“Lady Estelle, a letter for you,” said Estelle’s maid, Leah. She added, “If you ask me, it’s perfectly fine to tear it up and throw it away without so much as opening the envelope—but would you care to read it?”
Estelle knitted her brows upon seeing the sender’s name on the envelope. After opening it, she outright grimaced.
“Say, Leah. Is Pautrier’s daughter making fun of me, perhaps?”
Inside the envelope was an invitation to Lyle and Diana Pautrier’s wedding. No ordinary woman would dare have invited the former fiancée of the man she’d stolen from her to their wedding. Not to mention it was scheduled for June next year. That had been when she’d planned to marry Lyle, if only the Pautriers hadn’t thrown a wrench into the works.
Estelle and Lyle had made their engagement two years prior to these events, on the day she’d graduated from a girls’ school. The day of their wedding had ended up so distant because she had wanted to let Lyle graduate from university first. Had she known things would come to this, she wouldn’t have waited.
“She most certainly is, Lady Estelle. You have every right to be angry.”
Leah’s dismissive attitude at least seemed to bring Estelle some relief.
“Do you, perhaps, plan to attend?”
“Of course not.”
Estelle got up from the sofa, walked to the fireplace, and threw the invitation into the flames.
“How aggravating. I shall be sure to find someone even better than Lyle for myself. That will show her.” A crease appeared between Estelle’s eyebrows.
Four months had passed since her engagement had been broken off, and it was almost that time of the year when nobles started actively socializing. This period was known as the Season—it took place in Albion, the capital of Rosalia, and lasted from November to around May. The opening of the Season coincided with the sitting of Parliament, and since all hereditary peers held seats in the House of Lords, it wouldn’t have been an exaggeration to say that nobles from all over the country flocked to the capital during this time.
Snow began to pile up at the beginning of December every year in the mountainous northern domains, so the Flozeths took to the capital before this, with the arrival of November.
At present, Estelle was staying in her family’s town house in Albion, together with Sirius. It wasn’t as big as their country house in the earldom. The Flozeth household wasn’t too wealthy; all they had in Albion was a small two-story detached house. And though it was situated on the edge of a high-class residential area, the lives of regional lords were modest in comparison to those of the wealthiest and most powerful, who usually owned several mansions.
There was no doubt that Diana enjoyed more luxuries than Estelle did. Baron Pautrier’s mansion in the center of Albion was well-known for its splendor. And while the Pautriers of days past might not have held as much influence in high society, in the present—as capitalists gained power—they had an advantage over the Flozeths there too. That made things all the more infuriating for Estelle.
Though she had so enthusiastically resolved to get back at Diana, it was very difficult to find a man more suitable than Lyle. Peers of the rank of earl or higher were in such high demand that practically all of them were already spoken for. This kingdom practiced agnatic primogeniture—a system in which all the inheritance generally goes to the firstborn son—but with a preference for the Awoken. Unless there was a special reason, such as one of the younger sons discovering powers or the heir apparent being in poor health, the eldest son would inherit the title and all property and wealth. Thus, younger sons had lower value, as they had to find success on their own.
Additionally, finding a better marriage partner than Lyle would require Estelle, who was rather withdrawn, to proactively engage with high society—a prospect that made her feel gloomy.
She looked down at herself, studying the mana in her own body. It was dark—likely owing to a mixture of her anger at Diana, her worries over what was to come, and everything else that was vexing her. Estelle adjusted the shawl on her shoulders, staring into the fire crackling on the hearth. That maddening invitation had already turned to ash. And yet, it did little to dispel Estelle’s melancholy.