14.
“Is it because I’m bitter that other women come and go as they please, while I’ve never been invited even once, that I’m trying to go now, at the very last minute?”
Max wore his habitual look of exhaustion at Freya’s hastily improvised answer. Freya found the sight amusing, and she let out a soft laugh.
“Why, are you worried I’ll do something insane at your company?”
“I cannot say that I am not.”
“I promise. There won’t be a repeat of last year.”
Finding no logical reason to offer a firm refusal from the start, Freya eventually got what she wanted.
✦ ✦ ✦
Mathilde’s stomach turned as the situation refused to bend to her will.
She was already at her wit’s end. Her daughter-in-law had become so lawless and unpredictable that Mathilde sometimes wondered if some foreign soul had taken up residence in that girl’s body.
And her son—who wouldn’t even deign to hear her out—only made her blood boil further!
It was all due to that rat hiding in the mansion, leaking information. Who on earth had whispered to Freya about the mental institution?
“Butler! Have you still not found them?”
“No, Madam.”
Recognizing the command was impossible to fulfill, the butler hesitated before reporting with brutal honesty.
“…Unless they confess, it will be difficult to identify which servant held a private conversation with the mistress.”
“Then fire them all and hire new ones!”
Mathilde slammed her expensive fan down so hard the frame nearly buckled, biting her lip in a fit of nerves.
“Nothing goes right!”
When Freya had threatened her with that beaming, hollow smile, Mathilde had been certain the girl had truly lost her mind. Her heart had hammered against her ribs for the rest of the night, keeping her from sleep. But after a day of forced composure, she felt humiliated for having been intimidated by the daughter of a Duke—a girl she had monitored since the age of eight.
No matter how much the wretch had changed, wasn’t she still just a dim-witted child who had lived as if locked in a castle for eighteen years?
Even so, Mathilde sensed that she would not be able to suppress her as easily as before.
She had even gone so far as to cling to Max upon his unexpected return, begging him to have the girl committed. She had only fled in a panic when she caught sight of Freya barreling toward them.
Her pride was wounded, but she had to accept the reality: the plan to have Freya institutionalized and seize control of her dowry had gone down the drain. The salon would inevitably be a much smaller affair than she had intended.
No—since she would no longer be able to squander Freya’s money at will, her own lifestyle would inevitably suffer.
“Insolent thing… Even so, it’s obvious she wouldn’t be able to do a thing if Max just said one word.”
A sinister smile played on Mathilde’s lips as she gnawed at her mouth.
If she had to abandon her plan to host a salon that would be the talk of the town and solidify her standing in high society, she might as well use the event to put her daughter-in-law in her place.
“It would be better to cut the scale down significantly.”
That would be far more effective for setting an example.
✦ ✦ ✦
On Monday morning, a package arrived from the Madam Pernel Boutique, accompanied by a note from the woman herself: *The tailor is ready to meet at any time.*
Freya’s face lit up.
“Madam Pernel, does your building have a back door? I need to slip out of the boutique without being seen.”
Madam Pernel, who had readily assisted her despite the preposterous request last Saturday, had clearly decided to become her active collaborator. It was just like her—with the instincts of a born gambler—to offer such unwavering support once she had decided to join the fray.
*You helped me before, so this time I will help you.*
No, a promise to forge a path together suited them better.
Freya penned a reply in elegant script to arrange their next meeting, handed it to Milla, and said,
“Milla, dress me as beautifully as possible today. I’m going to meet someone whose arrogance I intend to crush.”
Perhaps hoping to avoid the spectacle of a married couple arriving together, Max had told Freya to meet him in the afternoon and had left earlier.
Thanks to that, Freya was able to prepare for her outing at a leisurely pace.
✦ ✦ ✦
It was just after lunch. About twenty staff members were enduring the Monday slump with languid expressions.
“The Mistress was in the newspaper again today.”
“Ah, did you see it? I did too.”
The topic of conversation was the satirical cartoon in today’s ‘Le Xixe Siecle.’ The title was…
Oh, even though ‘Théodore Dupre’ was standing right next to her—!
In the cartoon, a brown-haired woman in vulgar attire was depicted wearing a black eye patch, admiring a painting in the Salon Exhibition hall with exaggerated, mocking gestures. Next to that painting, a massive landscape by Théodore Dupre—who had received the Legion of Honour last year—dominated the wall.
“I suppose the Mistress must be the only person who visited the exhibition and failed to recognize Théodore Dupre.”
“Hey, isn’t this cartoon a bit extreme? Even if she’s eccentric, I wouldn’t think a high-ranking noblewoman would be so unrefined as to miss a Dupre.”
“That’s true. I didn’t even know that massive painting was by him. Though, even if she had recognized it, she probably wouldn’t have cared.”
A clear, melodic voice intervened from behind them.
“Mademoiselle, what brings you here—Ma… Madam Russell?”
The staff member who turned around first stood up in shock, failing to process who she was for a heartbeat.
The rest of the room turned in unison, their expressions freezing as if they had been doused in ice water.
Freya smiled kindly at the faces that looked as if they had just encountered the Grim Reaper. The unmarried men in the room felt their cheeks flush involuntarily.
“Thank you for recognizing me, even though we haven’t been introduced. Is my husband inside?”
“Yes? Ah… yes?”
“He is, Madam. Inside.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you!”
At the sudden appearance of the Mistress, the staff scrambled in confusion, their faces showing the utter bewilderment of a collective heart attack.
It didn’t feel half bad to see them—having been icy when she visited during the divorce proceedings—acting so differently now.
Ignoring the flustered staff, Freya picked up the newspaper they had been reading.
It was amusing. Of all her actions last Saturday, the one she thought would attract the least attention had become the subject of a caricature.
She had known that the hundreds of pairs of eyes in the exhibition hall were watching her, pretending to be cultured while tracking her every move. It didn’t matter if her visit became fodder for a cartoon. But if this was their reaction to her conversation with Madam Tristan, it was laughable.
*I suppose they’ve chosen to pretend they don’t know.*
Madam Tristan must have surely run to her son that day to complain about the insult she had endured.
The Marquisate of Tristan was one of the top five noble families in the Empire, right alongside the Blanc Ducal Family.
She could have easily forced the newspaper she owned to turn the ‘vulgarity’ Madam Russell committed into a scathing headline. And yet, it had all passed so quietly.
*Are they cowering on their own, or are they getting permission for even such trivial matters?*
While Freya was lost in thought, the staff cast wary glances at the dreadfully perfect wife of their boss—a woman they were encountering at their workplace for the first time.
*Is this the shrew who kept the boss—a man who makes even the devil cry when it comes to business—from even being able to return to his own home?*
The Mistress was wearing a teal fascinator with a delicate veil over her loosely braided chestnut hair, and she was dressed in a matching teal bustle dress.
Her transparent skin was visible beneath minimal makeup, and her large, clear eyes regarded the newspaper that had made her a laughingstock with genuine curiosity. Her pale pink lips, slightly parted in concentration, drew their eyes.
If one didn’t know her reputation, she would have looked like a vivacious young lady from a wealthy merchant family.
However, one must not be deceived by that lovely appearance. Was this not the woman who, with that very face, had threatened others and masterminded a kidnapping? The staff slunk back to their seats and began to pretend to work.
Just then, an unwelcome face entered the office.
“Madam Russell, it has been a long time.”
Auguste, who had been about to head straight to the boss’s office, froze for a moment upon discovering Freya before quickly masking his expression with a polite, professional smile.
Freya’s eyes turned cold for a fleeting second as she looked at him, but the impression vanished instantly.
“Hello, Delaporte.”
Unlike the other staff, Auguste seemed to have been warned of Freya’s visit. Being Max’s closest friend and secretary, it was to be expected.
“The boss is waiting for you. Please, this way.”
Auguste, assuming it was Freya’s first time at the office, guided her. Freya followed behind him, pretending to be ignorant of the layout.
“Boss, the Mistress is here.”
Auguste said as he opened the door. Max, sitting at his desk, raised his head. Immediately, a wrinkle formed between his brows.
“Did you not say you wanted to learn about business?”
“Hmm, I did. But why?”
Freya tilted her head at Max’s question, feigning total innocence. Dressed in her matching teal ensemble, she looked like a free-spirited bourgeois lady enjoying a picnic by the lakeside in the Bois de Vincennes.
“Madam Russell, that attire seems cumbersome for working in an office; it would be better to wear something a bit simpler next time.”
Auguste answered for Max from the side.