Part 2
Mid-September. A chill began to mingle with the breeze in Whitefield. The fragrant, moist air of summer grew drier by the day, and the lush greenery on the birch branches turned yellow and red. It was much like wrinkles forming on a human face or gray hairs beginning to appear. The season of youth, summer, had passed, and nature was now entering the phase of aging.
Whether nature felt sorrow in its aging was unknown, but for humans, autumn was a splendid season. It was a time when the heat retreated, a time for harvest, for picnics, and for fox hunting.
It was also the season that stirred the hearts of those with delicate sensibilities.
Ian Dalton, the lord of Whitefield, who might remain a local figure in practical matters but could be considered a national champion in romanticism, found his heart unsettled every autumn. The deep blue autumn sky, reminiscent of the sea, and the changing leaves of the forest evoked sweet sensations, yet the cooling air left his mood restless and melancholic.
He wandered through every corner of the forest, sketching the essence of autumn. For a romantic seeking solace in a changing environment, art was indispensable.
Laura was always by Ian’s side. Knowing that her husband would return quickly if he went for a walk alone, Laura gladly joined him whenever he suggested a stroll together. Of course, being a national champion in rationality, Laura never forgot to wear thick flannel undergarments and a fur coat to ward off seasonal colds.
That day, too, the couple was spending time in the Whitefield forest. They sat on a blanket spread out beside a cosmos flowerbed, back-to-back. Ian sketched the birch forest, where half the leaves had turned yellow, while Laura read the original text of a Stendhal novel she had recently been tasked with translating.
Sitting back-to-back was their preferred posture when each was engrossed in their own work, as it allowed them to face different directions while still feeling each other’s presence through their touching backs.
“Laura?”
Amid the chirping of crickets, the rustling of turning pages, and the soft scratching of graphite on paper, Ian’s voice broke the tranquil silence, calling out to Laura. She had been immersed in the climax of the novel, where the protagonist Julien Sorel shoots Madame de Rênal, and looked up toward Ian with a slight frown.
“Yes, Ian?”
“That thing floating over there—isn’t it your bookmark?”
Laura turned her head toward a small spring near the flowerbed. Among the rotten leaves and dead insects floating on the water’s surface, an ivory paper bookmark adorned with a pressed azalea was slowly getting wet.
Laura sprang to her feet.
“Oh no, what do I do? It was a gift from Olivia!”
“Shall I retrieve it?”
“The water’s awfully dirty. And even if you did, it’s probably ruined.”
Laura let out a deep sigh.
“She put so much care into making it. I feel terrible.”
“Olivia would probably dance with joy. It’s an excuse to see your face again while making a new one.”
“You’re something else.”
Laura gave a small chuckle and sat back down on the blanket, gauging the remaining pages of her book. There were still about a hundred pages left in the second half.
“Darling, do you have anything I could use as a bookmark?”
“Shall I tear a corner off my sketch paper?”
“But then you won’t be able to use the rest of it.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, wait a moment.”
Laura slipped on the shoes she had taken off.
“Where are you going?”
She adjusted the chinstrap of her hat and replied.
“To pick some maple leaves.”
“The ones by the chrysanthemum field?”
“Yes.”
Ian closed his sketchbook.
“I’ll come with you.”
“Why?”
“It’s far.”
“It’s only a five-minute walk from here.”
“It’s far.”
“It’s not far.”
“It’s far. What if a wild animal shows up?”
Laura laughed heartily.
“I’ve walked this area hundreds of times, and I’ve never seen anything scarier than a squirrel!”
He spoke in a serious tone, as if trying to scare her.
“Squirrels can be dangerous too. What if one carries you off?”
“A squirrel? What would it want with me?”
“For food.”
“If you’re seriously thinking that, Ian, I’m going to have you admitted to a hospital.”
He stifled a laugh. It seemed he was determined to come along.
“Fine, call me crazy, but let’s go together. There’s a record of a bear appearing in this area.”
A record of a bear was far less convincing than someone claiming to have seen one.
“How old is that record?”
“…Three hundred years old.”
His face looked rather sheepish as he answered.
Laura burst out laughing.
“You stay here and guard my book. I’ve left it face down, but if the wind flips it and creases the pages, I’ll lose my place.”
Her tone was laced with amusement but firm. Ian let out a grunt and sat back down on the blanket.
“If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’ll assume you’ve encountered a bear and come looking for you.”
“Don’t forget to check the treetops in case a squirrel’s carried me off.”
Laura turned and headed down the path.
She chuckled to herself as she walked. Carried off by a squirrel—what an adorable bit of nonsense. Ian sometimes said such silly things, and in those moments, Laura found her husband so endearing that she wanted to playfully bite his head. Hard enough to leave teeth marks on his skull.
‘I’d better finish this quickly and get back. If I’m late, he’ll come up with more silly remarks, and this time I might not resist biting him. I can’t leave a mark on that pretty head of his.’
Laura quickened her pace through the dense birch grove.
Soon, her view opened up. A vast field of blooming chrysanthemums spread out before her. Her hurried steps slowed unconsciously.
‘Father painted this place.’
An image of her father’s painting surfaced in her mind. Tens of thousands of chrysanthemums, tilting left in the breeze under the sharp autumn sunlight, scattered irregularly like fragments of a broken golden vase, flowing together as a single wave of golden light.
Laura turned her head to look up at the massive rock towering at the top of the field, like Stonehenge.
According to Ian, her father used to sit on that rock to paint.
‘Father, you’re no longer in this world, but the landscapes you loved still exist in Whitefield. And your daughter Laura is here, standing in them.’
A faint tear welled up in the corner of Laura’s eye. She gently dabbed it away with a handkerchief.
Halfway across the field, she spotted a red maple tree in the distance. Its slender trunk was adorned with star-shaped leaves, vividly crimson.
The maple tree in the chrysanthemum field was quite famous in the area. While most maple trees gradually turned red from the tips, reaching full color by October, this one turned a brilliant red overnight in early September, as if someone had deliberately doused it with dye. Its vivid, almost eerie hue led some villagers to whisper that the tree was haunted.
Laura, whose faith and scientific thinking coexisted, didn’t believe in ghosts. She strode confidently toward the tree, and as she drew closer, she felt not fear but awe.
‘How can it be so red? It’s the truest crimson of all crimsons. People associate red with passion, but looking at these maple leaves, I feel the ultimate red has a cold quality. It calms rather than excites, sobers rather than emboldens. Crimson is a color tied to dignity, not desire. Even purple velvet wouldn’t match the elegance of this crimson maple.’
Reaching the tree, Laura plucked a single leaf. The cold, dignified crimson leaf rested in her hand.
‘Perfect for a bookmark.’
She smiled, twirling the leaf by its stem between her fingers.
‘Should I take a few more? I could decorate my notebook, my desk, my vanity… No, why not take a whole branch and put it in a vase to admire every day?’
Laura scanned the tree for the thinnest branch. Breaking a thick one would be too difficult and unfair to the tree.
She spotted a suitable branch—thin as a riding crop but adorned with large, lush maple leaves. It was just within reach if she stretched. Standing on her tiptoes, Laura extended her arm as far as she could.
The branch brushed her fingertips. She tensed her shoulder muscles and closed her hand.
But the branch only grazed her fingers, slipping away. She hopped in place, grasping at the air, then finally lowered her arm.
‘Greedy of me. I’ll just take a few more leaves and head back. Ian’s waiting.’
Laura began plucking leaves from a thicker, reachable branch.
“Are you lost?”
A man’s voice came from behind her. Startled, Laura turned around.
A man stood there. Tall and slender, dressed in a gentleman’s suit, he was a young man with abundant brown hair streaked with highlights and deep black eyes.
His face was strikingly beautiful. Pale white skin, sharp yet soft facial lines, delicate lips like a maiden’s, and a clean, masculine jaw. He seemed like Adonis, the youth who captured Aphrodite’s heart, brought back to life.
In his hand, gloved in ivory leather, he held a freshly picked bunch of chrysanthemums.
“Don’t be alarmed, miss. I only came to see the maple tree because it’s so red.”
He gave a gentle smile, his finely sculpted features forming an enchanting expression.
Laura felt a sense of déjà vu in that smile. But rather than dwell on it, her priority was to erase the unladylike image of herself hopping about like a tomboy from this stranger’s mind.
With a dignified smile befitting a queen, she spoke kindly.
“You must be a visitor, as I haven’t seen you before. Opinions differ, but this tree is one of the area’s notable sights. I’ll take my leave now, so please enjoy the maple tree to your heart’s content.”
She gave a slight curtsy.
“Wait.”
The man took a step closer.
“Don’t run away, miss.”
“I’m not a miss. I’m…”
“Ah, a young lady from a good family who hasn’t made her social debut, then?”
“I’m a married woman.”
He laughed heartily.
“Whoever that man is, he’s a lucky one. I’m so jealous it makes my heart ache.”
Male lead is a Divorced Husband
She said to him: “Tell me, what makes you like me? I’ll change it!”
Liu Changning transmigrated into a female cannon fodder character in a female-dominant novel.
After reading the first half of the novel’s plot, the first thing she did upon transmigration was to divorce the Pan Jinlian-style male protagonist she had just married.
She indulged herself, pretending to be ugly and poor.
But as time passed, the way that man looked at her became more and more unusual…
Liu Changning was dumbfounded: Tell me, what makes you like me? I’ll change!
――
This lifetime, Pei Yuanshao was rejected by the same woman twice!
The first time, she drove him away. Forced by the situation, he endured the waves of anger in his heart, yielding and humbling himself.
That person lay slanted on a rocking chair, her sallow face emotionless: “If you don’t want a divorce, go cook!”
Pei Yuanshao’s face was dark and gloomy: “You!”
The second time, after the crisis in Jinling City was resolved, the new emperor sent someone to pick him up. He turned around, stammering: “I… I have to go. If you keep me…”
That person lay on the kang bed, her back to him, as if she had long anticipated this day, crisp and clear: “Goodbye!”
Pei Yuanshao was so angry his fingers trembled: “You… you!”
The mission of family and country made him restrain himself, averting his eyes and turning to leave this broken household.
Two years later, they met again. Seeing her ethereal face, his body shook like a sieve.
“She was originally a ‘she’!”
At the Qionglin Banquet, the top scholar of the imperial examination, a talented person with exceptional speech and conduct, all the unmarried young gentlemen from aristocratic families looked at her with shy and timid eyes.
The peerless imperial official Pei Yuanshao felt the anger in his heart erupt. He pointed at the woman surrounded by the crowd at the Qionglin Banquet, his thin lips slightly curled: “Little sister, I wants that person to be the wife-master of my Mingde Prince Manor.”
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