Laura Pendleton visited Whitefield once a week thereafter, usually on Sundays. Attending the service led by Pastor Star, she would have lunch at the parsonage or Whitefield Hall and stroll through Whitefield’s forests, fields, and riverbanks. In her hands, she always carried her father’s sketchbook.

It was the place where her father had spent his final days, where he created the most artwork, and where he loved most dearly. It was also where his young body was ultimately laid to rest.

With her father as a connecting thread, Laura’s perspective on Whitefield shifted. Once merely a friend’s private estate and a countryside of dreamy beauty, Whitefield now felt like the most special and profound place in the world. Like a pilgrim following the footsteps of a great saint, she sensed her father’s presence in Whitefield, tracing his thoughts and emotions.

Ian Dalton was always by her side. He accompanied her out of concern that she might lose her way. Laura accepted his kindness without hesitation.

He walked quietly beside her, like a shadow or a breeze—present yet unobtrusive. When she found a scene from her father’s sketches and asked if it matched, he would answer. When she was curious, he would describe the moments when her father created those drawings.

Through Ian’s voice, Laura could vividly picture the father she had never seen. She imagined him sitting on a tree stump, a grassy field, a large rock, or a sturdy branch, sketching for hours. The gentle Whitefield breeze tousled his soft blond hair, his exposed neck tilted toward the sketchbook, and his delicate fingers diligently captured a piece of heaven on paper.

A young, breathtakingly beautiful father, so vivid it brought tears to her eyes.

Laura sat on the same stumps or rocks where her father had rested, gazing at the landscapes he had seen, seeing through his eyes. Each time, she discovered a glimpse of heaven.

Whitefield’s serene and peaceful nature was a majestic work of art, carefully crafted by God. She felt the breath of the divine in the fragrant breeze and heard God’s whistle in the distant calls of birds.

For Laura, time spent in Whitefield was like a moment in paradise.

While Laura lingered in this heaven, Ian, too, tasted paradise. Walking through Whitefield alone with Laura—how long had he wished for this? How fervently had he dreamed of accompanying her without fear of revealing his true feelings? He had believed marriage was the only way to achieve this, yet this opportunity had come like an unexpected gift.

He thanked the angel who had granted his wish. That angel, of course, was his mentor, Lewis Sheldon.

Mr. Sheldon had poured boundless love into his young pupil, who had lost his mother. He taught Ian everything he knew and offered heartfelt comfort. Perhaps it was the pain of seeing a boy, close in age to his own daughter, grow up without a mother that moved him.

As an adult, Ian often reflected on Mr. Sheldon, realizing the immense love he had received. Without him, Ian might have become a reclusive and melancholic person.

And to think, that man’s daughter was Laura Pendleton.

He could never forget the moment Laura fainted in his arms. That day, he had visited the cemetery merely to see her face again and find an excuse to invite her to Whitefield. But that moment led him to discover the truth.

At first, he was shocked, but soon he wondered why he hadn’t realized it earlier. In his memory, Mr. Sheldon was always gentle, wise, and filled with love. Laura had inherited those very qualities.

Ian had always believed his connection with Laura was fated. Falling in love with her was divine providence. She was the other half of his pair, the reason no other woman had ever caught his eye.

Learning about Laura’s father solidified this belief, as if it were a revelation etched in stone.

“She is the only woman who could ever be my companion. She is the master of my life.”

Gazing at Laura, who sat gracefully on a stump, listening to the sound of the breeze, he thought to himself:

“Mr. Sheldon, now an angel, has guided his daughter to me, to be my precious partner. To repay the debt I owe him, I will make his daughter happy.”

His love, already at its peak, surged beyond human limits, exploding into a realm too vast to contain. Laura. Laura Pendleton. Laura Sheldon. A woman so lovable, so inevitable. The one woman tied to him by the thread of fate.

He wanted to fall at her feet and offer her everything. If he could only secure her promise to be his wife forever, he felt he could sell his very soul.

But she did not want him.

He despaired. If she loved him even a fraction as much as he loved her, they could be an blissfully happy couple. But she likely didn’t love him even a speck.

This conviction was natural. Laura showed no emotional stirrings in his presence. Occasionally, when he teased her, she would blush or fluster, but otherwise, she remained calm and serene.

If she had ever shown even a fleeting glance of longing, he might have mustered the courage to confess his feelings.

But Laura gave no such sign.

As a result, he tossed and turned sleeplessly every night. She was an independent woman with a wealth of intellectual assets. Moreover, inheriting Mr. Sheldon’s fortune had spared her from poverty. She was now completely free.

If he begged for her affection, she would likely leave immediately—for her friend’s sake, to avoid repeating her parents’ mistakes, and to avoid being tied to a man she didn’t love.

The third reason pained him most.

He knew he was considered a desirable husband in society. The land inherited from his parents was among the finest in England, and in just a few years, he had quadrupled his inherited wealth, sustaining his family through England’s economic downturn.

And though he never placed much importance on it, he was aware that women found him reasonably attractive.

Yet, to her, everything he had seemed to mean little.

Each night, he tried to overcome his anguish by sketching Laura’s image repeatedly. But the situation worsened. Grief could be softened through mourning, but love blazed hotter with every recollection. Her vivid image only fanned the flames of his passion.

He writhed in his fevered sheets.

“For her love, I’d commit any sin, even one God wouldn’t forgive.”

That sin, of course, was continuing to lie—hiding his true feelings and pretending to be just a friend, determined to make her love him.

“Mr. Sheldon, if I make her mine, I’ll repay her with manifold happiness. So please, make her a little more reckless, a little more naive. Give me an opening to press forward. Right now, there’s not even a needle’s gap. Please, Mr. Sheldon.”

In his fevered haze, he prayed to his guardian angel.

“Mr. Dalton, it feels like rain is coming.”

On a peaceful Sunday afternoon, as usual, Laura walked with Ian Dalton along Whitefield’s lush birch path, holding her sketchbook. She spoke while opening and closing her hand.

Ian, walking beside her, stopped and looked up at the sky. Through the dense birches, the sky was clear, not a wisp of cloud in sight.

Laura, looking up alongside him, felt embarrassed.

“Oh, it doesn’t look like rain at all.”

“Why did you think it would rain?”

Laura awkwardly rubbed her right hand.

“Around the time it’s going to rain, this hand gets numb.”

She answered innocently, assuming he knew nothing about her hand. But he knew more about her than she realized.

A memory flashed through Ian’s mind, and he clenched his jaw.

That damned Gerald Pendleton. His jaw muscles twitched.

Quickly suppressing his agitation, he turned toward the manor.

“Let’s head back.”

“No, Mr. Dalton, it’s probably just aching.”

“There’s nothing as accurate as the body’s signals.”

Laura shook her head.

“This hand often misleads people. It needs a warm compress now and then, but I’ve been neglecting it lately, so it’s acting up. We’ve only been out for less than thirty minutes—it feels too soon to go back.”

He looked at her reluctantly, then gave a slight smile.

“Then, if it rains midway, the responsibility is yours, Miss Pendleton?”

“Responsibility? What kind?”

“For getting me wet. If the ground gets muddy, you’ll have to carry me back to the manor. If I catch a cold from the rain, you’ll have to nurse me. If the sound of the rain makes me fretful, you’ll have to sing me a lullaby.”

Laura burst out laughing.

“Like my father did for you?”

“Exactly.”

Laura rolled her eyes.

“Those all seem impossible or inappropriate for me to do. But there’s one thing I can offer.”

“What’s that?”

“If your clothes get wet, I’ll lend you my dress. You can wear it back.”

They both laughed aloud.

They slowly ventured deeper into the forest. Walking gently between the snow-white trees, they soon reached a field where willow leaves and tall grass grew up to their knees. After walking through the golden, sunlit meadow, they came upon a large lake reflecting the blue sky like a mirror.

Laura marveled at the beautiful scenery.

“If this were Renoir, he’d have painted voluptuous women bathing here.”

She opened her sketchbook and flipped through the pages, finding a drawing that perfectly matched the scene before her. She studied it closely.

Instead of a woman’s figure, her father had painted a boy in this setting. A child kneeling in the grass, arms wrapped around his knees, watching the ripples the wind made on the lake. It was eight-year-old Ian Dalton.

A smile played on Laura’s lips.