Welcome to the Rose Mansion - Chapter 4
Calmly sorting through them, Richelle’s eyes widened in surprise. For some reason, there were far fewer bills than last week.
Could it be, had her mother finally heeded her request?
Her green eyes, capturing the verdancy of midsummer, sparkled with anticipation and joy. However, the moment she saw the last letter, her complexion turned as cold as the winter wind.
“……”
The sender of the last letter was a distant relative, Mister Trollope. After fiddling with the corner of the envelope for a while, Richelle steeled herself and opened it on the spot.
The main content, following a lengthy and unnecessary preamble, was straightforward:
[What little money could you possibly earn from being a mere assistant teacher. I hear your debts are only increasing. It’s time to change your mind and come to me. I’ll forgive the debt you owe me and even pay off your other debts. Think it over. Will you get another chance like this?]
Contemptible human being.
Her hand clutching the letter trembled.
After the death of Richelle’s father, Oscar Howard, the few remaining assets and the mansion of the Howard family had all fallen into the hands of Thomas Trollope due to the lack of a male heir.
And now, as if that wasn’t enough, he was setting his sights on Richelle too.
An old man well past his prime, with sons older than her.
Richelle crumpled the letter and shoved it into her coat pocket. Suddenly, the facade of her small ochre brick house came into view. Despite her best efforts to maintain it, the modest home could not hide its shabbiness.
“……”
The brilliance in her green eyes dimmed to a haze.
There was a time when Richelle too had a warm coat made of the finest fur, oblivious to the harsh winters as she whimsically played in front of a cozy fireplace.
A time when she freely painted her favorite pictures in sunlit rooms, played the piano, and dined on exquisite meat dishes prepared by a skilled chef, accompanied by fine wine in the evenings.
If her father had been alive, Thomas Trollope wouldn’t dare come near her.
Yes, if only her father had been alive.
If only…
“No, what’s the point in thinking like this?”
Richelle shook her head, a picturesque smile blooming on her face, which had been as faded as an old bookshelf. She energetically opened the front door.
“I’m home!”
Her voice echoed emptily in the dark house.
Richelle waited a moment before moving familiarly inside. The sole maid, Anna, would be busy with cleaning and laundry, and the nanny, Joan, would be in the kitchen.
And her mother… as always, she would be there.
The only place in poor Richelle’s small home where an oil lamp was kept burning. Always radiating bright light and warmth. The most glittering and splendid place, heavily saturated with clumped greed and gloom.
Mother’s little heaven.
The creaking of the old wooden floor echoed. Richelle tiptoed, silencing her steps, and stealthily made her way towards the living room.
As expected, an irritable voice flowed from the brightly lit living room.
“Really, nothing came, Joan? Not even a single one?”
It was her mother’s voice. Richelle stopped and tilted her head. What was she waiting for?
Joan’s reply followed.
“Shall I check again, Madam?”
“Never mind! Those wretched people. They’re all ignoring me. It’s all because of this dreary dress. Who would wear such a disgusting green dress these days?”
“Oh, Madam. That dress was tailored just a couple of months ago.”
“Joan, are you really that clueless? The fashion in high society changes overnight, between last night’s party and tonight’s.”
Ah, so it was about the social gathering invitations again.
Instead of entering the living room, Richelle leaned against the wall next to the entrance. She sensed that showing herself now would only lead to another argument.
While she held her breath, the conversation between Mrs. Howard and Joan continued.
“Even Madam Allison is ignoring me now! That lowly nouveau riche, flaunting her money as if she belongs to high society. It won’t do. I need a new dress, in the latest luxurious light purple that’s in fashion now.”
“Oh, Madam. The money Sir Oliphant sent has already run out.”
“Already? …Well, Richelle will figure it out. She wouldn’t refuse her mother a single dress because of her own desires, would she?”
“Er, Madam. Wouldn’t that be too much of a burden for Miss Richelle? Especially since she’s hardly had any rest lately.”
“Who told her to go out and earn money herself? It’s vulgar for a lady. It’s precisely that child who insists on holding out, refusing to marry into a wealthy family.”
“Then, could you at least give her your trust fund? A woman should have a substantial dowry to marry into a good family. Even if we overlook the regular money from Sir Oliphant, hiding the trust fund is—”
“What are you talking about?”
