0. Things You Won’t Know Unless You Say Them

Misfortune was a friend I could never be rid of. That was the first line of Lady Milo’s diary.

On the day of Lady Milo’s funeral, Doosi, a maid who had been with the lady since the day she married into the family, received the honor of being at her side until the very end.

She resented Razy Milo, however, for failing to appear even as his mother drew her last breath. Unwilling to hand the lady’s belongings over to such a dissolute man, Doosi kept the whereabouts of the diary a secret.

* * *

May 4th

My small misfortune was growing up as the daughter of a wealthy family, being denied the education my younger brother received, and being made to marry a man I didn’t want.

My great misfortune was that the man I didn’t want happened to be a Milo. The Milos had a reputation: graceless, lecherous, and never missing a chance to insert themselves into any gathering, whether it was a drinking party or a brawl.

And the reputation was accurate. My husband was a man who treated the duties that came with being the eldest son as a burden. Like any Milo man, he dreamed of producing an heir as quickly as possible, fulfilling his obligations, and then living freely.

I, too, had wanted nothing more than to bear the child of a man with nothing to recommend him but his family name and then wash my hands of the whole affair. But the misfortune I’d carried since birth was never going to let me go that easily.

The child I had never once spoken a blessing over during those ten months was born. He had the Milo family’s characteristic dark chestnut hair and beautiful green eyes.

The moment the baby arrived, my husband gave him a name, calling it a family tradition. He said something easy to pronounce was best, tossed out the name ‘Razy,’ and left for a drinking party. I disliked the name for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, so I called him ‘Ricky’ instead, like a nickname, something that wouldn’t bring ‘Razy’ to mind.

I’d been in no state to hold him right after the birth, and it wasn’t until my body had recovered somewhat that I finally held my son. The misfortune I thought had already peaked began to stir again that day. I had fallen in love with the bloodline of a man I despised more than my own parents.

Razy. Ricky. The child I had tried to leave to the wet nurse and forget had gently laid his hand on my misfortune. The more he grew, the deeper my love became rather than fading. It may sound strange to say this about one’s own son, but it was unmistakably my first love.

Having never loved anyone before, I felt more anxiety than joy, yet I wanted to protect this son of mine, who resembled his dissolute father in looks alone, within this household.

Calling the timing fortunate would be too sad. The price I paid for meeting my first love was a body growing steadily weaker. My knees refused to obey me and my bones ached as though they were crumbling. The doctor said it was from the difficulty of the birth, yet I felt no resentment toward Ricky. That’s how frightening love is.

May 10th

In the end, I used the excuse of recuperation to move to the small country villa I’d had built. I planned to raise Ricky there into a fine son. Someone I could send anywhere without worry, someone who would draw the astonished remark of how such a son could have come from the Milo family.

Fortunately, unlike his father, Ricky was gentle and soft-natured, so much so that even the wet nurse remarked that the young master never cried once. His docility was a good sign, but I also worried whether this child, as he grew, could hold his own against his cousins and distant relatives and survive in noble society.

And the problem was that my worries never stayed as mere worries.

The place where I built the villa spreads into a beautiful landscape of sunflowers in summer. The people are modest, and there are farms raising horses and goats, making it a fine place for children to run about. Even in winter the snow never falls and the warmth lingers, so you could often spot people swimming in the lake as late as September. From spring through autumn, yellow marigolds bloomed in the forest, perfect for walks.

The one flaw, if it could be called that, was that my villa sat at the top of a high hill, and foggy days were fairly common.

Port Mary. The only people who didn’t love this place were probably my parents and my husband. I managed to skip even my parents’ funerals by pleading poor health. My husband never came looking for me either. Ricky was just beginning to toddle, and I learned a new way of living in Port Mary.

The simple people of Port Mary didn’t shun me when I came down to recuperate; they welcomed me. Even without throwing a grand party the moment I arrived, they tried to understand me. Dozens of women came with homemade pies, saying they’d come to formally introduce themselves once their bodies had fully healed.

I hadn’t intended to grow close to the people here, but things changed once Ricky started talking and running. He chatted easily enough with the household staff, yet the moment he was in front of peers or strangers, he clamped his mouth shut and only turned red.

At first I thought it was shyness, but the first time we went to the Port Mary church for Sunday service, Ricky nearly fainted with fright and clung to my back, refusing to come out.

I had told him many times that failing to attend service after the age of five was a serious breach of manners, yet Ricky could never quite manage to be sociable.

It baffled me. Thinking of Ricky’s father, I had worried he might knock women down and get them with child, not that he’d faint in front of them.

July 6th

(Several pages were missing here, damaged by the age of the diary.)

‘Razy Milo. Come here.’

When Ricky turned seven, I grew too restless to stay still. It may have been my own ambition, but I hoped Ricky would one day protect not only the inheritance that had come to me but also the assets in his father’s name, meaning the Milo family fortune as well.

No. I simply didn’t want my beloved Ricky to spend his life agonizing over money. For that, he needed to be strong. If Ricky seemed weak or easy to look down on when we returned to the capital, that would be the end of it.

‘Say hello.’

As always, Ricky hid behind my back and shook his head. That was the moment I should have chosen. Or rather, the moment I believed I had to choose. Whether to raise him gently in the name of love, or to raise him with strength in the name of love.

My love chose the latter. After telling him several times to come out and being ignored, I slapped Ricky across the face. He took the blow and couldn’t even cry.

‘Razy Milo. Come out and greet him properly.’

The pastor said there was no need to go that far, but I pulled Ricky by the shoulder and made him bow regardless. I didn’t care what my reputation in the village became. The pastor accepted the greeting with a sour expression and even offered the defense that boys his age were naturally shy.

But that only made me more unable to bear it. My precious, beloved Ricky was not a child who should be lumped in with ‘boys his age’ in Port Mary.

A man serving as a pastor in a backwater like Port Mary had no business pitying him. Ricky needed to be more than that. I believed that was the only way he’d live without having to beg anyone for anything.

‘My lady, we’ve covered all the material we agreed on.’

‘Agreed? I never agreed to anything. If you can go further, go further. Don’t worry about what I think.’

‘He’s only eight years old. Isn’t this too much?’

‘The moment you feel it’s too much, say so. I have no interest in adding another tutor to this house who collects a weekly wage and does nothing.’

My body showed no sign of recovering. My husband showed no sign of coming to his senses. The way things were going, Ricky would be left entirely alone with no one to protect him.

I said I didn’t care who they brought as a tutor, as long as the person was educated. Whether a white-haired elder or a freshly graduated young lady, ability came first and perseverance second.

Ricky was slow to learn. That was how it looked to me, his mother. The tutors all agreed that for his age, he was exceptional, but I wanted a tutor who could teach Ricky everything while I was still alive. Social graces, eloquence, a combative spirit.

By the time Ricky turned ten, he had learned three foreign languages, history, and his beloved horseback riding at a remarkable pace, but no tutor who came could solve the problem of his social skills.

‘Mother.’

‘What on earth is the problem. Is that tongue of yours only good for calling horses by name?’