Grace in Wonderland - Chapter 16

16. Because of Dislike

“Have you ever disliked it, Richard?”

Had he disliked it?

Richard did not immediately respond. No, he couldn’t respond. The question from his younger sister had caught him off guard, not only because it was sudden but also because it was something he had never thought about before.

“You’ve hardly ever met Eleanor, haven’t you?”

Freya’s observation was accurate. Despite being betrothed for over 20 years, Richard and Eleanor had only met twice.

Once before he contracted smallpox, and once more while vacationing at the Spencer estate in the Lake District in northwestern Ingrint.

Eleanor d’Estrée was Gallian. Although she would have to move to Ingrint and start a new life after marrying Richard Spencer, the engagement date had been indefinitely postponed when he used his studies as an excuse to leave for Grentabridge. As a result, she remained in Gallia’s Charlotte estate.

His memories of her were faint. The first time they met, Richard had been too young, and the second time, he was in no state to remember Eleanor’s face.

Therefore, Richard retained no clear recollection of Eleanor d’Estrée’s appearance. Was she blonde? Or brunette? What color were her eyes? What about her skin tone? Her height? Her physique?

The only fragmentary impression he had was that she couldn’t speak Ingrintian well. It was understandable, as she wasn’t from this country, and so their conversations had continued haltingly with Richard using Gallian.

“T-this is h-hand. That, th-that is arm.”

At the time, Eleanor stammered out a few words awkwardly, her tone filled with embarrassment. Since Richard didn’t even realize she was speaking Ingrintian, he instinctively looked toward her nanny, who had been translating.

“I believe she’s trying to say, ‘This is a hand, that is an arm.’”

The nanny, standing beside them, explained that Eleanor had only recently started learning Ingrintian, attempting to smooth over the awkward atmosphere. Richard nodded calmly at the explanation and didn’t say much more. He found it meaningless to continue a conversation that required an interpreter.

Eleanor suddenly turned away, sulking and muttering quickly in Gallian. Whether she felt embarrassed by the nanny’s intervention or frustrated by the language barrier, Richard didn’t know. Perhaps it was because Richard Spencer wasn’t as warm and accommodating as Lancelot Spencer had been.

Suddenly, he thought of Grace Gurton, whom he had met earlier. Eleanor’s halting speech back then bore a striking resemblance to Grace’s stammering.

Was it always such flaws that shaped a person’s impression? Eleanor’s imperfect Ingrintian, Grace Gurton’s hesitant, blinking speech pattern—were these the defining factors?

“Freya, you’ve never really met Eleanor properly either, have you?”

Richard casually composed himself and responded. When Eleanor d’Estrée first visited Ingrint, Freya had been a newborn clutching a pacifier.

During the subsequent trip to the Lake District, the Countess didn’t bring Freya along. She was deemed too young for such a long journey.

“But you receive her portraits every year.”

The portraits of Richard and Eleanor were exchanged annually, included among the luggage crossing the Doven Strait. Even while Richard was at Grentabridge, Sebastian never skipped this cumbersome task. Since it was an agreement between families, Richard also reluctantly fulfilled his duty with a sour expression.

However, Richard had never properly examined her portrait. Eleanor’s appearance—whether it had changed or not—was irrelevant to him. Their marriage did not hinge on such considerations.

Of course, he had glimpsed the portraits in passing. Succumbing to Sebastian’s persistence, he had written letters praising Eleanor d’Estrée’s beauty and expressing anticipation for their meeting.

But he still couldn’t recall the shape of her face, the curve of her nose, the set of her lips, the color of her hair, or her expressions. It wasn’t because she was Eleanor; it was simply how Richard was.

He wasn’t good at remembering faces. He had no reason to.

Richard Spencer had no need to greet others first. The only person he had to acknowledge was Queen Anne Stuart, and her sulky, plump face—thankfully—he remembered well.

Other people had to approach Richard first, introducing themselves by name. There was no reason for him to go through the effort of remembering anyone’s face or name. Naturally, it would take seeing someone at least twenty times before he might recall them.

Even so, Grace Gurton’s image lingered in his mind. If status was like a thick coat weighing her down, then her presence was like the faint scent emanating through the tightly woven threads of the fabric.

For example, her eyes that were as different as night and day; her brown hair, resembling the coat of a cherished horse; the small, black mole dotting her left cheek…

Does this happen because of dislike?

Richard neither remembered people nor disliked them. There was no need to dislike anyone. Moreover, he didn’t meet people he had reasons to dislike.

The Young Earl Spencer had little cause to dislike anyone. Most people bowed their heads before him.

Furthermore, he didn’t have to meet unpleasant people. Even without encountering them, Richard was always surrounded by people.

Thus, apart from his family, Richard Spencer had never been in a situation where he was forced to face someone he disliked. And the one who gave him this fresh, first experience was none other than Grace Gurton.

That must be why her face lingered in his memory.

As Richard was lost in thought and didn’t respond, Freya spoke up again, prodding him.

“When you look at that portrait, do you feel fondness? What does it make you feel?”

“Why are you asking such a question?”

“Because…”

Freya’s cheeks flushed red. The warmth traveled to Richard’s fingers, which had been caressing her face.

“Richard, what do you think love is?”

“What?”

Freya’s sudden question was as fiery as her reddened face. The moment he heard it, Richard felt as if he were submerged in a haze, overwhelmed by the unexpected.

“I’m asking, what is love?”

Freya repeated. Quickly regaining his composure, Richard answered his sister’s question.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at. What are you curious about?”

“Well, this is about another young lady I know.”

“…And?”

Richard subtly bit the inside of his lip. Occasionally, at the rugby club, naive members would start their confessions this way, only for it to turn out to be about themselves.

“She likes a man of lower status than herself and wants to attend the debutante ball with him.”

“How much lower in status is he compared to her?”

“Well, I can’t say exactly. It’s a secret between that young lady and me.”

“I see.”

“But she said she absolutely wants to be with him.”

“At the debutante ball?”

“Not just that—she wants to marry him too…”

Richard Spencer’s face instantly turned grim. After Lady Montague’s bombshell declaration, his headache had just started to subside, but now it felt like it was returning with a vengeance.

“And?” Pressing his left temple with his fingers, he asked.

“And what?”

“I’m asking if that’s realistically possible, Freya.”

“If it’s not realistic, then you make it possible.”

“How would you make it possible?”

Freya fell silent. Richard removed her hand from his arm and clasped it firmly.

“…That’s something to think about over time.”

It was a bold statement but ultimately a futile fantasy. In its centuries-long history, the Spencer family had never entered into a marriage that resulted in loss. That was the privilege and destiny of those who stood beside the throne with a legacy older than the monarchy itself.

“Does the man feel the same way about her as she does about him?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Then there’s still an opportunity.”

“What opportunity are you talking about?”

“The opportunity to avoid a wrong decision.”

The astute Freya realized that Richard’s words were directed at her. Thus, there was no need to continue framing the story as being about “another young lady.”

She gazed at her brother’s large fingers, which clasped her delicate hands as if counting each joint. Then, with a resolute tone, she replied, “If I want it, it will come true.”