Part 1

The carriage carrying the Dalton couple came to a halt in the front courtyard of Whitefield Hall.

In anticipation of the master and mistress’s return, the butler Rams wick and uniformed servants stood before the mansion and approached the carriage.

Rams wick lowered the footrest and opened the carriage door.

Inside, a man sat with his legs crossed. His neatly combed black hair, ash-gray suit, and black tie marked him as a refined gentleman. He was Ian Dalton, the master of Whitefield.

“Welcome…”

Rams wick was about to offer a polite greeting when the master extended a slender index finger to his lips.

Hush. Say nothing. That seemed to be the master’s message. Rams wick closed his mouth.

Ian Dalton lifted the woman leaning against him into his arms. He then stepped silently onto the footrest and descended.

In his arms was Laura Dalton, who had become the mistress of Whitefield Hall a year ago. Asleep with her head resting against her husband’s firm chest, she looked as serene as a baby nestled in its mother’s embrace.

Ian Dalton, careful not to wake his wife, whispered instructions into Rams wick’s ear.

“Move all the luggage to the dressing room.”

Rams wick nodded quietly. Ian Dalton walked slowly toward the mansion.

The butler watched the master carry his wife toward the house. The image of the Dalton couple returning from their honeymoon a year ago came to mind. The master, descending from the carriage with a beaming smile, carrying his wife, and the lovely Mrs. Dalton, her face flushed as she clung to her husband’s neck.

“I’ve never seen a couple so happy,” Rams wick thought.

In his mind, the past year of observing the couple’s married life from a step away flashed by. A faint smile touched his lips.

“And no couple could make each other so happy.”

As the couple disappeared inside, Rams wick instructed the servants to unload the luggage. By tomorrow, the mistress would likely explain, with the clarity even a five-year-old could understand, how to unpack and organize the luggage. She would also issue rational instructions for the various household matters awaiting her judgment. Though he had served as butler in this mansion for nearly his entire life, he trusted and followed the mistress’s directives completely.

Having once scurried to fill the void left by an absent mistress, Rams wick, under the guidance of this capable leader, had regained a leisurely routine for the first time in nearly thirty years. He nodded as he watched the procession of luggage bags being carried in by the servants.

“This marriage is a success.”

Laura remained blissfully asleep, unaware of the world, as Ian carried her down the corridor and opened the bedroom door. But the moment he gently laid her on the bed, her eyelids twitched, then slowly lifted.

“…Ian?” Laura mumbled.

“You’re awake?”

“Mmm…”

Laura rubbed her eyes and glanced around.

“Did you carry me in again?”

Ian, sitting on the edge of the bed, removed his jacket as he replied.

“I couldn’t wake a sleeping person, could I?”

“You could’ve woken me. I must’ve been heavy.”

“If you’re heavy, how heavy must snowflakes falling from the sky be?”

He smiled as he loosened his tie. Laura gazed at him with sleepy eyes, then tried to sit up.

Ian gently held her shoulders and laid her back down on the bed.

“Just sleep. I’ll change your clothes for you.”

“But… you must be tired too… I need to wash…”

Her words were slurred with drowsiness. Ian leaned over her, their faces so close their noses nearly touched. He slipped a hand behind her neck, gently massaging it. Laura let out soft, contented murmurs.

Rubbing their noses together, he whispered in a playful tone.

“I’ll wipe you down with a damp cloth. Face, hands, feet—everything.”

Laura giggled and wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck. Her fingers toyed with his handsome ears.

“Are you going to wait on me, Ian?”

“Yes. Like a servant.”

He pressed a quick kiss to her lips.

“I’ve always been jealous of your maids. Following you around, helping you dress, brushing your hair, preparing your bathwater. Watching them, I want to leave estate management to Noel and apply to be your personal servant.”

Laura chuckled softly. Ian pecked her lips repeatedly, like a bird nibbling.

“Why are you laughing when I’m being serious?”

“I’m imagining you in a maid’s dress…”

“You’re imagining something that horrifying?”

“No, it’d be cute. You in a maid’s dress… I want to see it.”

He pinched her cheek lightly.

“No matter how much I love you, I can’t do that, Laura.”

“I know… it just crossed my mind… I’m so sleepy right now… just nonsense… ugh… when should we visit Dunville Park and the vicarage…?”

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow. Sleep now.”

Laura stroked her husband’s smooth black hair for a moment. Soon, her hand lost strength, and she fell back asleep with her arms around his neck.

Ian gazed quietly at her face.

He loved watching Laura sleep. In her sleeping face, he saw the Laura of her girlhood—innocent, unguarded, and utterly lovable.

His eyes grew dreamy.

“Laura is always elegant. She wears grace and wisdom like armor. But not in the bedroom. She sleeps soundly, grumbles, talks in her sleep. She only shows this side to her husband. To me, Ian Dalton.”

A thrill of joy coursed through him. Goosebumps rose on his skin, and his heart tightened painfully.

“And it’ll only ever be me. Laura’s husband will be one man for life.”

The thought made him smile, yet paradoxically, tears welled in his eyes.

He wiped them away and sat up. Though he wanted to gaze at Laura’s sleeping face forever, he worried she’d be uncomfortable. Still wearing her corset, she’d feel constricted sleeping like this.

Ian slowly unbuttoned her dress. He removed her corset, petticoat, undergarments, and stockings in turn. His touch was so gentle that Laura didn’t stir as her clothes were removed and a loose nightgown slipped over her.

While brushing her hair, he found her sleeping so sweetly that he kissed her forehead tenderly.

He loosely braided her long auburn hair and draped it over her shoulder. Then, he fetched a damp cloth and carefully wiped her arms and legs, kneeling at the foot of the bed to clean her feet.

Her feet were slightly swollen from the long journey. He felt sorry for them, confined all day in rigid shoes. He wiped them gently and began massaging them softly.

Laura’s feet fit perfectly in his large hands, like a baby bird cradled in its nest.

“I’ve never looked at them this closely before,” he murmured.

As he pressed her soles, he examined her feet closely. The gentle curve of her instep was soft, pale enough for faint veins to show through. Her five toes were as white as her instep, their tips tinged pink. Their small, round shape was adorable.

“How can even her feet be this beautiful?”

His eyes grew dreamy again. He stroked the elegant curve of her instep, like a swan’s back, and caressed her toes, as delicate as forget-me-nots.

Heat slowly rose to Ian’s face. Unable to resist, he began pressing kisses to the tops of her feet.

Before meeting Laura, if someone had told Ian he’d one day shower his wife’s feet with kisses, he would’ve left the room with a look of disdain. He was an impeccably fastidious man, and the thought of anyone’s feet used to turn his stomach.

But he felt no impurity in his actions now. These weren’t ordinary feet. They belonged to his wife, his eternal partner, the angel who had entered his life.

He genuinely believed Laura was an angel. The happiness she brought him after their marriage surpassed anything a mere human could offer.

Before their wedding, he had repeatedly told Laura not to feel burdened by becoming Mrs. Dalton. The household would be managed by Rams wick, community engagements were his duty as landlord, not hers, and her presence by his side was enough.

Laura had only smiled. That smile meant, “I understand, but I’ll do things my way.”

And after their marriage, Laura did exactly that.

She showed the same love Ian felt for his loved ones to them as well—tending warmly to the residents of Dunville Park, the estate’s tenants, and the Starr couple at the vicarage. With a woman’s delicate touch, she managed Whitefield Hall flawlessly and earned the respect of the servants with her gentle authority.

She was also a wonderful wife to Ian. She learned his habits and adjusted their life to make him comfortable.

Ian felt Laura’s care in countless ways: in the menu filled with his favorite dishes, in the warmed slippers waiting for him each evening, in the ugly still-life painting in the dining room—150 years old and always an eyesore—quietly relocated to the long gallery without a trace, and in so many other changes.

Laura was the ideal wife a man could hope for.

Ian felt love in her care, and through that love, he became the happiest man in the world.

Even after their marriage, his sketchbook remained filled with images of Laura, always depicted as an angel with wings. Sitting in a chair reading or embroidering with her wings neatly folded, soaring above the forest with white wings spread, or sleeping in a sunlit daffodil field, her wings draped over her like a blanket.

When Laura saw the drawings, she’d shake her head, saying his imagination was too wild, but he only drew what he saw. To him, Laura was the guardian angel of Whitefield, crowned with stars and adorned with white wings.