Chapter 61

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 61
Chapter Title: Another Beginning
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Grosvenor Square in the dead of night, just like now.
Her own figure, clutching a large traveling bag, wrapped in a green silk shawl completely different from the one she wore now, trembling and looking around.
She had stood in the deserted park, waiting for the chartered carriage that was to pick her up, yearning for her one and only love who would be inside.

But the girl's face, once filled with the anticipation of love, gradually changed as one hour, then two, passed.
From impatience to fear, and from fear to despair.

And finally, as the first light of dawn broke, all expression vanished from her face.
By the time wagons carrying groceries and fine carriages transporting ladies to early morning prayers at church began to fill the streets, she had lost all hope.

Whenever she dreamt of that time, she would always wake up drenched in sweat.
She curled her sweat-soaked body and shivered.
The foolish plan to elope at seventeen had ended in his utter betrayal.

How naive she had been back then.
A young man who had appeared in high society.
Handsome and brilliant, but penniless without a patron.
The only man who understood her, lonely and frightened as she was, having just made her debut.

She thought he would be her savior.
That he would take her away from the society that ostracized her and treated her as if she were invisible.

But in the end, he never arrived in that carriage.
Two months after betraying her, he married a wealthy woman, making a fool of her in front of everyone in society who knew they had been lovers.

'Did the woman... take her own life?'

She recalled what Miss Lance had said when she'd told her own story disguised as that of another lady.
Suicide.
Perhaps it would have been better if she had.

Back then, she had been completely cornered.
Whispers of her story followed her everywhere in society, and ridicule and scorn were the constant dessert at teatime.

But she could not take her own life.
Not only could she not bring despair to the grandmother who had forsaken her own child for her, but she also refused to leave this world with the story that Dolores Pendleton's daughter had died an ill-fated death just like her mother.
That would have been far too shameful.

But more than anything, she wanted to live.
She wanted to live a proper life once more.
As the free Laura Sheldon she had been before being entrusted to the Pendletons.

She gritted her teeth and endured high society, branded by her past.
She smiled kindly at those who laughed at her and acted with impeccable manners toward those who spoke ill of her.

Her grandmother's joy, a gentle companion to her friends, an advisor to unmarried ladies.
She clenched her jaw and persevered in order to live.
To avoid hearing that she had followed in her mother's footsteps until the day she could leave the Pendleton house, and to repay her grandmother's kindness in full before she left.

And finally, at twenty-nine, she was free from the Pendletons.

She clenched and unclenched her fists.
Strength had not yet returned to her body.
She thought of the freedom that now lay before her.
The freedom to go anywhere, to stay anywhere.
For she was no longer 'Miss Pendleton,' but 'Laura Sheldon.'

Laura Sheldon.
She repeated the new name to herself.
It was a name lost so long ago that it felt like it belonged to someone else.

But this name was undeniably hers.
She vividly remembered her father calling her.
Laura. Laura Sheldon. My daughter, Laura Sheldon. The daughter of Dolores Sheldon and Louis Sheldon.

"Laura Sheldon."

She spoke her own name aloud.
Laura Sheldon. Laura Sheldon. So unfamiliar.
But...

Her subdued emotions began to soar.
Yes, Laura Sheldon. This is me.
A new me. A new name for a new life.

Miss Pendleton repeated her new name over and over, like a mantra.
The more she repeated it, the strange sensation transformed into a feeling of liberation.
Before she knew it, she had become addicted to this unfamiliar new name.

She wanted to say it endlessly.
Her own name, without end.
She wanted someone to call her by it, to use it when signing her name, and even to have it engraved on her tombstone when she died.

She clenched her fist once more.
Her hand closed with its usual strength.
The slack muscles in her arm grew taut.

She finally understood why she had to come here.
It was to part forever with the Laura Pendleton who, twelve years ago, had sought freedom through a man.

The seventeen-year-old girl who had stumbled back to the Pendleton house, clutching her bag, would now be buried forever along with the name Laura Pendleton.
She had gained a new name—no, reclaimed it—and she would never go back to the way she was.

Miss Pendleton rose from the bench.
And picked up the trunk beside her once more.
Its heavy weight still pulled painfully at her shoulder muscles.
But she knew that its contents were far more useful than the belongings she had packed twelve years ago.
She staggered forward, dragging it with her.

Towards a new destiny.

The next day, Laura awoke in a small bed in a second-rate inn near King's Cross Station.
She was startled for a moment to find it was not the luxurious room she was used to waking in, but she soon recalled the previous night.

The face of the innkeeper, who hadn't bothered to hide his displeasure at her late arrival.
The dim hallway of the inn she had followed him down, him holding a gas lamp.
The small room, where only a single small candle was permitted.
And herself, who had undressed and fallen asleep immediately.

Laura looked at the small chair in the corner of the room.
Her mourning clothes, which she had taken off, were draped carelessly over it.
She slowly rose and put them back on.
Then, she picked up a water pitcher from the side, poured water into a chipped porcelain basin to wash her face, and tidied her hair using a small mirror on the wall.

Her reflection in the mirror was pale, the rims of her eyes red.
She thought about what she had to do today.
It would be impossible looking like this.
Determined not to look so gaunt, she went straight downstairs.

The innkeeper had informed her yesterday that the dining room was on the floor below.
She walked slowly down the corridor towards the stairs.

As she passed through the hallway, she walked by a gentleman in a shabby frock coat smoking a pipe, and had to step aside for a young brother and sister in matching wool outfits who were running about wildly.
As she descended the stairs, a clamorous noise gradually filled her ears.

The dining room was quite spacious, but it was teeming with all sorts of people.
Men and women, young and old, all mingled together in one space.

She took a seat, and soon a waiter in casual clothes, not a uniform, approached and casually asked for her order.
She ordered coffee, soup, and two rolls of bread, and he sauntered away.

Soon, the food she had ordered arrived.
She observed the people around her as she ate.

Countless people were gathered in small groups at tables, drinking coffee, reading newspapers, smoking, and tearing at bread.

Their clothes were mostly shabby, and even the best-dressed among them looked to be of the modest middle class.
Listening carefully to their conversations, she gathered that they were all travelers.

Maids who worked at aristocrats' country houses, on holiday for a day of sightseeing in London.
A solicitor and his secretary on a business trip to London.
A merchant family from the countryside, visiting relatives.
A traveling salesman who journeyed across the country to sell his wares.
She watched each of them with interest.

Among them, Laura did not stand out.
Fortunately, her black mourning dress was simple for an aristocrat's, so no one could guess her former status from her attire.

Moreover, the stress and fatigue of the past few days had left her eyes raw and swollen, concealing much of her beauty.
It was a relief for her, as she was in no mood to speak with anyone.

She finished her meal in silence and returned to her room.
The coffee and hot soup had restored her energy.
Honestly, that humble meal was the worst food Miss Pendleton had ever eaten.
The coffee was watery, the soup was bland, and the bread was burnt on the outside.

Yet, strangely, it all went down smoothly.
It digested well, leaving her feeling comfortable without any sense of unease.

She returned to her room and locked the door securely.
Then, she opened her trunk and took out a bundle of documents.
From within it, she found the deposit receipt from the bank.

The most recent one was from two months ago.
She looked at the receipt.
Her account held a total of 500 pounds.

She had lived frugally for twelve years.
Her grandmother, Lady Abigail, had always pressed large sums of allowance into her hands, telling her to buy dresses and procure jewelry.
She had saved every bit of it.

She stared at the receipt.
Five hundred pounds.
With this amount of money, she could rent a small house with a kitchen in a middle-class suburb of London or a respectable commercial district.
She wouldn't be able to afford a maid, but if she lived sparingly, she could scrape by for about ten years.

But what about after that?
Eventually, she would have to work.

Work.

She recalled the information she had gathered about the teaching profession.
Whether a schoolteacher or a governess, it was a profession from which one typically retired at the age of fifty.
That meant she had at least twenty years left to work.
Provided her health held up, of course.

Her goal was to work as a governess until her fifties, then retire and acquire a small cottage in the countryside.
With one male servant to protect the house and one maid-of-all-work.

In such an environment, she would be able to live comfortably even if her mobility became limited due to old age, and she could live safely, free from the anxieties of a woman living alone.

To do that, she would need at least 3,000 pounds.
Considering the unpredictable illnesses of old age, even 3,000 pounds was a tight sum.

After a moment's thought, she took out a practical leather satchel she had packed in her trunk.
Inside, she placed a few documents, her wallet, and a pouch of jewelry she had hidden deep within the trunk.

She looked in the mirror, wearing a flat brown hat and a black cape.
Perhaps due to breakfast, some color had returned to her cheeks and the swelling had gone down, making her appearance decent enough.
Reassured, she went outside.

She first took a chartered carriage to the West End.
She searched through the window for a sign she had committed to memory sometime ago, and soon it came into view.
She immediately had the carriage stopped and paid the fare.

"The Westerway Governess Employment Agency"