Chapter 11

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: The Strange Man, Ian Dalton (4)
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Miss Pendleton shook her head.

“Officially, my grandmother is the one hosting.”

“Then, you must often be absent, Miss Pendleton?”

“No. Due to my grandmother's health, I am overseeing the general proceedings. I couldn't be absent even if I wanted to.”

“I see.”

Mr. Dalton nodded quietly and then spoke in a clearer voice.

“I shall call on you soon. Is tomorrow convenient?”

Miss Pendleton was surprised by his unexpectedly forward attitude and shook her head.

“Ah, my grandmother's physician is visiting tomorrow. The day after tomorrow should be fine.”

“Very well. I shall call on you the day after tomorrow.”

Miss Pendleton nodded and extended her hand.

“Well then, I shall look forward to our next meeting.”

Mr. Dalton took her hand and looked down at it for a moment. Then, he slowly bowed his head and kissed the back of it.

“A safe journey home, Miss Pendleton.”

He bid her farewell in a resonant voice, still holding her hand. He released it, however, a few beats later than was customary.

Miss Pendleton found it odd but soon attributed it to his unfamiliarity with the etiquette of high society. She gave him a faint smile before signaling for the carriage to depart.

She assumed he would return to the ball as soon as her carriage left, so she immediately turned her gaze away. Thus, she was unaware that Mr. Dalton remained standing there, watching her carriage until it disappeared from sight.

That night, before getting into bed, Miss Pendleton knelt beside it as was her custom. She gave thanks for meeting a new friend, Mr. Dalton, and prayed that he would find a good match in London and enjoy the happiness of a family.

As always, her prayer was sincere. But she did not know how that prayer would one day be answered.

***

Thanks to Mrs. Lance's persistent efforts, the evening after the ball found Mr. Dalton seated across from Miss Dora Lance in the dining room of the Lance townhouse, partaking in a formal dinner.

The Lance family's dinners had long been renowned in London. Ostensibly, this was due to the lavish menu and the pleasure of enjoying the smiles of their beautiful daughter, Miss Dora Lance.

However, the more significant reason for their notoriety was Baronet Lance's infamous selectivity when it came to guests.

The baronet held a peculiar attachment to his title and family. Therefore, to share a meal with the Lances, one had to be at least a baronet of equal standing, or, lacking a title, possess a family name of commensurate repute.

Thus, even before the appetizers were served, Baronet Lance began to pry, questioning Mr. Dalton about his estate and the age of his family line, oblivious to the fact that he was violating the very etiquette he held so dear.

Thanks to his persistent efforts, it was revealed before the main course that Whitefield's original name was Vaelen Abbey and that it had been in the Dalton family's possession since the Reformation in the 1500s. Only then was Baronet Lance reassured that his wife had not invited an unsuitable guest.

Filled with a fond sense of camaraderie for a fellow head of an established family, he began to regale Mr. Dalton with the story of his great-grandfather, who had first obtained the family's baronetcy.

Miss Lance's face flushed with embarrassment at her father's long-winded boasting. The Lance family had held their title for less than two hundred years, and it had been acquired not for any great service but as a mere stroke of luck due to the political climate.

To dare boast of one's lineage to the head of the Dalton family, who had been major landowners in Yorkshire for nearly four hundred years—it was beyond shameful; it was downright rude.

But Mr. Dalton listened silently to whatever he blustered on about and conducted himself with appropriate courtesy toward both Miss Lance and her mother. Consequently, when he politely declined Baronet Lance's offer of a cigar after dinner and hastily returned home, none of them suspected that he was, in fact, fleeing in disgust from the rich food and the Baronet's arrogance.

After Baronet Lance, delighted to have met a young man to his liking for the first time in a while, retired to his study, Mrs. Lance, giddy with the thought of boasting to her peers about having invited Ian Dalton to dinner, took her daughter's hand as she was about to go up to her room and led her to the drawing room.

She sat her beautiful daughter down beside her, fidgeting with her hands, and broached the subject with a subtle air.

“My dear, isn't Mr. Dalton quite wonderful?”

Her daughter eagerly agreed.

“Yes, Mother. I've never seen a man that handsome in London!”

“Yes, I think so too. With his looks and fortune, dozens of young ladies must have already tried to snatch him up, yet he's still unmarried. It's a gift from God. Truly, no matter how many expenses one has, one must never skip the tithe. Now, Dora, let's see if we can get a proposal from him before the season is over.”

Miss Lance, who had not yet considered such a thing, stared at her mother with wide eyes.

“But I've only seen Mr. Dalton twice. And besides, he doesn't have a title, does he? Father will not be pleased.”

“My dear, do you think there are any prominent nobles with sound finances these days? In this recession, their coffers are drying up. It's difficult to find an eligible bachelor in London who hasn't mortgaged his land or leased out his mansion. You remember the Marquess of Barden's eldest son, the one you danced with so often? The one you said was a fine dancer and a gentleman. Did you know his family's country estate was just auctioned off? How does one mismanage their money so badly as to lose land passed down through generations?”

Mrs. Lance clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“Compared to that, how splendid is Mr. Dalton? Whitefield itself is a true estate with a manor, and its forests are said to be prime hunting grounds. Moreover, as soon as he inherited the estate after his father's passing, he sold what needed selling and consolidated what needed consolidating, investing in profitable mines, railway bonds, stocks, and buildings—he secured everything that could possibly generate an income. A family can only thrive when its head is so shrewd. If you were to name one family in England that will never go bankrupt, it would be the Daltons.”

Miss Lance, half-dazed, asked.

“Mother, Mr. Dalton didn't say a word about any of that today. Where did you dig up all that information?”

Mrs. Lance replied without a hint of shame.

“Your aunt who married into Yorkshire found out by asking around the neighborhood. There are plenty of unmarried girls in that area, so whenever they gather, the talk is all about Ian Dalton.”

Miss Lance sighed and looked at her mother's face. If her father worshipped titles, her mother was a devotee of more practical, material things. Realizing once again how fortunate she was not to resemble her parents, Miss Lance asserted her own noble stance.

“Mother, I like Mr. Dalton because he is charming and gentlemanly. I haven't thought beyond that. Matters of money and land are, of course, practical and cannot be completely ignored, but I will not marry without a genuine attraction.”

Mrs. Lance, who had spent her life pinching pennies because of a profligate husband with no talent for earning, found her daughter's naivety both endearing and equally pathetic.

“So, when do you suppose you'll feel this 'genuine attraction' for Mr. Dalton?”

“I told you, I've only seen him twice!”

“Whether it's twice or twenty times, the fact that he is handsome, wealthy, and unmarried will not change. Ah, but one thing might change. While you're waiting for your 'genuine attraction,' another young lady could become Mrs. Dalton. And let me tell you, that young lady will likely be the daughter of a duke, a marquess, or an earl. Her dowry will be three times yours, I'm sure. In this age of bachelor droughts, Mr. Dalton can pick any lady in London with better prospects than ours. There's a surplus of marriageable young women, but only a handful of firstborn sons to inherit any property.”

As Mrs. Lance spoke, her daughter's cheeks began to puff out in a pout. Mrs. Lance realized her mistake. She had forgotten that her own way of thinking, always dictated by the flow of pounds, did not resonate with her daughter at all.

She immediately changed tack to a method that would be more effective with her daughter: fanning the flames of her vanity.

“My dear, you mustn't make such a face. It contorts your features. A pretty girl like you should always be smiling. Smile like you did at the ball yesterday. Mr. Dalton was captivated by that smile.”

“Oh, Mother. Captivated? He was simply being polite to me.”

“No, my dear! His eyes sparkled several times while looking at you. At first, he was mesmerized by your angelic face, and then whenever you glanced away, he would survey all your charming features—your lovely hair, your fair shoulders, your small, dainty hands. And once he realized there was nothing about you that wasn't beautiful, he couldn't tear his eyes away!”

Hearing her mother's words, Miss Lance's expression softened. But her sense of reason had not yet been paralyzed by vanity.

“But, if he was so captivated, how could he not ask me for a waltz that night? After Miss Pendleton went home, he just said his goodbyes and left. I even turned down other gentlemen's requests, waiting to dance with him.”

“My dear, you say that even after watching Mr. Dalton dance with Miss Pendleton?”

“Ah, that's true, his waltzing was quite clumsy. I do dislike men who can't dance.”

“They say his mother passed away early and he was raised by a much older sister. The poor dear. He must be so unaccustomed to young women that he can only relax with a past-her-prime spinster like Miss Pendleton.”

“Mother, didn't you say I shouldn't call Miss Pendleton a spinster?”

“That's only in front of other people. It's fine between us.”

Miss Lance found it rather strange that her mother, who always treated her like a child, would speak ill of others to her as if she were one of the neighborhood ladies.

For the next half hour, Mrs. Lance continued to paralyze her daughter's reason and stir her emotions with words as sweet as honey.

He is clearly smitten with you; he is already your slave in spirit; if you give him a few openings, you will be Mrs. Dalton before the summer arrives, and so on.

It was a brainwashing that could make even a person of firm resolve and clear judgment feel dazed, and for a young lady whose mind was already seeded with vanity like weeds from the attention she had enjoyed in society, such encouragement was bound to be fatal.