Previously
Owen reports to Killian Blackwell that Eleanora Winter is an orphan with no relatives, which alleviates Killian's suspicion that she is related to Elliot Winter.
After long consideration over what could be done, Eleanora decided to visit Vivian first.
She wanted to see whether Vivian still considered Killian an utterly dreadful person.
Eleanora had not ridden far on her horse when she pulled on the reins and halted. She had spotted a strikingly dressed young lady on a street that should have been quiet and deserted.
It was Susan Hamill. A young woman of high standing, whenever she fell ill she would send her servants to fetch Eleanora, just as the other ladies did.
Frankly, she was not dressed like someone who was sick. She looked dressed up for a leisurely promenade.
Yet this was hardly an area suited for a stroll, which was why Eleanora had asked.
( ‘Out here, of all places?’ )
She might have understood had there been any sights worth seeing, but there was nothing here aside from an utterly ordinary forest road.
Still, it was hardly polite to keep interrogating her, so Eleanora simply made polite conversation and rode on.
A moment later, she cast a stealthy glance back over her shoulder. Susan was still standing in the very same spot, unmoving.
Directly opposite her stood only the villa where Killian resided.
As its new master had made no renovations to the estate, it looked exactly as it had years ago.
What on earth could she be staring at so intently?
Yet Susan was not the only one walking down that road.
When Eleanora reached the mouth of an alley, she crossed paths with Emma.
Emma was famous for her keen sense of fashion and her devotion to beauty, making her appearance in such an out-of-the-way spot stranger still.
She laughed behind a hand covering her mouth, gave Eleanora a brisk nod, and hurried eagerly toward the way Eleanora had just come.
( ‘What did she mean by “something else entirely”?’ )
Eleanora mulled over the words all the way to the Ashford estate.
The moment Vivian caught sight of Eleanora, she rushed forward to greet her as if welcoming a savior in an hour of desperate need.
Vivian was as lovely and charming as ever, but open distress showed in her eyes.
Vivian began pacing fretfully, recounting what had occurred at yesterday’s tea party.
Vivian let out an indignant huff.
The Pembrokes were renowned for their vast fortune in the area, possessing far greater wealth than the Ashford family.
Even so, the daughter of Baron Pembroke seemed envious of the Ashfords’ long-standing prestige as an old comital family, or perhaps jealous of Vivian's beauty.
Either way, she never missed an opportunity to bait her.
( ‘Though this time, she blundered worse than usual.’ )
Among the high society of Oakbridge, people entered into engagements and first marriages significantly later than in Berrington.
On top of that, most of the ladies Vivian associated with were older than she was, and the majority were not engaged at all.
In other words, the remark from the daughter of Baron Pembroke was offensive enough to provoke nearly every lady in attendance.
Eleanora’s eyes widened so far they felt ready to pop from her head.
Vivian cast an uneasy sideways glance before continuing.
She let out a stifled whimper, stamping her foot in agitation.
Eleanora tried to picture Killian sitting down to have a casual chat with callers, but the image simply would not come.
Was there anyone alive capable of carrying on a normal conversation with that man in the first place?
Vivian put on a mild scowl.
Seeing that Vivian’s reaction was not nearly as hostile as expected, Eleanora asked carefully,
Vivian crossed her arms and tilted her chin up haughtily.
Eleanora tried to imagine Killian fitting that description.
( ‘A gentle, chivalrous Killian? Hm…’ )
She could not even envision him smiling.
She let out an indignant snort and raised her chin once more.
Eleanora blinked in surprise.
Vivian’s voice shrank to a faint mumble.
Eleanora, utterly lost for words, could only let out a deep sigh.
If all those eligible, beautiful young ladies had turned into ravenous predators, their prey was obvious….
( ‘Lord Blackwell.’ )
Only then did Eleanora realize why those ladies were lingering along that quiet road. They were trying every trick imaginable to run into him.
She spoke firmly, yet her wide eyes trembled beneath the surface. For all her denials, Killian possessed qualities far too alluring for anyone to dismiss.
When the conversation ended, Eleanora stood adrift like a traveler who had lost her way.
Vivian’s heart was clearly not entirely unyielding. But she had never anticipated matters unfolding in such a direction.
‘Wait… What if the dowager baroness doesn't care whether Lord Blackwell marries Count Ashford’s daughter specifically, so long as he marries someone?’
If that were the case, the situation had not worsened at all. Rather, the potential solutions had multiplied.
( ‘Though if he keeps acting so abrasive, no other lady will put up with him either.’ )
Eleanora resolved to see Julian first. She needed to know the precise conditions the dowager baroness had laid down.
Hurrying along her way, she felt a quiet pang of self-reproach. She was a physician, not a matchmaker.
( ‘Truly… what am I even doing with myself these days?’ )
Just then, as she rode past the train station…
She looked down to find a woman standing there.
The woman wore a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed most of her face, and her coat collar was pulled up high, concealing her features.
Yet the gaunt, slender hands protruding from her sleeves immediately drew Eleanora’s eye.
Her voice was low and hushed, yet laden with a rasping harshness that grated slightly against the ear.
Eleanora started to dismount from her horse, but the woman gave a shake of her head. From inside her coat, she produced a folded, creased scrap of paper and held it out.
On it was an address scrawled in fountain pen ink.
Eleanora leaned forward, squinting as she struggled to decipher the messy script.
“…Are you looking for Rolling Inn?”
Was there even an inn by that name in Oakbridge?
As she tilted her head in confusion, the woman abruptly extended an index finger, tapping sharply on the first letter as she spoke in an irritated tone,
Eleanora looked at the word once more. Now that the woman was pointing at it as a ‘B’, it could indeed be read that way.
Frankly, however, the curve of the letter was so mangled and jaggedly broken that it resembled an ‘R’—or even an unrecognizable foreign glyph—far more than any ‘B’.