<7>
Madam Hayworth, Freya, lifted her heavy eyelids.
The first thing that came into view was the familiar ceiling.
‘Again… I lost consciousness.’
With a desolate feeling, Freya tightly closed her eyes.
A suffocating sensation pressed down on her chest, as if a heavy sheet of lead had been placed over her heart once more.
It was a familiar feeling that never left her for even a moment while she was awake.
Yet this dull sensation would sometimes change shape, stabbing sharply into her heart and tightening around it.
When it grew severe enough, it would cause her to lose consciousness like this.
‘It’s getting worse day by day.’
How much time had passed?
Freya unconsciously rolled her eyes, searching for the clock.
‘The child was supposed to come today… and of all times, I collapse now.’
Freya recalled the little girl with wheat-colored hair.
Rowena Whitfield.
The child from the orphanage whom Freya had exceptionally invited to the mansion today.
The reason Freya — who no longer enjoyed meeting people — had called this bold child back again was simple.
‘W-When we say goodbye in front of the carriage later… C-Could you let me… give you a kiss on the cheek?’
The moment she heard those words, she had felt a pang of regret.
‘I overreacted too much to the word “request.”’
Come to think of it, she was just a ten-year-old child — far too young to fully understand the world.
What kind of grand request could such a child possibly make?
She could have overlooked the child’s rudeness with moderation, yet she realized belatedly that she had been overly sensitive.
Above all, watching the child kiss her cheek and leave had brought back a memory from more than a decade ago.
‘Mommy, kiss! Hehe.’
Her daughter, Rose, who would come running calling “Mommy” the moment the door opened.
The mere thought of that name sent a throbbing pain pressing against her heart again.
In truth, Freya knew.
This was an illness of the heart.
But how could it possibly be cured?
How could one heal a heart sickness caused by losing a daughter — a daughter more precious than gold — before one’s own time?
Even now, when she closed her eyes, her daughter’s face appeared vividly before her.
It felt as though, if she opened the door and stepped out, Rose would say the weather was nice and suggest going outside while looking for her hat.
The voice that once complained that “Mommy” sounded too stiff still rang in her ears.
Because she had obtained the daughter with such difficulty, her affection was exceptional.
And precisely for that reason, she could never show it outwardly.
She was the only remaining adult of the Hayworth family, its pillar of support.
That was why, as soon as the funeral ended, Freya removed her mourning clothes.
She did not shed tears easily.
If the one who should grieve the most cast off the shadow of death, then others could do the same.
Only then could the Hayworth household regain its vitality as if nothing had happened.
‘I must not collapse.’
Especially because her son-in-law, Seymour, was so precarious, she must not collapse under any circumstances.
Now, nothing remained that gave her reason to live.
Only Hayworth itself was the reason she must not die, and the only thing she had left to protect.
‘Henry will scold me. What excuse should I make this time…’
Thud.
At that moment, something brushed against the fingertips of Freya as she tried to rise from the bed.
It was far too light and rough to be a blanket.
Freya slowly sat up and checked what she had touched.
“…A flower?”
Napkin roses folded into the shape of flowers were placed all over the blanket.
And not just one or two.
So many napkin flowers had been placed that even the slightest lift of the blanket would cause them to tumble down, turning the entire bed into a veritable flower garden.
The situation was so absurd that even Freya — who rarely lost her composure — spoke with a trembling voice.
“W-What in the world is this…”
“Ah, you’re awake?”
At that moment, small footsteps pattered from the doorway.
When she turned her head, she saw a tiny girl holding an armful of napkin flowers, giggling brightly.
It was the very child Freya had summoned today — Rowena.
But that did not mean she could immediately make sense of the situation.
“Rowena. Did you do this?”
“Yes!”
When Rowena answered energetically, bewilderment colored Freya’s face.
“With whose permission did you do such a thing! Who told you that you could do this!”
“The old doctor grandpa said that when you’re sick, it’s good to look at pretty things. That’s why people bring flowers when visiting the sick.”
“…What?”
However, the reply that came was somewhat off-topic.
Even though she should have wilted under the roar, Rowena trotted over with a smiling face, placed another handful of napkin flowers on the bed, and rested her chin on the hands gripping the edge.
“I thought about going outside to pick real flowers, but then the flowers would get hurt. I didn’t think you would want that, Madam.”
At the clear, bright words, Freya’s anger softened a little.
But that did not mean she intended to let it slide.
Freya cleared her throat once and spoke sternly again.
“Ahem. Even so, who gave you permission to use the napkins however you pleased!”
“The head chef!”
“…The head chef?”
“Yes! He taught me how to fold roses and butterflies with napkins and gave me permission. I’m the best at paper folding in the orphanage.”
Napkins were consumable items stacked in abundance in the kitchen.
Since folding a few would not cause any significant loss, the head chef must have generously allowed it.
Rowena neatly arranged the scattered flowers in a pretty line, then placed her chin on her hands beside them like a flower vase.
With both hands cupping her plump cheeks, the child beamed widely.
“It’s a flower garden for you, Madam!”
The child’s fingertips were slightly red.
It was because she had put so much effort into folding each and every one of these many flowers.
At that pure goodwill, Freya unconsciously felt a lump rise inside her heart.
‘Mommy, look! A bouquet!’
‘Rose. Why didn’t you just ask the gardener for flowers? Why go through the trouble of folding them…’
‘Then the flowers would get hurt. I know because I’m a flower too! You’re Mommy’s prettiest rose.’
Her young daughter, who used to rest her chin on both hands and giggle.
Even on the day she died as an adult, to Freya she had always looked like that little child — a child who would never grow any older.
That was why she had tried never to bring out the sadness again.
Even if doing so meant letting it fester inside her like poison eating away at her flesh.
‘But…’
Looking at this child, she felt her heart ripple faintly, as though new flesh were growing over an old wound.
That must have been why she had called the child back.
Freya reached out to the child.
Even though she herself did not know what meaning the gesture carried, the child took her hand with a puzzled expression.
That small warmth somehow felt like consolation.
‘I never thought I would feel this way again at my age.’
It was not a bad feeling at all.
With a much lighter heart, Freya spoke.
“Your name is Rowena, correct?”
“Yes, Madam!”
At the energetic reply, a smile unconsciously formed on Freya’s lips.
“Can you grant me one request?”
* * *
Freya’s request was simple.
It was merely to accompany her to a certain room.
The room Rowena entered while holding Freya’s hand was nothing particularly special.
It was an ordinary noble young lady’s room — the kind one could find in any aristocratic household.
However, the mere act of opening that door carried great significance in Hayworth.
“Madam really opened Miss Rose’s room?”
“Yes! She asked the child from the orphanage to open it with her.”
“My goodness, she hasn’t opened it once since Miss Rose passed away! Even when the butler urged her, she was so firm…”
Although no one had used the room for over a year, it was kept immaculately clean, as though the owner might return at any moment.
This was thanks to Butler Henry’s standing order that the room must always be maintained spotlessly, whether Madam opened the door or not.
Leaving behind the murmuring servants, Freya stood in the empty room for a long time.
“…That’s enough. Put everything back in order.”
With those words, she left Rose’s room.
Yet she did not appear entirely forlorn.
Because beside the departing Freya was a girl holding the elderly lady’s hand.
It was a sign that spring had begun to arrive in the once-barren Hayworth.
Unaware that some people were shedding tears at the sight of that scene,
Rowena, hurrying down the stairs with quick little steps, was now facing an unexpected situation.
‘Oh my goodness!’
What on earth is all this!
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