The Crown Prince's Perspective (III)

Lady Isabella's dress was a safe, unremarkable thing.

Not that there was any doubt about the finely worked ornamentation, the jewels sewn in lavishly and the embroidery that framed them, or that the fabric was of a quality plain to see at a glance — but however splendidly and painstakingly made, a dress that was, in its shape, nothing one hadn't seen before could only sink to "safe and unremarkable" once one had laid eyes on Cosette.

A familiar shape breeds a sense of security, and befits the daughter of a marquess's house of good lineage. As proof, the older nobles were nodding with satisfied, proud expressions, as if to say, this is what a dress of tradition ought to be.

…But that was all.

There was none of the shock Cosette's appearance had brought — the kind that seizes your eyes whether you will it or not and overturns the very foundations of accepted taste. The young nobles, the young ladies especially, were staring at Cosette with a changed light in their eyes.

Lady Isabella must have felt it herself, for she was glaring at Cosette with a face so hateful it bordered on murderous. In contrast to Cosette, who looked radiant and brimming with confidence, the nobles watching Lady Isabella gradually began to furrow their brows. Those gathered around the two of them fell silent before anyone noticed, and a strange hush settled over the scene.

"…The contest is decided."

Breaking the eerie, breath-held air, Mother's voice slid into the grounds and rang out, and everyone turned their eyes to her. With a satisfied look, she fluttered the fan in her hand, cast a brief glance at Father, and gave a great nod. Father, though he wore a difficult expression, did not cut in.

Everyone waited on Mother's words with bated breath. I did the same, watching with my lips pressed tight.

"Lady Isabella, your dress is a splendid piece. A tailoring plain at a glance to be of the highest grade — admirable."

"…! I am honored, Your Majesty."

A flush of delight rose on Lady Isabella's face as she curtsied like the lady she was. Mother nodded graciously and flourished her fan once more.

"…And yet, it is not well suited to hunting, is it. In a dress that heavy and stiff, wouldn't it hinder the horse's stride and make any hunting impossible?"

At those words, Lady Isabella's eyes flew open. Just as Mother said, the dress she wore looked heavy and stiff; one could ride in it, no doubt, but the hem, gaudy with ornament, seemed likely to get in the way of the horse's step and to make balance hard to keep. From the crowd came any number of whispers along the lines of, indeed, quite so… But she threw out her chest as if to mask her agitation and spoke.

"Th-that is not so! I ride regularly as it is, and our family's horses always bear me at a gallop with the greatest of ease!"

Just then, Father, who had kept his silence until now, turned his gaze on Lady Isabella and abruptly spoke.

"Hmm… It seems the marquess's house keeps remarkably fine horses. Our own must fall far short of them, then."

"Th-that… is not… I mean…"

Tension shot through the grounds, and everyone caught their breath at the ominous air drifting over it.

This is bad…

Father was plainly displeased. One of the few hobbies of my extremely busy father, who has little free time, is horseback riding. He has, of course, no ordinary attachment to horses, and this very hunt came to be held after his accession, born of that passion.

When I glanced over, Lady Isabella's face was ghostly pale and she was trembling in tiny shivers. A single bead of sweat ran down her slender chin. And from within the ring of nobles, I saw her father, Marquess Godwin, pushing through the crowd toward us.

"To begin with, mounting a horse in a dress so ill-suited to movement is a nuisance to the horse itself. You do not wish to enjoy riding — you merely wish to show yourself off astride a horse, do you not?"

That is why I never cared for this contest… Father muttered distastefully.

Quite right, of course. Quite right — but if you say that, Father, it's all over. And it was your own wife who set the terms of this contest in the first place.

Retorting at Father inwardly, I made to step forward to mediate.

And then.

A voice as lovely as rolling bells cut through the awkward air.

"Objection! …I, um… humbly submit?"