed as she almost nodded out of habit. It was ridiculous—but she couldn’t object. Because to everyone else in the world, Matthias von Herhardt was dignified and decent.

Biting her tongue, she stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth. But the memory of that very undignified, indecent man grew sharper. That smug bow, that pen delivered to her school… She choked, coughing violently.

“What’s wrong?”

“N-no.”

Layla shook her head quickly after stifling the cough.

“I was just too hungry. Ate too fast, that’s all.”

She dabbed away the tears from her coughing fit, wiping her glasses. Watching her, Bill broke into a hearty laugh.

“At times like this, you’re still just a child.”

His words were teasing, but his face was full of fondness.

“Eat slowly, and eat plenty.”

He dropped a hunk of meat onto her plate. Once. Then again.

“Too much!”

She gaped, but as always, he was stubborn.

“You know me, Layla. I like a girl who eats like a cow.”

“I’m not a child anymore.”

She tried to protest, but he only piled more onto her plate.

So the evening passed—warm, noisy, filled with food and laughter. Not like a cow, perhaps, but she ate enough to make him happy.

Later, while Bill fixed his squeaky chair, Layla tidied the kitchen. Then the two sat on the porch, coffee mugs in hand, watching the autumn woods. The air was cold now, but until winter fully set in, this was how they ended their days: chatting quietly together.

“Sleep well, Layla.”

Bill’s farewell was gruff, but affectionate.

“You too, Uncle.”

Her soft smile was the same as always, as was her gentle goodnight.

“Goodnight.”

Back in her room, she graded her students’ papers at the chair he had repaired, read a little of a mystery novel from the library, and wrote replies to letters from friends teaching at other schools.

It was only after sealing the last letter, setting down her old pen, that she remembered the one he had sent.

She sat staring at nothing, then decisively pulled open her drawer. The pen lay untouched, still in its box.

Of course.

When Layla made the smallest mistake, people would click their tongues.

What else would you expect from a girl without parents?

Always a little scorn, a little pity.

Even when she was no worse—better, even—than other children. Growing older, she had learned. The world’s standards were not equal.

So she wanted to be better. Perfect, if she could not. To live a life that would never prompt anyone to say I knew it. She had resolved it, time and again, every time she faced the world’s cold measures. For herself—and for Uncle Bill, who had raised her with love and care.

That thought made her decision easy.

She lifted the box, pulled out wrapping paper, and carefully packed it up again. With her old pen refilled, she neatly wrote the address.

Recipient: His Grace Matthias von Herhardt, Lord of Arvis.
Sender: The unfamiliar name and address from the original package.

The next morning, she tucked it into her bag and set out early. She had to stop at the neighboring village’s post office before school.

By the time she mailed it, the stone pressing on her heart had lifted.

Layla told herself it was all over now. And she believed it.