Maylily - Chapter 40

Hugh and David arrived at the club in Aberque about thirty minutes after the party had begun. The afternoon meeting had run longer than scheduled, causing their later plans to be delayed little by little.

The sight of the club, with about twenty people gathered, was worthy of Patrick Cheshire’s reputation as the host. It was splendid, noisy, and indulgent.

Spotting Hugh and David passing by the poker table, where ivory chips and banknotes were being tossed around, Patrick greeted them with delight.

“Hugh, I was getting disheartened, thinking you wouldn’t come.”

“For someone so disheartened, you look quite merry.”

“Isn’t it our fate to smile even when sad? David, you came too. Come this way and have a drink.”

David, the only commoner among the attendees, was not particularly close to Patrick. Even so, he was invited here thanks to being Hugh’s man. It was a kind of bait Patrick had used to raise the likelihood of Hugh attending.

Everyone at the party knew this, but David didn’t mind.

At least here, he could drink his fill of fine liquor he would begrudge buying with his own money.

Led by Patrick, Hugh and David sat at an empty table, and a glass of deep amber whiskey was set before each of them.

“Chat for a while. I still have guests to greet. I’ll be back.”

As Patrick soon left, several men who recognized Hugh came by to greet him. A bit of talk about business and investments passed around, and when the conversation ran dry, they invited Hugh to join them in billiards or poker.

Each time, Hugh replied, “Later,” with a courteous smile, and no one pressed him twice. Hugh’s perfect blend of manners and dignity always created a distance: he was admired but difficult to approach.

“Still no word from the north?”

Finally alone together, Hugh cut the tip of a cigar he had taken from the humidor on the table and asked.

David quickly lit it for him and replied, “No, it won’t be easy to send a telegram before he leaves Daymont. It’s such a remote village. If he falls neatly into the traps laid around there, it should take at least three or four more days.”

Three days earlier, Mark had sent a telegram just before boarding the train to Daymont after Victor Heywood. That had been the last word, but David was not overly concerned.

Some of the false information spread for diversion was tied to the Daymont area. If Heywood had followed the trail, he must be chasing a heavy misstep.

“Let’s give it a few more days, then.”

Since progress reports were sometimes omitted for days when there was no development, Hugh thought little of it and turned the subject elsewhere.

By now, the party had been going for over an hour. Empty glasses had begun to pile up, and a flush of drunkenness colored several faces. Just as the atmosphere began to grow unruly, the hired singer and accompanist stepped onto the small stage.

At such gatherings, the songs of singers served only as background music to liven things up. No one paid them any real attention.

Hugh was no exception. Until the piano prelude ended and the singer opened her mouth—

Of the season that once shone brightly…

The voice overlapped with David’s, who was talking about the imperial event to be held the day after tomorrow, and Hugh’s head turned reflexively toward the stage.

…the final flower falls.

Even under the gentle lighting, the gaudy dress—fit for a courtesan—sparkled garishly. Hugh’s gaze rose past it to the face of the woman singing enchantingly.

“Why is Miss Aile there…”

Hugh’s expression froze. Surprised, David followed his gaze to the stage and widened his eyes.

While David fidgeted nervously, watching Hugh’s reaction, Hugh drained his glass in silence. He took out a fresh cigar and clamped it between his lips. Through the haze of smoke rising thick and heavy, his eyes gleamed sharply as they fixed on Maylily.

Even if the petals scatter and vanish,

the fragrance of love remains.

Like crystal, her clear and firm voice cut through the haze of cigar smoke and alcohol, and the disorderly noise gradually died down. Even the boisterous groups around the poker tables and billiard tables stopped what they were doing and began to focus on the song.

“Oh ho, not bad.”

“First time I’ve seen her face. Which company is she with?”

“That voice, that face. The most perfect Agnes I’ve ever seen.”

Before the song had even reached its midpoint, those captivated by Maylily poured out their impressions. Mixed in among them were vulgar jokes that grated on the ears. No matter how outstanding her singing, the gazes men cast on a female singer never strayed far from that level.

As Maylily reached the climax, she delivered the rapid high-pitched staccato flawlessly and beautifully, without a trace of strain. Each note rang out crisp and distinct, like glass beads struck one by one.

In that moment, everyone held their breath and watched her near-acrobatic technique.

The woman who sang of unchanging love even as she faced a trial of fate and parting from her lover glowed with the light of unextinguished hope and determination.

As long as spring returns and flowers bloom,

our season will be eternal.

From her slender frame burst forth the final note, powerful and resonant, leaving the audience deeply moved. After a fleeting silence, an outpouring of enthusiastic applause and cheers erupted.

At that moment, a strange sense of deprivation swept over Hugh as his dry eyes wandered the room. Mixed into the heavy cigar smoke he exhaled was the stained memory of a spring night when flower petals had scattered.

Choosing the aria of his favorite opera as her first song had been an excellent decision. Everyone in this place loved that song. The thunderous applause shaking Maylily’s eardrums and heart was proof of it.

The tension she had felt upon stepping onto the stage so close to the audience, able to see every detail of the nobles in tuxedos—their hair and expressions—had all melted away.

After steadying her breathing, Maylily gave a glance to the accompanist, who began the prelude to the second song. By then, Maylily had gained enough composure to meet the eyes of her audience. It was just as the prelude was ending that she saw the Count of Everscourt.

I must be mistaken. There’s no way the Count could be here.

But no matter how much she denied it, the piercing gaze beyond the faint smoke, the fine features—it was unmistakably the Count. He seemed to be smiling faintly, or perhaps slightly angry.

Her heart jolted like that of a guilty soul. In her fluster, Maylily missed a beat and began her song a moment late.

Calm down. I’m only here to sing. I’ve done nothing wrong.

She repeated the thought like a mantra, steadying herself again. Afraid her fragile calm would break if she looked his way, she consciously avoided his gaze.

Thus, the second and third songs concluded without incident. Smiling in relief, Maylily bowed to the audience, then stepped down from the stage to a flood of cheers.

“Ah!”

As the applause gradually faded, someone let out an exclamation. Following that voice, Maylily turned her head to see a man with reddish-brown hair approaching.

It was Patrick Cheshire.

The star of today’s party, a regular of this club, the heir to the Marquess of Cheshire, and a notorious womanizer.

She recalled Jimmy’s warning just before she had gone on stage, telling her to be especially wary of him. As Maylily tried to slip away unnoticed, Patrick Cheshire quickly blocked her path with a sly smile.

“I thought your face looked familiar when you took the stage. So it was you.”

“You must be mistaking me for someone else. This is the first time I’ve ever seen you, my lord.”

The drunken man’s loud voice drew attention from those nearby. When Maylily bowed her head slightly to step aside, he swiftly moved his feet to block her again.

Egged on by the man’s harassment, the onlookers whistled and cheered, the noise ringing in her ears.

“The champagne girl from the sponsorship party. That was you.”

“……”

“I remembered you because you were so striking. That tear-streaked face was very pretty.”

Patrick Cheshire lifted a finger to brush along Maylily’s chin, recalling a memory she had never wanted to hear spoken aloud. The sensation made her skin crawl with disgust.

“Stop it!”

She turned her head sharply, grimacing to avoid his touch. And just then, cruelly, the Count of Everscourt entered her sight.