Grace in Wonderland - Chapter 15

15. The Daffodil Garden

“Richard!”

A high-pitched voice grew louder as it hurriedly approached. The rustling sound of the layers of luxurious pink lace dresses echoed in the air, shattering the somber atmosphere of the Spencer estate.

“Freya.”

Richard smiled down at his younger sister standing before him. Seeing the sunshine-like girl panting with both delight and reproach, the chaotic shadow Grace Gurton had cast seemed to vanish.

“How could you not visit me even once? Do you know how much I missed you?”

Freya Spencer, the jewel of the Spencer family, a goddess of beauty, and everyone’s first love, grumbled in her bright, ringing voice. It had been three years since they last met.

“But I wrote to you occasionally.”

“Letters weren’t enough. You even refused my request to invite me to Grentabridge.”

“Even if I invited you, Mother wouldn’t have allowed it.”

“Still, I thought you’d come see me at least once. To ignore me until graduation—do you even remember my face?”

Richard Spencer gazed into the moist violet eyes looking up at him, as if caressing her with his eyes. It only took three years for a child to grow into a lady. While Freya had matured and changed, Richard had not been there for her.

“Freya. How have you been?”

Richard infused his words with guilt and admiration, a combination of apology and inquiry. Freya, however, still pouted her lovely lips.

“You look wonderful. I’d believe it if someone said you’ve become a proper young lady now.”

His younger sister, with her wavy, rich red hair flowing freely, looked angelic in his eyes. She had always been unmatched in beauty, not just in Lydon but throughout Ingrint. Now, she was like a poppy on the verge of full bloom—elegant and stunning.

“I am a proper young lady. I’ll be debuting next spring.”

Freya replied while delicately wiping her slightly reddened eyes with graceful movements. Even the act of dabbing away a single tear was executed with perfect etiquette, which made Richard feel an inexplicable pang of sadness and regret.

It must have been due to the strict upbringing by their mother, the Countess Spencer. Memories of how she had coated Freya’s nails with bitter quinine daily to correct her habits as a toddler came to mind, sending chills down his spine.

Thankfully, Freya’s soft, pink fingertips grasping his waist were now smooth. Whether or not it was something to be grateful for, he wasn’t sure.

“Now that I’ve graduated, I can escort you to your debutante ball next year. Are you preparing well?”

Richard naturally placed Freya’s hand on his arm and began walking slowly. His gentle hand patting Freya’s was as soft as ripples meeting a light breeze.

“……”

But there was no answer from Freya. Her expression—a mix of shyness and unease—made Richard furrow his brow slightly.

“Is something wrong, Freya?”

“…No.”

Freya’s hesitant reply was uncharacteristic of her. Speaking her mind was a shared trait between Richard and Freya. Neither of them held back.

“It seems like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“There’s nothing.”

It wasn’t proper to pry into the private lives of young ladies. Freya was at an age where she might have secrets she wanted to keep. Richard himself had his hidden retreat by the lakeshore of St. James’s Park.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. But if it’s something you’re struggling with and need my help, I hope you’ll tell me then.”

Richard decided to take a step back for now. If needed, he could always instruct Sebastian to gather rumors from the social circles.

“Richard, may we take a stroll through the garden?”

“Of course.”

At Freya’s request, Richard nodded lightly. Despite the heat from walking along the park’s lakeshore earlier, he couldn’t refuse his beloved sister’s wish.

Richard and Freya descended into the garden via the black marble stairs. The Spencer estate’s garden was a miniature version of the Royal Garden. Straight and curved lines, perfectly arranged trees, and geometric patterns drew one’s gaze dizzyingly across the land.

“Mother planted many daffodils in the garden this spring.”

“It seems so.”

Around the pond in one corner of the garden, clusters of deep green, long leaves stood tall. They were daffodils. For over two decades, the Countess had been planting these flowers in the Spencer estate garden as a tradition.

Daffodils symbolize the spring of Ingrint. They bloom early, piercing the frozen ground, and burst into bright yellow blossoms that drive away the shadows of a dark winter. For this reason, few Ingrint people dislike daffodils.

Among them, the Countess Spencer’s love for daffodils was especially remarkable. This was because the flower was the birth flower of Richard’s twin brother, Lancelot. Though the reasoning might seem trivial, the Countess was resolute.

Love is blind and impersonal. Reasons that might provoke ridicule from others are often wrapped in legitimacy when they stem from love. While Richard didn’t care for the idea of grouping people born on the same day by a single flower, he accepted it as another romantic notion born of love.

The Countess Spencer’s deep affection for Lancelot also reflected this sentiment. The daffodils in the Spencer estate garden symbolized the day her cherished son was born and shared the same color as his beloved eyes.

On Lancelot’s birthday, Richard was also congratulated and received a bouquet identical to Lancelot’s. Yet, he didn’t know his own birth flower and had no desire to partake in such frivolous games.

“Soon, the servants will be busy.”

Early summer, as temperatures began to rise, was a season when daffodils struggled. As their yellowing leaves began to fall, the gardeners would uproot the bulbs near the pond, replanting them in the greenhouse to ensure that Spencer’s perpetual spring of daffodils continued. This unchanging devotion reflected a mother’s steadfast love for her son.

“Why should we care if the servants are busy? They’re paid to do the work, aren’t they?”

Freya’s sharp response made Richard pause. It was an unusually cynical remark for his sweet and affectionate sister.

“Is something wrong, Freya?”

Instead of pointing out her harsh words, Richard chose to ask. He had always extended his generosity to Freya Spencer, perhaps giving her the affection he couldn’t share with Lancelot.

“…It’s nothing. I just meant that it’s their job, so being busy is unavoidable.”

Freya seemed surprised by her own impulsive remark. She quickly attempted to justify herself, though her tone remained defensive.

“…I see.”

Technically, her words weren’t incorrect. Workers are expected to fulfill their responsibilities in exchange for wages. Similarly, the Spencer family bore their own obligations tied to their name.

The world is filled with diverse people, each carrying their own burdens in life, shaped by their circumstances and roles. These burdens are not inherently noble or significant—they simply are.

“But why does your face seem to hold so many unspoken thoughts?”

Freya was like an open book to Richard, as easy to read as a short poem. No matter how much she condensed or concealed her feelings, they always peeked through, just as her emotions did now.

“…Richard.”

Freya called his name in a soft voice, barely a whisper. It wasn’t her usual clear and resonant tone.

“Yes?”

Richard smiled inwardly. Even as a child, Freya had been incapable of hiding her feelings. During their games of hide-and-seek, she would always leave part of her dress visible behind a curtain, just like the hints of emotion now escaping her.

“Richard, do you like Eleanor?”

Like now. Her question, loaded with emotion, hung in the air like a dress hem peeking from behind a curtain.

“Why do you ask?”

Feigning ignorance, Richard avoided answering directly. However, he had already planned to send Sebastian to the social club to gather information today.

“Richard, you and Eleanor are supposed to marry.”

“And?”

“I heard it was arranged before you were even born.”

“That’s true.”

Eleanor d’Estrée was Richard Spencer’s betrothed from birth, a young lady as rare and esteemed as Freya Spencer herself. Born into the ducal family of Charlotte in Gallia, her engagement to Richard had been decided by their grandfathers, who had made the arrangement almost as a wager.

As families of immense political power, the Spencers and Gallia’s influential houses shared deep connections spanning centuries. The relationship between the late Duke Charlotte and Richard’s grandfather was particularly close, solidifying their alliance by arranging the marriage of their unborn grandchildren.

“Have you ever disliked the arrangement, Richard?”

Like the subtle intoxicating effects of a blooming poppy, Freya’s sharp question seemed to momentarily paralyze him. For several seconds, Richard found himself unable to respond.