Soon, Ian Dalton entered the drawing room. He was impeccably dressed in a black suit with a deep green frock coat suitable for autumn. In his large hands, gloved in chestnut leather, he held several modest bouquets of flowers.

He removed his hat and bowed to the hostess, Mrs. Starr. Having transitioned from a playful retriever to a dignified pastor’s wife, Mrs. Starr welcomed him with a graceful smile. After inquiring about her well-being, he turned his gaze to Laura Pendleton.

“Miss Pendleton is here as well.”

Laura, as usual, gave him a bright smile. Seeing his face, the sadness from moments before faded, and her mood lifted.

“You were invited by Mrs. Starr at the last dinner, weren’t you? She promised to let us taste her famous Yorkshire apple pie. You were there—have you forgotten?”

“My apologies. I did forget.”

“As expected, you’re inattentive to ladies.”

“Compared to other ladies, you’re quite special. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Starr?”

Mrs. Starr nodded.

“Remarkably so.”

Laura’s eyes drifted to the bouquets.

“You look like a flower girl from Covent Garden. Are those flowers from the Whitefield Hall greenhouse? Where are you taking so many bouquets?”

“I’m visiting my kin.”

“Kin?”

Mrs. Starr chimed in from the side.

“Those who have passed. There’s a cemetery behind the parsonage.”

“Oh.”

Laura nodded.

“I’d love to offer you a bouquet, but giving flowers meant for the departed to a living lady is ill-omened. Next time you visit Whitefield Hall, I’ll prepare one for Olivia Fairfax and you, Miss Pendleton. Until then.”

He removed his hat, gave a slight bow, and left the drawing room.

His footsteps faded into the distance. Mrs. Starr tilted her head.

“That’s odd.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Dalton visits the cemetery on a set day—always the last Sunday of the month. Why is he here on a weekday?”

Mrs. Starr slowly rose from the sofa and walked to the window. She stood there, quietly looking outside. Laura followed and stood beside her. Below the window, the parsonage’s modest garden came into view, facing the cemetery across an iron fence.

The wide cemetery, covered in dry grass, was dotted with tombstones of various shapes: crosses, rectangles, squares with roofs, and arches.

Soon, Ian Dalton appeared among the gravestones. He stopped before two cross-shaped stones standing side by side. Placing a bouquet between them, he removed his hat and bowed his head in prayer.

“Those are the graves of Mr. Dalton’s parents, Eric Dalton and Patricia Dalton.”

After a brief two-minute prayer, he placed another bouquet at a nearby gravestone and prayed again. Mrs. Starr explained the occupants of each.

His grandparents, Thomas Dalton and Ilusha Dalton. The Reverend Jenfield, who had long tended the parsonage. Mrs. Marsha, the housekeeper who cared for the household in his childhood. Mitchell Dunn, a farmer and friend who died young.

Finally, he approached a rectangular marble gravestone and placed a bouquet there.

“That gravestone… I can’t recall the name, but it belongs to Mr. Dalton’s childhood art teacher. Oh, why can’t I remember? It was such a splendid name…”

His prayer there lasted a bit longer than at the others.

“They must have been special,” Laura said.

“More than a teacher—almost family, I heard. When he was eight, his sister married and left. Mr. Dalton was terribly lonely, crying daily and unable to eat. His father, unable to bear it, brought in a portrait painter as his art teacher.”

“Having a kind teacher in such a lonely time must have been comforting.”

“Yes. They say the teacher was as kind as an angel. Mr. Dalton sometimes says they were one of the few truly admirable people he ever met. He learned not only art but how to endure grief and grow into a man.”

The prayer ended. Ian knelt before the gravestone and briefly kissed it. Laura watched his back silently. Though she couldn’t see his face, she felt his love.

“Mr. Dalton takes special care of that gravestone. He feels sorry they were buried far from their American homeland. He sees himself as their family.”

Ian rose slowly and turned away from the gravestone. A beautiful bouquet of red lilacs remained where he had stood.

As he departed, the two ladies stepped back from the window.

Mrs. Starr linked her fingers with Laura’s.

“Miss, stay for dinner. I want to hear your stories of London’s high society.”

Her voice was a mix of charm and playful whining. Laura thought how fortunate Pastor Oliver Starr was to hear this voice daily.

“I’m afraid I can’t tonight.”

“Why not?”

“It’s Daniel Fairfax’s birthday. We’re having a dinner party.”

Mrs. Starr sighed. The twenty-eight-year-old wife, both retriever-like and self-aware, nodded.

“No helping it, then. I’ve baked plenty of apple pies. I’ll pack a basket for you to take to Dunville Park.”

“Thank you. It’ll be a fine gift for Daniel.”

Arm in arm, they headed to the kitchen. But as they left the drawing room, Mrs. Starr gasped and stopped in her tracks.

“I remember! The artist’s name! Goodness, how could I forget? Ever since Harry was born, my memory’s half what it was.”

Laura laughed, watching Mrs. Starr tap her head.

“So, what was the name?”

Mrs. Starr beamed.

“Lewis. Lewis Sheldon.”

Lewis Sheldon.

Laura’s smile vanished.

“Lewis… Sheldon?”

“Yes. Quite an artistic name, isn’t it? Had they lived longer, they’d have been a painter known across Europe. Their skill was said to be genius-level…”

Mrs. Starr kept chattering, but Laura heard nothing.

In her mind, layers of memory stirred and parted. A figure from long ago, barely traceable through time, surfaced in her thoughts.

The young, beautiful father who had placed a pendant around her neck, weeping, vowing to return for her, but who had vanished forever.

Laura rushed out of the parsonage. Mrs. Starr’s calls echoed behind her, but they were mere wind to Laura.

She ran through the gate and down the path. Sprinting across the dry grass among the tombstones, she stopped before the marble gravestone adorned with lilacs.

“Lewis Sheldon.

August 7, 1844 – February 1, 1876

A talent unblossomed on earth, cherished in heaven.”

Her eyes traced the name’s spelling and dates. They matched exactly the name and birthday she knew.

“Oh, oh…”

Laura felt her blood drain. Dizziness struck, and she staggered.

A large hand gripped her shoulder firmly.

“Miss Pendleton.”

She turned. Ian Dalton stood behind her.

“What’s wrong?”

Laura faced him, staring blankly. Black eyes and hair. Pale skin. A stark contrast of black and white.

‘Like a birch tree.’

The birch forest surrounding Whitefield Hall flashed before her. Her vision blurred, as if under a dreamlike spell, and her heart raced wildly.

“Mr. Dalton…”

Her bloodless lips trembled. With her last shred of reason, she whispered,

“…It’s heavy, but please hold me.”

Laura’s body swayed backward. His arms wrapped around her back, pulling her close. Her cheek pressed against his stone-hard chest, her body enveloped in his broad embrace.

His gloved hand cradled her small head.

“Laura, Laura…!”

Even as her consciousness faded, Laura felt safe in his arms. She fainted without a care.

When Laura opened her eyes, she saw an unfamiliar white ceiling. She stared at it blankly. Her mind was foggy, and closing her eyes seemed likely to pull her back into sleep—a tempting prospect.

But something disturbed her. Whispered voices, hushed. A low sigh, heavy with concern.

Laura opened her eyes fully.

She lay in the guest room of the parsonage, where she had once stayed with Olivia Fairfax. The whispers and sighs came from Mrs. Starr and Ian Dalton, standing at one side of the room. Ian sighed repeatedly while Mrs. Starr murmured.

As Mrs. Starr glanced toward the bed while speaking, her eyes met Laura’s.

“Oh, you’re awake!”

Ian rushed to the bedside. Seeing Laura’s open eyes, he exhaled as if unburdened. He removed his leather gloves and gently touched her forehead.

It was the first time their bare skin met.

His fingers, sliding across her skin, were warm and firm. The temptation to slip back into sleep vanished.

“Are you in pain?”

“No.”

Keeping his eyes on her, he said,

“Mrs. Starr, please fetch a glass of wine.”

Mrs. Starr stepped out and returned with a small glass half-filled with wine.

Ian propped Laura’s head up and brought the glass to her lips. She opened her mouth and drank obediently. The metallic, bitter, fragrant fruit wine flowed down her throat. Soon, warmth spread through her body, strength returned to her limbs, and her foggy mind cleared.

He set the glass aside and gently helped her sit up, placing a pillow behind her back.

“The doctor will be here soon.”

Laura nodded.

“You said you were eating well at Dunville Park, didn’t you? That you’d gained weight and needed new clothes? Was that all a lie? Did my sister and brother-in-law give you a hard time at the table?”

His seriousness made Laura smile.