“Sir, the magistrate from the Banzli region sent a letter through a messenger boy. He says a reply is urgent.”

“Perfect timing, as always.”

Ian set down his sketchbook and rose from his seat.

“I’ll be back after stopping by the study. You go ahead and look through it.”

“Come back soon, darling.”

Laura, trying to mask her discomfort at being left alone with Henry, spoke softly. Ian leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“Don’t worry, my love. I’ll be back in no time.”

Henry chimed in with a cheerful tone.

“It’s not my uncle’s love, but please hurry back for my sake too.”

“You’re my love too, Henry. Not quite as much as Laura, though.”

Ian left the terrace.

With just one person gone, an awkward silence enveloped the table. Laura, sensitive to reading people’s moods, noticed that Henry felt as uneasy as she did.

She quickly opened the sketchbook Ian had left behind, hoping to break the tension by talking about the drawings.

But as she flipped through the pages, Laura’s expression changed. It was awe mixed with admiration.

“Henry, I’ve never left England in my life. I’ve never even felt the need to. But looking at your sketches of Paris makes me regret not insisting to Ian that we honeymoon there. The Paris in your drawings is every bit as splendid as England.”

“Really, Aunt Laura?”

Laura nodded. It wasn’t empty flattery. Henry’s sketches were impressive, showcasing solid fundamentals, meticulous detail, and a unique perspective.

“It’s like magic. Pure yet dreamlike. Is this how you saw Paris?”

“Yes. People call Paris a sophisticated yet decadent city, but I saw purity and romance there. The streets were filled with lovers, and my friends there had dreams. Whitefield’s purity comes from nature, but Paris becomes pure through the people who wander its streets.”

Laura studied the sketches intently. The more she looked, the more Henry’s individuality stood out. With her keen eye for art, she became increasingly captivated.

“A work by someone with their own vision is always fascinating—whether it’s a painting, a novel, a poem, or music. Works without individuality fade with time. Conversely, a creator with a unique perspective can infuse their work with timelessness. Henry, you are a true artist.”

Henry waved off the compliment.

“No way. That’s an insult to professionals. I just draw as a hobby.”

“Hobby or profession, that doesn’t matter. Your sketches breathe with an artist’s spirit. They’re magnificent. Truly magnificent.”

“There were plenty of people in Paris who drew better than me.”

“What does that matter? When I met Ian in London’s social circles, there were countless women more accomplished than me. Yet, out of all those ladies, he chose me as his partner. Not because I’m exceptional, but because we were meant for each other. I think art is like marriage. It doesn’t matter how great someone else’s work is. All you need is a fan or patron who recognizes your work. Fate completes it—love and art alike.”

As she examined the sketches, Laura realized Henry had grown quiet. She looked at him and was startled.

Henry was gazing at her with an expression that looked like he might cry at the slightest touch.

Laura handed the sketchbook back. Instead of closing it and putting it away, Henry flipped through the pages. His face, as he studied his own work, was a strange mix of joy and melancholy, hope and a struggle to suppress that hope.

Laura, concerned for her nephew’s state, sipped her tea and pretended not to notice.

But as she drank half her tea, a buzzing sound came from the rose garden. Laura instinctively flinched and turned toward the garden. A bee, as big as a finger, was flying toward the terrace. It seemed to head for the table laden with desserts but suddenly veered toward Laura’s face.

Laura let out a short scream and jumped up. Her teacup and saucer fell, shattering, and her chair slid back with a screech.

Trying to dodge the bee, she stepped back, only to trip over her skirt. Her body lost balance, tilting backward. She was about to fall flat on her back.

Laura squeezed her eyes shut.

At that moment, a strong arm caught her back, and a large hand firmly grasped her forearm.

Laura opened her eyes. She was leaning back, held in Henry’s arms.

She blinked. Henry’s face was just a breath away.

More flustered than when the bee appeared, Laura squirmed. Henry, equally startled, quickly set her upright and stepped back two or three paces.

“I, uh, Aunt Laura, I…”

His face flushed red up to his ears as he stammered.

Laura knew she had to say something to diffuse the awkwardness, but no words came. She was rattled by the sudden incident and mortified at causing such a scene over a single bee.

Henry bowed and bolted from the terrace.

“Henry!”

Despite Laura’s call, he didn’t look back and disappeared.

Laura sank into the chair that had been pushed aside. Even as a maid hurriedly cleaned up, she couldn’t bring herself to move.

Henry’s flushed face before he fled was etched in her mind like a detailed miniature. It was less panic and more akin to shyness.

Laura felt dizzy with unease. She had tried so hard to keep her distance from Henry, but a single bee had ruined everything.

“He’ll stop coming to Whitefield Hall again.”

Then Ian returned.

“Laura, what on earth happened?”

He surveyed the chaotic terrace, bewildered. Hearing his voice, Laura found strength. She stood up.

“A bee came out of nowhere from the garden.”

He scanned his wife with concern.

“Did it sting you?”

“No.”

“Where’s Henry?”

“He went home.”

Ian clicked his tongue.

“Scared off by a bee, huh? Coward. If I’m not around, he should be protecting his aunt.”

“No, he helped me. He just… had something urgent…”

“What’s so urgent for him?”

Ian grumbled but soon noticed Laura’s pale face.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No, I just… the bee was so big, it shocked me.”

Ian burst into laughter, finding his wife’s fear of a bee endearing.

“How big was it?”

“About the size of a thumb.”

“Wow, that’s not a bee, that’s a bird! No wonder you were scared.”

Ian pulled Laura into his arms, gently stroking her back.

“It’s okay. If it comes back, I’ll protect you.”

Laura leaned into Ian.

She felt as though she were an unfaithful woman. Or perhaps she truly was. Hiding the fact that she had been in the arms of a man who might have tried to seduce her felt like a betrayal to Ian.

“But I don’t want to drive a wedge between Ian and his nephew, who’s like a son to him. I don’t want Henry to lose his uncle over a fleeting misunderstanding. It’s a trivial matter. If I bury it in my heart, no one will know.”

She nestled deeper into Ian’s embrace. In the distance, the sound of Henry’s horse galloping away from the estate echoed.

After that, Henry stopped coming to Whitefield Hall. Ian was annoyed with him but, preoccupied with a legal matter requiring his court appearance, didn’t bother summoning Henry to the estate.

Laura was naturally relieved by Henry’s absence. Over time, she began to suspect his feelings. The moved expression after she praised his sketches, the flushed face after catching her.

“Could Henry possibly…?”

Laura wondered. Did she still appear to him as the twenty-two-year-old country girl enchanted by autumn leaves?

She shook her head. No, that couldn’t be. Henry couldn’t be so immoral, so reckless, so ungrateful as to harbor feelings for his uncle’s wife, who had been like a father to him in his fatherless childhood.

“Henry, raised under the influence of a righteous man like Ian, couldn’t possibly have such depraved, twisted feelings.”

Laura dismissed her suspicions and focused on her daily life. There was no better remedy for banishing useless worries than routine. She translated, managed the household, comforted Ian, and visited neighbors. Even when thoughts of Henry surfaced, she firmly believed time would resolve them.

But soon after, another issue she had pushed aside, believing time would resolve it, unexpectedly showed signs of resolution.

Laura’s monthly cycle had stopped.

“Madam, please calm down.”

Dr. McKenzie was trying to soothe the woman seated across from him. In his profession, he dealt with anxious women daily, but neurotic ones were always challenging. Especially when a woman struggling with infertility came to confirm a pregnancy, looking at him as though her life depended on his diagnosis.

Like Mrs. Dalton, sitting across from him now.

“Am I pregnant, Doctor?”

Laura, gripping her gloves tightly, leaned forward as if she might pounce.

“The cessation of your cycle alone isn’t enough to tell.”

“Isn’t there any way to know? You’re the best gynecologist in Yorkshire.”

“That’s due to experience and expertise, not some superpower. I wasn’t blessed by God with the ability to see inside a womb.”

Laura’s face looked like she might cry.

“So, I just have to wait?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I can’t give you a more satisfying answer.”

Laura shook her head.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry, barging in without an appointment.”

“But, Madam, you said you haven’t felt nauseous or unwell?”

“No.”

“So, aside from your cycle stopping, your condition is the same as usual?”

“Yes.”

He removed his monocle.

“Madam, then it’s best not to get your hopes up. A cycle can stop due to stress or poor health alone.”

Laura twisted the gloves in her hands.