He hurriedly sent a servant to fetch a physician. The physician diagnosed Ian Dalton with tuberculosis.

It was an extremely dangerous and highly contagious disease.

Rams wick sent most of the servants home on paid leave. He gathered the minimal staff needed to run the estate and ordered them to stay away from Ian Dalton’s room.

Only the physician and Rams wick went in and out of his room to care for the patient.

Ian Dalton suffered severely during the first month, losing over eight kilograms of weight. He coughed day and night, often spitting blood, which startled Rams wick.

Fortunately, by the second month, the coughing subsided. His appetite slowly increased, and though still pale and gaunt, the skeletal face that had been kept awake by coughing gradually regained some flesh.

By early March, in the fourth month, the physician declared the master of White Field fully recovered. For the time being, he needed to continue being cared for as before, but the disease had completely retreated.

At this news, not only the servants but also the family at Dunvil Park rejoiced. Daniel and George, who had wet their pillows with tears upon hearing their uncle had tuberculosis, repenting their past mischief, were eager to rush to White Field to see him. Olivia, who had been whining daily at the Starrs’ parsonage, could resume her neglected studies and social activities.

William Fairfax, who had been going out daily with a gun to hunt pheasants and squirrels to send to White Field, could finally take a break from hunting, preserving the game population. Olivia Fairfax, whose hair had been rapidly turning white, was spared from becoming a gray-haired grandmother.

Only Rams wick, with a face still clouded by worry, moved about the estate.

Standing before Ian Dalton’s room, Rams wick knocked softly.

“Sir, lunch is ready.”

From inside came the usual clear voice.

“Come in.”

Rams wick entered.

The master stood near the window. A large window overlooking all of White Field.

Outside was truly a painting. White Field, with winter slowly retreating, could be called a world of pure white. Snow-capped birch forests and snow-covered hills. Snow gently resting on the frozen stream that marked the boundary between the birch forest and White Field Hall.

Ian Dalton, hands clasped behind his back, gazed out the window. He wore thick flannel pajamas, a heavy woolen robe, and wool slippers.

“I’ll place it on the table.”

The master gave no reply. Rams wick set the meal on the table and stepped aside.

After a moment, Ian Dalton turned from the window. Though a pale aura lingered, he had regained his former appearance.

He sat at the table. And began to eat.

Rams wick quietly observed. The sound of cutlery scraping the plate, the master eating gracefully without a single sound of chewing.

After the tuberculosis diagnosis, the master had fought the disease with all his strength.

He followed every instruction the physician gave without fail. He quit smoking and ate every meal. He wore thick clothing he had previously ignored to stay warm and drank every drop of the foul-tasting herbal concoction served with each meal.

Through tireless effort, the master survived the terrifying disease of tuberculosis.

When the meal was finished, Ian Dalton downed the herbal concoction in one gulp. Rams wick stood waiting for the order to clear the tray.

Even while wiping his mouth with a napkin, the master’s eyes remained fixed on White Field outside the window.

“Rams wick.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are the roads to White Field still in poor condition?”

“Regrettably, yes. The mud is so thick it swallows wheels like quicksand.”

“It must be difficult to transport goods to the estate.”

“Fortunately, it’s not too far to travel on foot, so the servants are fetching supplies directly from the village.”

“Don’t skimp on firewood for the servants’ quarters. Let those who transport goods rest for the day.”

“Yes, master.”

“And.”

He paused for a moment.

“When the roads are passable again, contact Dunvil Park. Tell them to send Olivia, George, and Daniel. And ask Philip to make something the children will like.”

Rams wick replied courteously.

Ian let out a deep sigh and leaned back against the sofa. With no dismissal, Rams wick cautiously spoke.

“How are you feeling, master?”

There was no reply. Ian rested his head on the sofa and closed his eyes.

“I am proud of you, master, for overcoming this illness.”

The corner of the master’s mouth lifted slightly.

“Am I a master you’re proud of?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. That’s comforting.”

He fell silent again.

Rams wick lowered his eyes. The worry on his face deepened.

Rams wick should have been among the happiest when Ian Dalton recovered. He had lived his entire life as a bachelor, managing the Dalton household without a hint of regret. With a monk-like disposition, he was not one to cling to a wife or children. He found happiness in the pride of serving a respectable master.

Having worked for the Dalton family nearly his entire life, he had watched young Ian grow into an admirable head of the household. He revered his master, Ian Dalton, and considered it his life’s mission to serve him without inconvenience.

Because of this, Rams wick could not simply rejoice that his master’s tuberculosis was cured. While the body had healed, the heart did not seem healthy at all.

Rams wick knew. He knew his master cried himself to sleep each night, clutching a shawl that likely belonged to a woman. At times, he seemed as if his soul had left him, or he became inexplicably lethargic.

In contrast to his physical recovery, the master’s mood seemed to sink deeper.

Rams wick could guess the reason well enough.

‘Miss Sheldon.’

The reason his master had gone to Bath was to win Miss Sheldon’s heart. And ever since returning from Bath, he had been like this.

‘A broken heart.’

Rams wick grew even more troubled.

It seemed things had not gone well with Miss Sheldon in Bath. It was sad, but there was no helping it. Matters of the heart were a game with no answers, defying probabilities. Those who dared to love had to court while embracing the possibility of parting.

But his master was a deeply affectionate and romantic man. And Miss Sheldon was his first love. His heartbreak was likely akin to the combined grief of when his sister, Margaret Fairfax, left for marriage, and when Miss Sheldon’s teacher passed away.

‘That he’s enduring like this might be a miracle.’

His master, who had become a wreck and skipped meals after being ignored by Miss Sheldon for a few days, was now striving to overcome his illness. That was fortunate. Perhaps he should consider it admirable that his master hadn’t ended up like a melodramatic hero, taking his own life with a pistol or succumbing to drink.

After a long while, Ian, who had been lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, suddenly lifted his head.

“Oh, I shouldn’t keep you standing like this.”

His voice was dazed, as if waking from a dream.

“It’s alright, master. Am I not the one who should always be where you can easily find me?”

“You’re not a candlestick. Go do your work. Preferably something you can do sitting down. Your knees ache more in winter, don’t they?”

“You’re right, master. But my knees are fine, thanks to your constant concern.”

Feeling a bit tearful, Rams wick picked up the tray and withdrew.

Click. With the sound of the door closing, Ian was left alone.

Ian sank deeper into the sofa. Despite having just eaten, his limbs felt devoid of strength.

The illness had retreated. The painful symptoms had vanished, and his flesh and muscle had returned. Yet he felt as lethargic as during his sick days. His body felt like a sagging leather sack.

There was no motivation, no vitality. Nothing stirred him. It felt as if he had left his zest for life behind in Bath.

In giving up Laura, the central axis of energy that sustained his life had collapsed. His mood sank endlessly into darkness, like a sheep trapped in a bog. Beautiful things no longer seemed beautiful, and delicious food no longer tasted good.

He simply could not find a reason to live.

‘Laura.’

He called out to the woman he had left behind in his heart.

‘Are you fully recovered? Are you feeling alright?’

A heavy pain gripped his heart. He covered his eyes with his hand.

‘I wish you were hurting just a little. Not physically, but in your heart. I hope you’re not humming a tune, relieved to have shaken off an annoying man. I hope you feel a sliver of pity for me, or at least a trace of regret that we couldn’t be together. Because it’s unfair that I’m the only one hurting, the only one struggling. At least, we loved each other, didn’t we? Even if the weight of that love was different.’

His palms grew wet. Tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking his neck.

He bit his lip. Then quickly pulled a handkerchief from his robe pocket and wiped his face.

‘Get a grip, Ian Dalton. The pain is temporary. Time will heal it. Love is just a fleeting, indulgent sentiment, like a Rococo painting.’

Recalling words Laura had once said, he tried with all his might to banish the sentimentality from his heart. If he remained captive to this despair, he felt he might end his own life.

Though he lacked motivation, his purpose for living was clear. If he died, kind-hearted Laura would blame herself for the loss of a perfectly good life. She, who was meant to step into a future full of possibilities, would suffer because of him.

‘She’s endured more than her share of unjust misfortune. I mustn’t add to her pain.’

For the past four months, despite an overwhelming desire to let tuberculosis take him and end his life, he had faithfully followed the physician’s orders, driven by this thought. He stood up. And began walking around the room, as the physician had recommended starting exercise.

‘Even if this sadness never fades, even if I must live unhappily forever, I must live a long life. At least until she’s old enough not to feel responsible for my death.’