Chapter 45

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 45
Chapter Title: Friction Between Sisters
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Since it was improper for a man to linger long in a young lady’s private chambers, Alfonso quickly left Ariadne’s room as soon as she had calmed down, careful not to be seen. It was so that if anyone had seen him, he could say he had simply escorted her there. Alfonso had never before given much thought to why men were forbidden from a lady’s room, but now he thought he understood. Her living space, her private belongings, the scent of the room imbued with a girlish fragrance that was part floral, part powder—so distinctly different from a man’s room—and within it, the unguarded Ariadne. The images kept replaying in his mind. If society were to permit men to enter a young lady’s room so freely, it would surely lead to a great deal of trouble. Alfonso shook his head and clenched his fists, trying to banish the thoughts.

‘I am a fine gentleman. I mustn’t think this way. Even imagining such things is a disservice to a noble lady.’

After taking a moment in the hallway to cool his head, Alfonso believed he had managed to compose himself.

‘I can control myself.’

He was a devotee of chivalry who had received the finest education and was reputed to be the most outstanding young lord. Restraint and patience were virtues he had spent his entire life learning. It wasn't difficult. So he believed. But Alfonso failed to notice the crescent-shaped cuts in his palms, left by his own fingernails from clenching his fists so tightly.

***

‘There are gains and there are losses.’

Isabella was truly feeling the weight of this proverb today. Tampering with Ariadne’s débutante dress had gone well. Using Ariadne’s new maid—whose name she had forgotten—to replace the steel hooks with soft, lead-heavy ones so the linen would come undone had gone well, as had having Maletta secretly undo the stitching on the front of the dress. But she had never imagined that what would emerge from it would not be padding and pathetic cotton wads, but Ariadne’s real breasts.

‘Is she an idiot? Why would she bind them up instead of showing them off?!’

Breasts that were firm and resilient, standing proud like summer peaches without any external help, were something Isabella had only dreamed of. Isabella would do anything to have breasts like those. And yet Ariadne kept them tightly bound! In the end, the scene Isabella had pictured—the padding revealed, two cotton sacks falling from beneath the linen—never came to pass. But the clever Isabella knew how to make do with what she had.

“Don’t you think she tore it on purpose to show off her chest?”

It was a single remark, sharp as a dagger, that Isabella cast while the noblewomen were gathered in small groups, discussing the recent ‘wardrobe malfunction.’

“My sister has always had an excessive pride in her figure. I knew she was the type to do anything for attention, but…”

It was a possibility the ladies and young misses had never considered. They suddenly began a hushed, heated debate over whether it could be true. While the older ladies were mostly of the ‘Oh, surely not’ opinion, the younger ladies, many of whom were Isabella’s friends, tended to agree with her.

“Pretending it’s an accident while showing off your chest would certainly make you memorable.”

“Honestly, isn’t this ball a bit much for her? Who does she think she is, holding a solo débutante ball? You’d think she was royalty.”

“And how on earth did she get the prince as her partner? Does anyone know?”

But the conversation between Isabella and her friends was less about Ariadne’s actions and more about how an illegitimate daughter of a maid from the countryside could dare to receive better treatment than them. Out of sheer dislike, they had already concluded that what happened to Ariadne was a deliberate act, not an unfortunate accident, and then proceeded to heap scorn upon her.

“Is that young lady pretty?”

“No, I honestly don’t see it.”

“She has a nice figure, though.”

To this thoughtless compliment toward Ariadne, the young daughter of Viscount Leonetti offered a sharp rebuttal.

“Anyone would be told they have a nice figure if they went around showing off their chest. Honestly, isn’t Camelia better than the younger Miss de Mare?”

Lady Camelia de Castiglione, the daughter of a baron, inwardly pleased, offered a modest reply.

“Oh, no, not at all. Besides, isn’t a woman’s figure something men only look at when they’re having improper thoughts? If you consider everything, including her face, Isabella is the prettiest.”

The girls bickered amongst themselves, establishing their own internal hierarchy. While there was some objective ranking of looks, it was largely a reflection of their social standing among their peers. They would exaggerate the beauty of their friends and not even mention a girl with no connections. As Isabella and her friends sat huddled around a table, whispering among themselves, a man’s voice, thick with anger, cut through their chatter.

“Have you no shame?”

It was Prince Alfonso, his face flushed with fury. Though it was a gentleman’s manners to pretend not to have heard the private conversations of ladies, he could not bear to listen to the vile retelling of Ariadne’s story and had stepped forward.

“Do you have any proof she did it on purpose? She was so distraught, yet why do you jump to the conclusion that she would orchestrate such a terrible accident with her own hands?”

The girls exchanged bewildered glances. This was a catastrophe. They hadn’t expected the prince to intervene. To be openly reprimanded by the prince at an official gathering! This was the very prince every young lady dreamed of impressing. But there were always those who never bothered to gaze at a tree they could not climb. The Viscount’s daughter, who had never even imagined she could marry the prince and thus had no intention of trying to impress him, responded harshly to Prince Alfonso’s criticism.

“Your Highness, Prince Alfonso, the Little Sun of the Empire. But this is a matter between women.”

With the Viscount’s daughter taking the lead, the other girls began to murmur in agreement.

“That’s right, what would Prince Alfonso know about the cunning ways of women? Don’t you think he just likes the younger Miss de Mare?”

“Did he fall for her after seeing her chest? Wow, I didn’t think the prince was like that.”

“He must’ve been fooled by that fox who showed off her chest! What did she whisper to him to make him act like this? How would he even know she was distraught?”

Alfonso was taken aback by the young ladies’ unexpected hostility. Throughout his entire life, young ladies his age had always smiled at him, even when he said strange things; they had never disliked him. This was the first time girls had been so hostile toward him, even when he was speaking the truth. Isabella, with the girls acting as her personal guard, stood behind her friends and smiled a cunning smile of victory. Just then, Alfonso’s reinforcement arrived. It was Countess Marquez.

“When a young lady your age suffers such a misfortune, you should know to show solidarity and offer comfort. Did your parents teach you to jump at the chance like fish to water and gossip this way and that?”

Countess Marquez was a woman raised in a noble house, for whom etiquette and culture were sacred. Moreover, her lord’s son was at risk of gaining a bad reputation. She scolded the girls with a frosty reprimand. But the young ladies were in the midst of trying to fend off even a prince. They were not a group to admit defeat so easily. Had it been any other noblewoman, the girls might have dismissed her with a whisper of ‘Who is that woman?’ and moved on. But Countess Marquez was known as Queen Marguerite’s closest confidante, the lady of the prestigious House of Marquez, and a luminary of San Carlo’s high society. No one would dare say to her face that she ‘didn’t understand the world of women,’ so they could only scowl without daring to challenge her. To the experienced eyes of Countess Marquez, it was obvious who the ringleader of this situation was. So, she singled out Isabella to add one more remark.

“The elder Miss de Mare, I understand you are a cherished daughter, raised tenderly under an excellent father. I am certain your father would wish for his daughters to have a good relationship and to defend one another!”

Though Countess Marquez, who valued lineage above all, bit back her favorite tirade about ‘the daughter of a vulgar mistress’—in consideration of the party being held at Cardinal de Mare’s residence—anyone could read the nuance in her cold gaze and the pointed omission of any mention of a mother.

‘That meddling woman!’

Isabella’s face turned scarlet with anger and shame. But being one to bully the weak and yield to the strong, Isabella couldn’t bring herself to retort to Countess Marquez with her true feelings, especially not in front of the prince. So, Isabella decided to play the victim. Drawing on her surging emotions, she channeled them into her tear ducts, and large tears began to fall from her big, violet, puppy-like eyes. Her translucent skin flushed pink, and her small, delicate frame trembled.

“That wasn’t my intention…”

As the fairy-like girl shed tears before a boy her age and a stern woman in her forties, the scene, regardless of the context, began to turn against Prince Alfonso and Countess Marquez.

- “My, why is that girl crying?”

- “Do you think the lady in front of her made her cry?”

- “That’s Countess Marquez. She can be rather prickly. But why is the prince standing with her? Did His Highness make some sort of mistake?”

At the murmurs from the surrounding people, Countess Marquez was considerably flustered, but she managed to compose herself, maintaining an elegant expression. Isabella was certainly not an easy opponent. The countess was pondering how to extricate Prince Alfonso from this mess without any damage. Just then, Ariadne, having changed into her second débutante dress, descended from the second floor with the help of her ladies-in-waiting. Ariadne was breathtakingly beautiful. Her second dress was so perfect it was as if it had been custom-made to redeem the earlier accident. The dress had a high neckline and sleeves that reached her fingertips, minimizing exposed skin, yet its form-fitting silhouette accentuated her figure without being ostentatious. All eyes turned to the star of the evening, who commanded their attention. Noticing the commotion, Ariadne soon approached and stood beside Prince Alfonso and Countess Marquez. It created a tableau of Ariadne and Isabella facing each other. Among the other guests dressed in dark colors out of respect for the débutante, the two young ladies in their snow-white gowns stood out as if under a spotlight. Today, Isabella was like cotton candy. In both a good and a bad way. The round skirt, made of layers of pure white organza, sparkled with every turn of light, capturing everyone’s gaze, but her heavy makeup, applied to avoid being overshadowed by the dress, did little to emphasize her greatest charm—her rabbit-like innocence—and, from certain angles, made her look a bit like a clown. In contrast, Ariadne’s attire was remarkably tasteful. Her makeup was subtle, a gentle pink blush on her cheeks and lips, with only a slight downward flick of her eyeliner to emphasize the roundness of her eyes. Her simple dress subtly revealed a tall, curvaceous figure, with no hint of excessive adornment. She had now removed the ‘Heart of the Deep Blue Sea’ and was wearing only a pair of diamond and white topaz earrings, a gift from Her Majesty the Queen, that scattered light like a chandelier.

As the two young ladies stood in contrast, a question that had been on everyone’s mind, despite Isabella’s explanations, resurfaced with renewed clarity. Why was Isabella de Mare wearing a pure white dress when this was not her own débutante ball?