Lady Emmental’s Delight

What dress shall I dress my daughter in today?

Perhaps a voluminous skirt with puffed sleeves. A short empire waist, showing her pumpkin pants—would that seem improper? Certainly adorable… yet surely cumbersome to move in. Perhaps a long, classic style would be better. Today, I shall go with pastels; yesterday’s accent was purple. It is a dilemma, truly, that she can make anything look lovely. A dozen different outfits form in my mind.

She will surely wear anything with ease.

Smiling faintly, Lady Emmental recalls her daughter’s room, her closet.

The sunlight is growing strong now—perhaps a pure white lace bonnet would be fitting. There were a few that seemed just right; I shall have them brought out.

She laughs, softly, like a girl.

Five months after the Emmental noblewoman kidnapping incident.

My heart has gradually regained its composure. I have come to understand that mourning endlessly demands both physical and mental strength beyond measure.

I cannot weep forever. There is not a single day when I do not think of my daughter, taken from us. Yet I am also the mother of three sons. To be comforted by them—something both humbling and a quiet sign of growth—has eased the knot within my heart, little by little.

Perhaps, thanks to a letter of concern and reprimand from my late-in-life mother-in-law, who resides at the estate, the weight within me has begun to ease. In brief, the letter read: *‘How long will the mistress of the house remain in sorrow? You know well enough that a child’s true nature remains hidden until three years of age! Accept that this one has returned to the Lord’s side, and face the three sons you have! A mother must be strong, or the house shall not endure.’* I received this as my mother-in-law’s particular brand of stern encouragement—she who once oversaw the manners of royalty.

The first time passed, and time alone resolved it, perhaps.

Now, as I slowly reclaim a measure of peace within, my husband has summoned me to our private chamber at night.

This is not an invitation to share the night’s duties, for my body still bears the fatigue of childbirth.

Something too heavy for the children to hear, perhaps, or a matter too private even for family counsel.

I thought this, and so that night I donned a robe slightly thicker than usual, and made my way to the bedchamber.

I seated myself at the edge of the bed, the room unfamiliar after so long, awaiting my lord. Before the silence had even settled, he arrived. He kissed my cheek in greeting, then lifted me with ease and laid me gently upon the bed.

He looked down at me with a faint frown, as if weighing his words. The right eyebrow twitched—just as it always did when he had something difficult to say. My mother used to lament that such expressions were fatal for a nobleman… My thoughts drifted, unbidden. Perhaps this ability to think at all was proof of my recovery.

After a moment, he exhaled deeply, and then began.

"Listen closely, Bee. It is I, Lizarna, your former maid. I have passed on, it seems."

"Such... such a thing..." I covered my mouth with both hands, stifling a sob. Yet I could not suppress the tears, and buried my face against my lord’s chest.

Lizarna... why have you too left me? You said you would return, bearing a healthy child...

My lord gently stroked my head and continued.

"There is the matter of the child she left behind. Today, I was asked to arrange a foster home. As you know, Lizarna’s family estate is your own family’s ancestral home—far away, and her younger brother has inherited the household, correct? Support from him seems unlikely. He is said to be in a similar situation to his own family... and he cannot serve due to the needs of his kin. His savings, too, are likely nearly spent."

Ah, how merciless the divine is. Not content with taking her mother from her in infancy, now she cannot even live with her father…

I wish I could support that child with my own hands.

Before the thought had fully formed, the words slipped from my lips: “I wish to meet that child.”

My lord said, “I expected as much. I shall summon them to the manor tomorrow. Rest now.” He pressed his lips to my forehead.

I had been restless since morning. My heart fluttered… It had been years since I last saw an infant, and the thought stirred unease… Yet the thought of meeting Liza’s child, raised as a sister, filled me with joy… I feel like a girl on the eve of her debut…

The bellflower room, bathed in the gentle light of midday, is where merchants and artists of low rank or no title may present themselves.

At the center of the room, a low table and sofa rest upon a thick, long-haired rug. The rug’s weave is deep yet subdued; the seating set bears little ornamentation, its form simple and unadorned. I could have welcomed him in the gentian chamber next door—after all, he is a landless knight—but I chose this one, mindful of the child’s sensitivity, mindful of his hesitation. That other chamber is for nobles, its decorations excessive, its edges sharp. It would not be kind.

I had been waiting, breath held, for this moment. The advance maid announced his arrival; shortly after, the landless knight entered, cradling a basket of ivy grapes as large as his arms.

My husband and I exchanged only a brief greeting before leaning in to peer into the basket.

I was struck speechless. I had learned that surprise could render a person unable to speak. The infant sleeping within the basket resembled the child I had imagined more closely than I had dared to hope.

Some lords may say newborns all look like apes, their faces indistinguishable—but that is not true. Features vary from one child to the next, and their movements carry individual quirks and mannerisms. I had thought of this every day as the child grew in my mind, and now it stood before me, real and whole. Of course, such a vision could only come to one who had raised three children of her own.

I turned to my husband, still stunned, and saw the same wonder reflected in his face. His cheeks had softened, as if his heart had melted.

And I knew with certainty. This child was destined to be my daughter.

"By the grace of the Divine—this child shall be mine. I will raise her." I declared, firm and unyielding. No one shall stand in my way. How could I possibly give such a precious little one to another?

I looked at my husband with resolve, and he nodded in return. Relief washed over me—glad we shared the same heart.

Eliza’s reckless act… I wished to raise this child in joy, to cherish her, to see her smile.

Lost in such thoughts, I lifted the infant into my arms—only then realizing I did not know her name. My husband, too, seemed unaware, and asked the baronet. “Spica.” A truly lovely name. How many times that day did I speak her name aloud?

As the saying goes, “Do good without delay.” From that day, Spica became my child.

Even before the documents were signed, she was already family in my heart.

Some time later, after the baptism, the children met Spica for the first time. I had worried how my sons might react—but all were utterly captivated.

It was no wonder. Spica was extraordinary.

Simply seeing Spica’s face each day was enough to fill me. And I spent my days in quiet delight, imagining things only a girl could share with another girl—things my sons could never understand.

I would select lovely dresses, embroider together, hold tea gatherings, sing poems, and dream of speaking of love when she grows older.

Gently, the lady spoke to her beloved daughter: “Take your time, but please grow quickly.”