“Yes. Very much. You have an excellent cook.”

He smiled gently at Laura’s praise.

“Philip will consider it an honor to know he satisfied a lady from London.”

“It may be presumptuous, but if I were Mr. Dalton, I’d raise the cook’s salary every year. Wealthy families around here must be eyeing Philip for a chance to snatch him.”

“Unless they offer a fortune, no one could lure Philip away from Whitefield. His previous employer was the kitchen of Viscount Richardson. He managed twelve cooks with ease and earned a salary rivaling French chefs. But there was a reason for the generous pay. The master there was a socialite who held twelve balls a month and daily banquets. Poor Philip had to prepare thirty-course meals without a day’s rest. After a year, even with 500 pounds offered, he kicked away his pleading master and came to Whitefield’s kitchen.”

“Well, Mr. Dalton isn’t the type to torment servants with frequent balls and banquets.”

“During his interview, Philip said he decided to work here after hearing Whitefield’s master was like Miss Havisham (the ghostly recluse from Great Expectations).”

Laura chuckled softly.

“Miss Havisham is a harsh comparison. I hear Mr. Dalton has a fine reputation in Yorkshire.”

“Probably spread by people who insulted me to my face. I don’t mind.”

“So, is Philip satisfied with his position?”

“I never asked, but when I first met him, he was thin as kindling. Five years here, and he’s plumped up like a pampered hamster. Cooking for a reclusive bachelor and twenty-seven servants must be quite comfortable.”

Olivia interjected.

“But, Uncle, is Philip really not considering a move? Father would pay double his salary to have him at our estate. He’s smitten with Philip’s barbecue skills.”

“He won’t move. He recently bought a farm in Whitefield to grow herbs. He plans to stay here until he dies.”

The meal ended. They decided to have dessert with tea and moved to another spot.

Mr. Dalton led them to a spacious tea table on the first-floor terrace, directly facing the garden. Lush rose bushes stood before the stone balustrade. The scent of green leaves and sweet roses mingled with warm air, creating a languid, romantic atmosphere. It was perfect for tea.

As they sat, a uniformed servant approached, pushing a gleaming silver cart. His gloved hands arranged dishes and food on the table.

Plates with frilled, rounded edges, white napkins, a three-tiered dessert tray shaped like a birdcage. A golden cake stand. A porcelain teapot painted with lilacs. Silver utensils.

The aroma of desserts wafted around the table. Raspberry mille-feuille, English macarons, and buttermilk scones crowded the dessert tray. A thick walnut coffee cake sat on the cake stand.

The servant bowed and withdrew. Mr. Dalton deftly poured tea for Laura and Olivia, then added a touch of milk to Laura’s cup.

Laura smiled faintly. Her stomach was delicate, and she always drank tea with milk. He must have remembered.

He floated a lemon slice in Olivia’s cup, then sliced cake for both ladies’ plates. It was polished hospitality, unlike Miss Havisham.

Savoring the cake, Laura soon spoke.

“Now, please continue the story, Mr. Dalton.”

“What were we talking about?”

Mr. Dalton shrugged, feigning ignorance.

“Why you don’t like Austen’s novels.”

“Ha, I prayed all through dinner that Miss Pendleton would forget about Austen, but God has forsaken me.”

“God gave me a good memory. Come, tell me. What aspects of Austen’s heroines seem lacking to you?”

“Miss Pendleton, I beg you. Please withdraw your request to speak frankly about Austen. I cannot refuse you.”

“If my request distresses you, I’ll withdraw it. But I think it’s a topic delightful enough for our afternoon. What makes you want to flee this subject?”

“First, my mistake shames me. I lack virtues like kindness or delicacy, but I’m not so crass as to mock someone’s tastes to their face. That’s the mark of the ignorant I’ve always despised. Yet, I carelessly did just that. To my dear friend, Miss Pendleton, no less. Honestly, thinking of it still makes me blush. I was reckless. For a while, hearing Austen’s name will remind me of today’s shame.”

Mr. Dalton sipped his lemon tea.

“Second, I don’t want to upset you. To novel lovers, cherished characters are like friends. Elizabeth Bennet, Emma Woodhouse, the Dashwood sisters, Fanny Price, Catherine Morland, Anne Elliot—they’ve likely held your dear affection for years. Criticizing them would be as offensive as gossiping about Miss Jane Hyde or Mrs. Morton Edward in London.”

Listening intently, Laura smiled gently.

“I’m sorry your earlier remark left such shame in your heart. The very virtues you claim to lack are surely hidden in your heart. Mr. Dalton. And I know, no matter what I say, you’ll recall it with unease for a time. Those with pure hearts suffer longer and deeper than those without. But, Mr. Dalton, I cannot bear to see my dear friend pained on my account. Will you permit me to chatter a bit to lighten your mistake?”

He looked at Laura and grinned. It was a playful, friendly smile.

“Whatever Miss Pendleton wishes, I cannot help but allow.”

“Thank you. First, that incident was truly nothing to me. In fact, I think it was the most amusing event of today’s visit. You are a flawless gentleman, never prone to mistakes. I’m delighted to witness your slip, especially one directed at me.”

“Why?”

“Because, as our friendship endures, I can tease you about today now and then. If you suffer each time you recall it, I’ll lose a precious jest. I’d have to avoid Austen entirely around you. No matter how witty a joke, if it pains someone, it’s merely cruel. But if we spend an hour or two discussing Austen this afternoon on this lovely terrace, that incident will fade into a pleasant memory, a mere fleeting moment.”

“But, Miss Pendleton, are you truly unbothered? Having your tastes dismissed rudely?”

“I believe I’ve grown enough to separate my tastes from my identity. And, no matter how much I adore fictional heroines, I know flesh-and-blood friends are dearer. Why would I be offended if my true friend, Mr. Dalton, speaks ill of characters crafted by a lady’s pen a century ago? I’d rather be grateful for a gentleman friend to discuss Austen with.”

Mr. Dalton turned to Olivia.

“Have you ever met a lady so persuasive?”

Olivia, who had been listening blankly, shook her head.

“You’d search all of England and find none, Uncle.”

Mr. Dalton raised both hands to his shoulders in surrender.

“I surrender. I’ll do as you wish. Your thoughtful heart has a power sharper than any blade. I trust following your words will make everything right.”

At his praise, Laura’s cheeks flushed slightly.

Ian, who had been sporting a mischievous, friendly grin, quickly lowered his gaze to his teacup. Seeing Laura’s blush, his own face reddened.

He sipped tea to compose himself, then donned the mask of a young gentleman filled only with friendship and goodwill.

“Then, it’s time I explain why I don’t like Austen’s novels.”

“Absolutely truthfully.”

Laura added.

“Yes, absolutely truthfully.”

Laura and Olivia exchanged expectant glances. He crossed his legs and folded his arms.

“Austen’s characters are all fools. There are no proper people. Exemplary figures are fewer than ten across her six novels, with pitifully little presence. Austen’s eye is a microscope magnifying only the world’s fools. And that’s something we share. I, too, keenly see human flaws. The difference is, Austen has the stomach to laugh it off, and I don’t. I can’t stand fools. Idiots repulse me. The characters Austen satirizes with wit are so pathetic they make me grimace, not laugh.”

He shook his head.

“If it were just the side characters, I could endure it. But Austen’s novels make even the heroines fools. Emma Woodhouse and Elizabeth Bennet are idiots who think they’re clever. Catherine Morland can’t distinguish novels from reality. Marianne Dashwood fancies herself a tragic heroine, ruining her sister’s reputation with her dramatics. Every time a heroine does something stupid, I wanted to hurl the book into the fireplace.”