9 – Marianne’s Truth – 19
“...Lady Marianne? What is the matter? You
seem lost in thought. Even you, it seems, are finally showing signs of fatigue?”
As I clutched a cushion that had been
slipping from my grasp and let my thoughts drift to the distant past, a voice
called out across from me. It seemed he has already grown bored of gazing at
the outside world through the small window.
“We’ll be arriving at the inn soon, so
please stay awake.”
He added, “After all, if Lord Evan were to
find out I touched Lady Marianne—even if it was unavoidable—my life would be
forfeit.”
It seemed he still had the energy for
banter.
Despite having sustained life-threatening
injuries just the other day, he looked remarkably well—perhaps owing to a
difference in underlying physical resilience.
“I won't sleep. I want to stay awake.”
Night was fast approaching.
The setting sun, which had been blazing
with such intensity as if to declare this its final moment, has slipped out of
sight. Yet, the sky visible in the brief interlude before total darkness
falls—a magnificent blend of ultramarine, pitch-black, and orange—was a
breathtaking sight. It felt like a fresh experience, too, as it was not
something I usually took the time to gaze at so intently.
“Still, I really am tired. I’m not a
knight, you know. My stamina is nothing more than average.”
“…That’s true, isn’t it? It’s easy to get
the wrong idea. After all, Lady Marianne, you possess a beauty that rivals an
angel’s, and you are kind enough to extend a helping hand to a mere knight. It
makes one feel as though you aren't quite like ordinary people.”
“Hehe, that’s a funny way of putting it.
Just a moment ago, you said you never would have imagined I’d help anyone.”
“I said it was *unexpected*.”
“It amounts to the same thing. Besides, I’m
not kind to just anyone. I’m only kind when it serves my own interests.”
It had always been that way.
“It is you, Lady Marianne, who speaks in
such a peculiar way. Even if you acted for your own sake, the result was that
you saved lives. You ought to take more pride in yourself.”
“My, my. You are surprisingly kind, aren't
you?”
“'Surprisingly'?”
Inside the rattling carriage, I found
myself thinking of someone I shall likely never see again.
—Upon hearing the news of her death, I had
briefly despaired, wondering if I had failed to make it in time once more.
But he had sent the signal, just as
promised.
Had I, this time, truly done everything
within my power?
*
It must have been when I was seven.
At a tea party hosted by another family—an
event to which my mother and I had been invited—the hostess said to me:
“I hear you are quite skilled at the piano,
Lady Marianne. We happen to have a fine instrument here; I would love for you
to play for everyone.”
Whether she truly appreciated my ability or
harbored a touch of malice, I could not say.
She was an old acquaintance of my mother,
and the guests were all people we knew; yet, as they were all aristocrats of
the same generation, there was surely an underlying intent to test whose child
was the most accomplished and whose future held the most promise.
As it happened, I was the one chosen to
provide the entertainment.
The performance I delivered was not
disastrous, yet it certainly didn't merit praise.
Anyone listening would surely have thought
the same. And with good reason—after all, I did not enjoy playing the piano.
I practiced only the bare minimum to keep
my fingers from getting stiff, and I never studied music with any real
enthusiasm. I hadn't pored over the sheet music, nor did I play with heart,
seeking to capture the composer's intent.
—And yet, everyone praised me.
It moved people to the point where some
were even brought to tears.
There was thunderous applause—a whirlwind
of praise. The adults surrounding me unanimously heaped accolades upon me,
declaring that I rivaled even professional musicians.
“And you are so beautiful, too! I look
forward to seeing what the future holds for you!”
Clapping their hands theatrically, they
remarked that a young woman of such intelligence would surely have suitors
lining up to marry her.
Could anyone imagine how I felt, standing
there frozen in sheer dread?
After all, I already had a fiancé named Evan.
When the engagement was first arranged, I had thrown a tantrum, hating the idea
of marrying a stranger; yet, as we met regularly, I gradually came to love
him.
I was particularly fond of his gentle tone
and the all-encompassing warmth of his gaze.
I loved Evan dearly now. And yet, could a
clumsy performance like that actually trigger the appearance of other potential
suitors?
Sensing trouble ahead, I let out a quiet
breath, careful not to betray my unease. I accepted the adults' praise with
gratitude while simultaneously letting it wash over me; they would likely
forget what they had said by tomorrow anyway.
What irresponsible adults.
I hoped my mother, standing beside me with
a gentle smile, didn't take their words to heart.
Just then, the next piano performance
began.
It was a familiar face—a girl named Ilya il
Mathis.
Few people were actually listening to her
play. The adults, engrossed in conversation, kept right on chatting, while the
children who had accompanied their parents were captivated by the food being
served.
Yet, she showed absolutely no interest in
any of them.
Amidst the ceaseless din, she introduced
herself briefly—"My name is Ilya"—gazing straight ahead with her back
perfectly straight, and then proceeded to play a piece lasting about fifteen
minutes, entirely without sheet music.
It was a well-known old piece—one that even
adults would find so difficult they might give up in frustration.
Small fingers, a slender frame; there were
keys that a child naturally couldn't reach, even though an adult would have no
trouble spanning them. The dynamics, too, lacked precision; a child simply could
not strike the keys with the same power as an adult.
And yet, the performance was such that I
found myself wondering just how much time must have been poured into practicing
it.
I was deeply moved—touched to the very
core—and could not suppress the goosebumps rising on my skin.
And so, I immediately broke into thunderous
applause. Perhaps because my doing such a thing was so unexpected, the entire
venue fell silent.
It made me marvel at how the eldest
daughter of a count’s family inevitably draws attention, no matter what she
does.
My mother, standing beside me, stared in
astonishment and tried to stop her daughter’s impulsive behavior—but I did not
stop.
After all, it was simply magnificent. To
have heard this performance from start to finish, without missing a single
note—it was nothing short of a stroke of good fortune. I felt almost sorry for
those who hadn't heard it.
Ilya, standing before the piano and bowing
with graceful poise, looked toward me as I continued to applaud.
Our gazes met—it felt almost as if they had
struck each other with a sharp *snap* in the air. It seemed to mark both a
beginning and an end.
For some reason, the image of her
smiling—shyly, yet with evident delight—burned itself into my memory.
If I ever had the chance to speak with her
later, I would ask how she played the piano so masterfully. I wondered how many
hours a day she practiced; it certainly couldn't be an ordinary amount.
“To think Marianne would show interest in
anyone other than Evan... Wonders never cease.”
As we walked down the long corridor after
leaving the room where the tea party had been held, Mother spoke.
“Is that so? Is that how you see me,
Mother?”
When I asked this, she gave a vague reply—"Well,
let's see”—that left it unclear whether she was agreeing or disagreeing.
I tilted my head, just as Mother did. As we
looked at each other,
“The performance today was quite good.”
Suddenly, I heard a voice coming from the
staircase at the far end of the hallway. It was a voice that—despite praising
the performance—lacked any real emotion. Intrigued, and ignoring my mother’s
attempt to stop me, I quietly leaned out toward the landing to see who was
speaking. Standing there was a woman—someone I didn't know personally, but who
was almost certainly Ilya’s mother.
“If you are ever given an opportunity like
this again, you must master the technique so thoroughly that no one can find a
single fault.”
“Yes.”
“You must cultivate an expressive ability
that wins the admiration of everyone.”
“Yes.”
“Always look ahead; never hang your head.
Keep a smile on your face, and carry yourself with dignity, no matter what
anyone says.”
“Yes.
Their interaction was far too
matter-of-fact. They seemed more like a teacher and student than a mother and
daughter. She really ought to praise her more. I started to say as much,
but a tap on the shoulder stopped me before I could begin. It was my mother, of
course.
“No,” she cautioned in a low voice,
practically dragging me away by the arm.
We moved away quietly, careful not to make
a sound.
“Marianne. Your sense of justice is a
virtue, but it isn't wise to meddle too deeply in things.”
“...But, Mother.”
“True, the way she spoke was certainly
striking. But surely Madame Mathis has her own reasons. She might actually want
to praise her lavishly—that is certainly what *I* would do. But when one's
daughter is the fiancée of Lord Soleil, there is likely no room for compromise.”
“...I don't quite understand.”
“Perhaps it is too soon for you to grasp
it. But you will understand in time. Besides...”
“Besides?”
“Did you see her face?”
“Her... Lady Ilya's?”
“Yes.”
Did she look sad?” I shook my head at the question. At the very least, she didn't wear
the sort of insecure expression a small child might have after being scolded.
If anything, I think she looked somewhat proud. It was the same with Ilya’s
mother; even though her words were harsh, she, too, had seemed elated.
“She was happy, wasn’t she?”
“...Happy?”
“Yes. Because you clapped.”
“...Clapped...”
I didn't quite understand this either, so I
pondered it as we walked. So what if I had clapped?
“When you started clapping, Marianne, the
people nearby sort of followed suit. It was a scattered response, perhaps, but
the influence you exerted was significant. You need to realize this: a title of
nobility carries that much sway over others.”
“...”
“But you must not let it make you arrogant.
That influence stems from neither your own personal power nor that of my
husband or myself. You must remember that it is simply authority bestowed upon
the House.”
“Yes.”
“You can learn these things gradually as
time goes on.”
A dazzling beauty of high society, smiling
softly. She was so breathtakingly lovely. I wanted to be just like her.
“I’d like to become friends with Lady Ilya.”
“I see.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s consult your father about it.”
“Yes!”
—————It was long after that when I finally
became Ilya’s friend.
And it was even later still when I
remembered everything.
It took time, certainly.
But at last, I had become a part of Ilya’s
life.
*
“By the way, Lady Marianne. May I ask you
something I’ve been wondering about?”
I was swaying with the motion of the
carriage, drifting into a doze, when I was spoken to again.
It seemed he was trying to keep me from
falling asleep.
“...What is it?”
“What would you call the feelings you
harbor for Lady Ilya?”
“The name... of those feelings?”
Even though I didn't want to sleep, my mind
felt hazy and unclear, as if shrouded in mist.
“Yes. Well, I’m not sure if I should say
this, but... isn't that obsession of yours actually love?”
“Huh? Love?”
I let out a rather foolish-sounding voice.
“Yes.”
As I reply to my escort knight—who nodded
deeply—with, “Don't be ridiculous; I'm head over heels for Evan,” a thought
suddenly crossed my mind while my head cleared as if the fog were lifting.
Surely, that couldn't be the case.
But if what he said is true—if this bond of
friendship were actually something that could be called “love”...
Then... I fell in love with someone I could
never be with.
