Translation of the Chapter

Remzwick, at the age of twenty, first stepped into Whitefield Hall as a footman and served the Dalton family loyally for a remarkable forty years. Yet, his reputation as a capable butler stemmed not merely from his long tenure. He grasped the essence of a butler’s role and possessed the seasoned skills to execute its duties.

The basic tasks of a butler involved managing the servants and the estate’s facilities. However, these were surface-level responsibilities. A butler existed to ensure the master of the house enjoyed a comfortable and stable life. This required tact, quick thinking, a deep understanding of human nature, and exceptional crisis management skills.

During the long years of serving the bachelor Ian Dalton, Remzwick’s abilities remained largely unnoticed. A bachelor’s life tended to be so uneventful it felt almost desolate. Even after Ian’s marriage, little changed. A household governed by a responsible and inwardly resilient mistress, Laura Pendleton, was naturally peaceful. In such a serene home, a butler functioned much like a grandfather clock, performing only its basic mechanisms. A butler’s true capabilities shone brightest in a household facing a crisis.

Thus, the shooting incident in the study became the first crisis faced by the Dalton couple and the opportunity for Remzwick to demonstrate his true prowess.

When eight gunshots echoed through Laura’s study, Remzwick was in his small office, calculating the servants’ wages. Peering through his spectacles and sliding abacus beads, he snapped his head up at the sound of the shots.

His first thought was of a burglar. He swiftly rose, slipped a small pistol into his trouser pocket, and headed toward the library where the shots originated. However, what he encountered was not a thief plundering rare books or porcelain but Ian Dalton relentlessly beating his nephew to a pulp, while Laura, pale as if about to faint, sat frozen on the sofa.

Surveying the scene in the study, Remzwick instantly grasped the situation. The eight gunshots were a dramatic flourish in what could be described as a French-style romantic scandal—or, in cruder terms, a melodramatic fiasco.

Of course, Laura bore no blame in this fiasco. Her fidelity to her husband was so steadfast that Remzwick could testify to it even in a divine court. The frequent visits of Henry Fairfax, who had been crossing the estate’s threshold incessantly of late, were undoubtedly the root of this incident.

Yet the world knew nothing of Laura’s character and hungered viciously for gossip. If this matter leaked, tongues would wag, claiming that Laura Pendleton, the illegitimate daughter who had secured the position of Whitefield’s mistress, had seduced not only the estate’s lord but also the heir of the Fairfax family.

This must be prevented at all costs—for Laura’s sake and for the honor of the Dalton family.

“How to handle this?” Remzwick thought, watching Ian Dalton furiously pummel the nephew he once cherished like a treasure. The gunfire had been so loud that most of the estate’s servants likely heard it. Moreover, two servants who had been organizing books in the storage room beside the study stood with him at the door.

Remzwick’s mind began to race. His sole objective was to resolve the situation without tarnishing the reputations of Ian and Laura Dalton.

Ian soon ordered the removal of the battered Henry, as if he were a rotting rat carcass. Remzwick promptly directed the servants to carry out the order, dragging Henry Fairfax out.

Whitefield Hall had two staircases: the central one used by the master and mistress and the northern one for the servants. Remzwick led the two servants supporting Henry toward the central staircase. It was the servants’ teatime, so those cleaning the stairs would be gathered in the kitchen for a break. Even if some had heard the shots and moved toward the library, they would, by servant protocol, use the northern staircase.

Remzwick’s prediction was spot-on. They encountered no servants as they exited the manor. The garden was equally deserted.

Remzwick crossed the garden, passed through the manor’s main gate, and ventured into the thicket surrounding the estate. Reaching a spot encircled by birch trees, he turned to look back.

The two young men supporting Henry, Tom Moore and Ralph Pandy, stood behind Remzwick, their foreheads drenched in sweat. These broad-shouldered youths, aged twenty and twenty-two, were third-year footmen at Whitefield.

Remzwick first addressed Tom.

“You. How’s the fund for your eldest sister’s wedding coming along?”

Tom blinked, caught off guard. Discussing this while shouldering a near-dead young master from the neighboring estate felt awkward.

“Didn’t you mention during teatime? Your eldest sister has been engaged for seven years, and you must hold the ceremony before the year ends.”

“…Ah, I haven’t saved enough yet. My younger siblings kept falling ill, so I had to cover medicine costs, and my future brother-in-law’s family business failed this year…”

“Both families must be under great strain.”

Tom lowered his head with a bitter expression. Remzwick turned to Ralph.

“Has your father found a new home?”

“…No.”

“London’s slums are choked with smog. A man with weak lungs won’t last long in such a place.”

“I know. But the factory he ran went bankrupt, so there’s no choice. Still, I’m saving up, so in three years, I’ll definitely…”

Remzwick shook his head.

“I’m not scolding you. I’m making an offer. Ralph, I’ll arrange for you to rent a Whitefield-owned cottage for free. It’s in Yorkshire’s cleanest-air region, near a doctor and easy to maintain. The lease will last until your father passes. If he recuperates there, he could live healthily for another thirty years.”

Stunned by this sudden windfall, Ralph stared at the old butler, speechless. Remzwick turned back to Tom.

“For your sister’s wedding, Whitefield will cover the costs. We’ll provide a wedding dress from a London tailor and fund the reception. We’ll also find a suitable rental home for the newlyweds and pay three years’ rent in advance.”

Tom’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Here’s all you need to remember. Today, a thief broke into Whitefield. Targeting teatime, the scoundrel came to steal valuable paintings and books. He got lost and ended up in the study, where he encountered Henry Fairfax, who was having tea with Laura. Henry, who happened to be carrying a gun, fired at the thief, who then fled. Henry chased the fleeing thief outside, and in the forest, they fought, leaving Henry bloodied and beaten. Understood?”

Both nodded readily. Having been offered substantial benefits, they accepted the lie without resentment.

Remzwick thanked the heavens that Tom and Ralph, entangled in this incident, were among the most family-duty-bound young servants at Whitefield.

“Tom, you’ll come with me to Dunville Park. Ralph, relay what I’ve told you to the others.”

Ralph nodded.

The butler instructed Tom to fetch a carriage. While they stepped away, Remzwick tended to Henry. Unable to support the young man himself, the frail, diminutive old butler propped Henry against a tree and checked his condition.

Placing a hand under Henry’s nose, Remzwick confirmed he was breathing. Carelessly, he prodded Henry’s ribs. Even unconscious, Henry groaned in pain.

“Completely broken, eh? Still, he won’t die.”

Remzwick concluded his assessment without a shred of sympathy.

Though a servant, Remzwick was a Dalton family man through and through, and he had no fondness for Henry Fairfax, who had disrupted the peaceful lives of Ian and Laura Dalton. He even considered paying Tom and Ralph extra to give Henry a few more blows.

But further beating might actually kill him. The headline “Whitefield Murder Case” flashed across Remzwick’s mind, emblazoned on a newspaper’s front page.

He settled for giving Henry’s forehead a sharp flick.

Soon, Tom returned with the carriage. They loaded Henry into the back seat and sat side by side at the driver’s bench.

“But what do we tell the constable?” Tom asked abruptly, as Remzwick, who had been mentally refining excuses (he felt an odd intuition that Mrs. Fairfax had a near-mystical perceptiveness, though as a Christian, he hesitated to think so), drove the carriage.

“The imaginary thief you conjured, sir, is a lunatic who dared rob Whitefield Hall in broad daylight, beat a distinguished gentleman like Henry Fairfax to a pulp, and escaped. Won’t people find it odd if we don’t report it?”

“Good point.”

Remzwick pressed his temple with knobby fingers.

“We’ll need to discuss with Ian Dalton how to align our story.”

“In three days?”

“What?”

“The master left for Leeds.”

Remzwick turned to Tom.

“Left?”

“Yes. I saw him while fetching the carriage. He looked furious as he boarded. I approached the driver’s seat to ask Dan, but he said they had to catch the Leeds train and drove off.”

“Leaving Laura alone in this situation? He must be livid.”

Remzwick rubbed his forehead. It was clear a rift had formed between the Dalton couple.

In his view, neither was truly at fault. Likely, Laura thought concealing Henry’s advances was the best way to protect her husband—a noble decision born of devoted love. But it was far from wise.

“She didn’t trust Ian. That must have wounded him. And Laura won’t forgive herself for hurting her husband.”

Remzwick’s eyelids, perpetually drooping a third of the way from age, sank even lower.

“The rumors can be contained somehow. The question is whether they can return to how things were…”

Remzwick shook his head. The couple’s marital issues were beyond his ability to resolve.