Miss Pendleton (Update to C.222 END) - Chapter 95

Laura Pendleton visited Whitefield once a week thereafter, usually on Sundays. Attending the service led by Pastor Star, she would have lunch at the parsonage or Whitefield Hall and stroll through Whitefield’s forests, fields, and riverbanks. In her hands, she always carried her father’s sketchbook.

It was the place where her father had spent his final days, where he created the most artwork, and where he loved most dearly. It was also where his young body was ultimately laid to rest.

With her father as a connecting thread, Laura’s perspective on Whitefield shifted. Once merely a friend’s private estate and a countryside of dreamy beauty, Whitefield now felt like the most special and profound place in the world. Like a pilgrim following the footsteps of a great saint, she sensed her father’s presence in Whitefield, tracing his thoughts and emotions.

Ian Dalton was always by her side. He accompanied her out of concern that she might lose her way. Laura accepted his kindness without hesitation.

He walked quietly beside her, like a shadow or a breeze—present yet unobtrusive. When she found a scene from her father’s sketches and asked if it matched, he would answer. When she was curious, he would describe the moments when her father created those drawings.

Through Ian’s voice, Laura could vividly picture the father she had never seen. She imagined him sitting on a tree stump, a grassy field, a large rock, or a sturdy branch, sketching for hours. The gentle Whitefield breeze tousled his soft blond hair, his exposed neck tilted toward the sketchbook, and his delicate fingers diligently captured a piece of heaven on paper.

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

Laura sat on the same stumps or rocks where her father had rested, gazing at the landscapes he had seen, seeing through his eyes. Each time, she discovered a glimpse of heaven.

Whitefield’s serene and peaceful nature was a majestic work of art, carefully crafted by God. She felt the breath of the divine in the fragrant breeze and heard God’s whistle in the distant calls of birds.

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

While Laura lingered in this heaven, Ian, too, tasted paradise. Walking through Whitefield alone with Laura—how long had he wished for this? How fervently had he dreamed of accompanying her without fear of revealing his true feelings? He had believed marriage was the only way to achieve this, yet this opportunity had come like an unexpected gift.

He thanked the angel who had granted his wish. That angel, of course, was his mentor, Lewis Sheldon.

Mr. Sheldon had poured boundless love into his young pupil, who had lost his mother. He taught Ian everything he knew and offered heartfelt comfort. Perhaps it was the pain of seeing a boy, close in age to his own daughter, grow up without a mother that moved him.

As an adult, Ian often reflected on Mr. Sheldon, realizing the immense love he had received. Without him, Ian might have become a reclusive and melancholic person.

And to think, that man’s daughter was Laura Pendleton.

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