Grace in Wonderland - Chapter 7

7. The Narcissist

“Young Master, are you alright?”

Sebastian, Richard Spencer’s attendant, carefully asked as he took Richard’s jacket. His eyes lingered on Richard’s swollen cheek.

“No, I’m not alright.”

Richard grimaced as he walked. The mixed smell of sweat and blood emanating from his soaked shirt made him deeply uncomfortable.

Rugby was a sport wholly unsuited to Richard’s meticulous and cleanliness-obsessed nature. It required close physical contact with other sweaty men, rolling on unclean ground, and handling a ball touched by countless hands and feet.

However, as he navigated his tumultuous adolescence, he sought his own form of rebellion to escape the rigidly disciplined and sharply refined atmosphere of the Spencer estate. The first step was enrolling at Grentabridge, and the second was joining the rugby club.

From Sebastian’s perspective, studying and playing sports at university hardly seemed like rebellion. But at the time, Richard had been serious about it. Well, for someone his age, that seemed plausible, and Sebastian saw no reason to criticize it.

When asked why he chose rugby among so many sports, Richard’s answer was unforgettable. He had deliberately picked a sport his mother, the Countess, would detest most. It was the kind of logic one would expect from a second-year public school student—those infamous students who supposedly even the Scotlish rebels hesitated to confront.

Following behind Richard, Sebastian tried to lighten the mood.

“Young Master, you were magnificent out there. ‘I believe you’re wasting my valuable time, Wilford.’”

“……”

“My toes are still curled from the brilliance of that line. See how I’m limping? I can’t even straighten them out.”

“……”

Richard ignored him. Normally, he would have responded with a dry remark to Sebastian’s playful banter, but today he was too drained to react.

It was the last day of the term. He had received shocking news from Lady Montague, thrown his first punch in his life, and been banned from rugby matches—all in one day. It felt as though he’d been slapped four times in quick succession.

The end of the term marked the beginning of the festival, which meant graduation was imminent. For Richard, graduation was synonymous with returning to Lydon. From the outset, when he decided to attend Grentabridge, he had agreed to a three-year term with his father, the Earl of Spencer.

Then there was Lady Mary Montague. Having received her letter, he would have to visit her. But he dreaded it. The thought of confirming the existence of her sudden nineteen-year-old adopted daughter was unbearable.

And then there was Theresius Wilford’s ridiculous provocation. While he could let the narcissist remark slide, the subsequent comments undeniably crossed the line. Richard dealt mercilessly with anyone who overstepped.

“You’ll likely meet him again in Lydon. Perhaps you should aim to get along.”

“Why should I?”

Sebastian clicked his tongue internally at Richard’s curt reply.

To be honest, Sebastian could somewhat understand Theresius Wilford’s perspective. After witnessing countless individuals feeling betrayed by Richard Spencer, Sebastian had developed a knack for sensing such sentiments.

Richard Spencer was someone who maintained clear boundaries. To those within the lines he drew, he could be relatively kind. But to those outside, he was utterly indifferent. Even with those inside his circle, he was far from straightforward.

In Sebastian’s view, this was the first issue: Richard made no effort to engage with others.

If only he weren’t so outwardly perfect, his personality might have been better.

Richard Spencer had inherited every admirable trait of the Spencer family. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly handsome. Consequently, he exuded an effortless confidence and paid little attention to how others perceived him. Sebastian suspected this was why the nickname “Narcissist” had stuck.

What must it feel like to breathe fresh air from such lofty heights and look down on everyone else? As someone who barely reached 5’4″, Sebastian couldn’t fathom it—nor did he wish to. He’d need to be reborn to understand.

People often say appearances aren’t everything, but that’s merely to console those less fortunate. There’s also the saying, “Good things come in small packages,” but that’s just to comfort shorter people.

Sebastian knew all too well how easy life was for tall, good-looking men with commanding builds. He knew because he spent every day with one. Add noble lineage and wealth to the mix, and you’d have an alpha male rivaling kings.

The nickname “Lion King” suited him perfectly, as if it was part of his identity. Subtly, it seemed Richard Spencer was quite satisfied with the moniker.

And so, Sebastian, standing at a modest 5’4″, persistently tested the patience of the “sleeping Lion King” by metaphorically tugging at his whiskers.

“I’m not trying to nag, but…”

“It already sounds like nagging.”

“Don’t you think it’s time you started getting along with people…”

“Enough.”

Richard cut him off. This was the second and most significant problem: Richard Spencer was utterly unyielding. The moment a conversation turned toward something he didn’t want to hear, he would shut it down and retreat into his shell.

Shouldn’t he at least listen to others? After all, he wasn’t living in this harsh world alone!

“This habit of shutting people out is exactly why you’ve earned the reputation of being a narcissistic, self-absorbed ‘Narcissist.’”

“I don’t care about what others think.”

“You should care.”

“……”

“All humans are the same. They want to share emotions—laughter, tears, anger, and sadness—with others. That’s what we call ‘empathy.’”

Sebastian spoke earnestly, looking into Richard’s green eyes.

“And what does that change?”

“It might change something.”

“No, it won’t. Wilford wasn’t wrong. I don’t know where he heard that I’m being sidelined in the Spencer family, but that will never change. And neither will I.”

“Oh, Young Master, that’s not true.”

Sebastian shook his head as if to dispel Richard’s words.

It was no wonder people misunderstood Richard’s decision to attend Grentabridge. His twin brother, Lancelot Spencer, whom the Countess adored, had stayed in Lydon. This fueled speculation that Richard had been pushed out of his position as heir, prompting his departure to the distant college.

Meanwhile, Richard’s cheek had swollen even more, and his jaw was now marked with faint bluish bruises.

“Let’s head home. If we don’t treat this swelling soon, it’ll only get worse.”

Looking at Richard’s split lip, which he had sustained during the altercation with King’s College’s captain, Sebastian clenched his fists. For a mere Wilford to mar the precious face of the Young Earl of Spencer was an unforgivable act.

As Richard’s attendant, Sebastian would rather be the one getting beaten than see his master hurt. His eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“I’m going to Cherry Hinton.”

“What? You should be heading home!”

“It’s time for my walk. Let’s go to the stream.”

“You need treatment!”

“Be quiet.”

Any fleeting sympathy Sebastian felt vanished instantly. As he followed the obstinate Young Earl, his footsteps echoed with resentment.

***

“Grace, Lady Mary Montague has sent you a letter.”

Charles Dodgson approached Grace, who had been lost in thought. She had been brooding over the Cheshire Cat she saw today during the rugby match—her personal ideal. Her furrowed brow reflected her thoughts.

That Richard Spencer had been in a fight? She couldn’t fathom it. What on earth had happened? Was he badly hurt? Hopefully, his handsome face wasn’t scarred.

“……”

Charles Dodgson clicked his tongue at the daydreaming Grace. It’s true, mathematicians are rarely normal people—himself included, of course.

“Grace!”

He clapped his hands loudly near her ear, jolting her back to reality. Grace blinked several times as she reluctantly abandoned her mental excursion to the rugby pitch.

“It’s a letter from Lady Montague, Grace.”

Grace stared blankly at the white envelope Charles handed her. Then, with a delighted expression, she snatched it away.

“Here…”

Charles picked up a paper knife from his desk to offer her but stopped midway. Grace had already ripped the envelope open with her hands, tearing it to shreds.

“How utterly unladylike. What would Lady Montague think of you, you eccentric and silly girl?”

He sighed in exasperation.

It was undeniable that Grace Gurton’s upbringing had been heavily influenced by Charles Dodgson, her guardian for nearly a decade. Perhaps 30% of her peculiarities could be attributed to him… or maybe 40%. It might be more. Reluctantly, he admitted it was probably much more.

“What does it say?”

Charles snatched the letter from Grace’s hands. As he read its contents, his face contorted in displeasure, and he crumpled the paper in his grip.