Miss Pendleton (Update to C.222 END) - Chapter 171

Part 2

Mid-September. A chill began to mingle with the breeze in Whitefield. The fragrant, moist air of summer grew drier by the day, and the lush greenery on the birch branches turned yellow and red. It was much like wrinkles forming on a human face or gray hairs beginning to appear. The season of youth, summer, had passed, and nature was now entering the phase of aging.

Whether nature felt sorrow in its aging was unknown, but for humans, autumn was a splendid season. It was a time when the heat retreated, a time for harvest, for picnics, and for fox hunting.

It was also the season that stirred the hearts of those with delicate sensibilities.

Ian Dalton, the lord of Whitefield, who might remain a local figure in practical matters but could be considered a national champion in romanticism, found his heart unsettled every autumn. The deep blue autumn sky, reminiscent of the sea, and the changing leaves of the forest evoked sweet sensations, yet the cooling air left his mood restless and melancholic.

He wandered through every corner of the forest, sketching the essence of autumn. For a romantic seeking solace in a changing environment, art was indispensable.

Laura was always by Ian’s side. Knowing that her husband would return quickly if he went for a walk alone, Laura gladly joined him whenever he suggested a stroll together. Of course, being a national champion in rationality, Laura never forgot to wear thick flannel undergarments and a fur coat to ward off seasonal colds.

That day, too, the couple was spending time in the Whitefield forest. They sat on a blanket spread out beside a cosmos flowerbed, back-to-back. Ian sketched the birch forest, where half the leaves had turned yellow, while Laura read the original text of a Stendhal novel she had recently been tasked with translating.

Sitting back-to-back was their preferred posture when each was engrossed in their own work, as it allowed them to face different directions while still feeling each other’s presence through their touching backs.

“Laura?”

Amid the chirping of crickets, the rustling of turning pages, and the soft scratching of graphite on paper, Ian’s voice broke the tranquil silence, calling out to Laura. She had been immersed in the climax of the novel, where the protagonist Julien Sorel shoots Madame de Rênal, and looked up toward Ian with a slight frown.

“Yes, Ian?”

“That thing floating over there—isn’t it your bookmark?”

Laura turned her head toward a small spring near the flowerbed. Among the rotten leaves and dead insects floating on the water’s surface, an ivory paper bookmark adorned with a pressed azalea was slowly getting wet.

Laura sprang to her feet.

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