Chapter 94

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 94
Chapter Title: Fated Lovers
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Laura visited Whitefield Hall alone the next day. It was the first time she had gone to Whitefield Hall by herself.

Laura walked slowly into the mansion. Ramswick, the butler, who had been awaiting her visit, guided her inside.

Passing through the resplendent hall and up the stairs, she arrived before his study. Ramswick opened the door for her, and Laura stepped inside.

He stood by the window, impeccably dressed in a grey suit and a navy tie.

“Welcome.”

He greeted her in an awkward voice, unbefitting of the rapport between them. Laura gave him a slight curtsy.

“Did you feel dizzy at all after returning home?”

“Not in the least.”

“It seems you didn't sleep well.”

Laura smiled faintly.

“I couldn't sleep.”

He nodded as if in understanding.

“Will you sit?”

They sat on a buffalo leather sofa on one side of the study. Soon, a servant entered with a tray bearing black tea, cake, and cookies. After the servant finished setting everything down and left, he naturally lifted the teapot, poured tea into Laura's cup, added milk and two spoonfuls of sugar, and stirred it with a teaspoon.

While Laura slowly drank her tea, he placed a slice of cake and some cookies on her plate. Having barely eaten breakfast, Laura ate them with relish. As she ate, he simply watched her without a word.

She finished the slice of cake and dabbed her mouth with a napkin.

“Was it good?”

Laura nodded. A faint smile touched his lips.

“I'm glad you enjoyed it. Miss Pendleton, ah... would you prefer I call you Miss Sheldon?”

“Whatever is most comfortable for you, Mr. Dalton.”

“For me to be comfortable, Miss Pendleton must be comfortable.”

“In that case, I prefer Miss Pendleton. It's what you've always called me.”

“Very well, Miss Pendleton.”

He rose from his seat and strode to his desk. On it was a large cardboard box. He brought it back and set it down on one side of the table.

Laura looked at the box. The name Louis Sheldon was clearly written on it, and a small paper envelope rested on top.

He picked up the paper envelope and held it out to Laura.

“First, I'd like you to look at this.”

Laura took the envelope.

“It's the entirety of Mr. Louis Sheldon's estate.”

Laura slowly opened the envelope and took out its contents. She had no particular expectations. Her father, who had lived his entire life as a poor painter, could not possibly have left a great inheritance. She imagined it would be a bank deposit of a few dozen pounds and perhaps some banknotes he had on hand.

A bank receipt emerged from the envelope. Laura tried to count the figures written on it.

“Two thousand... pounds...?”

Laura glanced over at Mr. Dalton. He was stirring his tea, which had a slice of lemon in it.

“This was my father's money?”

“Yes. And now it's yours.”

“That's impossible. My father was poor. His profession was not one to earn this kind of money...”

“When Mr. Sheldon first came to Whitefield, he was a portrait artist whose reputation was beginning to grow among the aristocracy. It was also a time when the landscapes he painted during his travels were starting to catch the eye of discerning art dealers.”

“But whenever I met with art dealers, I asked about my father. They all said they didn't know him...”

“That's because he passed away just before he could gain widespread acclaim. There are thousands of active painters in England, and an artist who dies before becoming famous is quickly forgotten. But I am certain that if he had lived, he would have become a household name in England within a year or two. His paintings were beautiful. Like his soul.”

There was conviction in his voice, but Laura decided to believe only half of it. Strong affection can make objective criticism difficult.

As if reading her mind, he opened the box of keepsakes and held out one of the sketchbooks to Laura.

Laura opened the sketchbook. Inside were layers of her father, Louis Sheldon's, unfinished watercolors.

They were all landscapes of Whitefield. The lakeside at sunset. A forest on a beautiful, starry night. A desolate wheat field awaiting harvest.

The colors were bright and translucent. They were so vivid it seemed as if real light and shadow, not paint, had been melted into the scenes. The technique was flawless, the style uniquely his own.

Laura, who had a good eye for art, had to agree with Mr. Dalton's conviction. Her father was a brilliant artist. Had he not passed away so early, he would surely have become one of England's most celebrated painters.

For the first time in her life, Laura felt proud of her father.

She turned her gaze to the box of keepsakes. A frayed handkerchief. A worn shirt. A stained palette and paint box. A Bible. A well-worn leather bag. These were the things her father had worn, carried, and used in her memories.

Befitting the possessions of an unknown artist who had never known wealth, they were shabby, but there was not a speck of mold or dust on them.

“It's as if he was using them just yesterday.”

“My father took great care in looking after Mr. Sheldon's things. He was always grateful to him for saving me from my sorrow.”

Laura smiled softly.

“I heard from Mrs. Starr. She said my father was a good teacher to you.”

“He was more than that.”

He smiled, a smile tinged with sadness.

“As a child, I was always sensitive and prone to melancholy. After my sister left to be married, I grew even more depressed and lonely. Mr. Sheldon taught me how to accept that part of myself. 'Feelings aren't a bad thing,' he'd say. 'If you're lonely, paint your loneliness. If you miss someone, paint the person you miss. If you project your heart outward, the pain disappears, and only the richness that emotion provides remains. In that richness, even sorrow is beautiful.'”

Laura recalled the watercolor of Whitefield that Mr. Dalton had given her. Such a beautiful painting had its origins in her father's teachings.

“After he passed away, I was lost in despair for some time. But he had left me with a way to overcome sorrow. I did as I was taught: I painted for him and prayed for him in heaven. When I had something to say, I would write him a letter. When I could finally mourn him without tears, I knew I had grown.”

His voice was thick with emotion. He still missed the teacher he had lost more than twenty years ago.

Laura felt an urge to embrace him tightly. She wanted to comfort him and thank him for not forgetting her father.

It was an impulse she dared not act upon. Laura thought of another way to console Mr. Dalton.

“Mr. Dalton, shall we take a short walk?”

The two of them went outside.

The early autumn air had a refreshing coolness, like the chill held in the deepest valley. They passed through the garden and walked along a tranquil dirt path lined on both sides with white birches. The chirping of crickets and mountain birds mingled with the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.

“I once said I wanted to take a walk through Whitefield. That wish has come true.”

Laura, who had been walking in silence for a while, spoke up.

“In London, you always spoke so proudly of Whitefield. I thought that if someone like you boasted of it, it must be a truly remarkable place. Seeing it for myself, I know it was no exaggeration. It's an absolutely beautiful place.”

“I'm grateful to hear you say so, Miss Pendleton.”

“My father must have felt the same way. All of his paintings were landscapes of Whitefield.”

“After coming to Whitefield, Mr. Sheldon painted nothing else.”

“I think I understand how he felt. I can't paint, but if I could, I would wander Whitefield all day with a brush, a palette, and a sketchbook.”

Mr. Dalton said nothing. Laura glanced at him from the corner of her eye. The corners of his mouth were turned up slightly.

Happiness bloomed in Laura's chest.

“Mr. Dalton, would it be all right if I came here to walk from time to time?”

He turned his head. Their eyes met.

“Would you welcome me even if I came without Olivia?”

“Of course.”

Laura expressed her thanks and looked forward again.

“I spent all last night thinking about my father. That he didn't abandon me. That he tried so hard to get me back, and that's why he died. I was confused. I couldn't believe it. A part of me didn't want to believe it. The person I am today was built on the belief that my father had abandoned me.”

She thought he would ask what she meant, but he remained silent. When she turned her head, she saw he was gazing ahead, listening quietly to her words. His calm demeanor gave her courage.

“I remember something that happened when I was fifteen. It was my birthday. They threw a party for me at the boarding school. The headmistress ordered a large cake, and all the students and teachers gathered. I attended the party in a lilac silk dress, a gift from my grandmother. It was a wonderful party. I blew out the candles on the cake, received kisses from my friends, and hugged my respected teachers. We celebrated boisterously late into the night. Late that night, I went to my room and crawled straight under the covers. And then I let out all the tears I had been holding back the entire day.”

“...”

“The cake, the dress, the congratulations from everyone around me—none of it could fill the emptiness in my heart. Because my father hadn't sent me so much as a postcard. I was disappointed every birthday, but that year seemed to be particularly hard. I cried and cried and cried all night. I think that was the day. The day I decided to live without being swayed by my emotions anymore.”

After she finished speaking, Laura wondered why she was confessing such a somber part of her past. Why, when she knew it would burden him?

It seemed she was afraid of being misunderstood by him. How must she appear to someone so full of love—a daughter who hadn't shed a single tear upon learning of her father's death? She must seem cold-blooded.

She wanted to explain herself. To say that her composure wasn't because she didn't love her father. That there was a reason she could no longer cry so easily.

He was probably struggling to find words of comfort. She should ease his burden. Laura turned to him with a bright smile, ready to say, 'It's all right now.'

But when she turned to face him, the smile vanished from her face.

Mr. Dalton's face was wet with tears.

She stopped in her tracks and grabbed his arm.

“Mr. Dalton...”

He hastily turned his head away. His broad, strong shoulders were trembling slightly. She hadn't been mistaken.

Laura froze. She didn't know what to do. It was the first time she had ever seen a grown man like Mr. Dalton cry.

He took a clean, grey, checkered handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket and quickly wiped his face.

Laura gripped his arm tightly.

“It's all right now. It's all in the past, and I'm happy now.”

But her words had the opposite effect. He buried his face in his handkerchief and began to sob.

Listening to his sobs, Laura realized. He was grieving for her past—for Laura Pendleton's past. For the misfortune she had endured. He was weeping for the pain of a time that very few people knew about, and even fewer had pitied her for.

In that moment, a sharp *crack* echoed in her heart.

It was the sound of a crack forming in the lid that covered her heart.