Chapter 33
The ledger the head maid brought was for internal expense tracking.
No matter how thoroughly I searched, there was no detailed list of the Linton family’s actual assets.
There were records of the household staff, monthly food expenses, and my designated allowance—but the sources of income were nowhere to be found.
The ledger I had seen shortly after stepping into Cecilia’s life had been no different.
But back then, I didn’t even know what I was supposed to be looking for. Like a blind woman with her eyes wide open, I saw it without understanding the flaws.
“Is this everything?”
“I’ve brought all the ledgers relevant to Madam,” the head maid replied.
A true lady of the house should manage the family finances. The husband earns, and the wife oversees its use.
It had already been over half a year since I became Cecilia.
More than enough time to grasp how this household worked.
“Does Edgar have his own set of ledgers?”
The head maid looked away awkwardly, as if it pained her to answer.
“I believe there’s someone else who manages the Count’s personal accounts.”
The Linton estate didn’t have a butler.
In the staff records, the butler’s name line was blank.
“Do you mean… he has a private secretary?”
“I wouldn’t know the details of the Count’s personal hires, Madam.”
Her job was to oversee the housemaids. Even if she did know what Edgar was hiding, she wouldn’t dare speak of it.
Lately, I’d been acting more like a proper lady of the house—but my relationship with Edgar hadn’t truly changed.
I had no powerful family backing me.
All I had was a single thread connecting me to Marchioness Federica.
The marchioness might be able to bring Edgar home for dinner, but she wasn’t a fortress strong enough to hand me full control of the household finances.
A thread is still just a thread, no matter how thick.
I could cling to it until my hands bled, but all it did was keep me barely breathing.
“What’s your name?”
I needed someone loyal.
Over the last half-year, I’d watched the head maid closely. She was diligent and honest. She had managed Cecilia’s records without pocketing a single coin.
The line of wrinkles between her brows made her seem stern, but it came from her strictness—directed as much at herself as at others.
I didn’t trust easily.
Martha, the nanny, had raised Cecilia for years but never let go of the desire to control her.
Sarah, who claimed to be glad I had “come to my senses,” had quickly run off to side with Lady Rosette when greater benefits beckoned.
“Susan,” the head maid replied stiffly.
“Susan,” I repeated.
I wouldn’t trust her completely either. But I was willing to rely on her principles—for now.
“What do you think of this: No matter the situation, rules must still be followed.”
“I believe that’s absolutely right.”
“So even if Edgar doesn’t see me as the lady of the house, I’m still his wife. We swore it before God and witnesses. Would you agree that my position is valid, at the very least?”
Susan hesitated. But only for a moment.
“Yes, Madam. You are correct.”
“It’s a relief there’s at least one sane person in this house.”
I had no intention of forcing anything unreasonable on Susan right away.
This would have to be done step by step.
“Madam, I believe that in time, the Count will come around.”
“I can’t just sit here praying for Edgar to change.”
I noticed her tension and gestured toward a chair.
“Please, sit.”
“That’s all right, Madam.”
“Sit. My neck is sore from looking up at you.”
Susan sat, carefully.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you to spy on Edgar.”
“Madam, the Lord says light will come to those who endure.”
Her discipline seemed rooted in deep faith.
“Maybe God’s too busy to listen to my prayers.”
I spoke with bitter sarcasm. She shook her head but offered no rebuttal.
“Even if Edgar doesn’t acknowledge it, I am his wife. I won’t abandon my role and become like him.”
Susan straightened her back and listened intently.
“I’ve heard that before the marriage, the Linton family was in a rough state.”
“Yes. The late Count of Linton developed… rather unhealthy habits.”
She relaxed slightly. It seemed that talking about duty softened her stance.
Perhaps now that I was part of the family, she felt it was okay to speak of its past.
“Edgar must’ve gone through a lot to rebuild the family, then.”
Susan tilted her head slightly.
“I don’t know the details, but I heard his investments turned out well.”
“Investments?”
“Yes. One day, just like that, everything was resolved. The Count repaid all of the late Count Linton’s debts.”
One day, just like that.
Everything about that phrasing was vague and suspicious.
If the family’s stability had been at stake, the gambling debts must have been enormous—yet they had been cleared in an instant.
Edgar was well-connected, and his calendar was always full of engagements, but he never gave the impression of being someone who actually worked.
Then again, nobles weren’t expected to work. Labor was for the lower classes. Nobles collected taxes and built their wealth on the backs of others.
“This ledger doesn’t even list the estates owned by the Linton family.”
All that was recorded were massive, unexplained incomes—as if the money had fallen from the sky.
“Imagine being the lady of the house and not even knowing where the family lands are. I’m ashamed to look you in the eye.”
Susan quickly waved her hands in protest.
“Not at all, Madam. I’m just a servant managing the household. There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of.”
“At least you know everything about the work you do.”
I closed the ledger—it was clear nothing more useful would come from it.
“Thank you for letting me vent.”
Where had this sudden influx of wealth come from?
Edgar kept no butler, and no one else seemed to know where the family’s money came from. But I was certain—it had something to do with Cecilia’s inheritance.
“Madam.”
Susan stood with a resolute expression and stepped closer to the desk.
“Twice a year, the Count leaves the house for exactly two weeks.”
I looked up at her.
“You believed he was vacationing with Miss Elodie, but… I’ve always had the feeling it was something else.”
Her eyes trembled as she spoke.
Reporting your employer came with serious risk.
Susan had decided to give me this information, knowing full well it could cost her her job—or even her life.
Maybe, for someone like her who valued rules above all, my situation had finally stirred something close to sympathy.
“Thank you.”
I reached out and took her rough hand in mine.
“Truly, Susan. Thank you so much.”
Stiff with surprise, she froze—then gently placed her other hand over mine.
“You’re a good person, Madam.”
But I wasn’t. I had used Susan’s honesty.
And now, my conscience—one I didn’t even realize was still alive—stung with guilt.
Watching her, the shame crept in. Maybe this selfishness, this need to take and twist everything around me, was what had driven even my own parents away.
“No, you’re the good one. I’ll repay your kindness.”
“Speaking the truth to the lady of the house is simply my duty.”
Her words were formal, stiff—but I heard it: that soft, helpless click of her tongue at the end, like she was scolding a foolish child, not addressing a superior.
There was warmth in it.
The day had come to meet Margaret.
The Artois barony was an hour away by carriage.
Not all nobles were created equal. Even within the capital, the difference between the center and outskirts was clear.
Baron Artois had inherited his title from his father—but the title itself had been earned, not inherited. His father had climbed to nobility on his own merit.
A remarkable achievement for one man—but in the world of nobility, a title wasn’t truly respected unless it had been passed down through three generations.
And because of that, Margaret had no real protection from her family.
I wasn’t trying to defend Duke Bastian, but at least Ricardo had the full backing of a ducal house—and the influence of Marchioness Federica to move freely through high society.
“Madam, the road gets rough here. The carriage will shake,” warned Sir Juan, leaning closer to the window.
I pulled the curtain aside slightly and glanced at Justin, who was sitting behind Sir Juan.
He was doing everything in his power not to look at me.
Martha must’ve delivered my message clearly.
I could only hope his silence now came from shame—an acknowledgment that he had reached too far.
Justin, unlike Martha, probably never intended to use Cecilia from the start.
When we first met at the Rosette estate, he genuinely seemed to pity her.
Spurred on by his aging mother, he had grown close to Cecilia like a brother—perhaps eventually believing he had the right to want more.
But I didn’t blame Martha either.
Maybe Cecilia would’ve—but I had no reason to resent her.
Martha had acted out of concern for her son’s future. I had taken advantage of that concern and used it to pull her into my hand.
We had both done something wrong. It wasn’t a question of who was good or bad—we were beyond that.
As the carriage rocked along the uneven road, I wondered what kind of face I should wear when meeting Margaret.
“Madam, we’ve arrived.”
The decision came too late—the carriage stopped before I could settle on anything.
My legs felt numb. I stepped out with Sir Juan’s help.
“The house is… modest,” I said, looking at the plain building ahead.
“It may be outside the city center, but owning property within the capital still puts them above most fallen nobles,” Sir Juan whispered.
Still, if that was the comparison, it didn’t say much.
“There’s no one here to greet us?”
I glanced around, but before I could look twice, the door opened.
“Cecilia!”
It was Margaret.
She was barely recognizable from the night of the dinner party, dressed in such worn and simple clothing.
The only thing unchanged was her hair—gathered high and neatly tied, not a strand out of place.
“The road must’ve been awful. Come inside, quickly.”
The inside matched the outside—worn, neglected, in clear disrepair.
“Let’s go to my room.”
She led me downstairs.
Her room was a half-floor below ground, where even sunlight barely reached.
“It’s a little cramped, I know. But here, I can do whatever I want. It’s the only place where I can breathe.”
I sat on the nearest chair without fuss.
“Shouldn’t I greet Baron Artois?”
It was a roundabout way of asking—where was the rest of her family?
“They’re all out. I’m not allowed to use the carriage, so the only way I could invite you was by making you come here. I hope you understand.”
Margaret was barely getting by.
She might carry the name “Lady Margaret of House Artois,” but the way she was treated was disgraceful.
“Ask me anything,” she said brightly, shrugging her shoulders with a playful smile.
Even in this setting, she hadn’t lost her cheer.
“How did you manage to attend the dinner party?”
Cruel as I was, I went straight for the question that shattered her well-kept mask.
