Remzwick mentally listed his priorities as he strode toward the kitchen. However, from the direction of the kitchen, where the sounds of chopping ingredients and simmering stew should have filled the air, peals of raucous laughter echoed loudly.

Frowning, Remzwick entered the kitchen.

As expected, it was Noel. He had tied a bunch of spinach around his neck like a tie and was prancing around the kitchen like a jester, hands clasped behind his back.

“No romance! No romance! No jokes! No jokes! No drinking! No drinking! Whitefield is a sacred place! A land bestowed by Henry VIII! Stop fooling around and scrub the floors! No jesting, just clean the manure! This isn’t a workplace, it’s a monastery!”

It was obvious to anyone that he was mimicking Remzwick.

The cooks, including Philip, were doubled over with laughter. Hands meant for gutting fish were wiping tears from their eyes, and hands meant for trimming asparagus were pounding the counter.

Utter chaos. A vein throbbed on Remzwick’s forehead.

“It’s almost mealtime—what are you all doing!”

At Remzwick’s shout, the kitchen fell silent in an instant. The cooks, noticing Remzwick standing at the entrance, were flustered. With embarrassed, sheepish, and slightly guilty expressions, they returned to their tasks.

Noel was among the startled. But, being there for leisure, he had no work to return to. He stood with an awkward expression, glancing nervously at the butler.

Remzwick shot Noel a cold glare before turning and leaving the kitchen. As he passed through the corridor and ascended the stairs to the upper floor, hurried footsteps echoed behind him.

“Butler, sir!”

Remzwick turned around. It was Noel. Still with spinach draped around his neck, he was bent over, panting heavily.

‘It’s barely thirty steps from the kitchen to here,’ Remzwick thought, looking down at Noel with a pitying expression.

“What is it, Mr. Finch?”

Having caught his breath, Noel looked up at Remzwick, who seemed even taller standing on the stairs.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“For what?”

“For making a mockery of you, sir. I was frustrated because you never leave any rice pudding for me… No, that’s no excuse. I just want to apologize.”

Noel’s expression carried genuine remorse.

Remzwick gazed down at him steadily. Truly, from head to toe, there wasn’t a single thing about Noel that he liked. Noel disregarded and trivialized the order Remzwick had devoted his life to maintaining. Yet, because he was indispensable to the master, he couldn’t be sacked. There were valid reasons for Remzwick’s dislike of him.

But to be honest, what Remzwick felt toward Noel was closer to jealousy. Noel Finch embodied the qualities that a young Edmund Remzwick had secretly admired but lacked by nature.

Surrounded by people, laughing and joking came to Noel as naturally as breathing. He wasn’t afraid of love with women, was quick-witted, and had a fine singing voice. He was always welcomed and loved by everyone.

In short, he was someone who knew how to fully enjoy life.

Remzwick had lived the opposite way. Fearing rejection, he had never experienced love, let alone marriage. During breaks, he preferred reading alone or doing extra work over socializing.

Had Remzwick met Noel in his youth, he might have hated him even more—perhaps burned with jealousy to the point of wanting to kill him.

But now he was sixty. An age where it wouldn’t be strange to pick out a grave plot or choose planks for a coffin. Life had taught him how to be content. Though Noel was a thorn in his side, Remzwick forbade himself from harboring true resentment toward Noel.

Remzwick shrugged.

“You weren’t mimicking me.”

Noel blinked in confusion. Remzwick pointed at the spinach tie around Noel’s neck.

“I don’t own any green ties.”

Noel looked surprised. Understandably so—he had never seen Remzwick make a joke before.

Remzwick raised one corner of his mouth.

“No sense of humor.”

Turning his back on Noel, Remzwick climbed the stairs.

Whitefield’s late autumn was notorious for its winds. The wind shook the trees, sending brittle leaves clinging to branches tumbling down, and laughed with a gloomy sound as if mocking the forest’s dying creatures.

The wind that swept into the village burrowed into the thin coats of penniless vagrants, rattled the worn wooden gates of old houses like an angry creditor’s knock, and mischievously tore off children’s woolen caps.

Whitefield Hall was no exception to the wind’s antics. Even the sturdy new wooden window frames rattled and groaned under its assault. To someone with sensitive hearing, the noise was maddening, and the wind cackled.

At seven in the evening, as the bell tolled and the sound of rattling window frames echoed, Laura Pendleton was alone in the bedroom.

Despite spending the long autumn night without her husband, she didn’t seem particularly idle. She was focused on her needlework under the bright lamplight.

Her hands moved rhythmically, embroidering beautiful purple violets onto the fabric. With eyes cast downward, focused on the needle’s movements, she appeared as calm and diligent as ever.

Rattle, rattle. The wind slammed against the window frame more fiercely, demanding entry, threatening to break the glass if refused.

Laura’s hands paused. She lifted her head from her work and looked at the window. Beyond it, the dark shadows of birch trees swayed, tormented by the wind.

As she focused desperately on her embroidery, memories of her first autumn after marriage, a year ago, flooded Laura’s mind.

With her keen hearing, Laura could barely sleep due to the wind’s noise. She tried stuffing cotton in her ears and wrapping her head with a pillow, but to no avail.

Ian Dalton was surprised that Laura was troubled by the wind. To a Yorkshire native like him, the autumn wind was as natural as rain or birdsong.

To help his wife sleep, Ian tried everything—stuffing thick cotton between the window frames, moving their bed to another room. Then he found a simple, effective solution: drinking wine before bed.

Every night, the two shared a bottle of wine and made love passionately. As they savored the scent of wine on each other’s lips, the rattling of the window frames faded away. There was only the warmth of their bed and each other.

By the time the midnight bell tolled, wrapped in her husband’s arms, warmed by wine and pleasant exhaustion, Laura fell into a deep sleep.

“Ian…”

Laura’s eyes filled with sadness. Shaking her head to dispel the thoughts, she turned her gaze back to the embroidery frame. But seeing the violets, so like the color of the wine they shared, her hands froze.

Her lips trembled. Soon, drip, drip, tears fell, soaking the dry fabric.

“Ian.”

The sorrow she had barely contained surged back like a tidal wave.

She set down the embroidery frame and covered her face with her hands, beginning to cry.

Since Ian left the previous afternoon, Laura had cried until her body seemed drained of moisture. It was self-reproach.

She realized how absurd her decision to keep everything secret had been. So focused on hiding the truth, she hadn’t considered how hurt he’d be when it came to light. He’d feel deceived—and he was. Not telling her husband about another man’s courtship—what was that if not deception?

“He must be so disappointed in me.”

Ian despised lies and schemes above all else. He had discovered in his wife the very traits he loathed most. She could hardly blame him for feeling disillusioned.

More painful than hurting him was the fact that she had become a disappointing wife. She might never again be as beloved to him as before.

“What if he hates me now? I… I can’t live without Ian’s love anymore!”

She began sobbing like a child. The thought that she might lose his love made her feel like a castaway, lost at sea without country or language. In a word, it felt like losing the world.

Ian was now her entire world.

Knock, knock.

Amid her uncontrollable sobs, Laura heard a knock. It was loud enough to pierce through the rattling wind, meaning it was no gentle tap.

She stopped crying abruptly, wiping her face with a handkerchief. She moved to the darker side of the room, opposite the lamplit fireplace, to hide the traces of her tears. Even in despair, she was every inch the lady of the house.

“Come in.”

Pretending to gaze out the window, Laura called out in a voice two tones higher than usual.

The maid, Hannah Lee, entered with a tray.

Hannah Lee was a sturdy young woman with fair skin and blonde hair. Her arched eyebrows gave her a slightly stubborn look, but on closer inspection, she was quite pretty. Above all, she was a diligent worker, so Laura often entrusted her with dressing and mending clothes.

“The butler sent me, worried that you skipped your meal, ma’am.”

Though Laura had no appetite, she managed a smile and nodded.

“How kind. Please set it on the table.”

Hannah Lee began transferring the food from the tray to the table: rich chicken stew, salad, round wheat bread, and a sandwich with minced beef.

As Hannah Lee arranged the dishes, the large bedroom filled with the aroma of food. Freshly made and steaming, the scents spread quickly.

It was a delicious smell. Having barely eaten lunch and skipped dinner entirely, Laura’s stomach should have growled. But her reaction was the opposite.

“Ugh!”