Laura Pendleton visited Whitefield Hall alone the next day. It was the first time she had gone to Whitefield Hall by herself.

Laura walked slowly into the mansion. The butler, Ramswick, who had been awaiting her arrival, guided her inside.

Passing through the splendid hall and staircase, they arrived at the door of his study. Ramswick opened the door, and Laura stepped inside.

Dressed sharply in a gray suit with a navy tie, he stood by the window.

“Welcome.”

He greeted her with an awkward voice that seemed out of place between them. Laura gave him a slight curtsy.

“You didn’t feel dizzy or unwell after returning home, did you?”

“Not at all.”

“You look like you haven’t slept.”

Laura gave a faint smile.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He nodded as if he understood.

“Would you like to sit?”

They sat on a buffalo leather sofa placed in one corner of the study. Soon, a servant entered with a tray holding tea, cake, and cookies. After the servant finished setting the table and left, he naturally picked up the teapot, poured tea into Laura’s cup, added milk and two spoonfuls of sugar, and stirred it with a teaspoon.

As Laura sipped her tea slowly, he placed slices of cake and cookies on the plate in front of her. Having barely eaten breakfast, Laura enjoyed the treats. While she ate, he watched her silently.

After finishing a piece of cake, Laura wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“Was it good?”

Laura nodded. A faint smile appeared on his lips.

“It’s nice to see you eat well. Miss Pendleton, or… would you prefer to be called Miss Sheldon?”

“Whatever is comfortable for you, Mr. Dalton.”

“For me to be comfortable, you must be comfortable, Miss Pendleton.”

“Then I prefer Miss Pendleton. That’s what you’ve always called me, Mr. Dalton.”

“Very well, Miss Pendleton.”

He rose from his seat and strode to his desk. On it was a large paper box. He picked it up, returned, and placed it on one side of the table.

Laura looked at the box. The name “Lewis Sheldon” was clearly written on it, and a small paper envelope rested on top.

He handed the envelope to Laura.

“I’d like you to look at this first.”

Laura took the envelope.

“This is the entirety of Mr. Lewis Sheldon’s estate.”

Laura slowly opened the envelope and examined its contents. She had no great expectations. Her father, who had lived his life as a poor painter, was unlikely to have left a significant inheritance. She assumed it would be a few dozen pounds in a bank deposit and some cash he had on hand.

A bank receipt emerged from the envelope. Laura counted the numbers written on it.

“This… one thousand… pounds…?”

Laura looked at Mr. Dalton. He was stirring his lemon-infused tea with a teaspoon.

“This is my father’s money?”

“Yes. And now it’s yours.”

“That’s impossible. My father was poor. He didn’t have a profession that could earn this kind of money…”

“When Mr. Sheldon first came to Whitefield, he was beginning to gain recognition among the nobility as a portrait painter. Additionally, the landscapes he painted during his travels were starting to catch the eye of discerning art dealers.”

“But every time I met art dealers, I asked about my father’s name. They all said they didn’t know him…”

“He passed away just before he could gain fame. There are thousands of active painters in England, and those who die before becoming well-known are quickly forgotten. But I am certain that if he had lived, within one or two years, he would have become a painter known to every Englishman. His paintings were beautiful. Like his soul.”

His voice carried conviction, but Laura decided to believe only half of it. Strong affection often clouds objective criticism.

As if reading her mind, he opened the box of keepsakes and handed her one of the sketchbooks.

Laura opened it. Her father’s unfinished watercolors were layered inside.

They were all landscapes of Whitefield. A lakeside at sunset. A beautiful starry night in the forest. A lonely wheat field before harvest.

The colors were vivid and transparent. It was as if real light and darkness had been melted into the paintings, making them strikingly lifelike. The technique was flawless, and the individuality was unmistakable.

With her keen eye for art, Laura could agree with Mr. Dalton’s conviction. Her father had been a remarkable artist. Had he not passed away early, he surely would have become one of England’s most celebrated painters.

For the first time in her life, Laura felt proud of her father’s existence.

She turned her gaze to the box of keepsakes. A frayed handkerchief. A worn shirt. A stained palette and paint tubes. A Bible. A weathered leather bag. Items her father had worn, carried, and used in her memories.

As expected of the possessions of an obscure painter who had never been wealthy, they were shabby, yet there wasn’t a speck of mold or dust on them.

“They look as if they were used just yesterday.”

“My father took great care in maintaining Mr. Sheldon’s belongings. He was always grateful to him. He saved me from sorrow.”

Laura smiled softly.

“I heard from Lady Star. My father was a good teacher to you, Mr. Dalton.”

“More than that.”

He smiled. It was a smile tinged with sadness.

“As a child, I was always sensitive and easily fell into melancholy. After my sister left for marriage, I became even more depressed and lonely. Mr. Sheldon taught me how to accept myself. ‘Emotions aren’t bad,’ he said. ‘If you’re lonely, paint your loneliness. If you miss someone, paint what you miss. By reflecting your heart outward, the pain fades, and only the richness of emotion remains. In that richness, even sadness becomes beautiful.’”

Laura recalled the watercolor of Whitefield that Mr. Dalton had given her. Such a beautiful painting had its roots in her father’s teachings.

“When he passed away, I lived in despair for a while. But he had taught me how to overcome sorrow before he left. I did as he taught. Painting in his memory, praying for him in heaven. Writing letters to him when I had something to say. When I could mourn him without tears, I knew I had grown.”

His voice was heavy with emotion. He still missed his teacher, who had left over twenty years ago.

Laura wanted to hug him tightly. To comfort him and thank him for not forgetting her father.

It was an impulse she couldn’t act on. Instead, she thought of another way to console him.

“Mr. Dalton, shall we take a short walk?”

The two stepped outside.

The early autumn air was as crisp and cool as the chill held in the deepest valleys. They passed through the garden and walked along a quiet dirt path lined with white birch trees. The chirping of crickets and birds mingled with the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze.

“You once said you wanted to stroll through Whitefield. That wish has come true.”

After walking silently for a while, Laura spoke.

“In London, you always boasted about Whitefield, Mr. Dalton. I thought if someone like you was so proud of it, it must be a remarkable place. Seeing it for myself, it’s no exaggeration. It’s truly beautiful.”

“Thank you for saying so, Miss Pendleton.”

“My father must have felt the same. All his paintings were landscapes of Whitefield.”

“After coming to Whitefield, Mr. Sheldon painted only this place.”

“I understand why. I can’t paint, but if I could, I’d carry a brush, palette, and sketchbook and wander Whitefield all day.”

Mr. Dalton said nothing. Laura glanced at him. The corner of his mouth was slightly upturned.

Happiness bloomed in Laura’s heart.

“Mr. Dalton, would it be all right if I came here to walk from time to time?”

He turned to her. Their eyes met.

“Would you welcome me even without Olivia?”

“Of course.”

Laura expressed her thanks and looked ahead again.

“Last night, I thought about my father all night. That he didn’t abandon me. That he worked hard to come back for me and died because of it. I was confused. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. The me of today was built on the belief that my father abandoned me.”

She thought he might ask what she meant, but he remained silent. When she glanced at him, he was looking ahead, quietly listening. His calm demeanor gave her courage.

“I remember something from when I was fifteen. It was my birthday. The boarding school threw a party for me. The headmistress ordered a huge cake, and all the students and teachers gathered. I wore a lilac silk dress, a gift from my grandmother. It was a wonderful party. I blew out the candles, received kisses from friends, and hugged the teachers I admired. We celebrated noisily until late. That night, I returned to my room, crawled into bed, and let out the tears I’d held back all day.”

“…”

“The cake, the dress, the congratulations from everyone—they couldn’t fill my heart. My father hadn’t even sent me a postcard. Every birthday brought disappointment, but that year was especially hard. I cried and cried all night. That must have been the day I decided to stop letting emotions rule my life.”

Having spoken, Laura wondered why she was confessing such a sentimental past. She knew it might burden him, so why?

She feared being misunderstood. To someone as loving as him, how would she appear, showing no tears upon learning of her father’s death? Surely, she’d seem cold-hearted.

She wanted to explain. That her composure wasn’t because she didn’t love her father. That there was a reason she couldn’t cry easily.

He was probably searching for words to comfort her. She should ease his burden. Laura turned to him with a bright smile, ready to say, “It’s all fine now.”

But when she looked at him, her smile faded.

Mr. Dalton’s face was wet with tears.

She stopped in her tracks and grabbed his arm.

“Mr. Dalton…”

He quickly turned his head away. His broad, sturdy shoulders were trembling faintly. She hadn’t been mistaken.

Laura froze, unsure what to do. She had never seen a grown man like Mr. Dalton cry.

He pulled a clean gray handkerchief with a checkered pattern from his jacket pocket and quickly wiped his face.

Laura gripped his arm tightly.

“It’s all fine now. It’s all in the past, and I’m happy now.”

But her words had the opposite effect. He buried his face in the handkerchief and began to sob.

Hearing his sobs, Laura realized something. He was grieving for her, for Laura Pendleton’s past. For the hardships she had endured, known by so few and pitied by even fewer. He was crying, hurting for that time.

In that moment, a cracking sound echoed in her heart.

It was the sound of a fissure forming in the lid that covered her heart.