Perhaps the eldest son of a wealthy earl or marquess, he speculated. And the day she would walk down the wedding aisle was not far off, he thought.

His musings were thanks to a hint from his younger sister, Janet. Recently, he had been too busy to frequent social circles, and naturally, he paid little attention to gossip or rumors. Then came the invitation to the hunting party at Whitefield.

Though busy, he had matters to discuss with Ian, and he didn’t want to send his sister alone, so he resolved to head to Whitefield.

While packing, Miss Janet asked Mr. Fairfax, who was standing nearby, “Brother, if someone asked me to be a bridesmaid, would it be all right to accept?”

“Of course. You’re old enough to be a bridesmaid. But who’s the bride at this wedding march?”

“It’s not certain yet, so I won’t say.”

“Who is it, hm?”

Knowing she wanted him to pry, Mr. Fairfax playfully pressed his sister. Miss Janet giggled.

“She’s a friend of ours. An angelic face, a first-rate harpist, and the best-dressed lady in London.”

It was as good as saying it was Miss Lance.

“I’ll stop there. It’s not official yet, but it’s as good as settled. The whole of London is buzzing with the news.”

Mr. Fairfax didn’t ask who Miss Lance’s suitor was. Prying into a close lady’s private life felt distasteful. But he had already planned the congratulatory message and the type of flower bouquet to send once the announcement was made.

Watching Miss Lance chatter across from him, he prayed silently, May the gentleman you’ve chosen be a fine man. May your innocent heart remain unharmed and may you become a happy wife and mother, Miss Lance.

Upon disembarking from the train, the Fairfax siblings headed to Dunville Park.

Miss Lance naturally joined her friends. They boarded a carriage waiting at the station and set off for Whitefield.

An air of excitement hung among them. Being invited to the famed Whitefield Hall was secondary. They firmly believed Mr. Dalton would propose to Miss Lance at this gathering.

Rumors that Mr. Dalton and Miss Lance were in love had already spread across London. What began in the lounge of the Lance family’s ball had snowballed into tales that the two had even set a wedding date.

Miss Lance had taken great care in choosing her dresses and accessories for the Whitefield visit. Her mother, with great resolve, had ordered a new gown, sighing over the dressmaker’s bill and sternly warning that if no proposal came, she shouldn’t bother returning home.

Miss Lance was composed. There was no chance she wouldn’t receive a proposal. If he weren’t interested in her, why would the Dalton family, so long secluded from society, open their gates to Londoners? He had surely arranged this gathering to call her from distant London, propose, and announce their engagement.

Carriages arrived one by one at Whitefield Hall. Ladies dressed to the nines and gentlemen, faces flushed with anticipation of shooting in new hunting grounds, stepped out.

Miss Lance and her friends marveled at Whitefield Hall’s exterior. How beautiful and refined it was—surely no exaggeration to call it England’s most stunning estate.

Miss Wilkes whispered to Miss Lance, “Soon, you’ll be the mistress of this place, Dora. Heavens, I’m sick with envy!”

Miss Lance blushed, but the corners of her mouth, rising involuntarily, betrayed her pride.

Mr. Dalton, neatly dressed, greeted each guest individually. It was a task for the hostess, but with the position vacant, he took it upon himself.

Miss Lance gazed at him with sparkling, expectant eyes. He smiled plainly and said, “Welcome, Miss Lance.”

That was enough. A lady lost in dreams of love could envision her entire future from a fleeting smile.

Servants carried luggage and assigned rooms. Miss Lance changed into a luncheon dress and descended to the dining room.

Name cards were placed at each seat. Families, friends, and business associates were grouped together, while those with scandals or business disputes were seated as far apart as possible.

Miss Lance grew curious. How did Mr. Dalton know Londoners’ relationships to arrange the seating so perfectly? It was impossible without someone’s help.

As everyone entered the dining room, Mr. Dalton arrived last.

To everyone’s surprise, a lady was by his side—Laura Pendleton.

Laura Pendleton entered the dining room on Ian Dalton’s arm, wearing a refined, silhouette-flattering purple dress and diamond earrings.

People exchanged hushed whispers. Everyone knew she had been cast out by the Pendleton family and become a governess. How had she, fallen to the status of a servant, appeared at Whitefield Hall so splendidly dressed?

Mr. Dalton surveyed the room with a confident, commanding presence.

“Thank you for gathering at this secluded retreat deep in the countryside. Opening this place, long shunned by outsiders, to such distinguished guests was made possible by the lady at my side, Miss Laura Sheldon.”

Sheldon. At the unfamiliar surname, puzzled gazes turned to her.

“Some time ago, I entrusted this highly educated and refined lady with the role of tutor to my nephews. Miss Sheldon has been an exemplary teacher and role model these past months. And we discovered a remarkable fact: her father was my childhood drawing master, the brilliantly talented painter Lewis Sheldon.”

The room drew a collective breath.

“That two families, connected across generations by such mentorship, is a remarkable bond. We see this as divine providence and have decided to welcome her not as an employee but as family. Allow me to introduce her again: a member of the Yorkshire Fairfax and Dalton families, Miss Laura Sheldon.”

The guests clapped, somewhat dazed.

Laura’s calm expression flushed slightly.

“On the right wall at the entrance to the long gallery on the second floor, we’ve hung works painted by the late Mr. Sheldon. Please feel free to view them. Now, let us dine.”

Mr. Dalton led Laura to the head of the table. He sat at its end, and she took the seat to his right.

Servants bearing trays filed into the dining room, and musicians waiting to one side began to play.

Over dinner, guests whispered among themselves.

Though astonishing, no one doubted the truth of the matter. It was common knowledge that Miss Pendleton had been recommended as a governess to the Fairfax family, and why would Ian Dalton, with nothing to gain, risk the honor of two families by lying for Laura Pendleton?

The nobles glanced at Laura. They were curious but harbored no hostility. She was no longer a poor, abandoned illegitimate child. She was Laura Sheldon, protected by Yorkshire’s most storied families. Who would dare cast a scornful look at her now, armored as she was?

After the meal, the men set out to hunt in Whitefield’s grounds. The ladies dispersed to the long gallery, drawing rooms, and billiard room to spend the afternoon.

Miss Lance, unsettled throughout the meal, toured the estate with her friends.

Though the Whitefield Hall she had so longed to see was before her, nothing registered. All she could see was the image of Miss Pendleton and Mr. Dalton standing side by side earlier.

Her friends’ chatter only deepened her distress. They were furious at Miss Pendleton, who had appeared under Mr. Dalton’s protection, brazenly stealing the spotlight meant for their friend, soon to be the mistress of the house.

“A member of the Dalton and Fairfax families? Ha! She’s just the daughter of some unknown American!”

“Exactly! An illegitimate child born before marriage, a spinster working as a servant in someone’s house!”

“She acted so self-aware, yet she shows up here. If I were Miss Pendleton, I wouldn’t even let my shadow fall on this place…”

“Enough, you two,” Miss Lance interjected, unable to listen any longer.

The two ladies looked at her. Miss Lance was pressing her temples with her fingers.

“Headache?” one asked.

Miss Lance said nothing, but they exchanged glances and fell silent, finally noticing their queen’s displeasure.

They wandered aimlessly, passing the music room, library, and billiard room, until they reached the long gallery.

Miss Wilkes and Miss Orson glanced at Miss Lance. Having vented about Miss Pendleton, they were curious about the paintings by Lewis Sheldon, her supposed father.

Miss Lance was curious too. She led her friends into the long gallery.

About a dozen ladies strolled freely, admiring the artwork. Among hundreds of paintings, the most popular were the landscapes near the entrance.

Miss Lance’s group pushed through the crowd to get closer to the paintings.

Facing them, they were stunned. The enchanting colors captivated them instantly. As well-educated ladies, they recognized the paintings’ value at once.

Whispers from nearby ladies reached Miss Lance’s ears.

“Miss Pendleton—no, Miss Sheldon’s father was remarkable, wasn’t he?”

“I know. We thought he was just some American rogue. If he hadn’t died young, he’d have been famous. Miss Sheldon would’ve been the daughter of a celebrity. How does a student and his teacher’s daughter meet so perfectly? They were close even in London.”

“Exactly. It’s so unreal it could be a novel. A fated love story, no?”

“No way. Everyone says Mr. Dalton is Miss Lance’s lover.”

“Who cares? They haven’t announced a marriage yet.”

Miss Lance stepped back. Her friends, sensing her dismay, followed her away from the painting.

“It’s nothing special,” one said.

“Yeah, what genius talent? Looks like a fifteen-year-old painted it,” another added.

But all three knew those were empty words.

Miss Lance, now dejected, walked slowly through the long gallery. Then a painting caught her eye.

It was a portrait of an elegant woman with black hair and eyes, like a magnolia. Miss Lance stopped in her tracks. It was the dress the woman wore.

A timeless, refined purple satin dress—the very one Miss Pendleton had worn in the dining room earlier.

The three recognized it immediately. Miss Orson beckoned a servant guarding the entrance and asked who the portrait depicted.

“The late Mrs. Dalton, ma’am.”

The three were speechless.