Chapter 20

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 20
Chapter Title: Picnic (2)
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This spot, a favorite picnic destination for the aristocracy, boasted lush green fields, a tranquil riverside, and a dense forest. As if by instinct, he walked toward the woods and soon found a well-kept path at the entrance to the forested area. He stepped onto the trail.

With each step, the noisy chatter of the crowd faded into the distance. Soon, nothing could be heard but the rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, and the sound of Ian Dalton's own footsteps.

The throbbing in his temples, which had been persistent, began to subside. He let out a sigh. It was a relief to finally have a moment to collect his thoughts.

The past month had been a series of unexpected events. His original purpose for coming to London had been nothing more than to see the faces of old friends with whom he had only occasionally corresponded since graduating from university.

That purpose had been fulfilled in less than ten days. If he had stuck to his original plan, he would now be sitting in his study at Whitefield Hall, discussing matters with his tenants.

Yet here he was, still in London. Moreover, he was wasting his time partaking in the leisurely pastimes of the nobility, which he had always found rather ridiculous. It was something he could never have imagined before leaving for London.

The longer his stay, the more unsettled he became. He had work to do on his estate.

There were disputes between farmers to mediate, land reclamation projects to discuss, and lease issues to resolve—a pile of problems awaited him. On top of that, the old vicar on his estate was in poor health, and he needed to discuss the drafting of his will and the future of his dependents.

Although he had a land agent managing his affairs, there was only so much that could be left in another's hands. He needed to return to his estate as soon as possible. But he was held captive by a powerful, invisible grip, one that pulled him in. The owner of that grip was the exceedingly delicate Laura Pendleton.

Laura Pendleton.

The thought of her name made him feel a slight tremor in his fingertips. Alone in the forest, he clenched and unclenched his fist as if someone might see, trying to suppress the shaking. But the fierce pounding of his heart that began with the tremor could not be quelled like a trembling hand. He felt the pulsating tremor in his chest as he thought of her.

The ball where they first met, her gray eyes as they danced the waltz. The trembling had started there. And after that first tremor, his heart had begun to drift endlessly toward her.

He couldn't stop himself from visiting her home at every opportunity. He couldn't stop the demeaning act of hovering around her, trying to exchange even a single word.

As their interactions continued, she had lowered her guard with remarkable ease. A heart that blended a shy, quiet disposition with an honest and unpretentious nature. She listened selflessly and responded with intelligence. She was elegant without artifice, simply as she was.

He had never encountered a character he admired so much, nor had he ever been so captivated by anyone. No lady had ever fascinated him to such a degree.

Before he knew it, he was recounting his life story to her. Thinking back, he had even spoken of truly trivial things. His nephews, his tenant farmers—matters important to him, but surely useless chatter to her. How long had it been since he had been so open with anyone?

But while he babbled on like an idiot about his relatives and his estate, she herself said very little. Even when he occasionally asked about her—about her family or kin, for instance—she would only give a brief reply.

Especially about her parents, he could get no more of an answer than that they had passed away when she was a child.

Mr. Dalton could now understand why her answers had been so curt.

The story surrounding Miss Pendleton's birth. It could be called a common tale. Such romantic elopements were not an infrequent occurrence in any social circle. But the consequences of such common marriages were, as always, bound to become sordid.

England's old order, its worn gears creaking, continued to turn diligently even on the cusp of the twentieth century, and its product remained an unchanging social convention. A person of questionable birth, especially one who did not inherit their father's name, became an object of scorn, no matter how admirable their qualities.

This was especially true for a lady, and even more so for one without money or the protection of a family head.

The conversation between the ladies he had unintentionally overheard in the carriage today was proof of it. That they could so casually slander a lady from an earl's family, one ten years their senior, meant that Miss Pendleton was an object of open disregard.

Mr. Dalton clenched his jaw, recalling the incident. The words uttered by those foolish young ladies were enough to make him furious. It wasn't just the content of their gossip; it was how naturally they looked down on Miss Pendleton.

It was easy to predict that the gossip about Miss Pendleton was quite public. She was likely treated this way throughout all of London society.

He recalled again Miss Pendleton's demure attitude, her quiet and humble nature, her shyness, and her almost overly sensitive reactions to the praise of others. He had dismissed it all as simply part of her innate character, and had found it endearing.

But perhaps it was an attitude conditioned by the repeated scorn she had endured in London society. Being pointed at when she didn't hold back, having people who were friendly to her face gossip behind her back.

It was a sight Ian himself had observed countless times when he frequented society.

He felt a renewed sense of revulsion for the society he had always held in contempt, and his heart ached with pity for Miss Pendleton.

To calm himself, Mr. Dalton tried to stop thinking and continued walking along the path. But no matter how he tried to clear his mind, he could not stop Miss Pendleton's face from flickering before his eyes.

Miss Pendleton. The clear expressions that graced her gray eyes. Her delicate wrist as she handed him a teacup.

More than ever, he longed to see Miss Pendleton. If only he could hold the impossibly fragile woman in his arms and meet her gaze. If only he could have her confess all her wounds and then comfort her. To let her rest her head on his shoulder, to stroke her back, to press a kiss to her forehead…

His face flushed for a moment at the thoughts in his head. Somehow, his sympathy for her was shifting into impure thoughts. He shook his head, banishing the fantasy from his mind.

He reached the end of the path. He emerged from the woods and walked toward the riverbank. Then, from further down the bank, loud noises reached him. Peals of laughter, shouts, and chatter. He looked toward the source of the sound.

A group of ladies and gentlemen were skipping stones. Judging by the parasols the ladies held, they were part of the picnic party. Two ladies and one gentleman.

He turned to walk away. But the man's shout sounded familiar.

William Fairfax.

He turned his head, narrowing his eyes to look at them. William was in a pose as if about to fall over, holding a stone and flinging it with all his might across the river. The ladies standing beside him watched, and a moment later, they clasped hands and jumped up and down.

He studied the ladies carefully and quickly recognized one of them as Miss Pendleton. He immediately began walking toward them.

As he drew closer, Miss Pendleton came into clearer view. The pristine white lace shawl she always wore and the hairnet that held her hair neatly in place. Her slender arms and the line of her neck. He clenched his fists. His heart tightened more than ever.

By the time he reached them, Miss Pendleton had taken the parasol from the lady beside her. The lady who had handed over the parasol picked up a stone from the ground, leaned to one side, and with a great swing of her arm, sent it flying toward the river.

A *plink, plink* sound was followed by silence. A moment later, Miss Pendleton tossed aside the parasol she was holding and embraced the lady who had thrown the stone, squealing with delight. At the same time, William, who was standing nearby, grabbed his head and sank to the ground, crying out.

“If it had only skipped five more times, I would have won! I shouldn't have picked such a big stone!”

“It wasn't the stone, William. It was your form.”

Mr. Dalton responded naturally to Mr. Fairfax's frustrated cry. The three of them—one gentleman and two ladies—turned their heads toward him in unison. Mr. Fairfax shot to his feet.

“Ian, when did you get here?”

“Just now.”

Mr. Dalton answered curtly, his gaze shifting to Miss Pendleton. She was smiling at him, her face full of life.

He took in her sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. A lovely sight. Feeling his own face grow warm, he averted his gaze.

“Mr. Dalton, would you care to join our stone-skipping game? I've placed my bet on Miss Hyde, so you should bet on Mr. Fairfax!”

Mr. Dalton shook his head gently.

“I'm afraid I must also bet on Miss Hyde. I'd rather not invest in the losing side simply out of kinship.”

“Hey, Ian! How can you say that without even seeing me? I won the last round! My stone jumped three more times than Miss Hyde's!”

“That must have been because Miss Hyde slipped up. Or perhaps she took pity on you and let you win on purpose.”

“That's not true! Miss Hyde, please tell him. You didn't let me win on purpose.”

Miss Hyde swept back her disheveled hair.

“Mr. Fairfax's skill is quite impressive. Enough to make even me, the finest stone-skipper in the Hyde family, a bit nervous. However, I must say he is still far from surpassing my legacy. If stone skipping were an Olympic sport, I would surely be Great Britain's representative.”

“Oh, is that so?”

Mr. Dalton replied with an intrigued expression. With a confident look, Miss Hyde picked a stone from the ground. She then began tossing it up and catching it in her palm.

“Mr. Dalton, would you care for a match? I can crush you just as soundly as I did Mr. Fairfax.”

Mr. Dalton laughed.

“I was the representative stone-skipping champion of Yorkshire in my youth. Well, receiving a challenge from the national champion is quite nerve-wracking.”

“No need to be nervous. There is no shame in losing to me, after all. And should you win—though I highly doubt it—it would be a feat remembered for generations in the Dalton family. So, by all means, give it a try.”

It was a clear provocation. Miss Pendleton chimed in from the side.

“You should try, Mr. Dalton. I'll bet on you this round.”