My husband makes delicious food
Chapter 28
Soil health is a critical concern in agriculture. Plants rely on soil for nutrients and water, germinating from seeds, growing, flowering, and bearing fruit. The soil underpins this entire cycle. The dawn of human civilization can be traced to the advent of agriculture, which enabled stable settlements and reliable food supplies.
Thus, it is no overstatement to assert that the history of humanity is intertwined with the history of farming.
Throughout history, rulers have grappled with the challenge of feeding their populations. Some constructed irrigation systems to bolster crop yields, others waged wars to secure food resources, and many gained public favor by distributing provisions. Food is fundamental to survival.
A lord who ensures their people are fed deserves praise as a wise and virtuous leader—perhaps, indeed, or at least plausibly so.
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The Bartfort Territory, originally a floating island under royal ownership, was technically part of the crown’s domain. In reality, however, the royal family merely claimed this newly discovered land, leaving it largely undeveloped. Though minimal development had begun before it was granted to Leon, it was barely sufficient to sustain the sparse population.
Despite possessing resources like hot springs, the locals lacked the means and capital to exploit them. The royal family, preoccupied with political maneuvering in the capital, likely saw little profit in investing in a remote floating island.
Consequently, the residents developed a stronger bond with the Bartfort family, their direct lords, than with the distant monarchy.
I strolled along a ridge path, contemplating the territory’s history. A pregnant countess—formerly a viscountess—walking unescorted would be unthinkable in the royal capital.
On either side of the path, villagers worked the fields in serene silence. The tranquil rural scene belied the fact that, mere months ago, a war between nations had raged.
The Bartfort Territory had not escaped the conflict with the duchy unscathed. As a newly developed region, the conscripted soldiers were primarily retired veterans with military experience, many of whom were unmarried.
The territory had actively welcomed such settlers, hoping they would marry, raise families, and establish roots.
The war, however, disrupted these plans. Some soldiers, having started families, perished in battle, leaving behind grieving widows and children who now toiled resiliently, cultivating the land’s bounty despite their sorrow.
Could I endure such a loss if Leon were taken from me? As a woman of frail resolve, I doubt I could bear it. Yet, for the sake of our children, I might summon the strength to persevere. No clear answer emerged.
People often assume their most cherished possessions—be they loved ones or otherwise—will remain forever. Only in their absence do we grasp their true value.
At last, I reached the field I had come to inspect. On the Bartfort family’s private farm, a plot was reserved exclusively for the lord. Trusted villagers tended it in rotation, but for a few days each month, I prohibited access. The circumstances necessitated this restriction.
In the center of this secluded field, a man crouched, diligently working the soil—a farmer, by all appearances. Clad in simple work clothes, he toiled with a stern expression. A scar marred the left side of his face, and though his frame appeared lean, his physique, evident even through his attire, was honed by rigorous training. Too unpolished for a noble, too gentle for a criminal, few would suspect this unassuming man was the territory’s lord.
He pruned stray branches, uprooted weeds, and turned the soil with practiced ease, his movements those of a seasoned farmer.
“A man destined for a count’s title, yet your pastime is tilling soil? Hardly a boast worthy of noble circles,” I remarked.
“It’s practical—a hobby that yields results. Farming is rewarding; the effort you invest is repaid in kind. It’s more dependable than people,” Leon replied.
“Wouldn’t a more refined pursuit suit a noble? Perhaps cultivating flowers in a greenhouse?”
“Flowers don’t fill stomachs.”
“…Fair point. Let’s move on.”
Leon’s priorities centered on food security and territorial stability; notions of luxury or extravagance were foreign to him. While such frugality is admirable in a lord, excessive thrift could stifle the territory’s growth. Economy thrives on circulation, and overly tight purse strings can choke it. The hot springs, marketed as therapeutic, derive nearly half their revenue from affluent tourists.
When I introduced Leon to other territories, exposing him to noble culture—art, fine cuisine—he showed scant interest. Yet, a noble must cultivate an aesthetic sensibility to detect fraud or negotiate effectively. When I caution him, he deflects, saying, “That’s why I have you, Angie,” leaving me at a loss for words. Despite my efforts to train him to make sound judgments independently, he assumes I’ll always be at his side—a trait that makes him both endearing and exasperatingly indulgent.
“Time for a break. I brought lunch,” I announced.
“Already? No wonder I’m starving,” he said.
“I poured my heart into it, so you’d better appreciate it.”
“…Homemade by Angie, huh?”
What was that look? True, my domestic skills may still pale compared to a commoner child’s, but I’ve made steady progress. Today’s meal was a particular triumph.
I opened the bento box and presented it to Leon. “This is fresh vegetables in bread. This is meat and egg in bread. And that’s grilled fish in bread.”
“…It’s all just stuff between bread.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. It’s efficient—carbs, protein, and vegetables in one go.”
“Moreover, it’s remarkably convenient—requiring neither knife nor flame. The possibilities are boundless depending on the filling. That’s the genius of it.”
I firmly believe that no matter how sophisticated culinary techniques become, they will never eclipse this elegant simplicity. It’s not a matter of indolence. This is a dish I crafted with care, personally selecting each ingredient and preparing it without assistance, despite my inexperience in the kitchen.
“If it’s not to your liking, you needn’t eat it. I’ll simply enjoy it all myself,” I said, a touch of defiance in my voice.
“I’ll eat it! Thank you, Lady Angelica—your generosity moves me to tears!” Leon exclaimed, hastily seizing the bento box from my hands and devouring its contents in silence.
I poured tea from a thermos, offering it to him intermittently while observing his reaction. His silence stung more than any critique.
“Well?” I prompted.
“It’s an improvement over before,” he replied.
“Don’t compare it to the past. Just tell me—is it good or bad as it stands?”
“It’s good. You’ve truly highlighted the quality of the ingredients.”
“You make it sound as though the ingredients did all the work.”
“I mean, it’s hard to ruin a meal like this. Most things taste decent when tucked between bread.”
Watching Leon grumble while eagerly consuming the meal brought an involuntary smile to my lips.
“You lose points for not using entirely local produce from the Bartfort Territory,” he added.
“It can’t be helped. We’ve only been seriously developing this land for less than five years.”
Agriculture is not a swift endeavor. One cannot simply till the soil, sow seeds, and expect an immediate harvest. Thanks to the longstanding residents from the days of royal ownership, we have some knowledge of suitable crops. Yet, the Bartfort Territory’s food self-sufficiency remains insufficient to feed its population.
We’ve planted wheat, various seedlings, tea shrubs, and fruit-bearing trees, but it will take nearly a decade for them to mature fully. We’ve invited skilled and ambitious farmers from Redgrave and other territories, but their numbers are still inadequate. The war with the duchy inflicted unforeseen costs and personnel losses, further delaying our path to self-reliance.
“You’re resuming your duties tomorrow,” I stated firmly. “We can’t have rumors circulating that the lord neglects his responsibilities for his farming hobby.”
“This *is* legitimate work,” Leon countered. “Testing crops suited to the land and analyzing the outcomes is vital for development.”
“It’s not a task the lord himself should undertake.”
“You can be intimidating, you know.”
Leon immerses himself in farm work when troubled. I understand he seeks solace in the simplicity of his humble upbringing to soothe his mind. Yet, as a noble and lord, he must fulfill his role for the territory to prosper. Pressing him too hard, especially as he recovers from the psychological toll of war and court intrigues, risks reopening old wounds. After discussions with Leon and our physician, we’ve concluded that permitting occasional farming as a restorative respite is the wisest course.
As I packed the empty bento box into the basket, Leon’s eyes fluttered shut, lulled by the sun’s gentle warmth into a post-meal drowsiness. I relaxed my posture with a sigh, and he nestled his head onto my lap, rubbing his cheek against my thigh with a contented stretch. My thighs are not a pillow. Yet, my lack of urge to push him away signifies my complete acceptance of this man. Such intimacy is permissible only in private—never before the people of Bartfort or our household staff.
“Let’s start harvesting this afternoon. The beans, potatoes, and some vegetables are ripe for picking,” Leon suggested.
“All vegetables? I’m not a vegetarian, you know.”
“You’re pregnant. You need to be cautious with your diet, especially with morning sickness.”
Indeed, nausea has diminished my appetite. My senses of taste and smell have shifted, rendering foods I once enjoyed unpalatable. Relying solely on the few foods I can tolerate risks nutritional deficiencies, harmful to both me and the baby. Eating during pregnancy is a rare pleasure, yet also a subtle torment.
“You have time today—help me out,” he urged.
“I’m not free. I have documents to review, and I’d prefer to finish them today.”
“But nothing progresses without me, right? It can wait until tomorrow.”
Why is my husband so adept at such mischievous persuasion? His lack of ambition and inherent kindness mask a cunning that could easily lead him astray as a corrupt lord.
“I didn’t grant you time off for a date,” I protested.
“You deliberately arranged for us to be alone, dear wife. That undermines your case.”
Noble couples rarely enjoy solitude. Family, staff, estate managers, retainers, and knights are ever-present, and we are perpetually expected to perform as public figures. Without intentionally carving out private moments, we’d succumb to exhaustion. This farm is ideal—its role in land development ensures our presence here raises no eyebrows.
“Harvesting is rewarding,” Leon said. “The labor pays off when the crops bear fruit. Eating what you’ve grown tastes even better.”
“No, thank you. I’m hopeless with soil, plants, and especially insects.”
“Spiders control pests. Butterflies and bees aid pollination. Earthworms enrich the soil.”
Leon produced pruning and harvesting shears from his pocket and handed them to me. My escape was thwarted.
“We’ll finish faster together, which means more time for us. Efficient, isn’t it?”
“I’m not confident I can do it properly.”
“I’ll guide you—don’t worry.”
He pressed the shears into my hand, his rough, calloused palm enveloping mine with reassuring warmth. In the end, whether we were harvesting or on a date was unclear, but we spent the afternoon on the farm until the sun dipped low.
“I’m utterly exhausted,” I admitted.
The work engaged unfamiliar muscles, forcing us to retreat to the cottage rather than the manor—a miscalculation. The kingdom’s nobility, descended from adventurers, prize martial prowess. I trained rigorously at the academy and maintained exercise during and after pregnancy to preserve my figure. Yet, farm work evidently demands distinct muscles. My swift fatigue was humbling, especially as childbirth has made weight gain around my chest, hips, and waist more pronounced. It underscored my identity as a noble-born lady, wholly unlike Leon, raised as both farmer and noble.
“I’ve drawn a bath. Soak and relax. I’ll prepare dinner,” Leon offered.
“Thank you,” I murmured, trudging toward the bath.
The cottage where Leon once lived alone still stands on the outskirts of the Bartfort Territory, preserved even after his move to the manor. With work-related documents and tools relocated, it has become his private sanctuary. Over time, he has enhanced it with a functional bath and kitchen, stocking it with food and safeguarding his favorite books and toys from our children’s reach.
I felt a twinge of irritation that Leon seemed to derive more pleasure from renovating his secondary residence than from our time together, but I reluctantly set the feeling aside.
Few are granted entry to Leon’s sacrosanct retreat. In truth, I may be the only one permitted unconditional access. He even keeps my favorite dishes and spare clothing here, a fact that stirs mild embarrassment when I dwell on it.
As I bathed in the somewhat confined tub, a tantalizing aroma began to permeate the air. Leon’s cooking, though seemingly haphazard, is exasperatingly delectable. It cannot rival the artistry of a private chef, yet he conjures satisfying meals with minimal techniques and whatever ingredients are at hand. This only underscores my own culinary clumsiness.
I meticulously ensure uniform cuts, calibrate cooking times and heat, and adjust seasonings with precision—yet what am I doing wrong? Why does the flavor shift unpredictably during simmering? Why does it deteriorate the more I tinker with water or seasonings? Above all, I detest vague directives like “to taste,” “a pinch,” “a little,” “for a while,” or “as preferred.” Recipe books should specify exact weights and durations down to the minutest detail.
Lost in these musings, I emerged from the bath and dried off. My figure remains unchanged for now, but in a few months, my growing belly will complicate bathing and dressing. When that time comes, visits to this cottage will be impractical. This impending restriction on mobility due to pregnancy is my current preoccupation.
Dressed and returning to the kitchen-living area, I found Leon seated, engrossed in a book. The only sound was the gentle bubbling of a pot on the stove. Noticing me, he gestured to the table, where a teapot and cup awaited. I sat, poured the herbal tea, and sipped. The lukewarm brew, neither too cooling for my post-bath warmth nor too stimulating, soothed both body and mind. Such tranquil moments were deeply gratifying.
Engaged, married, and pregnant within a single year, we’ve had scant opportunity to savor life as husband and wife. Then again, our premarital indulgence in physical affection may have bordered on indecorous for nobles. Here, stripped of titles like former duke’s daughter or current countess, I can simply be myself.
When I emptied the teapot, Leon turned off the stove and began serving the pot’s contents onto plates: lightly toasted dark bread, a soup of beans, potatoes, vegetables, and dried meat, and a boiled egg. Far too modest for a noble’s table.
“Let’s eat,” he said.
“Dig in,” I replied.
A spoonful of soup delighted my palate with its robust flavor. The moisture from finely diced vegetables, the umami of dried meat and spices, the tender potatoes verging on disintegration, the firm bite of the beans—each element shone distinctly yet melded harmoniously.
“Well?” Leon asked.
“It’s delicious. So delicious it’s infuriating.”
“Why’s that?”
“Your slapdash cooking outshines the meals I labored over. If that’s not humiliating, what is?”
“That’s hardly fair.”
Perhaps it would be better if I were the man and Leon the woman. I could govern the domain while he managed the household, cooking and raising our children. Wouldn’t that be the ideal marriage? I cherish the child growing within me, but pregnancy and childbirth exact a heavy toll on a woman. My first birth—twins—was particularly grueling. Yet Leon speaks of wanting eight children, and whether he’s earnest or jesting, I cannot discern. Wouldn’t it be simpler if he could bear them himself?
The absurd image of me as a man cradling a female Leon flickered through my mind, and I promptly banished it. That I entertained the notion, even half-seriously, suggests something amiss with my sensibilities. Rather than indulging in such fantasies, I focused on savoring my husband’s cooking.
Halfway through the soup, I followed Leon’s earlier suggestion and soaked the dark bread in it. The sturdy bread absorbed the broth, softening delectably. It’s an unrefined method, unfit for a noble, but when Leon urged me to try it, I found it surprisingly delightful. Here, alone with him, I’ve shed concerns about table manners—a shift that unsettles me. Leon’s influence is making me increasingly lax, revealing a slovenly side I scarcely knew existed.
“Try adding the egg—it transforms the dish,” he said.
He cracked the soft-boiled egg, letting the yolk and white slide into my bowl, where they slowly melded with the soup. The rich yolk enriched the broth, while the white’s springy texture was irresistible.
“What are you trying to accomplish, feeding me like this?” I asked.
“Ensuring you deliver our third child in good health. Also, consider this a preview of the crops we can cultivate under current conditions.”
“Not bad, but that’s only because the lord himself has worked the land. Feeding the entire population is another matter.”
“For now, we’ll need to import most food beyond wheat. When can we stop relying on the ducal house?”
“Ten years, optimistically. Double that for true stability.”
“By then, I’ll be ready to retire. Will I spend my entire career fretting over this?”
“I’ll fret alongside you. But I have a proposal.”
“Education again?”
“It’s essential.”
The stories of Saint Olivia and her attendant Marie have left me anxious about our children’s future.
There are commoners whose talents eclipse those of nobles, and noble daughters from viscount families who, neglected by their parents, receive no proper education.
Each case has its reasons, but how many possess extraordinary talent and strength yet lack the opportunity to shine? Lionel and Ariel are my beloved children, but I’m not so blinded by affection as to deem them prodigies. Noble children’s apparent superiority stems from early education.
A true genius even as commoner could outstrip a diligently trained noble with mere months of study. Leon is capable but operates within the bounds of ordinary aptitude. My own abilities, too, are the product of rigorous training from childhood, groomed as I was for a queen’s role.
The Bartfort Territory suffers from a dire shortage of labor to drive its development. No matter how diligently we, as a couple, apply ourselves, sheer numbers offer a swift and straightforward solution. The recent war with the duchy has intensified the competition for skilled individuals, as evidenced by my father and the royalist nobles’ efforts to recruit Leon. Despite the Bartfort family’s long history, its lowly status renders attracting talent from other regions nearly impossible. Thus, our only viable course is to cultivate capable individuals from within.
“I understand your logic, Angie,” Leon said. “That’s why we established the school. But diverting labor from development to education remains a challenge.”
“Naturally,” I replied. “Without elevating the domain’s standard of living, such initiatives are mere idealism. We must first establish a robust foundation.”
“Governing a domain is more arduous than I anticipated. Perhaps I shouldn’t have accepted a noble title.”
A typical lament from Leon, and lately, I’ve found myself echoing the sentiment. Had I not been spurned in my engagement and ascended as queen, or had I been born male with authority in the ducal house, these challenges might have been resolved in far less than a decade. As a newly ennobled rural noble, granted a domain and viscountess title mere years ago, my capacity to effect change is severely limited.
“You’ve rested long enough,” I declared. “You resume your duties tomorrow.”
“My wife is twice as strict with me as anyone else.”
“On the contrary, I’m lenient. This is the bare minimum. Ideally, I’d grant you no reprieve at all.”
Leon’s face twitched at my words. How impudent—that expression, as though confronted by something fearsome, is hardly fitting for a wife who pours her heart into supporting her husband and children in this land. He ought to cherish and laud me far more.
“You were gentler before, Angie,” he remarked.
“They say women grow stronger after childbirth. After three, it’s inevitable.”
“Are you implying it’s my fault?”
“If you wish to make every decision alone, I’ll step aside. But you must mature as a lord and cease relying on me indefinitely.”
Before I realized it, my soup bowl was empty. Perhaps the unaccustomed farm work had exhausted me, or my body craved sustenance for the child within. Pregnancy necessitates loose clothing, and without care, my old wardrobe may soon be unwearable.
“Leon, seconds. With extra ingredients.”
“Overeating will make you gain weight. We barely harvested enough, and now you’re eating into tomorrow’s breakfast?”
“Would you love me less if I grew stout?”
“Never. My weakness is that I’m utterly smitten with you.”
“You indulge me, Leon. That’s why you always lose our debates.”
In the end, I consumed a third bowl, leaving the pot more than half-empty, concluding our dinner.
Reclining on the bed in my private chamber within the cottage, I sank into contemplation. The Bartfort Territory’s development can only advance incrementally. Introducing entertainment venues or disreputable districts to draw foreign coin might yield fleeting profits, but such gains are ephemeral. Reinvesting revenue from the hot springs to expand cultivation, bolster food self-sufficiency, and eventually export surplus goods to other domains—that is the path to true progress. Such an endeavor demands roughly twenty years.
This timeline, however, assumes stability within the Holfort Kingdom. The royal capital has lately exuded an air of unease. I cannot fathom my father’s intentions, but he likely seeks to entangle Leon in his schemes. Should he aspire to the throne, sparking a war, the outcome is anyone’s guess. Perhaps I should proactively align with him, negotiating Leon’s release from lordly duties in exchange for cooperation.
There is precedent for a former lord’s wife assuming domestic governance and receiving a temporary noble rank when the heir is underage. If the Redgrave family claims the throne, my children and I, bearing Redgrave blood, would be paramount; Leon’s role would be deemed ancillary. Should I secure our safety by negotiating with the ducal house, or strive to preserve our tranquil life by ingratiating ourselves with the royal family?
Regardless, we lack sufficient information. The queen, the saint, and those five fools weave intricate, interwoven plots. Engaging in a power struggle that could reshape the kingdom’s balance of power merely to safeguard our rural existence is perverse—utterly ludicrous. Until new intelligence emerges, we can only bide our time.
For now, tomorrow’s breakfast, prepared by Leon, holds greater immediacy. I smiled, realizing how my mindset has come to mirror his. Our options are limited, and our sole recourse is to labor diligently to enrich this land. Praying that war spares this place, I closed my eyes.
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Authors Note
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A rest day episode.
Angie and Leon had been apart for a while, so here’s a day off just for them.
Over-the-top flirting is fun, but I also enjoy the quiet, natural conversations between a married couple whose hearts are in sync.
For the adult-only flirt scenes, please check the R-18 version:
https://syosetu.org/novel/312750/16.html
Next chapter will focus on perspectives other than Angie and Leon for a while.
To let a broken-engagement duchess and a rising country noble flirt peacefully, domestic stability is a must! (sweat)
[Postscript]
Thanks to the requestor’s commission, illustrations were drawn by the following artists:
Kanata-sama: Pixiv
Konatsuyuri-sama: Pixiv
Pizzasea-sama: Pixiv
Ero Daisuki-sama (NSFW): Pixiv
Po-sama: Skeb
Chiri-sama: Pixiv
I would be grateful for any thoughts or feedback to help encourage future updates.