Chapter 87

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 87
Chapter Title: The Trouble with Austen
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“Yes, very much so. You have an excellent cook.”

He smiled softly at Laura's praise.

“Philip will be honored to know he has satisfied a lady from London.”

“It may be presumptuous of me to say, but if I were you, Mr. Dalton, I would raise the cook's salary every year. The wealthy families around here must be watching for a chance to hire him away.”

“It would take quite a fortune to lure Philip away from Whitefield. He previously worked in the kitchen of Viscount Richardson's household, where I'm told he managed a staff of twelve and earned a salary comparable to that of a French chef. But such fine treatment came at a price. His master was a social fanatic who hosted a dozen balls a month and held formal dinners every single day of the year. Forced to prepare thirty-course meals without a day's rest, Philip finally spurned the master who clung to his coattails, offering him five hundred pounds a year, and came to the kitchens of Whitefield.”

“Indeed, you don't seem the type to torment your servants with frequent balls and dinners, Mr. Dalton.”

“Philip said as much during his interview. He told me he decided to work here after hearing that the master of Whitefield was a gentleman much like Miss Havisham.”

Laura chuckled softly.

“Miss Havisham? What a terrible comparison. I was under the impression you had a good reputation in Yorkshire, Mr. Dalton.”

“That must be a rumor spread by those I've berated to their faces. I pay it no mind.”

“So, is Mr. Philip satisfied with his position?”

“I've never asked, but the man who looked like a bundle of dry twigs when I first saw him has grown as plump as a pampered hamster in his five years here. I imagine it's quite a comfortable life, having only to prepare meals for one unsociable bachelor and twenty-seven servants.”

Olivia chimed in.

“But Uncle, is Mr. Philip really not thinking of leaving? Father would give him double the salary to come to our estate. You know how Father adores Mr. Philip's barbecue.”

“He won't leave. He recently bought a farm on the Whitefield estate and started growing herbs. He intends to live here until he's old and gray.”

The meal concluded. They decided to have dessert with tea and moved to another spot.

Mr. Dalton led them to a spacious tea table on a ground-floor terrace that opened directly into the garden. Fresh rose bushes stood just before the stone balustrade. The grassy scent of green leaves and the sweet fragrance of roses mingled with the warm air, creating a languid and romantic atmosphere. It was the perfect place for tea.

As they sat, a uniformed servant approached, wheeling a gleaming silver cart toward the table. With white-gloved hands, he began to arrange the tableware and food.

Plates with frilled, rounded edges, white napkins, a three-tiered dessert tray shaped like a birdcage. A golden cake stand. A porcelain teapot painted with lilacs. Silver utensils.

The aroma of desserts wafted around the table. Raspberry mille-feuille, English macarons, and buttermilk scones were nestled together on the dessert tray. A thick walnut coffee cake sat upon the cake stand.

After the servant bowed and retreated, Mr. Dalton skillfully lifted the teapot and poured tea for Laura and Olivia in turn. Then, he added a suitable amount of milk to Laura's cup.

Laura smiled faintly. She had a delicate stomach and always drank her black tea with milk, and it seemed he had remembered.

He then placed a slice of lemon in Olivia's teacup before taking a knife and serving cake onto both ladies' plates. It was an impeccable display of hospitality, quite unlike Miss Havisham.

Laura, who had been savoring the cake with admiration, finally spoke.

“Now then, please continue the story from earlier, Mr. Dalton.”

“What story were we discussing?”

Mr. Dalton shrugged, feigning ignorance.

“The reason you dislike Austen's novels.”

“Ha, I spent the entire meal praying you would forget about Austen, Miss Pendleton, but it seems God has forsaken me.”

“God blessed me with a good memory. Now, please tell me. What aspects of Austen's heroines did you find so lacking, Mr. Dalton?”

“Miss Pendleton, I implore you. Please withdraw your request for my honest opinion on Austen. I find myself unable to refuse you.”

“If my request truly pains you, Mr. Dalton, then of course I must withdraw it. However, I believe the topic I've proposed is more than sufficient to enliven our afternoon. Could you tell me what it is about this subject that makes you so eager to flee?”

“Firstly, because the mistake I made has brought me shame. I may not possess virtues like kindness or delicacy, but neither am I so insensitive as to trample on another's tastes to their face. Such behavior is characteristic of the thoughtless people I have always despised. Yet, I committed that very act without thinking—and to none other than my dear friend, Miss Pendleton. To be honest, my face still flushes when I think of it. I was reckless. For some time, I suspect the mere mention of Austen's name will remind me of today and make me blush with shame.”

Mr. Dalton moistened his lips with his lemon tea.

“Secondly, because I do not wish to hurt your feelings, Miss Pendleton. To those who enjoy novels, the protagonists of a cherished work are like friends. Elizabeth Bennet, Emma Woodhouse, the Dashwood sisters, Fanny Price, Catherine Morland, Anne Elliot—they have all had the privilege of your affection for many years. For me to comment on them would be as disagreeable to you as if I were to speak ill of Miss Hyde or Mrs. Morton, whom you left behind in London.”

Laura, who had listened intently to his words, smiled gently.

“I am sorry to hear that your earlier mistake has left such a deep sense of shame in your heart, Mr. Dalton. It must be because the very virtues you claim to lack are hidden within you. And I know that no matter how many times I say it is all right, you will recall the incident and feel embarrassed for some time. Those with a clean heart suffer longer and more deeply than those without. But Mr. Dalton, I cannot bear to see my dear friend tormented on my account. Will you permit me to say a few words, so that you might feel the lightness of your mistake?”

He looked at Laura and grinned. It was a playful smile, one befitting a friend.

“I have no choice but to permit anything you wish, Miss Pendleton.”

“Thank you. Now, firstly, the incident earlier was truly nothing to me. In fact, I consider it the most amusing event of today's visit. You are a flawless, perfect gentleman, Mr. Dalton, and not one to make mistakes easily. I am delighted to have experienced a mistake of yours, and I am especially pleased that you made it toward me.”

“Why is that?”

“Because for as long as our friendship lasts, I will be able to remind you of today's events from time to time and tease you. If you are tormented every time you recall it, I will lose a valuable source of jokes. I would have to avoid the subject of Austen in your presence as much as possible, and I believe that even the wittiest joke, if it causes pain, is nothing more than sadistic cruelty. However, if we spend an hour or two this afternoon discussing Austen on this beautiful terrace, the earlier incident will be overshadowed by the memory of a pleasant afternoon and remain but a fleeting happening.”

“But Miss Pendleton, are you truly unbothered? Your tastes were dismissed in a rather rude tone.”

“I believe I have matured enough to separate my tastes from my sense of self. And I would like to believe I know that no matter how much I may love the protagonists of a novel, a friend of flesh and blood is far more precious. Why would I be displeased if a true friend, Mr. Dalton, says a few unflattering words about characters created from the tip of a lady's pen a hundred years ago? On the contrary, I will be grateful for the good fortune of having a gentleman friend with whom I can discuss Austen's novels.”

Mr. Dalton then turned his gaze to Olivia.

“Have you ever seen such a persuasive lady?”

Olivia, who had been listening to the conversation between the lady and gentleman with a blank expression, shook her head.

“You wouldn't find another in all of England, Uncle.”

Mr. Dalton spread his hands and raised them to his shoulders in a gesture of surrender.

“I surrender. I will do whatever you ask. Your thoughtful heart, Miss Pendleton, holds a power more fearsome than any blade. When I listen to you, I come to believe that everything will be all right.”

Laura's cheeks flushed slightly at his praise.

Ian, who had been wearing a mischievous smile befitting a friend, quickly lowered his gaze to his teacup. Seeing the blush on Laura's face, his own face reddened in turn.

He took a moment to compose himself by sipping his tea, then once again put on the mask of a young gentleman whose heart held only friendship and goodwill.

“In that case, it seems the time has come for me to explain why I do not like Austen's novels.”

“With absolute honesty.”

Laura added.

“Yes, with absolute honesty.”

Laura and Olivia exchanged looks of anticipation. He crossed his legs and folded his arms.

“The protagonists in Austen's novels are all fools. There are no proper human beings. Across her six novels, there are not even ten exemplary, admirable characters, and their presence is woefully brief. Austen's eye is a microscope that magnifies only the fools of the world. And that is something she and I have in common. I, too, am someone who sees the uglier side of human nature all too well. The difference, however, is that Austen has the stomach to laugh it off, while I do not. I cannot stand fools. I loathe idiots. The characters Austen satirizes with such witty skill are all so pathetic that I find myself scowling rather than laughing.”

He shook his head slowly.

“Still, if the problem were confined to the supporting characters, I could have tolerated it. But in Austen's novels, it is not just the secondary characters but the protagonists themselves who are fools. Emma Woodhouse and Elizabeth Bennet are idiots who think themselves clever, Catherine Morland is a halfwit who cannot distinguish between novels and reality, and Marianne Dashwood is a drama queen who, mistaking herself for a tragic heroine, nearly ruins her own sister's reputation. Every time one of the protagonists did something foolish, I wanted to throw the book into the fireplace.”