Translator: Nox

Chapter 142

#<Episode 142>

He urgently sent a servant to fetch a doctor, who diagnosed Dalton with pulmonary tuberculosis.

It was a terribly dangerous and highly contagious disease.

Ramswick sent most of the servants home on paid leave. Then, gathering the minimum number of staff needed to run the mansion, he ordered them to stay away from Dalton's room.

Only the doctor and Ramswick went in and out of his room, caring for the patient.

Dalton suffered severely for the first month, losing over eight kilograms. He coughed day and night, often spitting up blood, which horrified Ramswick.

Fortunately, by the second month, his coughing had decreased. His appetite also slowly increased, and although he was still pale and gaunt, the skeletal face that had been unable to sleep due to coughing slowly began to fill out.

And in early March, the fourth month, the doctor declared the master of Whitefield cured. He would need to continue to be cared for as he had been, but the disease was completely gone.

The news delighted not only the servants but also the family at Dunville Park. Daniel and George, who had soaked their pillows with tears upon hearing that their uncle had tuberculosis and repented of all their past mischief, were eager to rush to Whitefield to see him. Olivia, who had been visiting the Star couple at the Parsonage every day to whine, was able to resume her studies and social activities, which she had been neglecting.

Mr. Fairfax, who had been going out with his gun every day to shoot pheasants and squirrels indiscriminately and send them to Whitefield, was able to rest from hunting for a while and preserve the population of the hunting grounds. Mrs. Fairfax, whose white hair had been rapidly increasing, was able to avoid becoming a completely white-haired old woman.

Only Ramswick still walked through the mansion with a face covered in worry.

Standing in front of Dalton's room, Ramswick knocked.

"Dalton, it's lunchtime."

The usual clear voice came from inside.

"Come in."

Ramswick entered.

The master was standing near the window, in front of a large picture window overlooking Whitefield.

The view outside was truly a painting. As winter slowly retreated, Whitefield was nothing short of a pure white world. White birch forests with snow on their heads and snow-covered hills. Snow piled high on the frozen stream that formed the boundary between the birch forest and Whitefield Hall.

Dalton was looking out the window with his hands behind his back. He was wearing thick flannel pajamas, a thick wool cardigan, and wool slippers.

"I'll put it on the table."

The master did not answer. Ramswick placed the meal on the table and stepped aside.

After a while, Dalton turned away from the window. Although he still looked pale, he had regained his former appearance.

He sat at the table and began to eat.

Ramswick watched him quietly, the master eating with dignity, making no sound of scraping the bottom of the plate with his utensils or chewing his food.

After being diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis, the master had fought the disease with all his might.

He did everything the doctor told him to do without fail. He stopped smoking and ate regularly. He took out thick clothes that he would never have considered wearing before to keep warm, and he drank every last drop of the disgusting herbal water that came with every meal.

Thanks to his constant efforts, the master was able to survive the terrible disease of pulmonary tuberculosis.

After finishing his meal, Dalton downed the herbal water in one gulp. Ramswick stood there, waiting for the order to clear the tray.

Even as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, Dalton's eyes were fixed on Whitefield outside the window.

"Ramswick."

"Yes, Dalton."

"Is the road to Whitefield still a mess for carriages?"

"I regret to say that it is. The mud is so bad that it swallows the wheels like a swamp."

"It must be difficult to transport goods to the mansion."

"Fortunately, it is not difficult to travel on foot, so the servants are buying goods in the village and bringing them back themselves."

"Don't skimp on firewood in the servants' quarters. And let the servants who transport the goods rest for the day."

"Yes, master."

"And."

He paused for a moment.

"When the carriage road is back to normal, contact Dunville Park. Tell them to send Olivia, George, and Daniel. Tell Phillip to make something the children will like."

Ramswick answered respectfully.

Ian sighed deeply and leaned back against the sofa. When there was no order to leave, Ramswick cautiously opened his mouth.

"How are you feeling, master?"

There was no answer. Ian put his head on the sofa and closed his eyes.

"I am proud of you, master, for overcoming the disease."

The corner of the master's mouth turned up slightly.

"Am I a master to be proud of for you?"

"Of course."

"Thank you. That's comforting."

He fell silent again.

Ramswick lowered his eyes. The worry on his face deepened.

Ramswick was one of the people who would have been most pleased when Dalton's illness was cured. He had lived his whole life as a bachelor, managing the Dalton family, and had no regrets in his life. With a monastic disposition, he was not a man attached to a wife or children. He was happy enough with the pride of serving a respectable master.

He had worked for the Dalton family for almost his entire life, watching Ian grow into a fine head of the family. He admired his master, Ian Dalton, and made it his life's work to assist him without discomfort.

That was why Ramswick could not simply rejoice that his master's pulmonary tuberculosis had been cured. The illness of the body had improved, but the heart did not seem to be healthy at all.

Ramswick knew that his master cried himself to sleep every night, clutching a shawl that seemed to belong to a woman. That he would occasionally become dazed as if his soul had left his body, and inexplicably lethargic.

In inverse proportion to the improvement of his body, the master's mood seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper.

Ramswick could well guess the reason.

'Miss Sheldon.'

The reason the master went to Bath was to win Miss Sheldon's heart. And the master had been like this ever since he returned from Bath.

'It's a heartbreak.'

Ramswick became even more troubled.

Perhaps things had not gone well with Miss Sheldon in Bath. It was sad, but there was nothing he could do. Relationships between men and women were a hopeless game that defied probability. Those who wished to jump into love had to embark on courtship with the possibility of separation.

But the master was a man of great affection and romance. And Miss Sheldon was his first love. The master's heartbreak was probably similar to when his sister, Lady Margaret Fairfax, had left for marriage and when Sheldon Teacher had passed away.

'It's a miracle that he's holding on like that.'

The master had been half-dead and skipping meals just from being ignored by Miss Sheldon for a few days. And yet, he was working hard to overcome his illness. It was a relief. He should be considered great just for not committing suicide with a pistol or dying young from alcoholism like a male protagonist in a melodrama.

Ian, who had been lying on the sofa with his eyes closed for a long time, suddenly raised his head.

"Oh, I shouldn't have kept you standing here like this."

His voice was dazed, as if he had just woken up.

"It's all right, master. I'm the one who should always be in a place where you can easily find me."

"You're not a candlestick. Go out and do your work. Even better if it's sitting down. Your knees must be colder in winter."

"That's right, master. But my knees are fine. Because you always remember to worry about me."

Ramswick felt a little tearful and took the tray away.

Click. As the door closed, Ian was left alone.

Ian sank deeply into the sofa again. Even though he had just eaten, he had no energy in his arms and legs.

The disease was gone. The painful symptoms had disappeared, and his flesh and muscles had returned. But he was as lethargic as he had been when he was sick. His body felt like a limp leather sack.

He had no motivation or energy. Nothing moved him. It was as if he had left his will to live in Bath when he left.

By giving up Laura, the central axis of energy that had kept him alive had collapsed. Like someone sinking into a swamp, he sank endlessly into darkness. He saw beautiful things, but they were not beautiful, and he ate delicious things, but they were not delicious.

He simply could not understand why he should live.

'Laura.'

He called out to the woman he had left behind in his heart.

'Is your body all better? Are you feeling okay?'

He felt a heavy pain in his heart. He covered his eyes with his hand.

'I wish you were a little bit hurt. Not physically, but emotionally. I hope you're not singing a happy tune because you got rid of an annoying guy. I hope you feel a little sorry for me, and that you regret even a tiny bit that we couldn't be together. It's unfair that only I'm hurting and only I'm having a hard time. At least, we both loved each other. Even if the weight of that love was different.'

The palm of his hand covering his face became damp. Tears streamed down his cheeks and soaked his neck.

He bit his lip. And he quickly took a handkerchief out of his gown pocket and wiped his face.

'Get a grip, Ian Dalton. The pain is temporary. You'll be okay in time. Love is a superficial, extravagant feeling like a Rococo painting.'

He recalled Laura's words from some time ago and tried his best to drive out the sentimentality in his heart. If he continued to be trapped in this despair, he felt like he would end his own life.

He had no desire, but his purpose to live was clear. If he died, the kind-hearted Laura would blame herself for the loss of a healthy life because of her. She, who should be stepping into a future full of possibilities, would be tormented because of him.

'She has suffered more than her fair share of unfair misfortune. I mustn't add to her pain.'

He rose from his seat, recalling the thought that had kept him faithfully following the doctor's instructions for the past four months, even as he felt the desperate desire to end his life by neglecting his pulmonary tuberculosis. And he began to walk around the room, because the doctor had advised him to start exercising.

'Even if this sadness never goes away, even if I have to live this unhappy life forever, I must live a long life. At least until she is old enough not to feel responsible for my death.'