Maylily - Chapter 57

Maylily awoke to the sound of Mrs. Keaton entering the hallway at her usual hour each morning.

“Ah….”

As she sat up, a stabbing pain shot through her lower back, forcing her to clutch it. Her whole body ached as if stricken with fever. Her face burned, and her throat, hoarse from moaning all night, felt raw and sore.

With sleep still clouding her eyes, Maylily slowly looked around the bedroom, then climbed down from the bed. She didn’t feel well, but she had work to attend, and there was no time to waste.

“Good morning, Mrs. Keaton.”

Wearing her robe and slippers, Maylily stepped out of the bedroom and greeted Mrs. Keaton, who was washing potatoes in the kitchen.

“You’re up? Oh dear, are you feeling alright?”

Mrs. Keaton, who had smiled warmly at first, gasped in surprise upon seeing Mayrily’s complexion and hurried over. Her eyes and lips were swollen, and her cheeks were flushed as though she’d applied heavy rouge.

“I think I’ve caught a mild cold, but I remember there was some medicine in the cupboard….”

“Ah, just a moment.”

Mrs. Keaton rummaged through the bottles inside the cupboard, found a painkiller, and handed it to her with a glass of water. Maylily murmured a quiet thank-you and swallowed it. Then, after hesitating for a moment, she carefully spoke,

“I’m sorry, but could I trouble you to draw me a bath? I feel so weak right now… I know you must be busy, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, my dear. That’s no trouble at all. You can always ask me for help.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much, ma’am.”

Mrs. Keaton chuckled, saying there was nothing wrong with relying on others when one was unwell, after all, life would be far too harsh without a little kindness. Her gentle words made Maylily’s nose sting faintly, and she gave an awkward smile before hurrying back to her room.

The bedroom was a mess, still bearing the aftermath of the night before. The first thing she did was open the window to let in air. Then she gathered the clothes strewn across the floor and stripped the bed.

She couldn’t possibly ask Mrs. Keaton to wash sheets stained with bodily fluids. Deciding to hide them in the wardrobe and wash them herself on her next day off, Maylily began folding the linens when something fluttered to the floor.

“Money…?”

Picking it up, she then noticed the rest stacked on the side table. The pile of bills was thick enough to call a bundle. There was only one person who could have left it behind.

“Why would he….”

As she stared blankly, trying to grasp the meaning behind the money, an uneasy feeling crept over her.

Something’s wrong.

She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, but the more she recalled the memories of last night, the sharper her intuition grew.

“I like you.”

“….”

“I… like you so much, Hugh.”

Yes, that was when it began, when the Count of Everscourt’s attitude subtly changed.

Unlike before, he had driven her relentlessly, ignoring even her tearful, trembling whimpers, and throughout their long night together, he hadn’t once looked at her with warmth. Of course, that was only natural. Maylily had spent the night on her knees before him, head bowed.

Each time she was held by the count, her body overflowed with physical pleasure, yet her heart felt emptier and emptier, as if hollowed out piece by piece.

Closing her eyes in that hollow emptiness, as if she had become an empty box, she opened them again to find the Count had vanished without a trace. Unlike last time, he hadn’t even said goodbye.

The more she replayed each moment that had only vaguely felt wrong before, the clearer the truth became. Staring down at the money in her hands, Maylily sat there motionless for a long time.

From that morning on, the Count never sent her flowers again.

***

“Frank Barry has arrived, my lord.”

“Send him in.”

Hugh, gazing out at Cryer beyond the dazzling sunlight over Aberque, closed his eyes briefly before turning his head toward the door. Having returned without a wink of sleep and barely enough time to bathe and change before heading to work, faint fatigue shadowed his deep-set eyes.

“Good day, Count of Everscourt. I’m Frank Barry.”

The man who entered the office, holding his hat neatly with both hands, was visibly nervous. He was the informant who had been dispatched to Purdshire after Mark had gone out of contact.

According to the usual reporting chain, his report should have been delivered to Hugh through David, but since David was still staying in Cartia, Hugh had summoned him directly.

For Frank, who normally would never have the chance to face Hugh—the man standing at the pinnacle of power—this meeting could only feel overwhelming.

“You’ve done well.”

Hugh smiled softly, as if to ease his tension.

Frank began his detailed report on what he had investigated in Purdshire over the past week. It began with Mark’s injury.

“…A passenger in another compartment, who had been looking out the window, reportedly saw Mark fall from the train. A conductor who was informed of the incident contacted the police upon arrival in Daymont.”

The conductor and the responding officer had then immediately taken another train back to the site of the accident. Although it had rained that day and the weather conditions were poor, they managed to find Mark lying unconscious in the grass and safely rescued him.

Mark regained consciousness two days later. However, due to the effects of a head injury, he showed mild signs of memory loss and had sustained a fractured shin, leaving him unable to move. That was why he hadn’t been able to contact his superiors right away.

“What did the police conclude?”

“Since there was no evidence of foul play found in the train car Mark was riding in, they closed the investigation, ruling it an accidental fall. It seems their inability to identify a suspect, because Mark himself couldn’t recall what happened, also influenced their decision.”

The possibility of a healthy adult man accidentally opening a moving train door and falling to his death….

“How convenient.”

At those words, a face naturally surfaced in Hugh’s mind.

Victor Heywood.

The man must have noticed the tail and tried to eliminate it.

Breaking from his thoughts, Hugh’s cool, pale blue eyes glinted sharply toward Frank.

“Are you still monitoring Heywood’s movements?”

“Yes, my lord. After returning to Roden, he found his daughter and is currently arranging her marriage. However, it appears the daughter is strongly refusing the match.”

Frank then mentioned the argument he had witnessed yesterday afternoon between Victor Heywood and Maylily Aile in a tearoom in Aberque. As Hugh listened, the corner of his lips curved faintly.

“Please… hold me, Count.”

As expected. There had been a reason that woman had thrown herself into his arms that night as if seeking shelter.

Recalling her tearful eyes that had looked up at him so pleadingly, Hugh took a cigar from the humidor and lit it. A sigh-like breath of smoke slipped from his red lips.

“Leave the surveillance of Heywood to someone else and go back to Purdshire.”

“Purdshire, my lord?”

At Frank’s bewildered look, Hugh gave a slight tilt of his chin. “Find evidence proving this wasn’t an accident but a crime. Whether it’s physical proof, a witness, anything at all, the key will be helping the patient recover his memory as quickly as possible. Request whatever resources you need.”

The destination Hugh wanted for Victor Heywood was not a court of law but Marcus Cobb’s grasp. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to secure a secondary option.

After giving his orders, Hugh dismissed Frank. Left alone, his gaze turned once more toward Cryer beyond the window. The pale smoke drifted above the skyline, slowly dissipating.

Maylily must have known there was a simple, foolproof way to avoid a marriage as disastrous as this one. Yet she hadn’t said a single word about it to him.

Was she trying to find her own way out?

For that endearing yet infuriating attempt, Hugh was willing to lend a hand. After all, he could at least grant that much of a reward to the woman who had taken him into her body all night.

As Hugh pondered how to stage the climax of the revenge he had long prepared in the most dramatic way possible, a strange gleam flashed in his eyes. Placing his shortened cigar in the ashtray, he summoned his secretary and gave an order.

“Find me a reporter.”

***

By evening, Maylily’s body still hadn’t recovered. However, by stopping at the infirmary just before the performance to take some fever reducers and mustering every last ounce of her remaining mental strength, she managed to get through the show safely.

After a night of rest, she had regained her usual level of energy by the following morning. There were still aches and soreness left, but not enough to require medication.

Since it was a day without any scheduled performances, Maylily headed straight to the Skaard Hotel after finishing her personal practice. In the bag she carried was an envelope containing the money the Count of Everscourt had left behind.

She had never heard of a singer spending a night with her patron and then being paid afterward. Even if such customs existed, Maylily didn’t want to accept money from the Count. To her, he wasn’t a patron, but a man she loved.

She intended to return the money to him. And if, that day, she had offended him by carelessly calling his name, she wanted to apologize for her boldness. No matter how she thought about it, she couldn’t find any other reason for why their relationship had suddenly turned so wrong.

“The Count of Everscourt has no scheduled appointments at the company today.”

When Maylily arrived at the hotel, carrying both nervousness and a hint of fear, the Count wasn’t there. When she asked about his work schedule, the secretary regretfully told her they had no information either.

And so, the next morning before work, Maylily visited the Skaard Hotel once more.