Maylily - Chapter 32

“You are only just now beginning to establish your footing, so it’s natural to feel such anxieties. To my eyes as well, your place seems one that could easily be replaced. But no matter who is put there, no one could perform as splendidly as you. I’ve never seen a singer who sings as beautifully as you.”

It hadn’t been words spoken in expectation of comfort. He had only wanted to ease the heaviness pressing like indigestion upon his chest….

But the unexpected return of affectionate reassurance made Maylily slowly blink her eyes.

“Do you truly… think so?”

“Why else would I have chosen you?”

Even though at that moment she recalled that the Count of Everscourt had never once attended her performances, Maylily chose to believe his calm words.

For the Count was not the kind of man to offer empty words merely to console another. And that, at least for today, was greatly welcome.

“Since you say so, Count, my heart feels much lighter. Thank you, Count.”

Hugh gazed silently at Maylily, who now smiled brightly with relief. His bluish-gray eyes, shimmering in the gentle breeze, bore the hue of the vast deep sea she had once seen in a painting.

All at once, her heart began to pound, and Maylily lowered her eyes. In that moment, Hugh softly took hold of the ends of her hair that fell neatly down her back.

Maylily flinched, but as always, he paid no mind.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you with your hair down.”

“I-I usually leave it down when I am indoors. If you wait a moment, I will fix it…”

“No, I like it just as it is.”

Hugh lightly pressed his lips to the end of the hair that brushed against him.

Startled by his unexpected action, Maylily’s wide eyes instinctively darted to David, standing by the door. And behind his glasses, his eyes had widened almost as much as hers.

“Look at me, Maylily.”

Resting one arm on the back of the sofa, Hugh turned his body slightly and took Maylily’s chin, making her face him. Each of his movements was bold and unhesitant, as though to show he had never needed to concern himself with the eyes of others.

While Maylily’s heart pounded irregularly, making her dizzy, Hugh checked the time on his pocket watch and began slipping on the gloves he had left on the table.

“A-Are you leaving already?”

As she gazed absentmindedly at his sculpted profile, Maylily suddenly came to her senses and asked hastily.

Hugh turned his head slowly, and his dark hair swayed faintly, catching the light. Beneath it, his eyes, which gazed at her steadily, carried the faintest trace of a smile.

“Why, do you wish me to stay longer?”

What on earth did I just say…

To brush it off as a polite remark wouldn’t disguise the lingering desire heavy in her voice, a desire even she herself could hear.

Realizing the feelings she had been unconsciously harboring, Maylily’s face flushed. It felt as if her secret, shameful thoughts—ones that must never be revealed—had been laid bare.

“It is just that… there is still plenty of tea left, and the cookies are delicious, yet you haven’t had even one…”

At her clumsy excuse, Hugh laughed cheerfully as though it were an amusing story. That laughter only deepened the color on Maylily’s cheeks.

“I would like to, but I have another engagement.”

Gathering up the last of his laughter, Hugh rose to his feet. As Maylily too stood, he bent and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“I will come again.”

And he whispered with eyes and voice as tender as if speaking to a lover. There had been no hesitation in any of it, so if one were to say there had been no time to refuse, it’d sound like a poor excuse.

Placing her hand lightly upon her head, as though to preserve the feeling of his lips, Maylily gazed blankly at Hugh’s retreating back as he left the drawing room. That parting had left her with an ache, born perhaps of the long and lonely hours she had lately spent at home.

Yes, it must be only that.

It had to be only that.

***

For the opening of the spring social season’s main event, the Flower Show, the entrance and lobby of the Skaard Hotel had been decorated under the theme of “Spring Garden.” Newly brought floral arrangements of every variety harmonized with the existing décor, drawing admiration from the visitors.

Passing through the entrance adorned with roses that had bloomed a little early, Martin entered the lobby but, too anxious to admire the unusual beauty, scanned his surroundings restlessly. Just then, David Curren, who had come to meet him, walked past the bustling crowd around the front desk.

“You arrived right on time, Director Fritz.”

“It’s been a while, Mr. Curren.”

Under the great chandelier at the center of the lobby, the two men exchanged formal greetings and shook hands.

“This way, please. I will escort you to the Count of Everscourt’s office.”

With every step following Curren, the tension on Martin’s face deepened.

Yesterday, the sudden arrival of a letter from the Count of Everscourt had reminded Martin of his own negligence. It was his failure to intervene despite knowing of the series of incidents that had recently befallen Maylily at the opera company.

When the Count of Everscourt had first become Maylily’s patron, Martin had been fervent in his support of her. But the turning point in his attitude came at the patronage party.

That day, watching the Count’s indifferent face as Maylily left hand in hand with another man, and seeing the sponsorship sum that was paltry compared to the Count’s reputation, he judged that the Count’s interest and affection for Maylily were not of any significant level. As his high expectations for a new patron plummeted, his dissatisfaction with Maylily, whose behavior had already displeased him, grew even greater.

To think she had ruined everything by failing to hold on to a man who fancied her. A half-wit not even worth her face value.

That thought seemed proven by the fact that throughout Maylily’s various ordeals, not once had the Count raised a complaint. It was only natural, then, that Martin had grown cold toward her.

Even Martin, who paid no mind whether Maylily was plagued by malicious rumors or harassed by the male members, had felt his heart lurch when she fell down the stairs and was injured. Unlike intangible insults or harassment, an injury was physical evidence of torment.

He had fretted, wondering whether this accident might incur the Count’s wrath, but as days passed and the theater remained quiet, he concluded:

That foolish girl had truly been cast aside.

Just as he reached that conclusion and eased his mind, the Count’s letter had arrived, sounding an alarm to his complacency. Without offering any real explanation, the Count had summoned Martin to the Skaard Hotel, and Martin had obeyed without hesitation.

If the opera company were to suffer even the smallest loss, he would never spare Vanessa.

Grinding his teeth inwardly, he arrived before the Count’s office.

“Now, please go in.”

When David Curren opened the door and Martin entered, the Count of Everscourt was seated at a table carved with elaborate patterns.

With the fierce sunlight pouring through the window and the panorama of the bustling city behind him like a halo, his figure radiated the oppressive authority of a ruler upon his throne.

It was a markedly different atmosphere from the elegant gentleman Martin had seen at the patronage party. Swallowing hard, Martin removed his hat and bowed.

“It’s been a long time, Count.”

“Indeed. Come, sit.”

Not long after they sat facing each other, refreshments were served. Raising and lowering a teacup from which white steam rose, the Count curved his lips faintly as though recalling an amusing tale.

“I hear an interesting rumor has been circulating in the Roden Opera Company lately. Have you heard it?”

So the time had come. Martin’s heart jolted, but he forced himself to reply calmly.

“What rumor do you mean?”

“It seems I have become a man who buys women, and you have become a pimp. What do you think? Do you agree with it?”

The Count spoke politely, his smile still on his lips. Yet the words, far more crude and provocative than the rumor itself, laid bare his displeasure.

Pale as a sheet, Martin bowed his head low as if to the ground. If it became known that he’d incurred the Count’s anger for failing to suppress such disgraceful rumors surrounding a sponsored singer, the trust between the opera company and its patrons as a whole could be shaken.

“H-how could such absurd words…”

“My thoughts exactly. So see to it.”

The command, soft and concise, was all the more forceful and unambiguous. Wiping the cold sweat from his brow with his sleeve, Martin was too flustered even to take out the handkerchief in his pocket.

“I will return to the theater at once, investigate the matter, and report back. I can only beg your pardon for troubling you with my negligence.”

“As director, you must have many burdens to bear, Director Fritz, and I understand that. What is important is to prevent such mistakes from recurring. I have prepared this to aid in the opera company’s management. Take it.”

The ‘management of the opera company’ the Count referred to, as he handed over a white envelope, clearly meant Maylily’s treatment. With this, Martin’s view of the relationship between the Count of Everscourt and Maylily shifted completely.

“I will do my utmost to repay your expectation and support, Count.”

“Oh, and one more thing.”

With the same expression and voice, the Count added to Martin, who had swiftly accepted the envelope with the eagerness of a sycophant.

“When my singer returns, I wouldn’t like her to encounter the one who injured her.”