Chapter 8 – The Suspicious Stranger

Through the first-class window, the golden horizon rippled. Robert remembered he had been here before. The Lafayette family was not far from this place.

‘I was wearing my uniform then.’

Robert’s fingers lightly tapped the wooden armrest, recalling memories he had forgotten. It was a small whim brought on by Baron Auguste’s advice. He had thought he would never return to this small country village, but the address sent by the Royal Academy for the artist was nearby.

The man getting off the train carried only a small suitcase. He had not planned to stay long, so he packed little.

Robert realized, only after arriving at Manolie’s quiet train station—which felt lonely compared to Laurent—how conspicuous he looked in such a rural town. Remembering there were no cars, he hailed an empty carriage passing by.

“You want to go to this address?”

When he showed the address, the coachman looked him up and down suspiciously.

“Is there a problem?”

Robert was bewildered. In Laurent, no one dared treat him like this.

Suddenly, the face of the foolish girl who had once offered him a peach flashed in his mind. Come to think of it, was it around here that he met her?

“Sasha! This handsome frock-coated gentleman is looking for the Vinoche house. Do you know if your father knows him?”

The coachman, without going far, stopped the carriage and called out to a girl passing by. The girl turned around. She was too low for Robert to see her face clearly.

Sasha stood on tiptoe, peering into the carriage to see the passenger. Robert’s eyes met those of the girl with orange hair. Recognizing her instantly, Robert unconsciously drew back. Sasha glanced at him, as if wondering why he was acting strange.

“Our house? I didn’t hear anything about a guest coming today. If I’d known, Grandma Rollo would have told me to buy more bread than this!”

Sasha showed the large paper bag she was holding as she spoke. While Sasha and the coachman talked, Robert didn’t say a word. He was in shock. He didn’t know how to process the fact that the artist he was searching for lived in the same house as the bold girl he’d met long ago.

Just then, a man with a sparse ponytail came out of the shop following Sasha. It was Bertland, the owner of the general store. He brought out a load of items and handed them to Sasha—all the art supplies she needed.

“You’re giving all this to me?”

“There’s no one else in Manolie who paints. Take it and use it.”

Sasha, arms full of supplies, looked precarious. Robert frowned instinctively, but she quickly regained her balance.

“If you’re headed home, why not ride along?”

Without asking the paying passenger, the coachman abruptly suggested sharing the ride. Sasha glanced at the stiff-looking gentleman and politely declined.

“No, thank you! I brought my bicycle since I have a lot of stuff today.”

And indeed, she loaded her things onto her bike and pedaled vigorously ahead. The coachman, clicking his tongue, looked back to see his passenger deep in thought.

“Is there an artist in that girl’s family?”

After a long silence, as they left Manolie town, the gentleman asked.

“Sasha Vinoche is the only one in this village who can paint.”

The coachman proudly added that even the painting hanging in his house was done by Sasha. Not long after, the carriage stopped in front of a house with a lemon-colored gate. Robert stared briefly at the three-story house with its red gabled roof before speaking.

“This isn’t the place. Let’s go back to the station.”

Of course. There was no reason for a gentleman from Laurent to visit such a rural home. Surely the address was wrong. Satisfied to have solved his curiosity, the coachman took him back to where he’d picked him up.

He said he wouldn’t charge for the return trip, but after the gentleman left, the seat held a sum three times the fare. The coachman hurried to return the money but was too late. The train carrying the gentleman from Laurent was already leaving Manolie’s small station, trailing white smoke.

* * *

The news that the Hawthorn Mansion on the hill had been sold spread like wildfire. The people of Manolie were bewildered. There was absolutely no information about the mansion’s new owner. Who, not even a resident of Manolie, had bought it—and for what reason?

<If you suddenly buy a house on the hill, shouldn’t you at least come down to the village and introduce yourself? What a strange situation.>

The new owner never showed their face, no matter how valuable. For a whole year after the mansion was sold, only garden renovations took place. Workers from Laurent, tight-lipped, silently hauled materials. Even to a casual observer, the materials were expensive. The villagers guessed the new owner was a wealthy noble tired of city life, or perhaps a luxurious bourgeois businessman.

<He’s definitely rich. Otherwise, why waste money here?>

But if so wealthy, why come to Manolie? The identity of the person who bought the Hawthorn Mansion became ever more mysterious. The puzzling construction ended only the following summer. Someone stepped out of the now quiet mansion. It was Mr. Robert.

At first, the people of Manolie suspected Mr. Robert was the new owner of Hawthorn Mansion. But soon they realized it was a misunderstanding. He was too plainly dressed to be rich, and besides, he seemed inept in many ways.

<That’s definitely not him. I saw him last time—he couldn’t even split firewood properly in the garden.>

<He didn’t know how to shop either. Once he bought more fruit than anyone could eat, and it all ended up rotting.>

<I saw him too. He paid a price for a plate of beef stew that only a luxury restaurant in Laurent would ask for.>

The villagers believed only those who counted and saved became wealthy. And Laurent—what kind of place was that? The world’s most advanced city, but also frantically complicated. Someone as lacking as Mr. Robert couldn’t be a rich man from Laurent.

<He’s probably just the caretaker.>

Within a single week, Robert was downgraded to the incompetent caretaker of Hawthorn Mansion. Whoever the real owner was, it seemed they’d left things in the caretaker’s hands and only visited occasionally.

With that conclusion, the villagers’ interest waned. The young women blushing and hovering around him were always an exception. Mr. Robert didn’t seem interested in socializing. He simply enjoyed leisure, as if on a summer holiday.

Among the rumors in Manolie, very few came from his own mouth, and most were exaggerated. Mr. Robert once said he’d graduated from the military academy and been a soldier for about a year, but soon the story ballooned—he became the recipient of a royal decoration given by the Queen.

An officer! Hard to imagine now. Mr. Vinoche was surprised when he first heard the man’s age. Mrs. Vinoche said he looked like a boy because he didn’t grow a beard.

<Sasha. Mr. Robert resembles your grandfather, who was an officer in his youth.>

<That’s nonsense!>

Grandma Elodie whispered, but Grandma Rollo, sitting opposite, strongly disagreed. Grandma Elodie grumbled that her late husband, while not as handsome as Mr. Robert, had been quite good-looking in his youth.

Anyway, it was true that he looked very different from the boys Sasha had seen in Manolie—a strikingly attention-grabbing man.

Sasha recognized him at a glance. Mr. Robert was the man who had visited by carriage two years ago, wearing a frock coat and silk hat that no one in Manolie wore!

Her heart pounded as if it might burst. Summer vacation had begun, and she was bored—so the arrival of a guest was timely and intriguing. Sasha suspected his true identity might be that of a spy from abroad.

<Sasha. Take these to Hawthorn Mansion. We baked too many for ourselves.>

One day, Mrs. Vinoche baked a lot of cookies and sent Sasha to deliver some to Hawthorn Mansion. Sasha, carrying the basket, peeked into the garden from behind the fence and was caught.

But she didn’t panic. She knew how to handle such moments. Sasha handed over the basket without hesitation and greeted him.

“Hello, my name is Sasha Vinoche.”

“Hello, Sasha.”

The man spoke slowly, as if unsure what to say. Mr. Robert, accepting the basket, looked Sasha over as if searching her. His eyes had a force that could immobilize a person. Sasha blinked. It was unexpected. From afar, she thought his eyes were blue, but up close they were a very attractive green—the color matched the newly renovated garden of Hawthorn Mansion.

“What brings you to someone else’s house at this hour?”

Leaning against the door, the man looked down and asked. Mr. Robert was very tall. Sasha felt it was too late to visit without an appointment.

“I’m sorry for disturbing your evening. We made too many cookies, so I came to share them.”

He kept staring, seeming slightly displeased. She felt an ambiguous gaze on the back of her bowed neck. Sasha became uncomfortable standing still. Her fingers curled and fidgeted.

Breaking the silence, something fell and shattered inside the mansion. It was a sound from the kitchen. Mr. Robert glanced back. Sasha took the chance to inhale. Something was definitely broken. Now he looked troubled.

“Can I help? I don’t know what’s wrong, but I might be able to assist.”

Sasha asked suddenly. She just felt like it. She tried to peer inside, but Mr. Robert didn’t move aside. Blocking the entrance, he sighed shortly, as if tired.

“No. It’s late, so go home.”

“But… it sounded like something broke inside. I can help clean up.”

“Go home, Sasha.”

The second refusal was firmer than the first. That was it. Mr. Robert never went back on his word. Sasha, chased away, was bewildered. Surely he needed help? And if he’d just asked, she would have gladly helped him.

Then she saw a tall figure moving behind the tree shading the kitchen window. It was Mr. Robert. Sasha’s gaze followed him. He stopped moving. Did their eyes meet? Sasha unconsciously held her breath. He drew the curtains.

Sasha dashed down the hill, as if escaping the long shadow of Hawthorn Mansion. Her throat tasted of blood, and her lungs felt torn, but she kept running. She ran dangerously, almost falling. Her heart pounded as if it would burst. At the end, she felt a lightness, as if her toes floated in the air, enveloped in euphoria. Only then did she finally stop running. She found herself at the lemon-colored gate.

* * *

A suspicious guest lives at Hawthorn Mansion. The people of Manoli claimed to have seen a man believed to be the owner—a dignified older gentleman who had arrived in a luxurious carriage. It was said that Robert himself came out to the gate to greet him personally.

New sightings reignited fading rumors. All sorts of stories circulated. The most popular theory was that a high noble from the capital used it as a secret rendezvous spot for affairs with famous actresses or high-class courtesans. Someone claimed to have seen a famous opera singer entering Hawthorn Mansion.

As for the noble’s identity, opinions varied. Every well-known noble whose name had appeared in the local paper was considered by the villagers. But nothing was certain.

People tried to learn the new owner’s identity through Mr. Robert. They plied him with drinks, hoping to coax information from him when he was drunk, but failed. Mr. Robert had many bottles of fine, unnamed liquor in his cabinet, and it was always the villagers who passed out from the drinks he generously offered.