Chapter 12

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: A Deepening Friendship
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Though Miss Lance had refuted her mother's opinion several times, she was inwardly tempted by the suggestion that he had fallen for her.

Finally escaping her mother's grasp, Miss Lance went up to her room, changed her clothes with the help of her maid, and sat at her dressing table to have her hair done. A large mirror hung over the dressing table, and Miss Lance could see her own reflection within it.

Luscious light brown hair, clear sky-blue eyes, and distinct, lovely features set in a vibrant, rosy face. Though it was a sight she saw every day, a sweet vanity bloomed as if she were seeing it for the first time. A vanity that even the discernment she always strove to maintain could not dispel.

As she gazed into the mirror for a long while, Miss Lance's excited heart soon turned to thoughts of Ian Dalton, who had visited her home that day.

Does he really like me? Truly? On what grounds?

She carefully reviewed her encounters with Mr. Dalton over the past two days. She remembered their eyes meeting at least three times and recalled how he had smiled at her on each occasion.

This was precisely true. But memory, as it is, tends to be distorted and embellished according to one's current state of mind.

Miss Lance had transformed his polite kindness into the rapture of a man seeing a lady with whom he had fallen in love at first sight. The very same expression most gentlemen had worn upon meeting her since her debut in society.

Her cheeks flushed. Ian Dalton. That remarkable man had also become one of her admirers. She was so delighted she could hardly contain herself.

Miss Lance dismissed her maid and sat at her dressing table for a long time. And she thought deeply about Ian Dalton as a marriage prospect. Her admirers were all formidable men.

The eldest son of a politician. The eldest son of an earl. But as her mother had said, England was in a recession, and even the aristocracy was not free from the threat of bankruptcy.

Eldest sons who inherited their family estates looked as far as overseas for women with large dowries to protect their family name, while younger sons, cast out into the world without a penny from their families, were desperate to secure their fortunes by marrying a woman with a substantial dowry.

Considering the reality of the situation, Mr. Dalton's value seemed much higher. He was gentry, but the head of a family as old as his—over four hundred years—was rarer than a dozen dukes in this age of title inflation. Furthermore, he was the eldest son who had inherited all the assets alone, and he possessed considerable wealth beyond the inherited land and mansion.

Until the candle burned down, Miss Lance thought about the place called Whitefield she had heard him mention, imagined her married life with him (‘He will surely be a tender husband. A man so handsome could not possibly have a harsh temperament.’), and gave names, one by one, to the children who would resemble them both. And by the time she went to bed, she was giddy with the thought of wedding him within the year.

* * *

Thereafter, Miss Lance and Mrs. Lance kept a keen watch on Mr. Dalton's movements—which balls he attended, and which family's dinners he was present at.

For over a fortnight after Ian Dalton first appeared in London society, the only social gatherings he attended were the tea parties held at Lady Abigail Pendleton's home, occasionally limited to dinners with Miss Pendleton's friends. He seemed to have no interest whatsoever in things like the opera, concerts, or shopping in the arcades.

Miss Lance, who had been dreaming of a chance encounter with Mr. Dalton in such places, was disappointed, but the experienced Mrs. Lance saw his conduct as a positive sign.

Although Miss Pendleton was a past-her-prime spinster, she was nevertheless London's finest matchmaker, having produced ten perfectly suited couples over the years. Ian Dalton's close association with her could easily be interpreted as an intention to be introduced to London's young ladies through Miss Pendleton and find a bride among them.

However, had Miss Pendleton heard Mrs. Lance's reasoning, she would have reacted with a skeptical smile. In Miss Pendleton's view, Mr. Dalton had no interest at all in finding a bride.

After their first meeting at the ball, he attended the Pendletons' tea parties and dinners without fail. Miss Pendleton introduced her friends to him, and Mr. Dalton spent his time mingling with them.

However, he never once showed any sign of being captivated by the ladies gathered there. He would merely offer a few polite remarks in response to the ladies' jests before approaching Miss Pendleton, who was usually at the piano, and quietly listen to her music.

And when a piece ended, he would request another or ask her to converse with him.

For a fortnight, he lingered by her side at the Pendleton home in this manner.

Miss Pendleton had now come to the conclusion that he was more interested in making a friend than in finding love. As for Miss Pendleton, she could not help but be pleased that there was someone who needed her friendship.

London's weather was fickle. A morning that was clear could suddenly give way to gloomy, dark clouds and a downpour that left the ground muddy. On such occasions, a scheduled tea party was bound to be called off.

People would either not show up at all or, if they did, would leave early. On those days, Lady Abigail's health would also worsen, causing her to retire to her room early, and Miss Pendleton would go to the library to read or study. But Mr. Dalton, for his part, always arrived at the time of the tea party.

Each time, Miss Pendleton felt apologetic for not being able to provide him with suitable company, but Mr. Dalton paid no mind to the absence of other guests.

Miss Pendleton would lead him to a seat by the fire and serve him warm tea and simple refreshments. And they would talk for hours, until teatime was over.

At first, they spoke of life in London, but Miss Pendleton realized Mr. Dalton had little interest in the subject and asked a different question: about his estate, Whitefield, and his life there.

Initially, she worried she might have been too forward in asking about his private affairs, but she soon realized it was a suitable topic of conversation. He spoke about his life more candidly than she had expected.

His land, Whitefield, was a vast estate surrounded by fertile woods and fields, which had been meticulously managed by his ancestors and passed down to him in all its dazzling beauty.

His home, Whitefield Hall, was situated on a gentle hill in the center of the estate. Looking out the window, one could see a panoramic view of a forest thick with white birch trees—befitting the name Whitefield—and fields being tilled by farmers.

Mr. Dalton's tone as he described his home was unaffected and warm. And a hint of love could be seen. An affection for his land, Whitefield. Miss Pendleton was captivated by this affection and found herself asking him many questions.

He noticed that Miss Pendleton was genuinely listening to his stories and enjoying them. He continued his story with a gentle smile.

He told her about the yeomen and tenant farmers who worked the land on his estate.

About their names, the state of their farms, and their families. How their families spent their time, how they earned a living, and how they raised and educated their children.

Miss Pendleton was astonished as she listened to him. There were over thirty farms on his estate, yet he was familiar with the circumstances of each one. That meant he managed his estate himself, rather than employing a land agent.

Most aristocrats in England lived without even knowing how many farms were on their land. To them, looking after their own estates was far too trivial compared to hunting in packs on their grounds or indulging in pleasures at a spa resort.

But Mr. Dalton not only looked after his estate himself, he also seemed to be closely connected with the farmers. A relationship closer than that of business partners, more like that of friends.

The more Miss Pendleton listened to his stories, the warmer her heart felt. There were likely few landowners in all of England who held such affection for their land. Miss Pendleton offered him more tea. And she told him how she would love to see Whitefield.

“A land so beautiful would surely be a source of fresh inspiration for someone like me, weary of city life.”

“London, where you reside, Miss Pendleton, is a sophisticated place at the height of fashion. It is grand, vibrant, and abundant in goods. However, I cannot flatter you by saying that this place is better than the one I left behind. For if one knows even a little of the woods of Whitefield, one could never say such a thing, not even in jest. I do not wish to act like a snob, desperate to boast of what he possesses, but I cannot help myself.”

“You need not hold back. For a city woman like me, who must always live among people, stories of forests and trees are as fragrant as reading a fine essay. Please, continue. Until I can close my eyes and picture the scenery as vividly as if it were in your own mind, even if I cannot see Whitefield for myself.”

At Miss Pendleton's words, Mr. Dalton's expression softened even more.

“No matter how I try, words cannot do it justice. My vocabulary is too short and poor to describe all its beauty. However, I shall show you in another way. With a small painting that could adorn a drawing room.”

“Oh, what a most welcome gift that would be. You must have a servant with a talent for painting in your household?”

“Well, you could say that. If you count a part of my own body as a servant.”

Miss Pendleton was surprised.

“You paint?”

“I learned a little when I was young.”

Miss Pendleton was intrigued. An artistic education was rarely provided to sons; it was a curious thing. But Mr. Dalton did not elaborate and changed the subject.

“Had I not left behind the sketchbook I always carry, I could have shown you Whitefield and, while I was at it, introduced you to my troublesome nephews. It is a pity.”

“Ah, your sister's children?”

“That is right.”

Children. A topic as refreshing as forests and valleys. Miss Pendleton began to ask a few questions about his nephews, and soon, the diligent landowner became a doting uncle.

He had his first nephew before he was even eight years old. The son of his sister, who was fifteen years his senior.

The first nephew's name was Henry Fairfax. When the child was born, Mr. Dalton himself could only look at the baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. It was only natural. The adults would never permit a child to hold a baby.

Afterwards, Mr. Dalton learned to ride and frequently visited his sister at Dunville Park.

“Looking down at Henry lying in his cradle was more enjoyable than playing cards with William. After he grew a bit, he was always trailing behind us. Riding, fishing, running—he always wanted to be with us.”