I've Tried Going Back to Life After Dying - Chapter 17

The last time Hildegard had seen Atrey, his long golden hair had been tied back with a blue ribbon, his swept bangs revealing his forehead. From any angle, he had looked every bit the dignified, upright head of the Fitzroy earldom.

Far from being unable to hold back tears, he had even managed a faint smile for Hildegard as she flawlessly performed her duties as chief mourner.

That look—as if to say, “What’s this? Pushing yourself again, my impossible cousin?” had comforted Hildegard despite the funeral setting.

The boy before her now let his bangs fall freely over his eyes, the back cropped short to his nape.

He stood slightly shorter than in her memories. The broad chest she remembered was still slender, as though all his growth had gone into his height for now.

The white collar of his uniform.

But the straight line of his back was unmistakably the Atrey she knew.

“Atrey.”

He turned at Hildegard’s call.

Atrey Hanover Fitzroy.

Second son of Viscount Fitzroy.

His uncle, his father’s younger brother had married into one of Hildegard’s family’s vassal houses. Hence their differing surnames.

His elder brother, the heir, had graduated from the academy this spring just as Hildegard’s cohort entered. Already betrothed with a wedding date set, he was being groomed to inherit the viscountcy.

No fiancée had yet been chosen for spare heir Atrey. In Hildegard’s memories, this remained true even when they’d last met.

He had never been betrothed, never married anyone devoting his entire life to Hildegard’s family instead.

In this life, he should be free to love. Free to walk a path side by side with someone. That’s how it should have been.

In Hildegard’s naive imagination, he was meant to be free.

Far removed from both their birth families and the earldom, he should have been able to choose a life true to himself.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hm? For what?”

The apology slipped out unbidden.

“Ah, no—this.”

Flustered, Hildegard pulled a thin parcel from her bag.

“For yesterday. I got it dirty, so…”

The borrowed handkerchief had indeed been used to dry tears, though not soiled beyond laundering. She could have simply washed and ironed it, yet chose instead to embroider the white linen as thanks.

The design something achievable overnight was no grand crest. Just stitches poured earnestly onto pristine cloth.

“Your flower.”

Despite the morning academy hallway setting, Atrey unwrapped it without hesitation. Normally cautious, he seemed to relax around his familiar cousin, revealing this easygoing side.

Blue bellflowers adorned the handkerchief. In the earl’s house, these blooms represented Hildegard.

“Honesty,” “nobility,” “enduring love” bellflowers carried various meanings. Among them: “ill-fated love.”

“This matches your eyes.”

Though typically purple, Hildegard had blended deep indigo with viridian thread to mirror her own sea-like eyes more ocean than blossom.

“It’s rushed, so don’t inspect it too closely.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Atrey pocketed it immediately, bypassing rewrapping perhaps intending to use it soon. The thought inexplicably warmed Hildegard with mingled anticipation and shyness.

As a marchioness, she could embroider blindfolded. Yet her motifs were usually family crests she’d nearly forgotten bellflowers symbolized her until yesterday.

Season after season, she’d embroidered handkerchiefs and cravats for her husband, always with his emblems.

Helen, despite her delicate appearance that seemed born for needlework, had been hopelessly clumsy. At her pleading, Hildegard had taught her once.

Why had they interacted that way? Clear boundaries would have been wiser. Yet somehow, they’d never managed to dislike each other.

Weeping Helen.

Before her husband’s coffin, the woman’s heaving sobs had revealed shoulders aged by shared years.

“I’d like to thank you properly.”

“What? If you thank me for a thank-you gift, I’ll have to thank you back. That’s a gratitude Möbius strip.”

“I like that. Endless thanks between us.”

Atrey’s morning whimsy exasperated yet lightened her heart.

Seeds of sorrow lay buried within her enough to nurture whole gardens of melancholy if tended.

But here stood Atrey before anything began, making silly jokes.

Would she sacrifice him again?

Last night’s conversation with her father cast shadows across Hildegard’s thoughts.

She knew how to handle people but only with a marchioness’ authority. Powerless and titleless now, her words carried no weight.

Preserving the earldom while securing Atrey’s right to remain unwed required influence Hildegard currently lacked. Christopher had possessed such sway when convincing reluctant relatives to accept Austin.

Helplessness then and now wrenched Hildegard’s heart at dragging Atrey into this.

As sunlight danced in his amber eyes, she willed them to behold the future they deserved.