The day after Laura Pendleton and Mr. Dalton took shelter from the rain in the cabin, Laura shared afternoon tea alone with Mrs. Fairfax in her private parlor and informed her that Mr. Dalton planned to host a party. Mrs. Fairfax, draped in a fox-fur shawl and sipping tea, asked in surprise:

“A hunting gathering? For several days, no less?”

“Yes.”

“How astonishing. What’s gotten into Ian? Did he fall from one of those apple trees he’s been tending and hit his head?”

Laura gave a small laugh.

“It’s concerning. That household doesn’t have anyone suited to prepare for a grand party.”

“Actually, I have something to ask your permission for, madam. Mr. Dalton has entrusted me with organizing the party. May I go and lend a hand?”

“Oh, you, Miss Pendleton? Then there’s nothing to worry about. Go as often as you need.”

Mrs. Fairfax nibbled on a madeleine and readily gave her consent, as Laura had expected. But a more difficult request remained. Laura hesitated slightly before speaking.

“And… I’ve also been invited.”

She quickly added:

“If you don’t approve, Mrs. Fairfax, I won’t attend.”

“Why would you think I wouldn’t approve?”

“It’s bound to be a gathering of London’s most prominent figures. I worry that my presence at such an event might bring dishonor to the Dalton family.”

“…”

Mrs. Fairfax set the madeleine she was holding back onto her plate.

“Miss Pendleton.”

“Yes.”

“You are a remarkably humble and upright person. Sometimes excessively so. You belittle yourself and shrink from everything. Until now, I let it pass, but that attitude is starting to trouble me. Perhaps it’s because I’ve learned you are the daughter of Mr. Sheldon.”

“…”

“Twenty years ago, Mr. Sheldon visited this place. I thought he was an angel sent by my late mother. His appearance and conduct were so fitting for the word ‘angel.’ I believe it’s by heaven’s grace that his daughter, you, has come to this house.”

Mrs. Fairfax reached out and gently clasped Laura’s small hands, folded on her lap.

“No one can point fingers at you anymore. Neither the Dalton nor the Fairfax families will allow it. You have the protection of the two most powerful families in Yorkshire. Live with confidence now.”

Laura was speechless. Her heart swelled with emotion.

Mrs. Fairfax, who had always treated her with undue kindness, had grown even more tender since learning she was Louis Sheldon’s daughter, as if Laura were her own lost daughter.

Laura felt a motherly warmth in Mrs. Fairfax that she hadn’t experienced since her grandmother’s passing.

Laura nodded.

“So, what dress will you wear to the ball?”

“The brown dress I wear whenever I visit Mr. Dalton’s residence.”

“The ball will span several days, and you plan to manage with just that one?”

“It’s fine. Even during my London social season, I never dressed more extravagantly than that.”

Mrs. Fairfax frowned for a moment, deep in thought.

“Miss Pendleton, I…”

Knock, knock.

As Mrs. Fairfax responded, the door opened, and a uniformed servant approached the two ladies, carrying a silver tray.

“Madam, the mail has arrived.”

Mrs. Fairfax picked up the letters on the tray and scanned them one by one. Her indifferent gaze lit up at one particular envelope.

“Oh my, a letter from Hartnum Cottage.”

Hartnum Cottage was where the late Reverend Jenfield’s surviving family resided.

“Is someone ill?”

Mrs. Fairfax hurriedly tore open the envelope and began reading the letter.

The servant holding the tray leaned toward Laura.

“I’ve set aside the letters addressed to you, miss. Shall I have your maid deliver them to your room, or would you like to review them now?”

“Oh, I’m expecting some mail. Please give them to me now.”

The servant pulled two letters from their pocket and handed them to Laura, who eagerly accepted them.

One was from Ann in London, and the other was from Miss Jane Hyde.

Laura’s heart raced the moment she saw the sender’s name, Jane Hyde. She had been anxiously awaiting a letter from Miss Hyde, eager to know if her promotion at the publishing house had succeeded.

Laura set Ann’s letter on her lap and opened Miss Hyde’s, unfolding the paper. The wild, curling script filled the page densely.

To Miss Laura Pendleton,

Hello. How have you been? I haven’t been able to write back for the past two weeks. Truth be told, I haven’t had the presence of mind to do so. Miss Pendleton, I’m in a situation right now where I can’t tell if this is reality or a dream. If you were here beside me, I’d ask you to stab the back of my hand with a fork to prove it’s real!

As you can see from the envelope, I’m in Bath!

Laura, startled, checked the envelope. Above the sender’s name, “Jane Hyde,” was written the name of Bath’s spa city hotel, “Laurelia Hotel.”

“Why is Miss Hyde, who should be at the London publishing house, in a resort town?”

With a mix of curiosity and unease, Laura’s heart pounded as she unfolded the letter again.

Surprised, aren’t you? Are you worried that I got sacked for some mistake and came to Bath to squander my savings on horse racing and gambling?

Not at all! I’m diligently working here. Let me explain how this came to be.

It happened ten days ago.

. I was typing up a contract at the desk across from my editor, engulfed in the haze of pipe smoke he was puffing out.

Then, without any warning, bang!* the office door flew open. The editor, half-dozing and puffing away, toppled right off his chair.

The door hung ajar, creaking, and a woman stood in the doorway. She was a petite woman with wavy black hair cascading down. She wore a sleek black riding habit and black boots, leaning on a sword-cane planted firmly on the ground.

Her presence was as commanding as Artemis, the goddess of Greek mythology. And just as beautiful as her. Her dark eyes gleamed with a radiant glow, her sun-tanned skin framed a perfectly balanced nose and lips. And that slender figure…

Anyway, I just stared at her, spellbound. She was fuming, absolutely livid. In her hand, she held a book published by our house—Mary Lottis’s Roth’s African travelogue.

She strode toward the editor’s desk. I noticed her gait betrayed a slight limp in one leg.

The moment she reached the desk, she shouted at the editor, who was still sprawled on the floor.

“When did I ever write such rubbish sentences in my manuscript!”

The editor, hearing this, gawked blankly at the woman before him, then jolted upright as if struck by lightning, bowing his head low.

“Miss Lottis Roth. Good day to you!”

“I’m far from good. Didn’t you promise six years ago at our meeting to leave it all to me? Didn’t you say you’d transfer my writing to the book without changing a single word? Speak up, Mr. Shallow!”

“Of, of course. That’s why the book came out so perfectly, isn’t…”

“Mr. Shallow!”

“Oh, Miss Hyde, quickly fetch a warm cup of tea.”

I hurried off to prepare the tea. The editor was in a bind, but my heart was racing. Think about it, Miss Pendleton. How long I’ve dreamed of a moment like this. Ever since I read Mary Lottis’s Roth’s book at twenty, I’ve been her fan. And now, she appeared before my eyes—poof, no, bang! My hands shook so much while brewing the tea that I spilled more leaves than I put in the cup.

When I returned to the office with tea and simple biscuits, the editor was pacing the room, and Miss Lottis Roth was seated across from him, flipping through a book. It was the latest publication, her Qing Dynasty travelogue—the very manuscript I was proofreading when you visited, Miss Pendleton!

I placed the tea at their respective spots and stood to one side, watching them. The editor was tugging at his mustache, eyeing Miss Lottis warily Roth, and I was doing the same. After all, who knew what else Miss Lottis Roth, who’d already broken the door, might smash if she got angry again?

After about twenty minutes, Miss Lottis Roth looked up and set the book on the desk with a thud.

“So, who worked on this manuscript?”

“One of my typists did. Come here, Miss Hyde.”

I obediently approached Miss Lottis Roth at the editor’s bidding. She looked me up and down, then locked eyes with me. Her gaze pierced my heart like a flying spear. Such an intense stare.

“How old are you?”

I told her my age. She nodded and asked how long I’d been in this job and where I lived. It felt a bit like an interrogation, but I answered everything readily. I’d probably even answer honestly if she asked who I disliked most in the world. “My mother,” I’d say.

Miss Lottis Roth listened to my answers for a moment, then spoke with a rather displeased expression.

“To think a novice like this accomplished what you couldn’t all this time—what a laughable publishing house. I’m starting to doubt whether I should keep publishing here.”

“Miss Lottis Roth!”

The editor cried out, his face paling. But Miss Lottis Roth kept her eyes fixed on me. Cold sweat ran down my back. I was glad my proofreading pleased her, but if Miss Lottis Roth pulled her contract, our publishing house would surely collapse.

Miss Lottis Roth held everyone’s fate in her grip as she stared at me. I stared back at her. Her eyes were gray, like yours, Miss Pendleton. The shade was almost identical. But unlike your gentle eyes, hers were sharp, like a cat’s. I thought, “They’d be quite eerie at night.” Yet they weren’t eyes I wanted to look away from. They were incredibly captivating.

For a moment, we just looked at each other. She studied me carefully, then gave a small smirk and said:

“Mr. Shallow, I have a condition for continuing to publish my books here.”

Mr. Shallow immediately asked what it was. In the next moment, astonishingly, Miss Lottis Roth pointed her black cane at me.

“Give me Miss Hyde as my secretary.”