Merdi did indeed brush the sheep herself that day.
The wool of Belloc sheep, raised on the lush grasses of the estate, was renowned for its quality.
Running a comb through the fluffy fleece never felt like a chore.
The sight of the sheep closing their eyes in contentment was enough to lift her spirits.
Another of her simple joys was sneaking them special treats—chicory or carrots pilfered from the kitchen with Emma’s help.
That was how precious these ten sheep were to her.
She had named every single one.
‘BAA—’
The moment she produced the snacks, the flock pressed in, nudging one another to get closer.
“Wait, wait!
One at a time!”
She scattered the potato leaves she’d brought into the trough, and the sheep immediately shifted their attention, crowding around it.
Merdi sat on a bale of hay, a fond smile on her lips as she watched them.
Vincent, who was organizing hay inside the hut, put his hands on his hips.
“Honestly, anyone would think we starve them.”
His words made Merdi laugh again.
“Are any of them sick?” she asked.
“Of course not.
You know how well I look after them.”
Though he spoke playfully, Merdi knew it was true.
If not for his diligent care, the sheep, confined to this small pen, would not be so clean and lively.
She smiled warmly and let her gaze sweep over them.
They were precious to her for more than just being a piece of her home, Belloc.
Surrounded all day by strangers, enduring their stinging glares and playing the fool, she would sometimes catch her reflection and wonder if the person staring back had always had such empty eyes.
But the sheep’s black eyes held no judgment, no agenda.
In their presence, she could simply ‘be’.
Tucked among their warm, soft bodies, she could almost imagine, even in the dead of winter, that someone was holding her tight.
In this foreign land, that was a profound comfort.
‘Though now, there’s little difference between Elsmere and my home.’
As she combed a sheep’s back, Merdi sighed.
Had she ever truly had a sanctuary?
Her gaze drifted around the hut, past the flock at the trough, and settled on an empty spot in the corner.
That was where Bailey used to be.
She had been the smallest of the sheep, with the poorest quality wool.
A scar on her neck from birth had left the fleece there sparse, so Merdi had tied a blue ribbon around it to hide the mark.
She had always felt a particular tenderness for the pitiful creature, but Bailey was no longer here.
As Merdi stared at the empty space, Vincent stepped in front of her, blocking her view.
His rough, worn work trousers filled her vision, and she blinked, looking up at him.
Their eyes met, and Vincent’s face reddened.
He fumbled, suddenly flustered.
“Sh-shouldn’t you be heading back soon?”
Startled, Merdi pulled out her pocket watch.
He was right; time had flown.
“I have to go!”
She scrambled to her feet, brushing the hay from her skirt.
Even if Margaret hadn’t left her chambers, there was no sense in tempting fate.
“Thanks, Vincent!” she called, waving as she left the hut.
Vincent stood in the doorway, waving back.
A hint of regret lingered on his face, half-hidden by his cap.
Fortunately, Merdi wasn’t late for her art lesson.
But what greeted her, after running until her legs ached, was her tutor’s heavy sigh.
“How is it that after all these years, your painting skills haven’t improved in the slightest?”
At the lament, Merdi shifted her grip on her brush, embarrassed.
The Baroness was right.
The painting on the easel before her was atrocious.
If her tutor’s intent had been to mock her, like the other ladies from the capital, Merdi might have been defiant.
But she knew the Baroness’s passion for art was genuine, which made her criticism harder to dismiss.
“Still, you did a fine job of humiliating Count Melvitch’s daughter.”
At the unexpected praise, Merdi looked up from her canvas.
“Pardon?”
“I was dying to say something every time the Melvitch family boasted about her artistic talents.
But I held my tongue, knowing the trouble it would cause.”
She was talking about the ghost-painting.
“Where did you hear about that, Baroness?”
“Where didn’t I?
It’s the talk of the town.
When Count Melvitch’s daughter abruptly cancelled her exhibition, the real reason was bound to come out, wasn’t it?”
Merdi was only now realizing the true consequences of her impulsive act.
At the time, she had been certain her fiancé would agree to the annulment.
But that was no longer the case.
Now she would be marrying Clifton, which meant facing these people for the rest of her life.
The thought of what she’d done made her temples throb.
But there was no use crying over spilled milk.
“Don’t you worry, Lady Langlen.
Once the wedding is held, even that ill-tempered Melvitch girl will have no choice but to hold her tongue.”
The Baroness seemed to believe that even in these changing times, no one would dare challenge the future Grand Duchess of Greenfield.
But Merdi knew better.
‘We postponed the wedding.’
She knew how that single piece of news would alter the way people looked at her.
Her position and authority would come from her husband’s affection and trust; a postponement would naturally invite speculation about the state of their relationship.
The thought made her hand go slack, and the brush slipped from her fingers.
“Well, by then, painting skills will be secondary, won’t they?
You can simply buy as many masterpieces as you like.
What an enviable life.”
The Baroness chattered on.
Merdi bent to retrieve the brush, her eyes downcast and serene.
As the Baroness said, to the rest of the world, she was a woman blessed by fortune.
If they knew she was crippled with stress over facing her fiancé again tonight, they would think her ungrateful.
The mere thought sent a familiar churning through her stomach.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the sensation away.
“Are you feeling unwell?” the Baroness asked, finally noticing Merdi’s pale complexion.
“I’m fine,” Merdi replied, the words practiced and familiar.
The art lesson ended.
She prayed for time to stand still, but night came as it always did, and with it, Clifton’s summons.
Just as before, she had to take several deep breaths before she could bring herself to knock on his door.
‘Oh, God.
Please, grant me the strength to endure this.
And please, keep the nausea at bay.’
She could pride herself on being a rather devout believer, all things considered.
She attended church every weekend and never missed her prayers.
She even intended to make sizable donations once she became the Grand Duchess—not that she would have a choice in the matter, with Margaret overseeing things.
But that was how desperate she was.
She was still terrified of the look on his face should she dare to retch in his presence.
After a moment of hesitation, she rapped on the door twice.
A crisp, orderly voice—the very one she’d been dreading—answered from within.
“Come in.”
Merdi turned the knob and slipped inside.
Clifton was still at his desk, engrossed in his work.
‘He looks so busy.
Perhaps he’ll send me away again today.’
Just like yesterday, Merdi prayed he would dismiss her, claiming he was too busy to be disturbed.
“Why are you just standing there?
Sit down.”
His words were not the dismissal she had hoped for.
Crestfallen, Merdi masked her disappointment and took a seat on the couch.
Whether it was a blessing or a curse, it didn’t take long for Clifton to conclude his work.
Finally, he rose from his desk.
In an instant, he crossed the room in a few long strides.
But instead of taking his usual seat across from her, he sat down on the couch right beside her.