Ian rose from the bed without a word and headed to the kitchen.

The late-night kitchen was empty, but ingredients were plentiful. He deftly pulled out vegetables and meats, chopping and slicing with precision. As he added them to the pot of water simmering on the fire, he muttered to himself, “Let it turn out edible. Make it so Laura doesn’t throw up.”

When the stew had thickened just right, he ladled it into a shallow bowl and carried it upstairs to the bedroom. His hands trembled as he gripped the bowl, stepping into the room.

“Please eat, Laura,” he thought.

Ian approached Laura, who was leaning languidly against the headboard. Normally, the mere smell of food would have her covering her mouth, gagging, but for some reason, she was calm. She even looked delighted at the sight of the stew in Ian’s hands.

Sitting beside his wife, he gently scooped a spoonful of stew and brought it to her lips. Laura opened her mouth and accepted it willingly. The stew slid over her tongue and disappeared into her mouth.

Her throat moved as the food passed down her esophagus.

One spoonful. Two spoonfuls. Three.

The stew kept going into Laura’s mouth, absorbed by her body without coming back up.

The bowl was soon empty. Laura gazed at her husband with hungry eyes.

“Can you bring a little more?” she asked.

In that moment, Ian had never felt so certain of the existence of a higher power.

From that day on, Laura’s cravings grew. Cookies, sherbet, duck sprinkled with basil—all dishes Ian had made for their wedding anniversary. Ian prepared every food she desired, feeding her by hand.

“Was that meal really that spectacular?” Ian teased, slipping a piece of warm barbecue into Laura’s mouth as he gained the ease to jest.

Chewing contentedly, Laura nodded. “Yes.”

“Why? Anyone can see I’m a terrible novice cook.”

Laura gave a soft smile, her own ease for laughter returning.

“Because it’s filled with your love,” she said.

“So my love is some kind of magic cure for morning sickness?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, then.”

From that day, Ian began studying cookbooks. He experimented with various dishes: potato soup, rice pudding, chocolate cake, chicken stew. Even as a beginner, with a few tries, he crafted dishes with decent flavors, pouring love and care into each one.

Laura devoured every single dish.

Growing confident, Ian took full responsibility for his wife’s three meals a day. He ordered a thick book called Mrs. Beeton’s Household Guide, diving into its diverse recipes and learning to handle finicky ingredients.

From the moment the master started flipping through Mrs. Beeton’s Household Guide in his study, Noel took charge of most tasks. He figured that interfering with the lovesick master might cost him his job.

Thanks to Noel’s meticulous assistance, Ian could focus on briefings for critical matters and spend most of his time in the kitchen.

There, he prepared fish and meats, explored spices, and studied how to select fresh ingredients. Philip, alongside Mrs. Beeton’s Household Guide, became a fine teacher.

Naturally intelligent and intuitive, Ian’s skills improved daily. He crafted ever-better dishes and brought them to his wife’s room.

When Ian was absent, the kitchen staff sighed in relief.

The master’s devotion to his lady was touching, but for the staff, it caused no small amount of trouble. The kitchen wasn’t just for the master and his lady—it was a food factory feeding thirty-six servants who managed the kitchen, mansion, stables, and gardens. Chopping, boiling, baking, and frying required the kitchen staff to communicate loudly and move swiftly.

But with the master present, they didn’t dare raise their voices. They slowed their steps, fearing they’d disturb him. Meals were delayed, and the quality of the food suffered.

Asking Master Dalton to limit his kitchen visits was unthinkable. He was their employer, a man of vastly higher status—practically on par with a deity.

The kitchen staff pleaded with Philip, the head chef, with desperate looks. But Philip shook his head. He was determined to stay in Whitefield for life and couldn’t risk souring his relationship with the master.

“If I get sacked, who’s going to pay off the debt I owe Master Dalton for buying that herb farm?” Philip muttered, scratching his chubby hamster-like cheeks.

The sharp early-winter wind rustled the bare birch branches of Whitefield, swirling through the forest. Disappointed at finding no leaves to shake loose, the wind scoured every corner of the woods for greenery.

Some patches of Whitefield remained lush. To the west, a forest of evergreens—spruces and pines—stood resilient.

The wind tugged at the stubborn evergreen needles, but they, designed to withstand the seasons, stood firm, like loyal lovers devoted to one person, unmoved by the wind’s tricks.

Giving up, the wind swept through Whitefield again, heading for the mansion at the forest’s heart to pester its inhabitants. If the servants grumbled while pulling out flannel undergarments and woolen vests, the wind would cackle with satisfaction.

Yet one person welcomed the wind with open arms: the lady of the house, Laura Dalton.

Sitting on her bed, she had been reading by an open window for over an hour. The biting wind extinguished the fireplace and made the candlestick on the table flicker, but she didn’t mind.

The scent of evergreens carried by the wind was intoxicatingly sweet.

For Laura, confined to her room for over a month, the window carrying the forest’s fragrance was one of her few connections to the outside world.

She hadn’t neglected to keep warm. Clad in thick flannel pajamas, her lower body wrapped in a quilt stuffed with cotton, and a winter cardigan over her shoulders, she even felt slightly warm despite the fierce wind.

“My body isn’t just mine anymore,” she thought, stroking her lower belly. Even beneath layers of clothing and blankets, her swollen abdomen was noticeable.

Humming a tune, Laura felt her heart lift. Unable to leave the room or eat anything but her husband’s cooking due to the baby, she couldn’t suppress her excitement at feeling the child’s presence. It was like the thrill of the night before a school picnic.

Her rounded belly, carrying the baby, was the greatest gift of her life. She longed to meet the new life, to kiss the precious creation born of her and Ian’s love, to nurse it.

Setting her book down, Laura began to sing softly. She understood now how Lady Starr had played the piano and sung to her unborn daughter during her second pregnancy. Laura wanted to share her love with the child curled up inside her, whether it could hear or not.

“You’re at it again. What if you catch a cold, always opening the window like that?”

As she sang “Greensleeves” to the baby, her husband’s displeased voice came from the doorway.

Laura turned to him with a delighted expression. He approached the bed, brows slightly furrowed, carrying a bed tray.

Setting the tray on the bed, Ian caressed Laura’s face.

“Look at this. You’re freezing.”

Despite his scolding, Laura kept smiling brightly. She loved his nagging—the tenderness woven into it made her happy.

“But it’s so stuffy,” she said. “Keeping the window open makes me feel less trapped.”

“If it were spring or summer, I’d let it slide. Even autumn, I wouldn’t say anything. But it’s winter now, Laura.”

“But I’m dressed so warmly.”

“It doesn’t matter if the air you’re breathing is cold.”

“Cold? I hadn’t noticed…”

Ian gently tweaked her nose, shaking it lightly.

“How long have you been sitting like this, you little troublemaker?”

Laura giggled. Ian smiled at the dimple on her cheek.

“She’s adorable,” he thought.

But he was a resolute protector. Releasing her nose, he promptly shut the wide-open window.

Laura let out a childish “Hmph!” Pregnancy had made her more dependent on his care, and her playful whining had increased.

Seeing his wife’s pout, Ian’s heart twinged.

“She’s so adorable I could die,” he thought.

Suppressing a smile, he approached the bed and set the bed tray before her, lifting the silver lids one by one.

Roast beef drizzled with red sauce. Warm butter rolls. Dried plum cake topped with cream. Rice pudding.

Laura’s face lit up, as if she’d never been pouting. She spread a napkin and picked up her utensils.

Ian watched her eat.

Was this what it felt like to be full just watching someone eat? He’d always enjoyed seeing Laura eat, but since her morning sickness began, every meal she took filled his heart with warmth, like a balloon swelling with joy.

“This makes cooking worth it,” he thought.

He refilled her empty water glass, cleared away used dishes, and set dessert plates before her, serving her not out of duty but pure joy.

Laura wiped her mouth with a napkin, folding it neatly and placing it on the table. Every plate was spotless. Ian cleared the bed tray, then sat beside her, slipping his hand under the quilt.

His large hand caressed her lower belly.

“Did you eat well, our little one?” he asked.

Laura answered softly, “I ate well.”

“Good job.”

Like patting a child who’d done well, Ian stroked her belly, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. Looking into her eyes, he whispered, “My good girl.”