On Rational Marital Life - Chapter 31

It had been fifteen days since Tutor Jefferson had begun his lessons.

On the first day, after class ended, Layla had a brief meeting with him, and a week later, they discussed Jerry’s overall learning pace and areas for improvement.

Ham Royer, whom she had met in Wynwood, had agreed to start lessons next week after returning from his hometown. Since he and Jefferson taught different subjects, there wouldn’t be a conflict. However, Jefferson seemed to feel otherwise—despite only fifteen days passing, he had eagerly requested to showcase Jerry’s progress.

During this period, Layla’s mother, Lewinda, had sent her five letters, repeating the same message over and over.

Each letter detailed how exceptional, how respectable, and how difficult it had been for her to introduce this esteemed tutor.

None of them inquired about Layla’s health or well-being.

And every letter ended with the same reminder:

[You are treating him well, aren’t you? It was incredibly difficult to bring him here. At the very least, don’t be stingy for my sake.]

In other words, increase his salary.

“Not even a month has passed, and she’s already asking for a raise,” Layla mused.

Jerry had consistently reported that he was doing well in his lessons. Though his movements remained stiff, his table manners had noticeably improved during meals.

Since Jefferson had taken the initiative to demonstrate Jerry’s progress, Layla gladly agreed to attend.

At Jefferson’s request, Blake was also present.

“It hasn’t been long since I started teaching him, but for a child who knew nothing, he has made remarkable progress. I wanted to show you.”

Seated across from Jefferson in the drawing room, Layla noticed the changes in his attire.

He had clearly taken extra care with his appearance—his previously worn-out clothing had been replaced, his pocket watch chain was new, and his cane was now made of fine wood with a subtle reddish sheen.

A knock at the door interrupted her observations.

“Come in,” Jefferson said in a confident voice.

At his command, Jerry entered.

With his back straight and chin tucked in, he wore a freshly tailored coat and had his hair neatly combed.

His posture—one hand placed behind his back—resembled a child imitating an adult. Layla couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“Sit.”

“Yes.”

At Jefferson’s instruction, Jerry sat stiffly on the sofa. Every movement, from which foot he stepped forward with to how often he blinked, was calculated. His entire body was tense, as if following rigidly enforced training.

A maid entered, as if previously instructed, placing a teacup in front of Jerry and pouring the tea.

Under watchful eyes, Jerry picked up the cup with slightly trembling hands, took a sip, and looked up.

Even those observing found themselves stiffening from the tension. Layla clasped her hands tightly, controlling her breathing.

But he had done well. Though his movements were awkward now, with time, he would grow more natural.

“What do you think?”

“He’s stiff. Is this etiquette?”

“It’s only been fifteen days. Just correcting the crude habits he had ingrained in him was difficult enough. That’s why habits are so dangerous. This child was raised like a wild thing—his learning attitude was poor, and his focus was terrible. Yet I’ve managed to teach even such a reckless child to this level.”

Jefferson boasted about his own accomplishments, but Blake ignored him and instead turned to Jerry.

“Well done, Jerry.”

“Thank you.”

“A child from a proper household would have at least learned the basics of etiquette from their parents. But with him, who knows where or how he was raised—he was an absolute mess.”

Blake’s cheek twitched slightly, but Jefferson was too absorbed in praising himself to notice.

“Layla had been teaching him to read and mind his manners before, but you’re saying it was useless?”

“A professional tutor and a lady are hardly the same. Correcting a child like this is the hardest task. He may be slow, but his learning ability isn’t bad. By the time he takes the Wynwood entrance exam, he should at least appear to be a noble’s child. Most tutors would have quit in frustration, but someone of my caliber managed to educate him.”

Blake ignored Jefferson and looked at Jerry.

The boy sat stiffly, clearly uncomfortable.

Layla’s lips tightened.

Jefferson was as he had always been. Even while Jerry was listening, he had no hesitation in belittling him just to glorify himself.

Blake turned to Jerry and asked,

“Jerry, how do you feel? Do you want to continue learning from him?”

“Hah, what nonsense is this? An adult should make the decision. What does a little ignorant child, who only just learned to read, know? You mustn’t indulge children like that. They need strict discipline!”

Jefferson, feeling insulted, turned red with frustration. But Blake ignored him and looked at Jerry.

“Jerry, he’s your teacher. You decide.”

“Blake.”

Layla called his name weakly, her face drained of color.

Forcing Jerry to choose in front of Jefferson was the same as giving him only one option.

Jerry lowered his gaze for a brief moment before lifting his head again. His expression was tense, without a trace of a smile.

“I will continue learning from him.”

“Is that so? Understood. We’ll do that then.”

‘This isn’t right.’

Layla parted her lips as if to say something but then closed them again.

“Teaching this child is more difficult than I expected,” Jefferson sighed. “His attitude in class is poor, and his attention span is lacking. It takes two or three repetitions for him to grasp something properly, only for him to forget it just as quickly. It’s exhausting.”

When Blake didn’t respond, Jefferson blatantly made his demand.

“You’ll have to increase my salary.”

“We’ll review his progress again in a month and decide then. If you don’t like it, you can quit.”

“Ahem… Very well. We’ll do that. Now, I must take the child for today’s lesson.”

Jefferson rose and motioned for Jerry to follow. Jerry stood up stiffly, bowed, and walked out of the drawing room behind Jefferson.

Even after they left, Layla struggled to breathe properly.

Her chest felt tight, an anxious weight pressing down on her.

She watched the door with unease until Blake let out a low chuckle beside her.

“Why do people take me for a fool? Do they assume I’m ignorant just because I swing a sword and rely on my body? Or is it simply because I’m a Strover? What do you think, Layla?”

Blake had clearly noticed Jefferson’s twisted mindset.

He hadn’t even bothered to say Jerry’s name, and even while the boy was in the room, he had only spoken about him in negative terms.

Jefferson was not a good teacher.

Layla knew this. And yet, she hadn’t firmly opposed him.

Because the atmosphere Jefferson created—the stiffness in Jerry’s posture—was something she was all too familiar with.

Layla, too, had been raised under strict etiquette lessons from an early age.

Her mother, Lewinda, had demanded even harsher teaching, saying that she might one day become a queen.

Even on days when she was supposed to showcase her progress, most of the feedback she received was criticism.

But, despite everything, those lessons had worked.

She had experienced it firsthand, and the noble society as a whole operated that way.

That was why many noblewomen shuddered at the thought of having a private tutor.

“…Do you really intend to keep Jefferson? Next week, a new tutor for history and economics will be arriving. We could entrust Jerry’s education to him instead—”

“And what if that teacher is just like this one?”

“Ah.”

The man she had met in Wynwood had seemed respectable, but she had yet to see how he actually treated children.

Even good people could be prejudiced, especially against those from different countries.

“Jerry said he’s fine with it, so let’s observe for now.”

“…Alright.”

* * *

Layla was born a noble.

From birth, she was destined to become the crown princess due to the former king’s promise. Because of this, she had been educated in more subjects than most other noble ladies.

As a future crown princess and eventual queen, she could not afford to make a single mistake in etiquette. Even the angle of her fingertips and the curve of her smile were drilled into her for days—sometimes weeks—until she got them right, often with a cane striking her hands. If that didn’t work, she would be tied to a stiff wooden board to correct her posture.

Because Layla had been trained this way, she could easily imagine how Jefferson was teaching Jerry just from the stiffness of his posture.

If she truly thought of Jerry, she should put a stop to it.

But since she had been raised the same way, she wasn’t entirely sure whether stopping it was the right decision.

After all, in the end, she had learned proper etiquette.

Her chest felt tight as she took in a deep breath, but no matter how much air she inhaled, it didn’t ease her discomfort.

As she wandered through the garden, she heard the voices of the maids growing closer.

“Ugh, those barbarians! Why do we have to serve them too?”

“Watch your mouth. Someone might hear.”

“Let them hear! It’s true! Why do they get to order us around? If they have so much money, they should get their own house or hire more servants! We’re already too busy with household chores!”

The maids, carrying heavy baskets—likely on their way to hang laundry—were openly complaining about Blake’s men.

Not wanting to cross paths with them, Layla changed direction.

“How much longer are we supposed to put up with this? Lady Marisa just keeps telling us to endure it.”

“I’m sick of it too. I was relieved they weren’t harassing us, but now they’re making us run errands! If they want us to do extra work, they should pay us more! Do you know how little we earn?”

Layla was the mistress of the house, but she had no involvement in managing the estate.

Marisa and Weiler were in charge, but Layla had noticed several shortcomings.

Even though she was Blake’s wife, the estate had been entrusted to Weiler. Layla couldn’t interfere in household matters without Blake’s permission.

Avoiding the maids, she slipped into the greenery and made her way along a secluded path.

She found herself passing by Jerry’s room.

His balcony window was open, letting sunlight flood the space.

Inside, Jerry was in the process of taking off his trousers.

‘Oh no!’

She had unintentionally walked into an awkward situation.

Though he was still a child, he was a boy.

Layla hurriedly tried to leave quietly—but then, something red caught her eye, lingering in her vision like an afterimage.

She stopped and turned back toward Jerry.

His calves were red.

They were swollen and covered in welts from being caned.

Thin white skin, marked with angry red scars, layered over each other.

She didn’t need to guess what had caused them.

She knew.

Because she had been beaten the same way.

At that moment, Jerry, who had been about to apply ointment to his legs, looked up—and their eyes met.