When Laura first discovered this painting, she recognized Mr. Dalton at a glance and was utterly charmed. A fair face with rosy cheeks. Soft, cloud-like baby fat. Clever black eyes. Small lips pressed together earnestly.

He was the most striking little boy she had ever seen. If he were a neighborhood child she knew, she would have bought him a candy every day and pinched his cheeks.

Laura turned her head to look at Mr. Dalton. He stood beside her, hands in his trouser pockets, gazing at the water striders gliding over the lake.

Dressed in a teal suit complete with a vest and a black tie, he was the perfect young gentleman. The profile revealed beneath his neatly combed hair was sharp and chiseled, with no trace of the innocent boy from his childhood.

A smile flickered across Laura’s lips. Her heart jolted like a faulty engine.

Lately, this had been happening often. As if she were ill, her heart would race wildly whenever she saw him. Since he had cried for her sake, her emotions had become something beyond her control. Though she tried to keep them locked away, they leaked through the cracks.

With superhuman effort, she ignored her feelings. Thus, the emotions she could not express turned into a clawing pain in her heart.

Laura frowned at the stinging ache in her chest. At times like this, she keenly felt the absence of her father. If she had learned to handle emotions as Mr. Dalton had, she might know how to cope properly.

Her approach to emotions had always been to control, ignore, and regard them with suspicion. Having lost that control, she felt like a foolish parent watching helplessly as a strictly raised child, now grown and wayward, caused trouble. She could only endure her emotions’ chaos.

Laura sighed softly and closed the sketchbook. Then, in her usual calm voice, she asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“I was recalling the stone-skipping contest with Miss Hyde,” he replied. “Looking at the water reminded me of that humiliating defeat.”

Laura laughed softly. “It was a fun contest.”

“How is Miss Hyde doing?”

“She seems well. She sent a letter saying she finished Mary Rotis’s manuscript successfully and received a special bonus. She even included a small pearl brooch as a gift.”

“That’s impressive. Then again, a lady who can skip stones beyond the horizon could accomplish anything.”

“I hope so. Actually, the publishing house is discussing hiring Miss Hyde as a formal editor rather than a typist. There’s opposition among the executives since there’s no precedent for a female editor, but I think it will work out. When it comes to writing, she’s sharper and more insightful than anyone.”

“Whether Miss Hyde becomes an editor isn’t about her qualifications. It’s about whether that publishing house has the vision to see her worth. If they don’t hire her, tell her to resign. There’s no need to stay where she isn’t properly valued.”

“Mr. Fairfax seems to think the same. He’s already prepared a long list of publishers to send recommendation letters to if Miss Hyde’s promotion falls through.”

“He should focus on his own affairs. Always itching to help others, that fellow.”

Mr. Dalton spoke of his friend in a teasing tone that was clearly a compliment. Laura burst into laughter.

At that moment, a rumble of thunder echoed through the sky.

Looking up, they saw dust-colored clouds swiftly rolling in, overtaking the clear sky. Their gazes met in midair, a shared sense of dismay crossing their faces.

He quickly shed his jacket and draped it over Laura’s head. The jacket, tailored perfectly to his frame, was large enough on her to cover her upper body entirely.

Soon, raindrops began to pitter-patter on the water’s surface.

Fastening the jacket’s open front, he asked, “Are those shoes you can run in?”

Laura nodded. When walking in the woods, she always wore sturdy boots with rubber soles.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Then let’s go.”

He started running, and Laura followed. They dashed through a narrow path, past two springs, plunging into a deep forest lined with dense chestnut trees.

Soon, a small cabin appeared. It was a sturdy house of oak with a triangular roof. They stepped inside.

Laura, with the jacket still draped over her shoulders, surveyed the interior. It was clearly an abandoned home. The dim light filtered through. revealed no sign of a fire, chairs were strewn about, and the table was coated in thick dust.

“This was a woodcutter’s family home,” he said. “After the father died and the wife took a housekeeping job in London, it’s been abandoned. It’s dirty, but let’s stay until the rain stops.”

He rolled up his sleeves, broke two wooden chairs, and tossed them into the fireplace. From his pocket, he pulled a small matchbox, struck a match, and threw it into the hearth. Flames roared to life, brightening the dim cabin.

Laura, watching his movements, was startled. In the firelight, he was soaked through. Water dripped from his hair, and his wet shirt clung to his skin, faintly revealing the flesh beneath.

It was autumn, raining, and they were deep in the forest. The air was cold enough for faint white breath to form, and he was drenched. Laura’s heart shrank with worry for his health.

Mr. Dalton, with an air of annoyance, peeled off his sodden vest and placed it on the wooden table. He dragged over another chair, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the dust from it thoroughly. The clean handkerchief turned into a filthy rag. He folded it neatly, set it on the table, and moved the chair closer to the fire.

He gestured kindly toward Laura. “Come closer.”

Laura approached the fireplace slowly.

He seated her in the chair and removed the damp jacket from her shoulders. Scanning her, he noted that, thanks to the jacket, her upper body was dry, with only the hem of her skirt slightly wet.

He stood and broke a few more chairs, adding them to the fire. The flames burned brighter, and the small cabin grew warm.

Laura offered him the black shawl she had been wearing. “Dry yourself off.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to ruin Miss Pendleton’s clothes.”

“It’s a cheap shawl I bought for five pence at a London secondhand market. I wouldn’t miss it if it were thrown out, so please use it. I’m afraid my dear friend might catch a cold.”

He smiled softly and took the shawl, lightly wiping the water from his face, neck, and forearms.

“You’d feel uneasy reusing this. I’ll dispose of it and buy you a new one.”

Laura nodded.

Mr. Dalton folded the shawl neatly, holding it in one hand, and spread his jacket on the floor at Laura’s feet. He sat on it.

“The shawl would be less damp to sit on,” Laura thought, but assuming he found it awkward to sit on a lady’s garment, she said nothing.

Heavy rain pounded the old wooden house. Laura gazed out the window. Just thirty minutes ago, the world had been sunny, but now it was as dim as late evening before sunset, cloaked in dusty gloom. It was impossible to predict when the rain would stop. If it continued through the night, they might be trapped until morning.

“I should have heeded the signs,” Laura sighed, fidgeting with her aching right hand.

Meanwhile, he sat quietly, staring at the flames in the fireplace, holding a silver cigarette case. His fingers traced its embossed pattern restlessly. Laura sensed his unease.

“Want to smoke?” she asked.

He smiled faintly. “A little.”

“Go ahead.”

“Not in front of a lady.”

“It’s fine in front of a friend.”

“I don’t want to pollute the air you breathe.”

Yet he compulsively opened and closed the case’s lid. He sighed.

“Smoking is foul in many ways. It’s bad for your health and affects others poorly. If I have a son, I’ll never teach him to smoke.”

“Did your father teach you?”

He nodded. “I was fifteen. During a holiday, I returned home, and my father called me into his study. Instead of patting my head as before, he shook my hand and rolled me a cigar. After that, during every holiday, we’d sit in the study, smoking and talking—like grown men discussing business.”

“He wanted to bring you into the adult world.”

“Likely so. Around then, I began preparing to inherit the Dalton family legacy. My father is gone, but the Dalton name and cigars remain with me. And this case.”

He lightly shook the case in his hand. “A gift from my father for my Cambridge admission.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“It’s my favorite of all his gifts. I’ve carried it everywhere since Cambridge. But that means I keep fiddling with the cigars inside, and the smoking habit has stuck. My father probably wanted to share his tastes with his son. I understand, but I’d rather go fishing with my son.”

Amid the rain, the crackle of burning wood filled the air.

“I’m jealous you had parents to pass something down. I didn’t inherit much—habits, memories, or gifts.”

“You yourself are their legacy.”

“But I’m filled with things unrelated to them.”

His eyes seemed to ask a question. Perhaps softened by the warm hearth and the rain’s patter, words she’d never shared spilled out.

“I no longer think my parents’ love was foolish. I understand my mother’s desire to escape the Pendleton family, and I’ve learned my father tried to take responsibility for the consequences. But even if I faced their fate, I wouldn’t make their choices. Not because they were wrong, but because I’m not that kind of person.”