Chapter 44
A marriage proposal came in for Elysia.
When I first heard the news, I was stirring a pot.
“A marriage proposal?”
“Yes.”
Uncle Bernard was as calm as ever.
“There are three. One is from a southern baronet’s house, one from the second son of a count’s family near the capital, and the last is from a western viscount’s house.”
I stopped stirring the pot.
“All of a sudden?”
“It wasn’t all of a sudden.”
Uncle Bernard explained.
“House Monbel’s debts have been settled, and Maison Monbel’s name is now being mentioned in the capital’s high society as well. My lady is still young, there’s a fairly high chance the Imperial Family will recognize her succession to the title, and she has proven her business acumen. It’s only natural that marriage proposals would come in.”
For some reason, that word—natural—rubbed me the wrong way.
Until recently, Elysia had been a fallen noble daughter who hadn’t even been properly allowed to inherit her title.
Buried under debt, she must have been someone people calculated would become whose mistress, which household would absorb her, or how pitifully she would disappear.
But now that the debt was paid and she had begun to smell of money, marriage proposals were coming in.
Noble society really was something else.
“What does my lady say?”
“She’ll tell you herself.”
That afternoon, Elysia read the marriage-proposal letters in the drawing room.
I had no reason to be there, but I was called in to give a report about the meals and ended up staying.
Marie was bringing in tea and straining her ears, too.
Elysia folded the first letter.
“This is too long.”
She folded the second one, too.
“This one’s more interested in Maison Monbel than in House Monbel.”
She read the third one and laughed.
“This one’s being blatant. They want to jointly manage the business after the marriage.”
I furrowed my brow at that.
“Joint management? Those damn bandits.”
“Those damn what?”
“Bandits.”
Elysia laughed and set the letter down on the table.
Her smile was gentle, but her expression made it clear the decision had already been made.
“I’m going to reject them.”
Uncle Bernard asked again.
“All of them?”
“Yes. All of them.”
“What reason shall I give?”
Elysia thought for a moment.
“Tell them I want to focus on the affairs of House Monbel and Maison Monbel for the time being.”
I looked at her.
“Is that really the reason?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not that you dislike marriage proposals themselves?”
She was silent for a moment.
Marie needlessly fidgeted with her teacup behind her.
Uncle Bernard lowered his eyes as naturally as ever, but he was listening.
Elysia looked out the window.
“In the past, when a marriage proposal came in, I probably would have thought it might be a way for me to survive.”
The drawing room fell silent at her words.
“If House Monbel had been collapsing, the debt had become impossible to bear, and I couldn’t do anything… I would have thought that if someone held out a hand, I had to take it. Even if that hand was a leash.”
I didn’t answer.
Elysia looked at the letters again.
“But not now. I have things to do. There are things I want to protect, and things I want to grow further. So I don’t want to get married right now. I want to focus on the business.”
Marie murmured softly.
“That’s so cool.”
Elysia smiled.
“Does it sound that way?”
“Yes!”
“Actually, it’s a little frightening.”
“Why, my lady?”
“Saying I want to focus on the business means I intend to live an even busier life from now on.”
I nodded.
“It’s a good decision.”
“Really?”
“Yes. If someone came in right now and started talking about operating rights or joint management, I might grab a knife and charge out.”
“I’d kind of like to see that.”
“Though I’ve never actually tried butchering anyone.”
Elysia laughed and put the letters away.
And with that, the marriage proposals were dealt with.
Of course, rejecting them didn’t mean the matter was over. In noble society, a rejection letter was the beginning of another conversation.
The other side might change the terms, pressure her through someone else, or casually let rumors slip at a social gathering.
But at least Elysia’s decision was clear.
It might have been a rather strange decision by this world’s standards, but I liked what she had said.
A few days later, this time, a question came to me.
A baron who had eaten at the Kitchen Table and was preparing to pay asked, his face slightly flushed from alcohol,
“Kyle Pratt, aren’t you getting married?”
“Pardon?”
“With a name like yours, you must get plenty of marriage offers. Even if you’re a commoner, you have wealth and renown.”
Another noble beside him laughed.
“If a cook is in the house, his wife won’t have to worry about going hungry.”
A few people laughed at that.
I didn’t laugh.
“I’m not getting married.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think I can. I’m too busy.”
The nobles tilted their heads.
“Even the restaurant alone takes up more time than I have. I don’t think I’d be able to properly give attention to the person who became my wife.”
The baron asked, looking intrigued,
“Is that how you think of marriage?”
“At the very least, I don’t want to make the person I live with feel neglected.”
I was a little surprised after saying it.
It was a more serious answer than I’d expected.
Perhaps it was because of memories from my previous life.
I, Kang Dohyeon, had always been busy.
There had been too much to do: the restaurant, broadcasts, events, new menus, staff management, ingredient deals, and entertaining guests. Even when I liked someone, I never had enough time to hold on to her for long.
It had probably been the same with my only romantic partner, my ex-girlfriend who wrote novels.
I wanted to treat her well, but I was always late, always tired, and always had another appointment waiting.
In the end, all I could offer her was material compensation, but perhaps that wasn’t what she wanted, because my girlfriend eventually told me we were over.
In the end, people drift apart if you don’t pay attention to them.
Cooking was the same.
Leave it unattended, and it burns.
The baron looked at me for a moment, then smiled.
“That’s an unexpectedly earnest answer.”
“A head chef has to be earnest.”
“I hear you’re like a demon when you’re angry.”
“Only in the kitchen.”
“Are you afraid you might be like that with your wife, too?”
I paused for a moment.
“Because I might.”
The laughter died down a little.
I said no more.
That evening, Marie brought it up during the staff meal.
Today’s meal was fried rice with leftover meat and vegetables.
Marie patted down her rice with her spoon, then asked out of nowhere,
“Kyle, are you really not getting married?”
“Why are you asking all of a sudden?”
“I heard you earlier.”
“Why do you hear everything all the time?”
“It’s a front-of-house privilege.”
Marie ate a spoonful of fried rice and spoke again.
“You said you didn’t think you’d be able to pay attention to your wife because you were busy.”
“Yeah.”
“What if she were someone who worked with you?”
I stopped my spoon.
“What?”
“If she worked with you, you’d keep seeing her all the time. She’d be in the kitchen or the dining room. Then it wouldn’t be that you couldn’t pay attention to her, would it?”
The kitchen fell quiet.
Thomas picked up his water glass for no particular reason, and Nina lowered her head, gauging the mood.
I thought about it very seriously.
If the person I worked with and bumped into all day in the same restaurant were my wife…
“I don’t like it.”
Marie’s eyes widened slightly.
“Why?”
“I couldn’t lose my temper.”
“What?”
“There are plenty of things to get angry about in a kitchen. The pan isn’t hot enough, the seasoning is wrong, the prep is late, someone didn’t wash their hands, the sauce is burning, the plates are going out late, and the guests are waiting. What would I do if the person responsible were my wife?”
“Then you could just speak more gently.”
“How could that possibly work? I can’t exactly speak gently only to my wife.”
Marie closed her mouth.
Well, this was how I truly felt.
A kitchen couldn’t run on emotions.
If someone made a mistake, you had to point it out immediately, and if something was dangerous, you had to shout.
But when the other person was someone very close to you, that shout changed.
You held back, talked around it, and put it off until later.
Then the food was ruined, or someone got hurt.
I hated both options.
“It’d be even harder if she worked with you. You’d see her at home and in the kitchen, fight over work, then have to make up in your personal life. You’d both end up exhausted.”
Marie needlessly poked at her fried rice.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Then is someone you work with completely out of the question for you?”
“At least for now.”
That was what I said.
For some reason, those words lingered in the kitchen a little longer than they should have.
Marie didn’t fire back right away as usual. Only after a brief pause did she say,
“You really only think about the kitchen.”
“Because most of my life has been the kitchen. Ever since I first held a knife at my mother’s shop—I must have been four or five—I’ve never lived with anything else on my mind.”
“That’s a little sad.”
“What’s there to be sad about? That’s how I’ve always lived.”
“……”
Marie moved her lips as though about to say something, then nodded only after a moment.
“Right. We’ll think about it later.”
“Exactly. Now, if you’re all done eating, go take a break and come back on your own. You all know we have to start preparing dinner in an hour and a half, right?”
“Yes, Chef!”
“You take a break and come back, too, Marie.”
“Got it.”
Marie, who had been about to leave quietly, gave me a light smack and walked out.
“Idiot.”
“……?”
I couldn’t understand why she had suddenly done that.