Chapter 26

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 26
Chapter Title: The Master of Whitefield (1)
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To be having this conversation right after a funeral. Ian sighed inwardly.

“No.”

“What on earth were you doing in London for over a month?”

“Listening to William nag me about finding a decent woman. In London, it was William, and here, it's you. Where must I flee to escape this torment?”

Robert Fairfax let out a hearty laugh, quite inappropriate for the occasion.

“You could escape it immediately if you'd just pick any young lady and make her Mrs. Dalton. Of course, another torment awaits you then—a wife's nagging!”

Mr. Dalton said nothing and began walking toward a quieter area. Robert walked alongside him.

“I'm with your sister on this. I hope you'll be tied down to a young lady soon. Having been married, I can tell you the sooner, the better. Especially for a man. You have no idea how invigorating it is for a man to have his own family in his own home.”

“The wife's nagging, you mean?”

“You get used to it. Besides, she's the one raising my children, isn't she? If you just think, 'Ah, my dear lady is paying me a great deal of attention today, what an honor for the family,' it's not so bad.”

“I must confess, I find conversations with married men quite bewildering. I can never tell if they love their spouses or despise them.”

“Because it's both. You wouldn't understand the complex, subtle emotions of a married couple. Then again, neither did I when I was a bachelor. It was through marriage that I truly learned about life. About the joys and sorrows of being human. In that respect, you still don't know the half of it. You're still just a boy.”

“It seems married men all learn somewhere to treat bachelors like novices. To avoid this, I suppose I must quickly find a Mrs. Dalton to make a true adult of me.”

“There you go, a fine idea. Find one soon. I actually thought you'd bring a young lady back from London. The social scene there must be of a much higher caliber than around here.”

“Caliber... If you're referring to beauty, then yes. There are certainly more beautiful women there than in Yorkshire.”

“So, among all those beauties, was there not one who captured your heart?”

Mr. Dalton thought for a moment of a woman who had crossed his mind, but he shook his head at his brother-in-law.

“Hah! If I were in your shoes, I'd have fallen in love a hundred times over.”

“It's a good thing you weren't born as me, then. Falling in love a hundred times over sounds like quite the ordeal.”

Despite the string of cynical retorts, Robert Fairfax laughed heartily.

“You're a prickly one, aren't you? Well, come visit us at Dunbeal Park soon. See your sister, and we'll go hunting together.”

“Yes. Thank you for coming, brother-in-law.”

Robert Fairfax gave Mr. Dalton a light handshake, then thrust his hands back into his pockets and ambled off toward his carriage.

Ian remained until all the mourners had departed. Then, in the empty rectory, he discussed the matter of lodging with Mrs. Zenfield and her family.

Mrs. Zenfield's only living relative was a younger brother, an officer stationed in India, with whose family she was to live upon their return to England. However, it would be several years before they were due back.

Ian decided to lease them a small cottage on the east side of Whitefield at a low rent until they could be reunited with her brother's family.

With the matter settled, Ian left the rectory and began to walk slowly down the road that led toward Whitefield Hall. The rectory and Whitefield were about a thirty-minute walk apart, so he had come without his carriage.

Once he left the village with its small shops and houses of varying sizes, a quiet, tree-lined road appeared. It was a peaceful path, with streams and fields peeking through the trees that stood over forty feet tall on either side.

Dappled sunlight filtered through the dense leaves, scattering across the ground. Ian walked on, treading upon the fragments of light. When the tree-lined road ended and he had crossed a field, a dense woodland area came into view.

It was a forest of birch trees, the very origin of the name Whitefield. As he walked along the wide, well-kept dirt path, he could hear the song of a nightingale and the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

Gazing at the birch trees that filled his vision, a gentle warmth spread through his heart.

He had walked this path thousands of times since childhood, but returning after a long journey, the feeling was new. He hadn't realized it during his stay in London, but he had been subconsciously missing this place. Whitefield, the place where he was born and raised.

He was struck anew by how much he loved this land. His heart responded with a powerful affection to the grass and trees before his eyes, even to the very clods of earth.

He passed through the forest and crossed a bridge spanning a wide stream. Soon, the wild trees gave way to manicured garden trees. Before him, the grand expanse of Whitefield Hall was revealed.

Whitefield Hall was a great manor, its immense scale apparent even from a distance. A stone edifice built layer by layer with beautiful white marble bricks, it harmonized with the white forest and possessed the dignity and grace befitting the master of this land. He walked past the immaculately kept garden and fountain and entered the main hall.

As he stepped into the entrance, Ramswick, the short, stout old butler, approached him at once.

“You've returned, Master.”

Mr. Dalton nodded.

“First thing tomorrow morning, send a few of our servants to Hartnum Cottage to prepare it. Tell them to take special care, as it will be the home of Reverend Zenfield's family.”

“Yes, sir.”

He started toward his study, then turned back to Ramswick.

“Did I ask how you were when I returned yesterday?”

“No, Master. But it is quite all right.”

“Have you been well, Ramswick?”

“Yes, I have been well.”

“And your health is good?”

“Yes.”

“Your knee?”

“Much better, thank you, Master.”

Ian smiled faintly.

“I'm glad to hear it. My apologies for being away so long.”

“Not at all, Master.”

Ian then went up to his study. Ramswick, however, followed him inside.

“Is there something?”

“There is something I must report.”

Ian gestured for him to speak.

“It is about the temporary land agent you hired. I believe it would be best not to retain his services any longer.”

“Why is that?”

“While you were away, Master, he worked diligently for half the day—from morning until noon. The other half, however, he spent poaching in your hunting grounds and attempting to take liberties with the maids.”

Mr. Dalton's brow furrowed.

“Ordinarily, I would not have mentioned this alone, but it seems he also accepted a bribe during the leasing of the mill. One of the servants overheard the two men whispering about it at the tavern.”

He let out a sigh and crossed his arms.

“I wonder if there is such a thing as a land agent with a conscience in this world. They always seem to find a way to take something beyond their wages.”

“I would wager there is not.”

“As would I.”

Ian immediately sat at his desk, wrote a letter, and handed it to Ramswick.

“Send this tomorrow, along with his wages for the work he's done.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ramswick departed.

Ian remained seated and began to work. Despite having been away from Whitefield for less than two months, a mountain of work awaited him. The most urgent matters were settling the tenant rents, resolving legal disputes on the estate, mediating conflicts between farms over the installation of fences, and holding meetings for building leases.

Once those were handled, he would need to visit the active mine soon and also meet with his solicitor. But before any of that, he had to review the work the land agent had done in his absence.

He examined the ledgers and read through the lease documents prepared by the agent, one by one, along with the business-related correspondence. He noticed discrepancies with the explanations he had received by letter, and some matters had been handled in direct opposition to his instructions.

The more he reviewed the documents, the more his mood soured.

He was angry with the land agent for handling things in such a shoddy manner, and he was also irritated with his brother-in-law for recommending him. Recommending such a man was a clear indication of how little attention his brother-in-law paid to his own estate.

But Ian knew the truth. Finding a trustworthy land agent was like plucking a star from the sky. He had learned this from personal experience.

After the death of his father, who had entrusted the entire management of the estate to a land agent, Ian had been appalled to discover through the ledgers and documents just how much money the man had embezzled over the years.

He had fired the agent on the spot and taken over everything himself. It was a series of tedious tasks, but he could not stand by and watch the very foundations of Whitefield be eaten away.

Realizing once again that land agents were an untrustworthy lot, he began to reorganize the messy ledgers and rewrite the documents. Then he wrote letters, one after another, to solicitors for legal advice.

Several hours later, when the day's urgent tasks were reasonably complete, he rose from his desk and went to the window. Whitefield, cloaked in night, was dyed a deep indigo. Above the dark silhouette of the distant, rolling peaks, the moon and stars shone with a crisp, cold light.

He opened the lid of a wooden cigar box on a table near the window. Taking out one of the cigarillos inside, he placed it between his lips and struck a match. He lit the tip and took a deep draw from the filter, and the throbbing in his head subsided. Feeling more at ease, he gazed out the window and inhaled the smoke.

A slow, satisfying feeling. He finally felt that he had truly returned to Whitefield. For him, this was real life. Here, before the study window that overlooked all of Whitefield.

Tapping the ash from his cigarillo, he thought back on his time in London. The streets filled with carriages and people, the bustling balls. The formal dinners and tea parties surrounded by elegant furniture.

It had been an exchange with London's highest society, but it had held little meaning for him, leaving only a faint afterimage. He could barely remember whom he had met or where he had gone.

The only thing he remembered with clarity was a single lady residing at the Pendleton house on Grosvenor Street.

He tapped the ash into an ashtray. The satisfaction faded.

What was she doing now? Was she dancing at a ball? Attending a dinner at a friend's home? Or was she in her room, gazing at the night sky, just as he was?

Ah, could it be that she missed him, just as he missed her?

'Impossible.'

He gave a self-deprecating smile. The woman who had so sternly pushed him away, who had avoided even seeing his face for a week—there was no way she would miss him. She probably wasn't even thinking of him at all. He took another drag from the filter.

Ever since the train ride back to Whitefield, he had been thinking. Thinking about why she had cut him off so curtly before he could even properly propose. Why a woman of such a gentle disposition, even if she did not love him, had become so cold.