As a genuinely prominent family in Saint Denis, Ms. Dorothea's kin naturally boasted more spare mansions than a reclusive millionaire had secrets.
Dutch and his formidable crew were ultimately ushered into a visibly much older, decidedly more dilapidated mansion, perched right at the tail end of the sprawling, opulent wealthy district. Still, it was a mansion, and it was within the wealthy district – a testament to Ms. Dorothea's surprisingly substantial regard.
After all, Dutch's gang was hardly a petite party of two. While a couple of guests might be tucked away in one's personal villa, accommodating a dozen hardened outlaws, even stylish ones, was undoubtedly a logistical nightmare and a social inconvenience.
"Oh, Mr. Arthur, I am so terribly sorry," Ms. Dorothea fretted, her voice a hushed, almost desperate whisper, her hands clasping nervously in front of her. "All our other unoccupied houses, alas, are scattered beyond the city limits of Saint Denis. This is the only habitable house remaining within the district. It is… it is a bit rundown, I fear. Please don't mind!"
"Oh no, Ms. Dorothea," Dutch purred, his smile unwavering, a dismissive wave of his hand brushing aside her anxieties like cobwebs. "We should be thanking you for your magnificent arrangements. You are far, far too kind. This, my dear lady, is the wealthy area of Saint Denis! How could we possibly, in good conscience, dislike your utterly generous arrangements?"
Dutch's words, smoother than aged whiskey, made Ms. Dorothea literally gasp with relief, her shoulders slumping as if a thousand-pound weight had been lifted.
Dutch, still smiling, his gaze twinkling, addressed Dorothea, Ann, and Alice. "Alright, dear Ms. Dorothea, cease this worrying over such trivial matters. You haven't even laid eyes upon the exclusive clothes I've prepared for you yet! Miss O'Shea," he gestured with a flourish, "please escort our esteemed ladies to behold their new wardrobes. I imagine you'll be dedicating a considerable amount of time to the delightful ritual of trying them on, ladies."
"Oh, alright, Mr. Arthur, then we shall excuse ourselves for now," Dorothea nodded, a mixture of gratitude and lingering guilt clouding her features. Though she had committed no overt offense against Dutch, her conscience gnawed at her. Especially after hearing Dutch's utterly unconcerned tone, and the promise of beautiful, complimentary clothes, a wave of profound inadequacy washed over her. She felt, quite keenly, that Mr. Dutch had approached them with the purest sincerity, yet she had condemned his magnificent gang to a "dilapidated" courtyard. It truly made her feel like a pauper hosting royalty.
Alice and Ann, standing beside her, felt the very same prick of conscience. Alice, her gaze still drawn to the gentle, gentlemanly Dutch, hesitated. There was nothing truly to say, but to quash her faint sense of guilt, she offered a warm, slightly desperate invitation. "Mr. Arthur, please do us the honor of attending tonight's banquet. My father is interested in meeting you."
"Of course, Miss Alice, of course!" Dutch chuckled, waving his hand, a knowing glint in his eye.
"Mwah~ Arthur, if you find yourself a bit… lonely tonight, you can always come find me!" Ann, the audacious middle-aged beauty, was significantly bolder. Without a shred of shame, in front of a visibly bristling Ms. O'Shea, she blew a blatant kiss to Dutch, a gesture that almost shattered Ms. O'Shea's composure and their already fragile "friendship" on the spot.
"Oh, Ms. Ann, you are far too… enthusiastic," Dutch replied smoothly, a forced politeness in his tone.
"Alright, ladies, let's hurry up!" O'Shea snapped, her fists clenched tightly at her sides, her gaze like a sharpened knife boring into Ann's back. "There are seven outfits in total; it will take you a good amount of time to try them on!" She cut the interaction short with the precision of a seasoned duelist. Ann, with a reluctant, longing glance back at Dutch, finally followed the other ladies out of the dilapidated courtyard.
The friendships and interactions among ladies, it seemed, were far simpler and more direct compared to the convoluted dances between gentlemen. It was a bizarre truth: Dorothea, Ann, and even Ms. Alice couldn't directly invite Dutch and the other men to their private homes, but they could, without a second thought, directly invite Ms. O'Shea and the other women to their lavish residences. Perhaps to overtly demonstrate her lack of disdain for the Van der Linde Gang, or perhaps simply propelled by a surge of heartfelt apology-turned-affection, Ms. Dorothea personally escorted the ladies of the Van der Linde Gang to the very villa where her own family resided.
And in the "dilapidated" courtyard, only Dutch, Hosea, John, and Charles remained.
This particular courtyard looked ancient, certainly, but only because it hadn't undergone a facelift in what felt like centuries. It was the architectural equivalent of a charmingly eccentric old-timer, untouched by the crass renovations of modern trends.
The general feeling was akin to the quaint charm of an old town versus the soulless uniformity of a new one; a bit run-down, yes, but it was clear Ms. Dorothea had meticulously scrubbed and polished the place to accommodate them.
If one were to compare it, this place was eerily reminiscent of the delightfully decrepit villa at Shady Belle, their Chapter 4 camp – a two-story structure, boasting a medium-sized courtyard, enveloped by lush, verdant trees, lending it an air of both charming antiquity and rustic tranquility.
Dutch, surprisingly, genuinely liked such a courtyard; he wasn't lying about that.
After the ladies departed, the four men began to stretch and leisurely inspect their new digs.
"John, Charles, pull our clothing wagon into the courtyard," Dutch instructed, lighting a cigar with a practiced flick of his wrist. A puff of smoke curled lazily from his lips. "I don't fancy our empire of fabric being stolen before it's even sold."
"Alright, Dutch," John mumbled, a stoic nod. Charles offered a similarly quiet agreement. These two were the steadfast types; whatever Dutch commanded, they executed without fanfare or philosophical debate.
Hosea, standing nearby, shook his head with a theatrical sigh as he surveyed the house. "Oh, Dutch, my old friend, this is a villa! I never dared to imagine we'd actually be living in a villa. How long has it been since we truly left that... unrefined gang life behind?"
"Come on, Hosea," Dutch chuckled, reaching out to offer him a cigarette. "You and Bessie traipsed across every goddamn corner of the earth when you were young, from the ends of the earth to the corners of the sea, and now you're putting on an act for my benefit!"
"Hahaha, old friend," Hosea laughed heartily, a twinkle in his eye as he took the cigarette. "You won't even let an old man have a moment of genuine, wistful reflection now, will you? Well, then, let's go soak up some of that good ol' Saint Denis sunshine." He ambled into the house.
The design of this two-story villa, while a tad less architecturally grand than Shady Belle's, possessed its own unique allure. The second-floor balcony, especially, was a revelation – sprawling and offering an incredibly expansive view. It even boasted a lounge chair, practically begging for someone to recline, light up, and bask in the sun's warm embrace.
Having nothing more pressing to attend to, Dutch followed Hosea upstairs.
"Oh~~~ Dutch," Hosea exhaled slowly, already sinking into the plush comfort of the lounge chair on the second floor, a plume of cigarette smoke curling into the sky. He let out a profound, almost primal sigh of utter contentment. "This is living!"
Dutch stood beside him, leaning casually against a sturdy pillar, smoking his cigar. His gaze, however, remained as sharp as an eagle's, sweeping across the distant horizon. The location wasn't atop the highest hill, but its unique geographical placement allowed him to encompass the entire surrounding villa area within his commanding view.
Seeing his old friend's unsettlingly sharp, predatory gaze, Hosea's recent reflections, his fleeting thoughts of worry, and his existential dread finally began to mercifully ease. Dutch was still Dutch. And that, in its own terrifying way, was a comfort.