Grosvenor Square in the middle of the night, just like now. Her figure, holding a large suitcase, wrapped in a completely different green silk shawl than now, shivering and looking around. She stood in the deserted park, waiting for the chartered carriage to pick her up, longing for her one and only lover who would be inside.

But the image of the girl filled with expectations of love gradually changed as one hour passed, and then two. From anxiety to fear, from fear to despair.

And finally, as dawn was breaking, all expression soon disappeared from her face. And by the time grocery carts and luxury carriages carrying ladies to early morning prayers at church were running through the streets, she had lost all hope.

Whenever she dreamed of that time, her whole body would always be drenched in sweat. She curled up her sweat-soaked body and shuddered. The foolish plan to elope that she had attempted at seventeen ultimately ended in complete betrayal by the other party.

How naive she had been back then. A young man who appeared in high society. Handsome and intelligent, but penniless without a patron. The only man who understood her when she first entered society, lonely and frightened.

She thought that man would save her. That he would take her away from the society that ostracized her and treated her like air.

But in the end, he didn’t show up with the carriage. By marrying a wealthy woman two months after betraying her, he made her look like a fool among the society people who already knew they were lovers.

‘Did the woman… commit suicide?’

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

At that time, she was completely cornered. Everywhere in high society, people whispered about her story, and mockery and ridicule were regular desserts at tea time.

But she couldn’t commit suicide. She couldn’t bring despair to her grandmother who had abandoned her only child for her sake, nor did she want to leave this world with the story that Dolores Pendleton’s daughter died miserably like her mother. It was too shameful.

But above all, she wanted to live. She wanted to live properly once again. As Laura Sheldon, who was free before being entrusted to the Pendleton family.

She gritted her teeth and endured in high society with a label attached. She smiled kindly in front of those who mocked her, and behaved politely especially to those who spoke ill of her.

Her grandmother’s joy and friends’ kind companion, advisor to unmarried ladies. She endured, gritting her teeth to survive. To not hear that she followed in her mother’s footsteps until the day she left the Pendleton family, to repay all the kindness to her grandmother before leaving.

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

She clenched and unclenched her fist. Her body still hadn’t regained its vitality. She now thought of the freedom before her. She could go anywhere, stay anywhere. Now she was no longer ‘Miss Pendleton’, but ‘Laura Sheldon’.

Laura Sheldon. She repeated her new name. It felt like someone else’s because it was a name she had lost so long ago.

But this name was clearly her own. She vividly remembered her father calling her. Laura. Laura Sheldon. My daughter Laura Sheldon. Laura Sheldon, daughter of Dolores Sheldon and Lewis Sheldon.

“Laura Sheldon.”

She tried calling her own name. Laura Sheldon. Laura Sheldon. So unfamiliar. But…

Her sunken emotions were elevated. 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 spell. With each repetition, the unfamiliar sensation turned into a sense of liberation. She had already become addicted to the unfamiliar new name.

She wanted to call it endlessly. Her name, endlessly. She wanted someone to call her, wanted to use it when signing, and even wanted to leave it on her gravestone when she died.

She clenched her fist once again. Her grip tightened with normal strength. The muscles that had been slack were now taut.

She finally understood why she had to come here. It was to bid farewell forever to Laura Pendleton, who had sought freedom through a man 12 years ago.

The seventeen-year-old self who had staggered back to the Pendleton house with a suitcase would now be buried forever along with the name Laura Pendleton. She had gained, no, reclaimed a new name, and would never go back to how things were before.

Miss Pendleton stood up from the bench. And picked up the trunk beside her again. The still heavy weight painfully pulled at her shoulder muscles. But she knew that the things inside were much more useful than the luggage she had packed 12 years ago. She dragged it along, stumbling as she walked.

Towards a new destiny.

The next day, Laura woke up on a small bed in a second-rate inn near King’s Cross Station. As soon as she opened her eyes, she was startled to realize it wasn’t her usual luxurious room, but soon remembered the previous night.

The face of the innkeeper who didn’t hide his displeasure at her late-night arrival. The dark inn corridor she entered following the innkeeper holding a gas lamp. The small room with only one small candle allowed. Herself, undressing and falling asleep right away there.

Laura looked at the small chair placed on one side of the room. Her hastily removed mourning clothes were draped over it. She slowly got up and put them on again. Then she poured water from the bottle on the side into a chipped porcelain basin, washed her face, and arranged her hair using the small mirror hanging on the wall.

Her reflection in the mirror was pale with reddened eyes. She thought about what she had to do today. It was impossible with this appearance. Thinking that she should at least not look emaciated, she went downstairs right away.

According to the innkeeper’s instructions yesterday, the dining room was one floor below. She slowly walked down the corridor to move towards the stairs.

As she passed through the corridor, she passed by a gentleman in a shabby frock coat with a pipe in his mouth, and had to step aside as a little brother and sister in matching woolen dresses and shirts ran about wildly. As she descended the stairs, gradually louder noises assaulted her ears.

The dining room was very spacious but crowded with all sorts of people. Men and women, young and old, all kinds of people were mixed in one space.

She sat down first, and soon a waiter in casual clothes rather than a uniform approached her and perfunctorily asked what she would like to eat. She ordered coffee, soup, and two pieces of bread, and he turned away, swaggering.

Soon, the food she ordered arrived. She ate while observing the people.

Numerous people were gathered at tables in groups of three or five, drinking coffee, reading newspapers, smoking cigarettes, and tearing into bread.

The clothes were generally shabby, and even in the best cases, they were modest middle-class attire. After carefully listening to people’s conversations, she could tell that they were all travelers.

Maids who worked in noblemen’s country houses and got a day off to sightsee in London. A lawyer and secretary on a business trip to London. A merchant family up from the countryside to visit relatives. A peddler traveling around the country to sell goods. She looked at each of them with interest.

Laura didn’t stand out among them. Fortunately, the black mourning dress she wore was simple for a noble’s, so no one noticed her former status through her clothes.

Moreover, due to the stress and fatigue of the past few days, her eyes were swollen and puffy, concealing much of her beauty. It was fortunate for her, as she didn’t feel like talking to anyone yet.

She finished her meal silently and went back to her room. The coffee and hot soup had restored her energy. Honestly, that simple meal just now was the worst food Miss Pendleton had ever eaten. The coffee was weak, the soup was bland, and the bread was burnt on the outside.

But strangely, they all went down easily. It digested well, leaving her stomach comfortable without any discomfort.

She returned to her room and locked the door carefully. Then she opened her trunk and took out a bundle of documents. And from there, she found the deposit receipt from the bank.

The most recent one from two months ago came out. She looked at the receipt. There was a total of 500 pounds in the account under her name.

She had lived frugally for 12 years. Her grandmother, Lady Abigail, always gave her wads of pocket money, telling her to buy dresses or get jewelry. She saved it all diligently.

She stared quietly at the receipt. 500 pounds. With this much money, she could rent a small house with a kitchen in London’s middle-class bedroom community or a relatively safe commercial district. She wouldn’t be able to have a maid, but if she was frugal, she could live modestly for about 10 years.

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

Work.

She recalled the information she had collected about the teaching profession. Whether as a school teacher or a governess, it was common to retire from the front lines at 50. Then she had at least 20 years left to work. If her health allowed, that is.

Her goal was to work as a governess until her 50s, then retire and get a small cottage in the countryside. With one male servant to guard the house and one maid for odd jobs.

In such an environment, even if she became infirm due to old age, she could live without inconvenience and escape the anxiety of living alone as a woman, staying safe.

For that, she needed at least 3,000 pounds. Even 3,000 pounds would be a tight amount if considering unpredictable illnesses in her later years.

After thinking for a moment, she took out the practical leather bag she had put in her trunk. And into it, she put some documents, her wallet, and the pouch of jewelry hidden deep in the trunk.

She looked in the mirror wearing a flat brown hat and black cape. Thanks to breakfast, her complexion had returned and the swelling had gone down, making her face look passable. Reassured, she went out.

She first took a chartered carriage to the West End. She looked for the sign she had once imprinted in her mind through the window, and soon it caught her eye. She immediately had the carriage stop and paid the fare.

“Westerway Governess Specialist Employment Agency”