“I am postponing the wedding.”
Margaret’s lips twitched, but no words came out.
Her face had gone as white as the teacup before her.
“Clifton… surely you understand the implications of what you are saying?” she finally managed, her voice a strained whisper.
In stark contrast to her shock, Clifton’s demeanor was unchanged.
He nodded nonchalantly, prompting a gasp of disbelief from his sister.
“Of course,” she breathed.
“A man like you would never fail to anticipate the consequences of such a decision.”
As Margaret said, Clifton knew precisely what would happen.
The thought alone was enough to cause a headache.
The nobility would whisper in every salon, certain of a rift between the couple.
The Emperor, worried about the diplomatic fallout, would undoubtedly summon him for an explanation.
Even so, Clifton had made his decision.
He had to acknowledge that Merdi was in no state to be married.
The fiancée who was supposed to have spent his absence perfecting her bridal lessons had utterly failed to adapt.
His definition of adaptation was broad, encompassing everything from her strange bouts of nausea to the meekness that invited the maids’ contempt.
To proceed with the wedding in her current state would only lead to more damaging rumors.
As a fiancée, her obligation to attend official events was minimal, but once she was his wife, no such leniency would be afforded.
“How long do you intend to delay it?” Margaret asked, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Seeing that her brother would not be swayed, she finally relented.
Clifton glanced at the calendar on the wall.
The wedding had been scheduled for August.
“We will set it for this time next year.”
A time when the world was awash in green, just like the name of this estate, Greenfield.
That seemed most fitting.
After concluding his conversation with Margaret, Clifton stepped outside and untied the reins of the horse he had tethered to the Annex terrace.
It was too dark to ride back; the horse had been in the stable for some time and would be unaccustomed to a night journey.
He walked, leading the horse by the reins.
The rhythmic clip-clop of its hooves echoed in the soft moonlight.
As his eyes expertly scanned the darkness of the path ahead, his mind was replaying the day’s events.
The cheap stew served for Merdi’s dinner.
Even without that insulting meal, it was obvious that she had been mistreated.
He could, on some level, understand Margaret’s justification for leaving the servants to their own devices.
Their father had never taught them anything with kindness.
Their mother had both respected and feared him.
Consequently, he and Margaret had learned everything the hard way.
If they couldn’t use a knife properly, they practiced until their young palms were calloused.
If their pronunciation was lacking, they spent all day with a pen clenched between their teeth.
That was the Greenfield way, and it was how Margaret had chosen to handle Merdi.
But that method did not suit everyone.
For his gentle fiancée, perhaps everything here felt impossibly harsh.
‘Pathetic.’
Clifton gnawed on the thought of her, a familiar frustration rising in his chest.
If she had been capable of controlling her own subordinates, he would never have needed to intervene.
She remained a tiresome creature, demanding far more of his attention than she was worth.
“Your Grace…?”
A voice cut through his thoughts.
The stableman was approaching, having just finished his work for the night.
He had changed out of his stained work clothes and removed his hunting cap, revealing a face that looked even more boyish without it.
Clifton handed him the reins.
“Put him away.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The stableman nodded and led the horse into its stall.
But he lingered, hesitating as if he had something important to say.
Clifton noticed but was already tired and turned to leave.
He had wasted enough time today.
“Excuse me, Your Grace!” the stableman called out, stopping him.
When Clifton turned back, the young man flinched under his gaze, swallowing hard.
The simple act of addressing him seemed to terrify the boy.
“…Actually, Lady Langlen’s carriage arrived a short while ago.”
At this unexpected news, one of Clifton’s eyebrows rose slightly.
Merdi had returned to Greenfield today?
But he hadn’t seen a whisper of her.
He had been at the Annex all day; if she had come straight here, they couldn’t have possibly missed each other.
Just as a flicker of annoyance began to stir, the stableman added, “But… she asked me to keep her return a secret from everyone.”
At the word ‘secret,’ Clifton’s eyes darkened.
“Are you suggesting my fiancée has found lodging elsewhere?” His low voice was as cold as the night air.
Merdi had returned to Greenfield, yet she had not gone to the Annex.
As little as he knew of her personal affairs, he was certain she had no one here to shelter her.
According to Margaret, his fiancée did little else but sequester herself in her room on weekends.
‘But then again, who knows?’ A cold sneer touched his lips.
‘She attends worship every weekend.
Perhaps she caught the eye of some secret suitor.’ He looked down at the stableman, who was frozen before him.
The boy spoke with great difficulty.
“Uh… My Lady is in the sheep hut.”
The sheep hut.
At those words, the cruel twist of Clifton’s mouth slowly relaxed.
The stableman continued, crumpling the cap in his hands.
“I believe she intends to sleep there tonight.”
“Huh…”
“My Lady begged me not to tell anyone, but if the Grand Dame finds out, I fear she will be severely punished, just like last time.”
Even knowing his fiancée wasn’t with a secret lover, Clifton’s expression remained grim.
“Has this happened often?”
“…Not often, Your Grace.
In the past, she would sometimes fall asleep among the sheep, but she was harshly scolded for it each time.” The stableman kept his eyes fixed on the ground but steadfastly finished his plea.
“So, if it’s not too much to ask… could you please take Lady Langlen to the Annex, Your Grace?”
Clifton silently observed the young man who had summoned such courage for his mistress.
He seemed to believe that Clifton, as her fiancé, would be different from Margaret—that he would quietly guide Merdi to a safe, warm bed.
He looked like a squire, tense but determined, ready to lead a hero to rescue a princess.
“Lead the way,” Clifton ordered curtly.
“Yes, sir!” the stableman stammered, scrambling to lead the way.
They arrived at a dilapidated hut that had long been barred and abandoned.
It was an old mill, a place Margaret had always wanted to tear down, especially after vulgar rumors began to circulate about servants using it for secret trysts.
She must have surrendered it to house the troublesome sheep without a second thought.
Contrary to the stableman’s claim, the main door was secured with a heavy padlock.
“She must have gone in through the back.”
The stableman expertly led him around the side of the building.
As he’d guessed, the back door was dangling open, not properly latched.
“Lady Langlen has the key to this door.” With that, he opened the door and stepped inside.
‘BAAA—’
Startled by the late-night intrusion, the sheep began to cry out.
“My Lady is usually on top of that haystack…” the stableman began to explain.
Clifton cut him off.
“You may go.”
The boy flinched at his cold gaze, offered a quick bow, and scurried outside.
He glanced back once, a flicker of worry on his face—what if this master, as cold as the biting wind, punished the fragile lady just as the Grand Dame would?
But the heavy door had already swung shut, sealing the view inside.
As the door closed, the startled sheep milled about frantically.
Through it all, Merdi remained curled up on the haystack, as still as if she were dead.
Standing over her, Clifton found the scene strangely fitting for his tomboy fiancée.
They called her a wild bird, and it seemed she had taken the delusion to heart.
Despite the commotion, she was utterly silent, as if lost in the deepest possible sleep.
For a fleeting, absurd moment, Clifton wondered if she had simply died right here.
As the thought took hold, the rising dust, the musty air, and the bleating of the animals seemed to fade into nothingness.
He slowly reached out, placing a finger just under her nose.
A faint breath ghosted against his skin, and the cries of the sheep rushed back into his hearing.
Did she sense his presence?
Her eyelids trembled.
“I hate it…” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.