Chapter 39

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 39
Chapter Title: A Fool in Love (2)
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Who would suffer over feelings that were sure to be returned?

Her boundless faith was tinged with the vanity of overestimating her own beauty, but it was not an entirely baseless delusion. She had learned from her interactions with Miss Janet that Mr. Dalton had little taste for society. His return to the bustling city of London must surely be for a specific purpose.

She believed it had something to do with her. For ever since Ian Dalton had returned to London, he had started frequenting her tea parties.

Though not every day, Ian had been visiting Miss Lance’s tea parties quite often with Miss Fairfax since his arrival in London. He mingled effortlessly with the hostess, Miss Lance, and the core members of her circle: Miss Susan Donovan, Miss Victoria Wilkes, and Miss Daisy Orson.

The ladies were at first taken aback by the frequent appearances of Mr. Dalton, with whom they had never properly socialized before, but they were soon charmed by his impeccable manners and gentlemanly kindness, and welcomed him with pleasure.

He was polite to all the ladies, but particularly attentive to Miss Lance. Ian himself was unaware, but this had long led Miss Lance and her friends to speculate that he held a fondness for her. Ian Dalton’s sudden reappearance in London and his frequent visits to Miss Lance were enough to turn that speculation into certainty.

Of course, his kindness toward Miss Lance never once crossed the line of a gentleman’s manners toward a lady in society. His kindness was conventional and ordinary. But they had already firmly misunderstood Mr. Dalton’s true intentions, so it was perhaps natural that they saw his every action as a token of his affection for Miss Lance.

“Did you hear what he said earlier? ‘I entirely agree with you’!”

Miss Victoria Wilkes exclaimed in an agitated voice in the drawing room, where the four ladies were left alone after Mr. Dalton had taken his leave from the tea party.

“To what Dora said, he replied, ‘I entirely agree with you.’ And he said it three times!”

“Victoria, were you counting?”

Miss Lance asked, looking abashed.

“Is that the point? He said he entirely agrees with you.”

“Victoria, what does that even mean? It’s just something people say.”

“Yes, the words themselves might not mean anything. But remember his tone. Remember his expression and his gestures. He was saying, ‘My heart belongs entirely to you!’ Didn’t you feel it, Dora?”

Miss Dora Lance said nothing. Her face was as red as a pomegranate seed. At Miss Lance’s reaction, the other three ladies’ hearts fluttered and swelled.

They loved their perfect friend to the point of adoration. So they were proud that she had stolen the heart of such a wonderful gentleman, as if they themselves were the recipients of his affection.

“He’s in love. If not, he wouldn’t be coming to these tea parties so often.”

“That’s right, I think so too. Perhaps soon… soon, he might propose to Dora!”

The three ladies let out a collective shriek of delight.

Miss Lance tried to rein in her friends, who she felt were getting too carried away, but she was so pleased by the possibilities they presented that her words of restraint lacked any force. In fact, it was more like she was encouraging them, denying one moment only to affirm the next, shaking her head then shyly lowering her gaze in silence.

To her friends, this behavior seemed laden with countless implications. It felt like a hint that some secret signals were passing between Ian Dalton and Dora Lance.

“With Mr. Dalton’s looks and Dora as his wife, their children will probably be so beautiful.”

“Just beautiful? They’ll be like little angels!”

“Dora, what will you name the children?”

Miss Lance tried to manage a troubled smile, but what came out was a smile full of anticipation. Her friends fanned Miss Lance’s blushing face and giggled.

“What are you all laughing about? Dora, you’ll have us as your bridesmaids, won’t you?”

Miss Lance shook her head back and forth.

“Don’t say such things. Nothing has been decided yet. I don’t even know Mr. Dalton’s heart.”

But not one of the ladies gathered there believed Miss Lance’s words. Not even Miss Lance herself.

“Alright, if Dora says she doesn’t know, how could we, who are not the ones involved, possibly know? Riiight?”

Miss Wilkes said, looking around at her other friends, and the remaining ladies nodded, hiding their sly smiles.

“But, if you do get married, you must, must, have the wedding at Whitefield. That’s the only way we’ll get to see Whitefield Hall, whether as guests or bridesmaids. Understood?”

Miss Lance, belatedly thinking she ought to be more discreet, pressed her lips together. With the main subject withdrawing, the three ladies lost their momentum for further silliness. Their conversation shifted to Whitefield.

“Speaking of which, Whitefield Hall is so famous, yet there isn’t a single painting of it.”

“You’re right. For such an old estate, you’d think there’d be a picture floating around.”

Miss Susan Donovan, who was from Yorkshire, chimed in knowingly.

“It’s a tradition passed down from the previous Dalton. They avoid displaying the family crest or the estate’s prestige to the outside world as much as possible. A quiet, pastoral life is the Dalton family tradition, you see. I heard that’s why Mr. Dalton doesn’t open the estate to tourists either. He says a home is a private family space and shouldn't be exposed to others.”

“So that’s why Whitefield Hall was the only one missing from the travel books?”

Miss Wilkes sighed. Just then, Miss Daisy Orson, who was beside her, clapped her hands and exclaimed.

“Oh, that’s right! Someone has seen a painting of Whitefield Hall!”

The gazes of the three ladies shot toward Miss Orson.

“What? Where? Which gallery is it in?”

“In the drawing room of the Pendleton townhouse!”

“What?”

The three ladies’ eyes widened.

“During a tea party at the Pendleton home, a friend of mine saw a landscape painting hanging there. When she asked Miss Pendleton what it was, she said it was a painting of Whitefield!”

“Huh? How did the Pendletons get a painting of Whitefield?”

As Miss Wilkes tilted her head in confusion, Miss Lance, who was beside her, offered a guess.

“Mr. Dalton used to frequent the Pendleton home, didn’t he? He must have painted it for them then.”

At those words, the other ladies were all surprised.

“You mean Mr. Ian Dalton became that close with the Pendletons? Close enough to give them a painting of Whitefield Hall, which he never reveals to the public?”

Miss Orson shrugged.

“Well, Miss Pendleton must have worked her charms on Mr. Dalton. Having such a rare painting hanging in her home helps with her reputation, doesn’t it?”

After that, the ladies continued to question Miss Orson about the painting, but as she had only heard of its existence, she couldn’t satisfy their curiosity. The ladies ended the tea party in a state of tantalizing, unfulfilled curiosity.

Left alone after her friends departed, Miss Lance sat down at the harp in a corner of the drawing room and began to delicately pluck the strings.

Her eyes followed the sheet music, and her fingers diligently moved to their positions, pressing and plucking the strings. But her mind was not on the music; it wandered elsewhere.

Mrs. Dalton. A wedding march at Whitefield. The mistress of Whitefield Hall. The faces of her children with Ian Dalton, bearing the Dalton name and looking just like them.

These were fantasies sweeter than the cream cake she had eaten at the tea party just moments before. She feasted on these delightful imaginings, her heart soaring with happiness.

If the painting he had given her had drawn her to the Fairfax drawing room repeatedly over the past few days, today’s tea party sent her mind constantly to the grand estate of Whitefield.

Miss Lance, forgetting to turn the page of her music, played the same page over and over, imagining a beautiful future with him. A new life that would begin at Whitefield.

To her, a future with Mr. Dalton was no longer a delusion to be briefly indulged and then dismissed, nor was it a vain hope. It was a future that would be laid before her as surely as the loaf of white bread that would be on her table tomorrow.

Without even realizing it, she had been swept up by her friends, who couldn't distinguish between wishes and facts, and had lost her own sense of judgment.

***

Miss Pendleton was so busy she could barely catch her breath. Before her uncle arrived from America, she had a mountain of things to do. For several days, consumed by worries about her new guests, Miss Pendleton remained completely unaware that Ian Dalton had returned to London.

But she had not forgotten Ian Dalton. No matter how busy she was, whenever she entered or left the drawing room, her eyes would always go first to the painting of Whitefield hanging on the wall.

A landscape of Whitefield, painted with care, not a single brushstroke wasted. Every time she looked at Whitefield, so breathtakingly beautiful as rendered by his hand, she would feel a faint ache in her chest.

Less than a month had passed since he left, yet it felt like several. She recalled his dark eyes and the warm expression that graced his delicate features, and her heart ached for him, who had to leave with only his gift after her rejection.

But whenever such thoughts arose, she quickly brushed them away. It was the best thing for both of them.

On a warm spring day in May, a magnificent four-wheeled carriage, emblazoned with the Pendleton crest, stopped in front of the Pendleton townhouse.

Miss Pendleton, who had been standing in front of the mansion alongside the servants at the appointed time, saw a young man with a smooth, polished face step down from the carriage as a footman opened the door.

Though she had never seen him before in her life, she knew at once from his fashionable attire and angular features that he was Charles Pendleton, the second son of the Pendleton family.

‘He’s the spitting image of Uncle in his youth.’

Seeing his face made Miss Pendleton even more nervous. Charles Pendleton bore an uncanny resemblance to her uncle. The sight of him instantly brought back a vivid memory, piercing through the veil of time: her uncle, throwing a birchwood cigar box at her as a child and chasing her away from the fireplace.