Chapter 39
Where would one find a person suffering inwardly because of an emotion that could never be requited?
Her reckless belief did contain a vanity that overestimated her own beauty, but it wasn't an entirely unfounded delusion. She had learned from her interactions with Janet that Mr. Dalton wasn't particularly fond of socializing. The fact that he had returned to bustling London must have been for some purpose.
She thought it had something to do with her. Because, ever since Ian Dalton had returned to London, he had been frequenting her Tea party.
Since arriving in London, Ian, though not every day, had quite often visited Miss Lance's Tea party with Miss Fairfax. And he mingled freely with the hostess, Miss Lance, and her main Tea party members, Miss Susan Donovan, Miss Victoria Wilkes, and Miss Daisy Orson.
The ladies were initially taken aback by Mr. Dalton's frequent appearances at the Tea party, as they had never seen him socialize like this before, but they were soon captivated by his impeccable manners and gentlemanly kindness, and they welcomed him gladly.
He was polite to all the ladies, but especially kind to Miss Lance. Ian himself had no idea, but because of that, there had been a long-standing speculation among Miss Lance and her friends that he was fond of Miss Lance. Ian Dalton's sudden reappearance in London and his frequent visits to Miss Lance were enough to turn that speculation into conviction.
Of course, his kindness towards Miss Lance never went beyond the manners a gentleman would show a lady in society. His kindness was sensible and commonplace. But they had already firmly misunderstood Mr. Dalton's true intentions, so it was perhaps natural that all his actions seemed like affection for Miss Lance.
"Did you hear what he said earlier? 'I entirely agree with you'!"
Miss Victoria Wilkes exclaimed in an excited voice in the drawing room, where only the four ladies remained after Mr. Dalton had left the Tea party early.
"He said to Dora, 'I entirely agree with you.' Three times!"
"Victoria, were you counting all that?"
Miss Lance asked sheepishly.
"Is that the problem? He said he entirely agreed with you."
"Victoria, what does that even mean? It's just something people say."
"Yes, the words themselves may not mean anything. But remember the tone. Remember the expression and the gestures. He was saying, 'My heart belongs entirely to you!' Dora, didn't you feel it?"
Miss Dora Lance said nothing. Her face was as red as pomegranate seeds. The other three ladies' hearts fluttered and swelled at Miss Lance's reaction.
They loved their perfect friend with near-worship. So they were proud that she had stolen the heart of such a wonderful gentleman. It was as if they themselves were receiving the love of such a gentleman.
"He's in love. Otherwise, he wouldn't come to the Tea party so often."
"That's right, that's how it seems to me too. Maybe soon... soon, he might propose to Dora!The three ladies exclaimed 'Wow!' in unison.
Miss Lance tried to stop her friends, thinking they were going too far, but she was so pleased with the possibilities her friends were telling her that she didn't put much effort into stopping them. In fact, it was more like encouraging them than stopping them. She seemed to deny it, but then affirm it. She shook her head, but then shyly lowered her eyes and remained silent.
That attitude seemed to contain many implications in the eyes of her friends. It was as if she was hinting that there was some kind of signal being exchanged between Ian Dalton and Dora Lance.
"If Dora becomes Mr. Dalton's wife, their children will probably be so pretty."
"Pretty? They'll be almost angelic, won't they?"
"Dora, what names are you going to give the children?"
Miss Lance tried to give a troubled smile, but all that came out was an expectant smile. Her friends fanned Miss Lance's flushed face and giggled.
"What are you laughing about? Dora, you'll make us bridesmaids, right?"
Miss Lance shook her head.
"Don't say such things. Nothing has been decided yet. I can't even know Mr. Dalton's heart."
But none of the ladies gathered there believed Miss Lance's words. Not even Miss Lance herself, who had said those words.
"Well, if Dora doesn't know, how can we know, since we're not the ones involved. Right~?"
Miss Wilkes said, looking around at her other friends, and the other ladies nodded, hiding sly smiles.
"But, if you do have a wedding, you must, must, have it at Whitefield. That way, we can see Whitefield Hall, whether as guests or as bridesmaids. Got it?"
Miss Lance belatedly realized that she should be careful and closed her mouth tightly. When the person involved backed out, the three ladies lost the momentum to act foolish any further. Their conversation moved to Whitefield.
"Come to think of it, Whitefield Hall is famous, but there isn't even a single painting of it."
"That's right. If it's such an old mansion, there should be paintings floating around."
Miss Susan Donovan from Yorkshire pretended to know.
"It's a tradition that has been passed down since the time of the late Dalton. To avoid revealing the family's crest or the mansion's status to the outside as much as possible. A quiet and pastoral life is said to be the Dalton family's tradition. That's why Mr. Dalton doesn't open the mansion to tourists either. The mansion is strictly a home, so it shouldn't be revealed to others."
"So that's why only Whitefield Hall was missing from the travel books?"
Miss Wilkes sighed. Then Miss Daisy Orson, who was next to her, clapped her hands and shouted.
"Ah, that's right! There's someone who has seen a painting of Whitefield Hall!"
The eyes of the three ladies turned to Miss Orson.
"What? Where? Which gallery is it in?"
"In the drawing room of the Pendleton's Townhouse!"
"What?"
The eyes of the three ladies widened.
"When we had a Tea party in the Pendleton's drawing room, one of my friends saw a landscape painting hanging there. When she asked Miss Pendleton what that painting was, she said it was a painting of Whitefield!"
"Huh? How did the Pendleton's get a painting of Whitefield?"
Miss Wilkes tilted her head, and Miss Lance, who was next to her, guessed.
"Mr. Dalton used to visit the Pendleton's often, didn't he? Maybe Mr. Dalton drew it for her back then."
At those words, the other ladies were surprised at once.
"Mr. Ian Dalton and the Pendleton's became that close? Enough to give them a painting of Whitefield Hall, which they never reveal to the outside?"
Miss Orson shrugged.
"Well, Miss Pendleton must have worked hard to win Mr. Dalton over. Having such a rare painting hanging there is helpful for fame, anyway, right?"
After that, the ladies continued to ask Miss Orson about the painting, but Miss Orson had only heard about the existence of the painting, so she couldn't satisfy their curiosity. The ladies ended the Tea party in a very tantalizing state, with their curiosity not at all satisfied.
After her friends left, Miss Lance, left alone, sat in front of the harp placed on one side of the drawing room and began to pluck the strings delicately.
Her eyes followed the sheet music, and her fingers diligently moved her fingers to the places where they should be and plucked the strings with force. But her heart was not focused on the music and was playing separately.
Mrs. Dalton. A wedding march at Whitefield. The mistress of Whitefield Hall. The faces of children who would inherit the Dalton surname and look just like her and Ian Dalton.
These were imaginations that tasted sweeter than the cream cake she had eaten at the Tea party just now. She indulged in happy imaginations, gorging herself on them.
If the painting he had drawn had kept sending Miss Lance to the Fairfax's drawing room for the past few days, today's Tea party kept sending her to the grand mansion of Whitefield.
Miss Lance imagined a beautiful future with him, repeatedly playing the same page without even thinking of turning the sheet music. A new life that would begin at Whitefield in the future.
For her, the future with Mr. Dalton was no longer a delusion or a pipe dream that she had to fall into and out of for a while. It was a future that would rightfully be placed before her, like a loaf of white bread that would be placed on her table tomorrow.
Before she knew it, she had been swept away by friends who couldn't distinguish between hope and fact, and she had lost her sense of judgment.
* * *
Miss Pendleton had been busy for a while. Before her uncle came to America, she had a mountain of things to do. For several days, Miss Pendleton lived in worry about the new guests and was completely unaware of the news that Ian Dalton had returned to London.
But she hadn't forgotten Ian Dalton. No matter how busy she was, whenever she entered the drawing room, she always looked at the painting of Whitefield hanging on the wall first.
A landscape painting of Whitefield, meticulously painted with every brushstroke. Whenever she saw Whitefield, which had been transferred so beautifully from his hands, she felt a faint ache in her heart.
It hadn't even been a month since he had left, but it felt like several months had passed. She recalled his dark eyes and the warm expression on his delicate face, and she felt sorry for him, thinking of him having to leave with only a gift because of her rejection.
But she quickly shook off such thoughts whenever they came to her. Because that was the best thing for her and him.
On a warm spring day in May, a splendid four-wheeled carriage with the Pendleton family crest engraved on it stopped in front of the Pendleton's Townhouse.
Miss Pendleton, who was standing in front of the mansion alongside the servants on time, could see a young man with a glossy face stepping down from the carriage, using the footstool inside the carriage door that the servant had opened.
It was a man she had never seen in her life, but she could soon tell from his flamboyant attire and angular facial features that he was Charles Pendleton, the second son of the Pendleton family.
'He's the spitting image of my uncle in his younger days.'
Miss Pendleton became even more nervous when she saw his face. Charles Pendleton looked too much like her uncle. As soon as she saw him, the image of her uncle throwing a cigar box made of rosewood at her and chasing her away from the fireplace when she was a child vividly resurfaced in her mind, piercing through the veil of time.
