The Fake Wife of the Strongest Husband Wants to Survive - Chapter 7

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————

Chapter 7
Pesha woke early the next morning, and with the help of her attendants, she washed, changed into fresh clothes, and made her way to the dining room for breakfast.
The building had already been ancient when she first received the title.
Renovations had done nothing to change that fact.
Cracked windowpanes, faded still lifes hanging in modest frames, wooden stairs that creaked with each step—all these details assailed her senses as she walked, yet Pesha pretended not to notice.
When she opened the dining room door, she found Owen already seated at the far end of a long table draped in white linen, sipping tea and reading the newspaper.
The drab interior of the dining room, devoid of even a single chandelier, held nothing striking except for the startlingly white tablecloth and Owen’s striking appearance.
This was supposed to be a count’s castle, yet here they were.
Pesha gave a small, dismissive cough as she settled into a chair, and Owen folded his newspaper and handed it to the butler.
“You’re up early.”
Yet he had arrived earlier still and was leisurely reading the paper, making his pleasantry ring hollow.
“Did you sleep well? Were there any discomforts?”
Discomforts? Of course there were.
The early spring night, before winter had fully retreated, carried a chill in the very air.
Though the mistress’s chamber had been decorated somewhat more carefully, it had held no warmth through the night, leaving her cold and unable to rest properly.
The fireplace opening was boarded up entirely, but Pesha hesitated to ask the servants to remove the boards—everything in this castle still felt precarious to her.
‘Perhaps they’ve run through their dry wood, or maybe the east simply stops heating once winter ends. I don’t want to be seen as difficult.’
Complaining from the start would change nothing, so Pesha simply shook her head.
“No. The room was spotless and quiet—quite comfortable, actually.”
The cold at night would pass once the weather warmed in a few days, and any heating problems next winter could be addressed when winter returned.
When Pesha brushed past the question without dwelling on it, Owen raised one eyebrow in surprise and took a sip of tea.
“How fortunate.”
The butler, who had been eyeing Pesha with undisguised suspicion, ordered the servants to bring out the food.
The door at the far end of the dining room opened, and the servants began to emerge with dishes.
Pesha had eaten little of substance since the day before the wedding, so she found herself genuinely looking forward to breakfast.
Having witnessed the strangeness of this castle firsthand, her judgment wavered momentarily at the prospect of a meal.
She had imagined what breakfast ought to be: steaming golden croissants, sweet raspberry jam, fresh milk, fragrant seasonal fruit—but what the servants placed before her defied all expectation.
Potatoes.
It was potatoes.
Roasted potatoes with green beans, boiled potatoes mashed with paprika, cabbage and potato hash, potato pancakes….
Everything was potatoes.
Had she married into a potato kingdom?
Spring potatoes were supposed to be delicious, but this….
Despite the bewildering array of potato appetizers, Owen ate with the casual indifference of someone accustomed to it all.
“Shall we eat, then?”
He picked up his cutlery and began eating so matter-of-factly that she lost her chance to ask about the potatoes.
Halfway through the meal, a thick stew and meat pie did arrive, but the meat in both dishes had been heavily salted or dried for long storage, leaving everything unbearably salty and tough.
‘This is serious….’
Even if this was meant to be the mistress’s first breakfast with some care taken, this result suggested what greeting guests would be like.
Even being generous, even if the lord was so austere he ate nothing but potatoes, carrots, and cabbage on ordinary days, guests deserved an abundant table.
Food was the foundation of hospitality, and one’s social reputation rose or fell depending on how lavishly visiting guests were received and sent away.
Even if such formality seemed hollow, it was that very formality that kept aristocratic society turning.
Pesha chewed the undercooked carrots in her vegetable stew and studied Owen carefully.
‘How am I supposed to explain this?’
That your castle’s cooking is abysmal?
That would be far ruder than the cooking itself.
‘Rather than make petty complaints, I ought to examine the state of this entire castle first.’
The problem seemed unlikely to be limited to the food alone.
Lost in thought and barely eating, she started when Owen spoke again.
“…This is your first day in Swarf. Is there a schedule you’d like to keep?”
“A schedule?”
She had been planning to tour the castle thoroughly.
But she could hardly say so directly.
Pesha cast about and answered awkwardly.
“Well… perhaps… a tour…?”
“Then I’ll arrange for someone to accompany you.”
“Ah, it’s fine—I can take my maid with me.”
“You won’t know the way. And besides… Swarf has many dangerous areas.”
“Dangerous areas?”
Though she had no immediate plans to venture outside, Pesha’s eyes widened at the mention of danger.
Owen flinched at the sight, his brow furrowing as he shook his head.
“I don’t mean it’s dangerous. Simply that a lady of your station becomes a target wherever she goes.”
“I’d like to look around the castle today, at least.”
“The castle… there isn’t much to see inside.”
Deep creases formed between Owen’s brows.
He clearly knew all too well how barren the place was.
“That’s all right. I want to get acclimated anyway, so I might as well explore.”
Owen fell silent for a moment, then spoke.
“Do as you wish.”
With that, he finished his meal and stood to leave, claiming he had matters to attend to.
For all that this was a Political Marriage, it was a remarkably cold departure.
Her appetite suddenly gone, Pesha set down her utensils and rose from the table.
Once she left the dining hall, Pesha began a systematic tour of Count’s Castle, starting from the basement.
By the time she’d examined the more obvious and important areas, she could only gasp in astonishment.
‘How on earth has this man been managing the place?’
Evidence of unfinished construction work lay scattered throughout the castle, and the skeletal staff—far too few for a structure of such magnitude—meant that not a single room was properly cleaned.
As for provisions, she’d thought the meals uncommonly sparse; sure enough, the stores held little more than humble vegetables of the sort commoners ate daily, with scarcely a refined ingredient to be found.
If a guest arrived in this state, there would be almost nothing decent to serve them.
The wine stores were no better—in harsh seasons, wine was not merely luxury but necessity, warming the body through the coming winter—yet the cellar stood nearly bare.
The garden had gone untended for at least a decade, running wild with overgrowth; when she inquired, she learned there was no gardener on account of the expense.
In short, the entire household was in complete disarray.
“Why on earth is there no gardener when the castle employs a steward and a head maid?”
She wanted nothing more than to march straight to Owen and demand to know the annual budget for Count’s Castle, but a bride of barely one day had no place prying into such matters.
Besides, he might take it as an insult.
“This is difficult.”
In truth, housekeeping fell to the lady of the house and the household staff—not to newly arrived wives to solve on their own.
‘And considering that man’s circumstances, spending years dragged from place to place by war… well, it’s hardly a wonder.’
That being so, there was only one person she needed to find now.

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————