The Bad Ending of an Otome

As a matter of fact, Cassio Brahamdorff didn’t even wait more than a day. I stayed open late that night to serve my regular clients, but I told them I would have to close the shop temporarily due to unforeseen circumstances. In response to Aunt Ann’s sincere inquiry as to whether or not I was going to see a husband candidate, I casually said, ‘I can’t even take care of myself, let alone a boyfriend.’

I had no legitimate reason to abandon the shop for a few months, so I said that a member of my rural family had fallen ill. The justification was trite, but it served its purpose. That’s because I wasn’t the only farm girl to make the journey to the big metropolis in search of work. The location wasn’t some remote farmhouse, but rather a townhouse on prime real estate in the nation’s capital. 

The lady I was to serve was Countess McGinty, who was said to be a respected noblewoman but was not related to me by blood.

It was nearly daybreak by the time I finished cleaning up the shop and loading up my bags. I pretended to collapse on top of my packed suitcases and slept off for a few minutes. Cassio Brahamdorff’ss tap on the door woke me up less than two hours after I’d gone to sleep.

My bags and I were expertly placed onto the carriage by Cassio, who arrived with a huge carriage and two stout-looking helpers. When I finally came to my senses in the carriage, we were right in front of the foreign and lavish mansion. I stood there in a stupor, staring at the structure.

It was more like a grand palace than a townhouse. It was not opulent, but more reminiscent of a home in which a lady of nobility may relax in peace. Climbing roses, apparently managed by gardeners, glistened in the morning light on every fence. Slowly, I put one foot out of the wagon. At that point, a hand extended itself.

“Take it.”

A man with nothing in his hand. The man’s naked hand glistened, like a beautifully constructed relic that didn’t quite belong. It didn’t take me long to decide to hold his hand. It had a chill about it. Putting my foot down on the ground was an unusual experience. Perhaps it was time to revert to my old self, ‘Emilia’.

Slowly, I bowed and released the man’s hand. The white- and black-clad men and women waiting at the front door gently bowed as well.

“This is the young girl you will be serving from now on, as you surely already know.”

Clean black gowns with tight collars and billowy white aprons. Their eyes were averted, but they maintained a neutral expression out of politeness. They were clearly trained servants, and everyone could tell. I took a long, hard look at my clothes. My typical attire—a boring dress with no patterns or embellishments—my hair, which was probably untidy from the carriage ride, and my bare face. In any light, I was no more than a commoner. Those helpers were more naturally ‘ladies’ than I was.

However, nobody seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, and everyone replied with typical courtesy and caution. The prominence of Cassio was clear to me. A hand was offered to me by the man. I gazed at his face in confusion, not knowing what he meant.

Smoldering gray orbs. A little, polite grin that didn’t appear genuine. The man didn’t hesitate and gently grasped my hand, as if to imply that I might easily withdraw my hand if I so desired.

“Kitty?”

“Yes, Master Cassio.”

Orange-tinged brown hair and orange eyes. She looked eerily like Dorothy. I averted my eyes to hide any sign that I was aware of what was going on. Cassio gave me the eye.

“The hard working maid who will be looking after you from now on is here, Emilia.”

“I look forward to working with you.”

“Thank you very much, Miss.”

“And this is the housekeeper, Nelly, and the butler, William.”

“Good to finally meet you!”

“The pleasure is all mine. We promise to make every effort to make your stay pleasant.”

“I know I’m going to be a pain for a while, but please know how much I appreciate your patience.”

The guy and lady in their mid-30s came up to me and bowed respectfully. I felt embarrassed and spat out a welcome. What in the world was Cassio doing? I am not formally related to the Brahamdorffs in any way. Everyone in the social sphere was hunting for Cassio. His scandals were minor and quickly devolved into idle chatter, with only Ophelia Windrose being mentioned ‘seriously’ in connection to him.

It was common knowledge, however, that she was not marriageable. His keen judgment earned him widespread renown. He had a knack for identifying surefire moneymakers and works of art destined for price appreciation. He was a man who could fool people with his smile, but that just made them watch his every action more closely. Somewhere, someone may leak the image of me, a young woman of disgraced nobility, holding his hand, and it would immediately become top page news.

The family’s servants would not take well to seeing a single heir without a fiancée clutching the hand of an unknown girl at a debutante ball. The attendants’ outward demeanor, however, was impeccable in its politeness and cleanliness. The man reached out and tugged my hand while I was daydreaming. He strode forward without waiting for me to respond. I panicked and followed. The helpers accompanied us in silence, like shadows. The man’s right-hand butler was curious.

“What do we do about your schedule?”

“Is Aunt as she said the last time?”

“Yes, she is going back tonight.”

“Let Miss relax till then so she may join us for supper; she’ll appreciate it. Emilia?”

“Yes?”

“Auntie is on her way today. How about we have supper together?”

“Cassio, will you join us?”

“Yes, shall we go?”

I had to ask: Is he kidding with me? It made my eyes narrow. Then, stealthily, I gave his hand a firm squeeze. His eyebrow twitched slightly. I made myself heard loud and clear.

“I have heard a lot of things about the admired and esteemed Countess McGinty, so, I would like for Mr. Cassio introduced me to her.”

* * *

A debutante ball requires a lot of preparation and planning. Expensive clothing, accessories, and footwear are required. It’s not a huge deal if you plan ahead, though, because a debutante ball only happens once in a girl’s lifetime. Securing people is the most challenging task. Chaperones are the true deciding factor in the ‘quality’ of a debutante ball, much more so than partners who are suited in rank and are of a comparable age and look, and cavaliers, of course.

When families get their young girls together for etiquette lessons and supervision at social occasions like tea parties and debutante balls, the job of chaperone is very different. Since this is their first foray into the wider world, they are certain to make some rookie blunders and encounter some growing pains from their peers. Such instances may fade away if they are covered up by a very authoritative and respected lady in society who can muddle through and protect you; otherwise, they generally lead to public disgrace.

That is to say, it’s the social equivalent of a thick shield on the battlefield of exclusive circles. Chaperones are not required to meet any special criteria, hence it is usual practice to simply invite a female acquaintance of the family. Sometimes parents will act as chaperones if no one else would.

It’s a little like showing off your aristocratic credentials. The cavaliers and their chaperones represent the unquantifiable value of high aristocratic ties. In this regard, Countess McGinty was an ideal chaperone, with no room for criticism. It would be more accurate to say that I would be coasting on her notoriety. No one would dare to make crude jokes about me in front of Countess McGinty, even if they do not like me.

“Of course,” I said, “I don’t know if the Countess would take a liking to me.”

“She’ll warm up to you in no time.”

Cassio stated emphatically. My brows became somewhat furrowed. In a flash, I saw the stately front door of the home. Cassio walked straight through the opening doors. I heaved a sigh and raced after him.

“Why are you so confident?”

“Aunt likes aged wine, classics, and perfume made with artisan’s care.”

“…Are you implying that we bribe her?”

The man started laughing out of the blue.

“I’d like to meet them first if there’s anyone who can bribe my aunt,” he said.

“Or, does she have a soft spot for fables? The one where the poor girl has to dress up as a princess and go to a fancy ball?”

“Oh, did you want to become a princess?”

“Absolutely not!”

A forceful reply came from me. Cinderella, that old standby. A young woman from a cruel count’s family is taken to a ball by her fairy godmother and ends up marrying the prince. I didn’t even think of that fancy ball as I was scrubbing the dust off the floor like a scullery maid. Even if I had a plot and could make a difference, it probably ended when Ophelia did.

Like someone trying to escape, I exited the Count’s mansion. Is it because I was thinking about Raretis at the time? Because I was afraid to show how worthless I had become. I remembered that ‘game,’ but it was difficult to imagine that I was anybody except Emilia.

I had been foraging for hard, stale bread on the streets since I was five years old. I couldn’t alter the plot even if I were a fictional character. It would have been far worse if I had refused to be sold to the Count’s mansion and instead run away. If I had been expelled for refusing to be Ophelia’s buddy, it wouldn’t have mattered. But there was still one thing I was terrified of, no matter how much I analyzed and retraced the events in that narrative.

The main character is not me. They do not love me. There was already an owner for anything I wanted. Knowing this, I worried I wouldn’t be able to quit up and would end up feeling sorry for myself. That others would look down on me. That the young woman who steps in for Ophelia and undergoes a horrible transformation would make me envious.

“We have lost our princess.”

That’s exactly what I would have done if I could go back in time and alter the plot. Her charms won me over. I loved her regardless of the outcome of that game. I was occasionally envious and oftentimes furious, but I always understood. Ophelia’s unloved death was a tragic byproduct of the game. Others’ fixation on the helpless girl boiled over into mayhem.

My hand shook and twitched. When the man tried to grab my hand, I yanked it away. There was no visible emotion on Cassio’s face. The person who chuckled and said, “I’d like to be introduced first if there was someone who could bribe my aunt,” has mysteriously disappeared. Why does he become so enraged whenever the subject of Ophelia’s death is broached?

What am I, an acquaintance of Ophelia’s and a rival that he kept by his side because of her letters when she was everyone’s dream, hope, and blossomed and she could never come back to life? However, this made me chuckle. Honestly, I couldn’t care less. The guy started talking. It had a strange tone, like industrial noises had been layered on top of lovely music. He regarded the issue as though it were an intractable puzzle.