41.
Mother Catherine shook her head again.
However, Harriet grasped Catherine’s hands, her expression brightening.
“Of course, I cannot know for certain whether this business will succeed or fail. But I can guarantee the quality of the convent’s products, and the attention currently fixed on me will naturally draw crowds. You have no idea how much interest everyone has in me right now.”
As Catherine hesitated, Harriet squeezed her hands, her grip firm and urgent.
“Mother. I did not plan this business just to earn money for the convent’s upkeep.”
“Then what is it for?”
“There are many nuns and young girls in the convent who do not wish to become members of the clergy. But because they have no other path, they are forced to take their vows. I believe this could be a way to open a different life for them.”
At those words, Catherine and Sister Agnes looked as if they had been struck. It wasn’t betrayal; it was an epiphany.
The fact that a problem they had ignored out of long-standing habit could be solved in such a way finally stirred Catherine’s heart.
“If the soap really sells as well as you say it will…”
“We can operate the workshops independently. If a portion of the profits covers the convent’s operating funds and the rest goes toward wages, even those girls who do not want a life in the clergy will be able to lead lives of their own.”
Catherine fidgeted with her dry, withered hands, lost in thought.
There was not a single flaw in Harriet’s logic.
If the business succeeded, the convent would secure the funds needed for its charity work and education projects for abandoned girls. A consistent income was, after all, the foundation they lacked.
But there was one significant hurdle.
“But to expand the business significantly, that requires capital. How do you intend to secure the funds?”
Harriet took a deep breath. From here on, it was a matter of will, not just planning.
“I will find an investor. I came here first to obtain your permission.”
“Is that… possible? Our convent isn’t exactly famous…”
“I will find one somehow. In exchange for that,” she said, clasping her hands tightly, her voice pleading, “please sign an exclusive contract with me.”
* * *
Throughout the journey back to Genoa, Harriet’s mind raced with the challenge of finding an investor.
*I spoke boldly to Mother, but this will not be easy.*
Thanks to Trisha’s influence, her reentry into high society had been successful, but the public’s trust in her remained at rock bottom. Although a few young ladies had responded positively at Annabelle’s tea party, asking them to invest risked severing even the budding relationships she had formed.
*Is there no one, anyone at all?*
By the time she neared the Genoa pass gate, she had mentally audited every acquaintance she possessed, including her own uncle.
Harriet planned to approach the noblewomen Trisha had introduced to her first. They had the capital and had already expressed interest in the soap and toner.
*Everyone is curious about the secret to my improved skin, and I have the answer. With my own notoriety as a conversation starter, surely someone will see the business potential.*
If that failed, she was prepared to take out a bank loan. It wouldn’t be a large sum, but if the business showed promise, she could leverage that for more later.
As she passed through the convent gate, a large cargo wagon, rushed up from behind, cut through the clearance procedure ahead of everyone else.
No one raised an objection. Seeing the crest of a certain house stamped on the side, it was clear the wagon had been granted priority.
Harriet stared at the rear of the wagon with a mix of envy and curiosity, then opened her window and asked a merchant waiting nearby.
“Excuse me, do you happen to know which house that wagon belongs to?”
The merchant, startled by the sudden question, scanned Harriet from top to bottom and replied bluntly.
“You look like a noble lady, yet you don’t know that crest?”
“Well… I have been away in the countryside for a long time to recuperate.”
“Ah… that wagon belongs to the House of Kaylas. Seeing as it passed first, it must be carrying goods for Imperial business.”
In an instant, Harriet realized she had left Duke Cedric Kaylas off her list.
*Why didn’t I think of him?*
Setting aside his immense wealth, he already had a connection to St. Clarissa’s Convent. Hadn’t he come during the Feast Day week last year and left a large donation?
*On top of the business potential, I could use the justification of helping the convent!*
Of course, he was a person she wanted to avoid at all costs. His condescending gaze and his habit of speaking in riddles naturally triggered her defenses.
*And he seems to dislike me, too.*
She had almost been fooled into thinking he felt sorry for her when he sent the muffler and hat, but after their meeting at the Vanderbilt party, his attitude seemed much closer to contempt.
Still, since the convent’s current project was rooted in his donation, emphasizing that connection might elicit some sympathy.
*And he isn’t the type to go around blabbing that he received a business proposal from me. It would be better to target Duke Kaylas first.*
Pride was a luxury she couldn’t afford right now. If it meant securing an investment, she was prepared to bow her head and apologize for their last encounter. That wasn’t being servile; it was a “strategic retreat.”
Motivation surged—only to be replaced by a cold reality.
*But will the Duke even meet with me?*
Calling herself a noble was one thing, but did she have any standing to prove it? Furthermore, recalling the conditions he had attached to his previous financial support, he seemed extremely averse to having his name linked to hers.
*If I submit a request for an audience, there is a 99.9% chance it will be rejected by his aides.*
A sigh escaped her.
“Haa… but, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
She had to try everything. Harriet decided she would prepare the business proposal as meticulously as possible.
* * *
“That is all for today’s report.”
Roxana organized the documents after getting confirmation on the final item. Her employer and patron, Trisha, closed her fountain pen, let out a small sigh, and stood up.
“I have prepared some warm tea.”
“Thank you, Roxy.”
Thanks to Roxana, who was always one step ahead, Trisha never felt truly alone in this household.
Seated before the tea table, Trisha remained still as Roxana draped a lap blanket over her. Despite the scorching weather, Trisha didn’t break a sweat.
“It seems Harriet is plotting something. Have you heard anything?”
At Trisha’s question, Roxana furrowed her brows and remained silent for a long time. Finally, she gulped down a cold drink and spoke as if she had made up her mind.
“My Lady, how far do you intend to look after Miss Harriet?”
“Why? Do you think I’m going to get backstabbed by her, too?”
“I am well aware that your eye for people is exceptional, My Lady. However, regarding Miss Harriet, it feels as though you are heavily influenced by a past connection. We shouldn’t believe all of her reputation, but shouldn’t we at least acknowledge it?”
To Roxana, who was echoing John’s sentiments, Trisha chuckled.
“Perhaps so. But there is no reason why I shouldn’t. An old woman with money can push someone forward as she pleases.”
At those words, Roxana’s cheeks flushed red.
“It is quite ironic for me, who received that very grace, to be saying such things about Miss Harriet.”
Roxana was one of the people Trisha had “pushed forward.” Harriet at least had a relationship where she could call Trisha a great-aunt, but Roxana was the daughter of the late Oster’s sixth cousin—essentially a stranger.
Her mother had fled her husband’s debauchery long ago, and her father had squandered the family fortune on alcohol, gambling, and worse.
Roxana, who had grown up neglected, possessed a sharp, survivalist mind unlike her parents.
“I heard that the House of Felon is the main branch of our family! I am Roxana of the Balbanus family, a distant branch! Count, please help me!”
It was when Roxana was fifteen that she had grabbed the iron bars of the Felon estate gate, soaked in rain and sweat, and screamed for help.