Miss Lance repeatedly argued against her mother’s opinion, but secretly she was also tempted by the suggestion that he had fallen for her.

Having finally escaped her mother’s grasp, Miss Lance went up to her room, changed clothes with the help of her maid, and sat at her dressing table to have her hair done. A large mirror hung on the dressing table, and Miss Lance could see her own reflection in it.

Luscious light brown hair, clear sky-blue eyes, a vivid rosy face with distinct and lovely features. Although it was a sight she saw daily, a sweet vanity blossomed as if seeing it for the first time. A vanity that even the discernment she had always tried to maintain could not repel.

After staring into the mirror for a long time, Miss Lance’s excited mind soon shifted to thoughts of Ian Dalton, who had visited the house today.

Did he really like her? Really? On what grounds?

She carefully recalled the times she had met Mr. Dalton over the past two days. She remembered making eye contact with him at least three times, and each time she recalled him smiling at her.

That was precisely true. But as memories tend to do, they became distorted and embellished according to her current mood.

Miss Lance ended up remembering his customary kindness as the delight of seeing a lady he had fallen for at first sight. The very expression that most gentlemen she had met since her debut in society would make.

Her cheeks flushed. Ian Dalton. That great man had also become one of her admirers. She was so elated she could hardly contain herself.

Miss Lance dismissed her maid and sat at her dressing table for a long time. And she thought deeply about Ian Dalton as a potential marriage partner. All of her admirers were impressive men.

The eldest son of some politician. The eldest son of some earl’s family. But as her mother said, England was in a recession, and even the nobility were not free from the threat of bankruptcy.

The eldest sons who inherited their families sought women with large dowries, looking overseas, to protect their houses. Those second sons and below, who were thrown out into the world without a penny from their families, were desperate to catch women who would bring large dowries to improve their fortunes.

Thinking of reality, Mr. Dalton’s value seemed much higher. Although he was a gentry, the head of a family over 400 years old like him was rarer than ten truckloads of dukes in this age of title inflation. Moreover, he was the eldest son who inherited all the assets alone, and besides the inherited land and mansion, he had considerable assets.

Miss Lance thought about Whitefield, which she had heard about from his lips, until the candle burned out. She imagined married life with him (‘He will surely be a kind husband. A man so handsome couldn’t possibly have a rough personality.’) and gave names one by one to children who resembled him and herself equally. And by the time she went to bed, she was excited at the thought of walking down the aisle with him within the year.

* * *

Afterwards, Miss Lance and Mrs. Lance kept their ears to the ground regarding Mr. Dalton’s movements. Which balls he attended and which family dinners he participated in.

For over a fortnight since Ian Dalton first appeared in London society, the social gatherings he attended were limited to tea parties held at Mrs. Abigail Pendleton’s house and occasional dinners with Miss Pendleton’s friends. He seemed to have no interest whatsoever in operas, concerts, or shopping in the retail districts.

Miss Lance, who had been dreaming of accidentally meeting Mr. Dalton in such places, was disappointed, but the experienced Mrs. Lance saw Mr. Dalton’s movements as a green light.

Although Miss Pendleton was an outdated spinster, she was still London’s top matchmaker who had produced ten couples with perfectly matching conditions over several years. Ian Dalton’s close association with her could be interpreted as intending to be introduced to London ladies through Miss Pendleton and find a bride among them.

However, if Miss Pendleton had heard Mrs. Lance’s deduction, she would have responded with a skeptical smile. From Miss Pendleton’s perspective, Mr. Dalton showed no interest in finding a bride.

After they first met at a ball, he would unfailingly attend the tea parties and dinners at the Pendleton house. Miss Pendleton introduced him to her friends, and Mr. Dalton spent time mingling with them.

However, he had never shown signs of being captivated by any of the ladies gathered there. He would just politely play along with the ladies’ jokes for a few words, then mostly approach Miss Pendleton, who was playing the piano, and quietly listen to her music.

And when the piece ended, he would request a song or ask to talk with her.

For a fortnight, he hovered around her like that at the Pendleton house.

Miss Pendleton had now come to the conclusion that he was more interested in making friendships than finding love. For Miss Pendleton, she couldn’t help but be pleased that there was someone who needed her friendship.

London’s weather was capricious. Even if it was clear all morning, dark clouds would suddenly roll in, and rain would pour down enough to make the ground muddy. At such times, the scheduled tea parties would naturally dissolve.

People either didn’t show up at all or left early even if they came. On such days, Mrs. Abigail’s condition would also worsen, and she would retire to her room early, while Miss Pendleton would go to the library to read or study. But Mr. Dalton always came at tea time.

On such occasions, Miss Pendleton felt sorry for not being able to provide suitable company for him, but Mr. Dalton didn’t seem to mind the absence of other guests.

Miss Pendleton would take him to the fireplace, seat him, and prepare warm tea and light refreshments. And they would talk for hours until the end of tea time.

At first, they talked about life in London, but Miss Pendleton realized that Mr. Dalton had little interest in that subject and asked different questions. About his estate, Whitefield, and life there.

At first, she worried that she might have asked about his private matters too hastily, but soon realized that it was an appropriate topic of conversation. He told her about his life more candidly than she expected.

His land, Whitefield, was a vast estate surrounded by fertile forests and fields, which had been meticulously managed since his ancestors’ time and passed down to him in its dazzling beauty.

His home, Whitefield Hall, was situated on a gentle hill in the middle of the estate. Looking out the windows, one could see at a glance the forest thick with white birch trees, perfectly fitting the name Whitefield, and fields where farmers were cultivating crops.

Mr. Dalton’s tone as he described his living grounds was unpretentious and warm. And love was evident. Affection for his land, Whitefield. Miss Pendleton was captivated by this affection and found herself asking him various questions.

He noticed that Miss Pendleton was sincerely listening to his story and enjoying it. He continued his tale with a gentle smile.

He told her stories about the yeomen and tenant farmers who cultivated his estate.

About their names, their farm situations, and their families. How they spent their time, how they earned income, how they raised and educated their children.

Miss Pendleton was surprised as she listened to him. There were over thirty farms on his estate, and he was aware of the situation of all the farms. This meant that he was not employing a land agent but managing his estate directly.

In England, most nobles didn’t even know how many farms were on their land. To them, tending to their estates was too trivial compared to hunting in packs on hunting grounds or indulging in pleasure at spa resorts.

But Mr. Dalton not only directly cared for his estate but also seemed to be closely connected with the farmers. More than business partners, almost like friends.

The more Miss Pendleton listened to his story, the warmer her heart felt. Perhaps there weren’t many landowners in England who held such affection for their land. Miss Pendleton offered him more tea. And she told him she would like to see Whitefield.

“If it’s such a beautiful land, it would surely inspire me, who’s been steeped in city life.”

“London, where you reside, Miss Pendleton, is a sophisticated space at the cutting edge. It’s glamorous, lively, and abundant in goods. But I can’t flatter you by saying that where you are is better than where I left. Because if you knew even a little about the forests of Whitefield, you could never say such a thing, even as empty words. I don’t want to act like a snob who’s desperate to boast about what he has, but I can’t help it.”

“It’s alright not to hold back. Stories about forests and trees are as fragrant as reading a good essay for a city woman like me who always has to live among people. Please continue. Even if I can’t see Whitefield in person, until I can clearly picture that scenery when I close my eyes, as if it’s right there in Mr. Dalton’s mind.”

Mr. Dalton’s expression softened at Miss Pendleton’s words.

“No matter how much I say, I won’t be able to express it. My vocabulary is too short and insignificant to fully convey that beauty. But let me show you in another way. As a small painting that could decorate the reception room.”

“Oh my, that would be an incredibly welcome gift. I suppose you have a servant skilled in painting at your home?”

“Well, you could say that. If you consider part of my body a servant.”

Miss Pendleton was surprised.

“You paint?”

“I learned a bit when I was young.”

Miss Pendleton found this interesting. Art education was rarely provided to sons, so it was peculiar. But Mr. Dalton didn’t elaborate on this and changed the subject.

“If I hadn’t left behind the sketchbook I always carry, I could have shown you Whitefield and introduced you to my troublesome nephews at the same time. What a pity.”

“Ah, your sister’s children?”

“That’s right.”

Children. It was as fresh a topic as forests and valleys. Miss Pendleton began to ask a few questions about his nephews, and soon, the diligent landowner became an affectionate uncle.

He got his first nephew before he was even eight years old. It was the son born to his sister, who was fifteen years older than him.

The name of his first nephew was Henry Fairfax. When that child was born, Mr. Dalton himself could only look at the baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. It was natural. Adults wouldn’t allow a child to hold a baby.

Afterwards, Mr. Dalton learned horseback riding and frequently visited Dunville Park where his sister lived.

“Looking down at Henry lying in the cradle was more enjoyable than playing cards with William. When that boy grew a bit, he always tried to follow us around. Horseback riding, fishing, running, he always wanted to be together.”