Chapter 95

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 95
Chapter Title: In the Forest (1)
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Laura visited Whitefield once a week thereafter. Usually on Sundays. After attending the service, she would have lunch at the rectory or Whitefield Hall and then stroll through the woods, fields, and along the riverbanks of Whitefield. In her hands, she always carried her father's sketchbook.

The place where her father had lived the final moments of his life, and where he had left behind the most paintings. The place he had loved most. And the place where his young body was ultimately laid to rest.

With the connection to her father established, Laura's perspective on Whitefield changed. What was once merely the estate of a dear friend, a country place of dreamlike beauty, now felt like the most special and significant place in the world. Like a pilgrim following in the footsteps of a great saint, she felt her father's presence at Whitefield, tracing his thoughts and emotions.

Mr. Dalton was always by her side. It was out of concern that she might lose her way. Laura readily accepted his kindness.

He walked quietly behind her. Like a shadow, like the air itself, he was a near-imperceptible presence at her side. When she found a landscape from a drawing and asked if it was the right one, he would answer, and when she grew curious, he would explain what it was like when the drawing was made.

Through Ian's voice, Laura could picture the father she had never seen. A father who would sit for hours on a tree stump, on the grass, on a large rock, or on a thick branch, sketching.

The gentle breeze of Whitefield ruffling his soft blond hair, the soft nape of his neck visible above his shirt collar tilting toward the sketchbook, and his delicate fingers diligently transferring a piece of heaven he had captured onto the paper.

A father so beautiful it brought tears to her eyes, so very young.

Laura would sit on the same stumps or rocks where her father had sat and gaze upon the same landscapes he had seen. Through her father's eyes. And each time, Laura discovered heaven.

The serene and peaceful nature of Whitefield was a magnificent work of art, thoughtfully conceived and meticulously crafted by God. She felt God's breath in the fragrant wind and heard His whistle in the distant birdsong.

For Laura, time spent at Whitefield was like a moment in heaven.

While Laura spent her time in heaven, Ian, too, was tasting it. To walk through Whitefield alone with Laura. How long he had wished for it. How he had dreamed of accompanying her without fear of his true feelings being discovered. He had believed marriage was the only way, yet the opportunity had come like an unexpected gift.

He thanked the angel who had granted his wish. Of course, that angel had to be his mentor, Louis Sheldon.

Mr. Sheldon was a man who had poured immense affection upon his young student after the boy lost his mother. He taught him everything he knew and comforted him with all his heart. It must have pained him to see a boy, around the same age as his own daughter, growing up without a mother.

As an adult, Ian often thought of Mr. Sheldon and realized the magnitude of the love he had received. Without him, he would have become an autistic and melancholic man.

And to think that his daughter was Miss Pendleton.

He could never forget the moment Laura had fainted in his arms. That day, he had only visited the cemetery to see her face once more, to create another excuse to invite her to Whitefield. Yet that single event had become the catalyst for uncovering the truth.

He was surprised at first, but soon he wondered why he hadn't realized it sooner. In his memory, Mr. Sheldon was always a gentle, wise, and affectionate man, full of love. Miss Pendleton had inherited that disposition perfectly.

He had always believed his connection with Laura was destiny. That meeting her and falling in love was an act of divine providence. That she was the other glove in a pair meant for him, and the reason no other woman had ever caught his eye was because he was waiting to meet her.

Now that he knew about Laura's father, the belief he had been implicitly holding onto became an unwavering faith, like a revelation carved in a stone tablet.

‘She is the only one who can be my partner for life. She is the master of my life.’

He would gaze at Laura as she sat on the stump, listening to the sound of the wind with the elegant grace of a goddess, and think to himself:

‘Mr. Sheldon, now an angel, has guided his daughter to me. He wants me to take her as my precious partner. To repay the debt of gratitude I owe him by making his daughter happy.’

He felt his affection, already at its extreme, break through its limits and explode into a distant realm beyond human comprehension. Laura. Laura Pendleton. Laura Sheldon. A lovely woman, a woman impossible not to love. The one and only woman connected to him by a thread of fate.

He wanted to fall at her feet and offer her his everything. He felt he could sell his very soul if only he could secure her promise to be his wife forever.

But she did not want him.

He was devastated. If she loved him even a quarter as much as he loved her, they could be an immensely happy couple. But she would not love him even a speck.

It was only natural for him to be so certain. Laura showed no emotional turmoil in his presence. She might blush and become flustered when he occasionally teased her, but otherwise, she was always placid and serene.

If she had shown him a look of longing, even just once, he might have been able to reveal his true heart.

But Laura showed no such sign.

Because of this, he tossed and turned every night, unable to sleep. She was an independent woman with a wealth of intellectual assets. On top of that, she had inherited Mr. Sheldon's fortune and escaped poverty. She was now a completely free woman.

If he were to beg for the affections of such a woman, she would leave him in an instant. For the sake of her friend's life. To avoid making the same mistakes as her parents. And to avoid being tied to a man she did not love.

The third reason pained him the most.

He knew that he was considered a good marriage prospect in society. The land his parents had left him was one of the largest estates in England, and in just a few years, he had more than quadrupled his inheritance, protecting his family's name during a period of recession in England.

And though he had never given it much thought, he knew that women found him reasonably handsome.

But to her, it seemed that everything he possessed meant little.

He tried to overcome his anguish by repeatedly sketching Laura's image every night. But it only made things worse. Grief can be weakened through sufficient mourning, but love only burns hotter the more one thinks of the beloved. Instead, the vivid image before his eyes only fanned the flames of his passion.

He writhed in his heated bed.

‘To win her love, I would even commit a sin. Even a sin God would not forgive.’

That sin, of course, was to continue the lie. To hide his true feelings and pretend to be her friend. To make her, by any means, fall in love with him.

‘Mr. Sheldon, if I can make her mine, I will repay you with happiness multiplied many times over. So please, let her become more careless than she is now. Let her lower her guard and become naive. So that I might find an opening to press forward. As she is now, there isn't room for even a needle to pass. Please, Mr. Sheldon.’

In his feverish, hazy state of mind, he would pray to his guardian angel.

***

“Mr. Dalton, I do believe it's going to rain.”

On a peaceful Sunday afternoon, while walking with Mr. Dalton along a lush birch path in Whitefield, sketchbook in hand as usual, Laura said this as she flexed her hand.

Mr. Dalton, walking beside her, stopped and looked up at the sky. Through the dense birch trees, the sky was a perfect blue, without a single wisp of a cloud.
Looking up at the sky with him, Laura felt embarrassed.

“Oh, it doesn't look like rain at all.”

“Why do you think it will rain?”

Laura awkwardly rubbed her right hand.

“This hand starts to ache when it's about to rain.”

Laura answered innocently, assuming he knew nothing about this hand. But he knew far more about her than she thought.

A memory flashed through Mr. Dalton's mind, and he clenched his jaw.

Damn that Gerald Pendleton. His jaw muscle twitched.

He quickly suppressed his agitation and turned to head back toward the manor.

“Let's go back.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Dalton. I think it's probably just aching.”

“There's nothing more accurate than the body's signals.”

Laura shook her head.

“This hand often sends mixed signals. I'm supposed to apply a warm compress to it now and then, but I've been a bit negligent lately, so it's acting up. We've been out for less than half an hour; it would be a shame to turn back now.”

He looked at her with a reluctant expression, but soon a small smile touched his lips.

“Very well. If it rains on our way, the responsibility will be yours, Miss Pendleton?”

“Responsibility? What kind?”

“The responsibility for getting me wet, of course. If the ground gets muddy, you'll have to carry me back to the manor on your back. If I catch a cold from the rain, you'll have to nurse me. And if the sound of the rain makes me restless and fussy, you'll have to sing me a lullaby.”

Laura let out a soft laugh.

“Those are things my father did for you, aren't they?”

“They are.”

Laura rolled her eyes.

“All of those are either impossible or improper for me to do for you. But there is one thing I can offer.”

“And what is that?”

“If your clothes get wet, I'll lend you one of my dresses. You can wear it home.”

They both laughed aloud.

They walked slowly into the woods. After making their way between trees as white as a snowy field, they soon came to a meadow where willow leaves and foxtails grew knee-high. After walking for some time through the field, dyed golden by the clear sunlight, they arrived at a large lake that mirrored the blue sky.

Laura marveled at the beautiful scenery.

‘If Renoir were here, he would have painted the nudes of voluptuous women against this backdrop.’

She opened the sketchbook and flipped through the pages. She found a drawing that perfectly matched the scenery before her. She gazed at the picture.

Instead of a woman's nude form, her father had drawn a young boy against this backdrop. A child sitting in the grass with his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, watching the wind create ripples on the lake. It was an eight-year-old Mr. Dalton.

A smile touched Laura's lips.