Chapter 37

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 37
Chapter Title: Back to London (3)
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Miss Pendleton was a lady who cherished her friendships. After all, the very reason he had been able to grow close to her was that she had intended to matchmake him with one of her friends.

Miss Lance was Miss Pendleton’s dearest friend. If so, it might be possible to get close to Miss Pendleton again through Miss Lance.

He promptly straightened his clothes and rose. Then, he went downstairs with Miss Janet.

In the drawing room, Miss Lance, dressed in a deep rose-colored gown and a wide-brimmed hat that looked as if she were balancing a tray on her head, was having tea with William. When Ian appeared, Miss Lance offered him her hand with a radiant smile. He approached her and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

“Goodness, Mr. Dalton! You vanished from London without a word!”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Lance.”

“And you’ve reappeared just as suddenly as you disappeared.”

Ian nodded and took a seat on the sofa where William was sitting. Miss Janet went to sit delicately on the opposite sofa with Miss Lance.

Miss Lance offered her condolences on the passing of the reverend and began to ask about his life in Whitefield. Mr. Dalton answered whatever she asked with ease—impeccably polite, but without any wit, sticking only to the facts.

Even if she was a lady who might serve as a bridge to Miss Pendleton, he was a man with little talent for entertaining ladies.

However, Miss Lance, who was prepared to listen to anything Ian Dalton said with rapt attention, giggled and delighted in every word. Ian thought cheerfulness was not a bad trait, but he did find it odd that she was so amused by a lease dispute that had gone to court.

She was either a simpleton who found everything amusing, or she was a bit dim-witted. He thought drily.

Twenty minutes passed, blissful for Miss Lance and utterly tedious for Mr. Dalton. Ian did his best to play the part of an agreeable gentleman, but there was a limit to concealing one’s true nature, and his expression gradually faded. He began to feel a growing fatigue from Miss Lance’s tactless laughter and vapid curiosity.

I’d rather be holed up in my room, burning through my cigarettes, Ian thought, staring into his teacup.

“Mr. Dalton, you’ve returned at the perfect time. This is the height of the ball season, and the Cambridge and Oxford boat race will be held soon. Oh, come to think of it, since you and Mr. Fairfax attended different universities, you must each cheer with your pride on the line.”

Mr. Fairfax interjected.

“No, I might, but Ian has little interest in sporting events. Even if Oxford were to beat Cambridge for the fifth year in a row, he wouldn’t hold the slightest grudge against me. He’d sooner be cross with me for dragging him out to watch a boat race in the first place.”

“How strange! I thought it was in a man’s nature to live and die by such things! Then what do you enjoy, Mr. Dalton?”

Ian took a sip of tea before answering.

“I mostly read or go riding. I lead a thoroughly uninteresting life.”

“You sketch, too! Miss Lance, my brother Ian is an artist. He can draw things like pianos or vases to look exactly real.”

Miss Janet chimed in, eager to boast about her handsome in-law. Surprised by this unexpected revelation, Miss Lance set down her teacup.

“Oh, you draw? And at an artist’s level?”

Thinking what a nuisance this was, Ian waved a dismissive hand.

“No. Janet is exaggerating. It’s certainly not at an artist’s level.”

“No, Miss Lance. I saw brother Ian’s sketchbook the other day, and he’s better than the art tutors who come for my lessons.”

“Janet, that’s enough.”

Ian tried to stop her, but it was too late to quell Miss Lance’s interest. She asked Ian to show her his drawings, and when he declined, she asked again. Miss Fairfax, who was beside her, also began to pester Ian to show Miss Lance the drawings.

Feeling cornered, Ian looked to William, but William was merely enjoying the spectacle from the sidelines. For him, treating a visiting lady with courtesy was more important than rescuing his friend from an awkward situation. That was just like William.

In the end, Ian had a servant fetch the sketchbook from his luggage.

The two ladies opened Ian’s sketchbook and put their heads together to look through it. With every turn of the page, sketches of farmers tilling fields, livestock grazing in meadows, and his young nieces and nephews filled their view.

The ladies let out gasps of admiration. The drawings were truly magnificent, born of precise observation, delicate skill, and an affectionate gaze. To the eyes of ladies trained in the arts from a young age, Ian Dalton’s drawings were flawlessly excellent works.

While looking at the drawings, Miss Janet discreetly observed Miss Lance’s expression. With each drawing, Miss Lance’s eyes sparkled, and her cheeks gradually flushed to a lovely rose that matched her dress.

Miss Janet felt a thrill of pride that Miss Lance was so impressed by the talents of the man residing in her home. Strictly speaking, Ian was not a member of her family, nor were they particularly close, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing that someone connected to her was so remarkable, as if it made her remarkable too.

And so, the seventeen-year-old, impressionable young lady felt as though she could fly to the heavens at the request Miss Lance made as she closed the sketchbook.

“Mr. Dalton, would you draw my portrait in this sketchbook?”

Ian, who had been waiting to retrieve his sketchbook and make his escape, showed his reluctance at her sudden request.

“I would like to grant your request, Miss Lance, but I cannot take a lady as my sole subject. I am not a professional portraitist, and it could lead to public misunderstanding.”

“There are only the four of us here, Mr. Dalton. If the four of us keep our lips sealed, no one will ever know.”

“No. It might be different for a married woman or a young lady who has not yet entered society, but for an unmarried lady who has already had her debut, it is out of the question. It would surely damage your reputation, Miss Lance.”

Miss Lance felt immensely grateful to Ian for his consideration. But she still desperately wanted a portrait drawn by his hand. Conscious of Miss Janet sitting beside her, she thought of a solution.

Miss Lance grasped Miss Janet’s hand tightly and pleaded.

“In that case, please draw me with Miss Janet. That would be acceptable, wouldn’t it? With the two of us, my reputation will be protected, and you, Mr. Dalton, will be able to draw with a more comfortable heart.”

William came over to Ian and whispered in an amused voice.

“It seems Miss Lance has taken quite a liking to you. Just draw it for her. With Janet there, Miss Pendleton will have no cause for misunderstanding.”

Ian’s head began to ache. He often drew, but in his current mood, he had no desire even to hold a pencil. But Janet, excited at the chance to be in the same frame as the flower of society, Miss Lance, began to urge him on.

Normally, Ian would have refused the troublesome service, even at the risk of being rude, but his current situation left him no choice. Miss Lance was not just any lady; she was the thread that could connect him to Miss Pendleton.

He had a servant bring his pencil case from his bag, then moved a side chair to sit opposite the sofa where the ladies were seated.

“I will only draw one. You two can sort it out. I don’t mind if you tear it in half and each take a piece.”

Miss Fairfax quickly said.

“Of course, the drawing is for Miss Lance.”

“Oh, Miss Janet, how kind of you. Thank you. When I receive the drawing, I will hang it in the most visible place in our drawing room and showcase your beauty to everyone who visits.”

Miss Lance praised Miss Janet in a sweet voice. Miss Janet blushed, savoring her words.

Her portrait, hanging in the Lance family’s drawing room! Miss Lance, showcasing her beauty!

She felt like squealing with delight.

Soon, the pencil case arrived. He took out a pencil and a knife and, like a farmer honing his scythe before a harvest, sharpened it with a dry, indifferent expression. Meanwhile, the two ladies fixed each other’s hair and smoothed their dresses, preparing to be captured on the page.

Shortly, Ian directed the ladies on where to sit and the angle of their gaze. Then, with a word for them not to move, he lifted his pencil. The two ladies looked at Ian with the most demure, lovely, and elegant expressions in the world.

*Scratch, scratch, scratch.* The sound of graphite on paper filled the drawing room.

While Ian’s pencil moved across the paper, William stood beside him, watching his younger sister. Her rosy cheeks and lovely expression. As a brother who doted on her, he felt a quiet satisfaction at the thought of Janet’s image being preserved forever in a drawing.

But Ian, the one actually drawing, felt neither satisfaction nor inspiration. To him, copying a subject that did not move his heart was the worst kind of torture. He had made it a point to rarely mention his hobby of drawing to avoid such requests, so this was an utter disaster.

The drawing was finished in less than thirty minutes. He held the sketchbook level and blew lightly on the surface to clear away the graphite dust. Then he tore the page out neatly and handed it to Miss Lance.

The two ladies stared intently at the drawing. Their likenesses had been perfectly transferred to the paper by the hand of a skilled artist. They expressed their admiration.

“It’s wonderful, Mr. Dalton! I’ve never seen such a delicate and precise portrait. The pattern on Miss Fairfax’s dress and her expression are captured perfectly!”

Ian accepted their thanks with a placid expression. Miss Lance and Miss Fairfax kept him for some time, wishing to convey their admiration for the drawing. But even tea time had its proper length, and Miss Lance rose at a moment that would not breach etiquette.

William, to ensure Miss Lance could take the drawing home safely, emptied a portfolio from his house and placed Ian’s drawing inside. Miss Lance thanked the kind William and invited the three of them to her home to see the picture hanging in her drawing room. The three promised to visit soon and saw Miss Lance off.

In the carriage on her way home, Miss Lance opened the portfolio and looked at the drawing he had made for her. His sketching skill was exceptional. Such precise and clear expression was something one would expect only from a professional artist.

She couldn't help but be surprised to learn that Ian Dalton possessed such a delicate ability. There were many wealthy gentlemen in the world, but surely none who also possessed such artistic talent.

Miss Lance gazed at the drawing, recalling the moment he had sketched her.

His dark eyes, shining intently beneath his black hair, had moved busily between her and the paper. His large, slender hand had copied every one of her features, every fold of her dress, and the shape of her hands onto the page.

His eyes had touched every part of her—those two dark eyes. Feeling her cheeks grow warm, she closed the portfolio and shivered lightly.

As soon as she arrived home, she took the finest frame in the house, placed the drawing inside, and, as promised to Miss Janet, hung it in the most conspicuous spot in the drawing room.

She would look at the picture whenever she passed through the drawing room. And naturally, she would recall the man who had drawn her, and each time, she would blush and quickly avert her eyes from the drawing.