Laura, forcing a wry smile to mask her contorted expression, gently patted Olivia.

“You’ll get used to it soon. Don’t worry, Olivia.”

Around five o’clock, Olivia climbed into the carriage to return home. She had promised her mother to be back before dinner. Mrs. Fairfax, concerned that Olivia’s constant presence at Laura’s side might interfere with the couple’s private time (and thus prevent Ian from passing on the “baby seed”), always ensured Olivia promised to return before dinner before lending her the carriage. Failure to keep this promise meant no carriage for a month, a condition firmly emphasized.

As Olivia settled into the carriage, she spoke to Laura, who stood by to see her off.

“Auntie, don’t worry too much.”

“Worry about what?”

Olivia smiled with a hint of mischief.

“Mother always said that rumors are meaningless. If you have no shame in your heart, treat them like the chirping of birds and ignore them. Honestly, you and Uncle haven’t done anything wrong, have you? You’re just too close. Though it would’ve been better if you’d been more discreet in public.”

Catching the implication, Laura’s face flushed bright red.

“W-W-What… Where did you hear such things…?”

“I stopped by the vicarage before coming here. Judging by what Mrs. Star knows, the whole village must be talking.”

Laura wished the ground would swallow her whole.

“Mrs. Star asked me to pass on a message. She said you must attend Sunday service. You’ve done nothing wrong, so acting guilty will only make people think you are. She said the best approach is to be bold.”

Olivia leaned out the window, kissed Laura’s flushed cheek, and called out to the coachman to depart.

The carriage rolled away.

“Bold, she says…”

Laura let out a deep sigh, turned, and trudged back toward the manor.

She had anticipated the rumors would spread. In a quiet rural village, scandalous gossip didn’t just travel—it flew. The locals had likely savored the tale of the Daltons’ French-style kiss over last night’s dinner of bread, potatoes, and roasted meat, finding it more delectable than any dish.

“What will people think of the Dalton family? And of Ian?”

All her efforts to preserve her husband’s dignity had been in vain.

Laura paused, gazing up at the manor. Among its many windows, her eyes found the one to his study.

The shame of the rumors quickly faded from her mind.

“Ian’s looking unwell?”

Her heart raced. Her fingers trembled, and her face paled. The emotional turmoil she’d suppressed in front of Olivia began to manifest physically.

Olivia had said he looked like he hadn’t eaten or slept in days. Like a paper doll, devoid of strength.

“Did my anger upset him that much?”

Laura’s face crumpled as if she might cry. She, too, had been heartbroken.

After returning from the woods yesterday, Laura had locked herself in the bedroom, weeping. The humiliation of being caught in such a moment and Ian’s lies had infuriated her. She’d resolved not to let him into her bed for at least a week.

Laura had eaten dinner alone in her room and gone to bed by herself.

But sleep eluded her.

Every night, she fell asleep warmed by her husband’s kiss, cradled in his embrace. In those moments, Laura could drift off without a single thought. Without Ian, the bed felt cold and hard. An odd unease settled over her, like a child separated from its mother.

She tossed and turned, only managing a few hours of shallow sleep near dawn.

Waking in a daze from lack of sleep, Laura thought of her husband. Had he slept well? Had an unfamiliar bed kept him awake? At breakfast, she wondered if he was eating. He didn’t like jam—perhaps she should’ve removed it from the menu.

While discussing household matters with Rams wick, Laura’s mind wandered. What was he doing? Reading the newspaper? Taking a walk? Tending to the apple trees?

When Rams wick casually mentioned that the master had slept in the east guest room last night, Laura hid her shock. It was on the opposite side of the manor from their bedroom. To think they’d been so far apart. Fear gripped her. Would she have to sleep so far from him tonight, tomorrow night, too?

She realized how essential Ian had become. In just a year of marriage, she’d become a child who couldn’t function without him.

Disliking her dependence, Laura resolved to pull herself together. She drank three cups of tea with lunch and focused on translation work all afternoon. She could concentrate on work, but unease lingered. At its root were longing and loneliness.

“If our love is equal, he must have spent today as I did.”

Finishing her translation and gazing at the rose garden, Laura wished he loved her a little less. She didn’t want him to suffer the loneliness she felt. It saddened her to think he might love her less, but she hated the thought of him suffering even more. To Laura, Ian had become more precious than herself.

The news that he looked unwell hit her like a thunderbolt.

Of course, Olivia’s words couldn’t be fully trusted. Exaggeration and imagination were her trademarks.

“But to be indifferent to Henry’s return? That’s strange. His beloved nephew, back in England after a year and a half?”

Was he so heartbroken? So devastated he felt nothing at a loved one’s return?

“Or perhaps he’s truly ill!”

The thought struck her, and Laura nearly screamed.

“Maybe he was scratched by the sharp tip of a parasol. It could’ve gotten infected…!”

Despite the irrationality, her worry for him overwhelmed her reason.

She rushed into the manor. Her steps, usually quiet and deliberate, were frantic as she crossed the hall and climbed the stairs.

She knocked on the study door. Noel’s voice answered from within.

Entering, she found the spacious study occupied only by Noel, the estate agent and secretary. Once a temporary hire, his meticulous work and integrity had earned him a permanent position at Whitefield Hall.

Reading a letter with a serious expression, he stood abruptly and bowed at the mistress’s unexpected visit, revealing his balding crown.

“Mr. Noel, I’m looking for Ian.”

“The master, ma’am? He returned to his room earlier.”

“When?”

“Around two o’clock.”

“Why in the middle of the day…?”

He scratched his thinning hair.

“He didn’t look well, ma’am.”

“Very unwell?”

“Yes. No energy all day… he seemed off.”

Laura’s head spun.

“He’s really ill!”

She bolted from the study, leaving the door half-open, creaking as it swayed.

Alone, Noel closed the door, chuckling with a wrinkled smile.

“This house’s problem is that the couple loves each other too much.”

He’d endured the master’s complaints all day. Sitting at the desk beside him, Ian had lamented endlessly—abandoned by his angel, the world stripped of its light, wishing God would take him. Though empty words, a servant couldn’t ignore his employer. Noel had spent half the day offering futile comfort before urging him to rest.

Ian, admitting he couldn’t work, had shuffled off to his room.

“Judging by the mistress’s face, they’ll reconcile in the bedroom. Nothing seasons love like a fight.”

Snickering, Noel returned to his desk and resumed reading the letter.

It was filled with fervent declarations of love, offering Noel’s heart. The words were clumsy, the spelling poor, but the sentiment sweet. At the bottom was a signature: Betty Rosie, the prettiest, plump, twenty-three-year-old laundry maid in the household.

“Love’s a fine thing. A fine thing.”

He kissed the letter.

“Where is he hurting, and how badly?”

Laura hurried up the stairs.

“Could it be… his tuberculosis recurring?”

It was her worst fear. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“He barely survived it last time…!”

Laura raced down the corridor to the east guest room. Taking a deep breath, she knocked.

“Ian… are you in there?”

No response. Had he gone to meet Rams wick? Or taken a walk along the manor’s back path to clear his mind?

Or…

“Is he sick?”

Without hesitation, Laura turned the knob and opened the door.

The room was dim, the curtains tightly drawn. But the thin, translucent fabric let in enough light to see outlines clearly.

A bed stood just inside the doorway.

Ian lay on it, curled at an angle.

Dressed in a suit with only the shirt collar undone. Hair disheveled. Shoes still on.

Laura was startled. Ian never approached a bed without being fully prepared for sleep.

She approached slowly.

As she neared, his breathing became audible. Not gasping in pain, nor silent. Steady breaths. Her fear thawed halfway.

Reaching the bed, Laura crouched to look at him.