If someone were to ask about Feltham, most people would describe it as an idyllic village.

Its fertile fields, carefully managed forests, abundant hunting grounds, and a river that had flowed peacefully for centuries without ever flooding.

Lining its quiet streets stood stately old homes, each lovingly repaired and expanded by generations of the same families. And every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the rooftops glowed like burnished gold beneath its warm light.

It was precisely because of this that Feltham had long been the perfect countryside retreat for the nobles of the distant capital.

A peaceful haven cherished by the wealthy and refined.

Or rather, that was the dream the people of Feltham desperately wished would come true.

The world had begun to change rapidly after last year's war.

Railways now reached even the most remote villages, allowing people to travel farther than ever before in a fraction of the time.

As a result, the aristocrats of the capital, Newham, had grown bored of quiet country estates. Instead, the latest fashion among them was the Grand Tour, a journey across the continent where they could meet all manner of fascinating people.

The ferries crossing the strait were always packed to capacity, and people joked that a carriage driver working the harbor could earn more money than a country landowner.

It was that kind of age.

Meanwhile, Eloise Surbiton sat quietly at home, painting.

"Miss, it's time to eat."

Perhaps the nobles in the capital rose well past noon and enjoyed leisurely late breakfasts, but such customs had no place in Feltham.

Least of all for Miss Eloise Surbiton, the only daughter of the Surbiton household.

...“If you wish to preserve your daughter's health, she must live somewhere with clean air and adopt the lifestyle of a farmer. She should rise early, eat early, and never skip any of her three meals."...

When the physician who examined Eloise as a child had spoken those words, her mother, Lady Grace Surbiton, had wept as though the heavens themselves had collapsed.

She had dreamed of presenting her daughter to Newham society as soon as her health recovered.

Instead, she had been told that Eloise would likely spend her entire life hidden away in the countryside.

But beneath her blankets, hidden from her mother's eyes, young Eloise had smiled.

‘Finally! I'll never have to set foot in that filthy, smelly, overcrowded Newham for the rest of my life!’

Girls her age usually dreamed of Newham's glamorous social season and its elegant shopping streets overflowing with luxury.

Eloise, however, wanted nothing to do with it.

The polluted air.

The endless crowds.

A life where every word had to be weighed carefully, every second spent worrying about appearances.

Compared to that, how wonderfully free Feltham was.

Though she had originally come here to recover from a mysterious illness, the moment twelve-year-old Eloise first laid eyes on the village, she had decided she would love Feltham for the rest of her life.

Now she was twenty-six years old.

Long past the age society considered ideal for marriage, living every day beneath her mother's sighs of disappointment.

And still, she loved Feltham just as dearly.

"Miss!"

"I'm coming!"

With the maid Emily's voice growing louder by the second, Eloise sighed and set down her charcoal pencil.

Lately she'd begun painting people instead of landscapes.

Unfortunately, she had no suitable models, and her latest work had made little progress.

"Oh dear, look at your hands. Take off your apron too."

"Emily, you're only eighteen, yet you nag more than Mother does."

"I'd be saying the same thing even if I were four. Now go wash your hands."

For a maid addressing the daughter of the house, Emily's bluntness bordered on outright rudeness.

Yet no one in the Surbiton family ever complained.

Emily was hardworking, the finest cook in all of Feltham, and fiercely loyal.

Anyone foolish enough to insult the Surbitons would soon find her charging at them like an angry rooster until they were left in tears.

Compared to that, a few worried lectures were a small price to pay.

Besides, if one annoyed Emily too much, one might end up being served a poorly seasoned stew.

To the Surbiton family, that was a fate second only to missing Sunday church.

As Eloise returned after washing her hands, the goose wandering the front yard began honking loudly.

"Lancelot! That's enough."

The goose, named after the legendary Knight of the Round Table, a title far grander than any goose deserved, immediately folded its wings at her command.

"What a clever bird."

As a reward, Eloise tossed it a handful of barley that Emily had been drying before greeting the postman, who stood outside waving several letters.

"Good morning, William. Anything interesting happening in Cambourne?"

Cambourne was the nearest town to Feltham, large enough to maintain its own social circles.

Lady Surbiton had long since given up on introducing Eloise to Newham society.

That did not mean she had abandoned all hope of her daughter mingling with respectable ladies.

...“No matter how deep in the countryside you live, you're still a lady. Never forget that."...

Because of this, Eloise had been dragged to Cambourne's social gatherings once every month.

But even those visits gradually became less frequent after whispers began calling her an old maid.

Lady Surbiton simply couldn't bear hearing people speak ill of her daughter.

These days, Eloise only appeared once each season before quietly returning home.

"As lively as ever," William replied.

"Now that every ordinary soldier has finally been discharged, veterans are returning home in droves. The young ladies of Cambourne can hardly sleep these days. The moment they spot a man in a red uniform, someone inevitably drops a handkerchief and faints. It's gotten so bad the mayor ordered more benches placed around town."

William shook his head as though thoroughly exhausted by the spectacle.

Eloise could picture the scene perfectly.

The war with the neighboring kingdom, which had dragged on for more than ten years, had ended only last year.

Fortunately, their nation had emerged victorious.

The enormous war reparations did not go solely to the Crown.

Many of the soldiers who had fought for their country received pensions in recognition of their service.

Honor.

Money.

And for those fortunate enough to return alive, the strong, capable bodies that had survived the battlefield.

While Newham had no shortage of wealthy noblemen, in places like Cambourne and Feltham, retired officers made extraordinarily desirable husbands.

Just a month earlier, the well-known Mr. Courtney had been so delighted that his eldest daughter was marrying a decorated soldier, the recipient of the White Lion Medal, that he gifted bottles of Highland whisky to nearly everyone he knew.

Eloise had secretly sampled some behind her father's back.

She had fallen completely in love with its rich aroma and smooth taste.

Ever since then, she had sincerely prayed that Mr. Courtney, who still had five unmarried daughters, would somehow gain another soldier for a son-in-law.

In any case, with so many eligible veterans wandering about, it was no wonder Cambourne was in such an uproar.

"Here you are," William said, handing over a heavy bundle of letters tied neatly with string.

Although Mr. Surbiton now lived quietly in Feltham for his daughter's sake, he had once been a respected professor of history in Newham.

Retirement had done little to diminish his reputation.

Letters requesting his advice still arrived regularly from scholars and professors at the university.

Assuming these were more of the same, Eloise untied the bundle.

A single ivory-white envelope slipped free and landed on the ground.

"Where's that one from?"

William, unable to hide his curiosity, leaned in instead of leaving.

Proper gentlemen were not supposed to pry into another person's correspondence.

Fortunately, neither William nor Eloise valued propriety nearly as much as curiosity.

"Let's see..."

"Rupert Derby... Baron Stanford?"

Without realizing it, Eloise's voice rose.

William's eyes widened just as much.

"Oh my..."

At that moment, Mr. Surbiton appeared.

Whether he had heard Eloise's surprised exclamation or Emily calling everyone to the table, no one could say.

After giving both of them a mildly disapproving look, he took the letter from Eloise's hands.

"If it's addressed to me, you ought to have brought it straight to me."

"I was about to. I only checked the sender first in case it came from someone dangerous."

"I see. So you were making sure an enemy spy hadn't sent me a threatening letter."

Eloise pouted.

She recognized the teasing immediately.

When she was eight years old, after reading a spy novel she'd received as a birthday present, she'd become convinced her father's letters might be poisoned and had soaked every single one in water before he could read them.

Even so, Mr. Surbiton was clearly curious himself.

He picked up the paper knife resting on the windowsill and carefully slit open the envelope.

Inside lay a sheet of paper as pure white as the envelope itself.

As he read, surprise slowly spread across his face.

"...Well now."

"What is it? Has something happened?"

Even William, who still hadn't left, leaned forward expectantly.

Mr. Surbiton lowered the letter.

"It seems... a new steward is coming to Blissbury Manor."

Blissbury Manor. Commonly called simply "Blissbury."

It was the only place in Feltham that could truly be called a manor.

Yet it was also more beautiful than any manor not only in Cambourne, but in all the surrounding villages.

Since it had originally been built as a quiet retreat, it was somewhat smaller than other manor houses.

Even so, its gardens, which preserved nature as it was, and the beauty within the manor itself were by no means inferior, even when compared with the famous estates of Newham.

For that reason, those who visited Blissbury could not help but marvel at a manor far more beautiful than they had imagined.

"But a new steward? Then what about Father?"

Mr. Surbiton, now retired, received a pension from the university and also earned consulting fees by advising historians and scholars of ancient languages.

But, as was always the case with consulting fees, the amount was determined by the client.

As a result, his income was always irregular. Moreover, his pension alone was a little short of enough for a household of three, along with their maid Emily, to live comfortably.

Even after combining the pension and consulting fees, they should have had to tighten their belts.

Yet the Surbiton family lived quite comfortably.

That was because the income he received as steward of Blissbury was considerable.

Being the steward did not mean personally repairing the manor or tending its gardens.

His role was to oversee the employees responsible for maintaining the estate and ensure they were doing their work properly. That was Mr. Surbiton’s primary source of income.

Baron Stanford, a close friend of Mr. Surbiton, knew his honest and diligent character and entrusted him with the care of the manor he treasured.

The compensation was five hundred pounds a year, an amount equal to the annual income of a middle-class gentleman.

Steadfast and conscientious by nature, Mr. Surbiton looked after Blissbury with meticulous care.

Because of this, Eloise often accompanied her father on his visits to Blissbury.

She had no interest in the social circles of the capital, but whenever she looked upon Blissbury, she could not help developing a small longing for that grand and splendid world.

‘Newham must have many estates like this. Estates with long histories, portraits and sculptures of their owners, and countless books accumulated over the passing ages...’

Even so, she still preferred Feltham.

In any case, perhaps because she had fallen under the manor's charm,

Eloise cherished Blissbury nearly as much as her father did.

And yet...

A new steward was coming there.

Eloise's shoulders slumped in disappointment.

"Then I suppose it'll be difficult to visit Blissbury from now on."

Although it was proper etiquette to allow visitors into the manor when it stood empty, if the former steward continued coming and going frequently, the newly appointed steward might feel uncomfortable.

So once the handover was complete, she probably wouldn't be able to go there except when invited.

"Oh, I don't think that'll be the case.

He'll be the steward, yes, but only for a year, or perhaps even less. The person coming is a soldier acquainted with Baron Stanford's family, and he's said to be staying at Blissbury to recuperate from the wounds of war."

"I see."

Eloise recalled Baron Stanford, whom she had met briefly as a child.

He was a man about the same age as her father. If this newcomer was a friend of his, he was probably a senior officer.

Perhaps he was a retired soldier, coming here with his family to recover from the hardships of the war that had ended the previous year.

While wondering whether they ought to prepare for an older gentleman, Mr. Surbiton continued reading the letter.

"The gentleman who is coming is named Ryan... He formerly served with the 57th Infantry Battalion..."

"Ryan? The 57th Infantry Battalion?"

Before she realized it, Eloise had raised her voice.

It was not the conduct expected of a lady, but Mr. Surbiton did not scold his daughter.

He knew very well why she had reacted that way.

"Calm yourself. The man coming is Sergeant Ryan Thornton, a member of a collateral branch of Baron Stanford's family."

Folding the letter, Mr. Surbiton smiled.

"So, not your Lieutenant Colonel Ryan Wilgrave."

At the name Ryan Wilgrave, Eloise bit her lip.

Lieutenant Colonel Ryan Wilgrave.

Was there anyone in Albion who did not know his name?

Born in a northern territory of Albion so remote that even its name was unfamiliar to most, he had enlisted to defend his country and fought more bravely than anyone else.

But bravery alone could not make a man's name renowned.

Among Albion's soldiers, there were tens of thousands of honorable men whose patriotism rivaled his.

His name first became widely known after he saved the life of the Duke of Kent, Commander-in-Chief of the army and the Queen's second son.

After deciphering the enemy nation's code and uncovering the identity of a spy, he succeeded, at the last possible moment, in turning aside the gun aimed at the Duke of Kent.

That alone was enough to earn him the Black Lion Medal, yet his achievements did not end there.

After securing independent operational authority for his battalion, he ranged freely across the battlefield, turning the tide in areas where the fighting had been unfavorable.

He also traveled back and forth between the two countries, leading the negotiations that made the Treaty of Rezan possible

Tactics, martial skill, diplomacy

He truly seemed to have been born to be a soldier. No, to become a hero of his age.

Everyone said that the recent peace negotiations would never have been concluded so swiftly and so cleanly had it not been for Ryan Wilgrave.

But when the war ended, all of that honor came crashing down.

Just as rumors spread that the Queen intended to grant him a title and an estate, a formal accusation against him emerged from within the military itself.

The accusations were numerous.

Some were relatively minor, such as claims that he had embezzled military supplies.

Others were far more serious, accusing him of deliberately ignoring orders from his superiors and operating his battalion however he pleased.

Every one of the charges was serious enough to merit severe punishment under military law.

The most troubling accusation concerned the defeat that had dealt Albion its greatest blow.

The Battle of Ingon, in which several battalions were lost and the army suffered damage so severe that its entire command was shaken.

The 57th Infantry Battalion had been the only battalion at the very center of that battle to return alive.

There had certainly been casualties, but most of the 57th returned safely, and that fact alone greatly lifted the morale of the entire army.

There was hardly a day when newspapers failed to print the name Lieutenant Colonel Wilgrave, and throughout Albion his name was spoken almost as often as the name of God.

Yet a letter exposing what it called "the ugly truth behind that miracle" claimed that the lieutenant colonel had deliberately ignored orders from his superiors and had survived like a coward by taking advantage of the losses suffered by the neighboring infantry battalions.

Naturally, the military was thrown into turmoil.

While headquarters announced that it would investigate the matter, the medal that had been scheduled to be awarded to him was postponed indefinitely.

The title that the Queen herself had intended to bestow upon him quietly disappeared from discussion as well.

Meanwhile, more accusations continued to appear.

Reports poured in accusing him of threatening fellow soldiers, engaging in conduct unbecoming of an officer, and committing other acts amounting to criminal offenses.

For people seeking fresh excitement after the war, the hidden side of a man once hailed as a hero made for perfect gossip.

The newspapers that had once praised him now printed caricatures mocking him alongside articles condemning him.

After several months of this, the name Ryan Wilgrave had become the greatest disgrace in the army.

As a result, the portraits of him that had once been sold all over the capital had quietly vanished.

But Mr. Surbiton knew one thing.

The finest of those portraits was still hanging in Eloise's room.

Even though public opinion had turned completely against him, Eloise remained an ardent supporter of Lieutenant Colonel Wilgrave.

"Even if he's another Mr. Ryan, be sure to treat him politely."

As Mr. Surbiton finished reminding Eloise, William, having heard everything he had come to hear, bowed politely, said he should be going, and took his leave.

Lancelot hurried after him, barking in a manner that seemed to say, ‘Get out already.’

Unlike when he had arrived, William pedaled away with great vigor.

‘A new steward is coming to Blissbury!’

‘And he's even someone acquainted with Baron Stanford!’

Within a few days, that news would spread throughout both Feltham and Cambourne.

***

It happened exactly as expected.

Six hours after William left the Surbiton household, news of the new steward had spread across all of Feltham.

The women of Feltham, unable to resist such an enticing piece of news, gathered one after another at the Surbiton home.

"So how old is he? What's he like? If he's coming here to recuperate, is he in poor health?"

Even Mrs. Ogilvie, who was usually quiet, bounced with excitement as she fired off question after question.

It was hardly the most proper behavior, but the women gathered there understood her feelings.

Only a few weeks earlier, her second daughter's engagement had fallen through just before it was to be finalized.

It seemed Mrs. Ogilvie hoped that a new love might come her daughter's way.

Mrs. Surbiton leisurely took a sip of tea.

"When I heard someone new was coming, I naturally asked my husband for more details. Unfortunately, he didn't know anything about the gentleman's appearance or health. But I did learn one other important thing."

"Namely, that Sergeant Thornton is twenty-nine years old and still unmarried."

"My goodness!"

‘Unmarried.’

At that single word, not only Mrs. Ogilvie but every woman with a marriageable daughter felt her heart begin to race.

The man was somewhat older, but for someone who had served in the war and returned as a soldier, remaining unmarried at his age was hardly considered unusual.

An unmarried retired officer.

A man from a cadet branch of a baron's family, whom the baron himself had sent here to recover and was personally looking after.

‘He must have earned distinguished military honors.’

‘Or, if not, he must at least be someone the baron knows well.’

‘Perhaps he's the son of a wealthy landowner, or the second or third son of a noble house.’

The married ladies felt hope blossom in their hearts.

Just then, someone spoke.

"Let us keep this little piece of news among the ladies of Feltham."

"Indeed. There's no need for word to reach Cambourne, is there?"

Feltham already had more than enough daughters of marriageable age. There was no reason to hand such a promising opportunity over to the far more fashionable young ladies of Cambourne.

Thus, the strongest alliance Feltham had ever seen was born.

The ladies sealed their unspoken agreement not with signatures, but with exchanged glances over the fragrance of their tea.

"When is this new steward expected to arrive?"

"According to the letter, sometime within the week. Though the exact day wasn't specified."

Within a week.

The ladies immediately began calculating.

There was little time left, but still enough to take their daughters to Cambourne and have them properly dressed in the latest fashions.

"Thank you ever so much for bringing us such wonderful news, Mrs. Surbiton!"

"You're too kind, Mrs. Surbiton!"

The ladies of Feltham praised Mrs. Surbiton without exception.

At the same time, they pitied her.

‘If it were me, I never would have shared such valuable information. Poor Mrs. Surbiton... She must have completely given up on marrying off her own daughter.’

Just as they all had daughters, so too did the Surbiton household.

Eloise Surbiton.

Long past the usual age for marriage.

Her light brown hair and deep green eyes seemed to hold all the vitality of the countryside itself.

Her tall, graceful figure and soft curves possessed every feminine charm.

And yet, none of the ladies regarded Eloise as a rival to their daughters.

For one very simple reason...

"Miss! Where are you going?!"

At Emily's cry, every head turned toward the window.

Outside sat Eloise atop a baggage wagon, bareheaded, snapping the reins without so much as a bonnet. No one looking at her now would have mistaken her for a proper lady.

A quiet wave of relief swept over the ladies' faces.

Whoever the new steward might be, surely he would never take an interest in a young woman who displayed so little elegance.

"Miss! Your bonnet! At least take your bonnet! Or your shawl...!"

Ignoring Emily's desperate pleas behind her, Eloise flicked the whip.

As though sensing their mistress's urgency, the horses surged forward.

The rattling wagon crossed the stone bridge and left the village road behind.

It was headed for Blissbury.

Ordinarily, Eloise would have admired the fields bursting with wildflowers and smiled as the spring breeze brushed against her cheeks.

Today, however, determination had replaced every trace of leisure.

‘A week...’

The moment she had overheard those words through the doorway, she had rushed straight to the wagon.

‘I have to hurry.’

She had assumed it would take at least a month, perhaps even two, before the new steward arrived.

But only a week?

He was clearly making haste.

Perhaps he might even reach Blissbury sooner than he'd announced.

‘Good heavens... If only I hadn't left them there.’

The manor had a splendid painting room.

Once the door was shut, no one entered uninvited. It was peaceful, beautiful, and entirely private.

Whenever her father visited Blissbury, Eloise would accompany him and spend hours painting there.

And in that beautiful room, she had left behind one secret.

‘My paintings!’

A proper young lady was expected to paint lovely landscapes.

But after spending her childhood painting nothing but flowers, grass, and trees, she had grown utterly tired of scenery.

So she turned to animals and insects instead.

Naturally, she soon tired of those as well.

Only one subject remained.

People.

Had it been any other kind of painting, she could have worked on it at home.

Portraits, however, were another matter entirely.

To begin with, Mrs. Surbiton absolutely detested the idea.

...“With all this beautiful scenery around you, why paint people? You would do far better to paint scenes from mythology or great moments from history....

...Why would you insist on painting coachmen, maids, or the postman? Those are hardly subjects for a lady!"...

Having said that, she had snatched up Eloise's sketches as though she'd seen something scandalous and tossed them straight into the fireplace.

But Eloise was not the sort to abandon something once she'd set her heart on it.

When she made up her mind, she always saw it through.

So at home she painted only the refined pictures that pleased her mother.

But in the painting room at Blissbury, she painted people to her heart's content.

Naturally, she stored every one of those paintings inside the cabinet there.

She couldn't very well bring them home.

‘If the new steward were to see them...’

Since he was supposedly coming to recuperate, she doubted he would inspect every corner of the estate.

Like her father, he would probably concern himself only with supervising the servants.

He would hardly bother checking which carpets were laid out for each season, counting the silverware in the kitchens, or opening the old cabinet tucked away inside the manor's painting room to see what paintings were hidden within.

But if he did...

Eloise's face drained of color.

She urged the horses onward with renewed haste.

For the sake of rescuing her reputation, and her dignity.

A baggage wagon was never built for speed.

So despite hurrying as much as she could, it was nearly two hours later before Eloise finally arrived at Blissbury.

"Oh my, Miss Eloise!"

Mrs. Parker, the cook, who had just stepped outside the manor, widened her eyes as she watched Eloise hurriedly climb down from the wagon.

"Good heavens, what on earth are you wearing? Did Mrs. Surbiton really let you leave the house looking like that?"

"If she had, I never would have made it this far. You know mother causes a commotion if I so much as tie a ribbon the wrong way."

She waved the subject aside.

"More importantly... has the new steward arrived yet?"

"Oh, we received word as well. They say he'll be here very soon. But Mr. Surbiton is still-"

"Wonderful. So he hasn't arrived yet!"

Without waiting for another word, Eloise hurried past Mrs. Parker and entered Blissbury Manor.

The moment she stepped through the entrance, the cool air unique to a well-built stone house wrapped around her.

After crossing the sunny spring fields, her perspiring body shivered.

‘Good heavens... I should have at least brought a shawl.’

Although she had recovered from the illness that plagued her as a child, she still fell ill more easily than most whenever the seasons changed.

Emily's desperate voice calling after her came back to mind.

‘Perhaps I should have taken it after all.’

‘It's going to be noisy when I get home.’

Mother's lecture was inevitable.

And Emily would undoubtedly join in.

The thought alone was enough to make her shudder.

Pulling herself together, Eloise hurried toward the painting room.

As always, Blissbury was impeccably maintained.

Part of that was thanks to her father's diligence as steward, but more than anything, it was because everyone employed at the manor was known throughout Feltham for being exceptionally hardworking.

Mrs. Parker managed the kitchens.

Mr. Warren and his son tended the gardens.

Mr. Palmer, who had retired after serving a noble family in Newham, now lived alone at Blissbury and oversaw the household's interior affairs.

There were not many servants, but every one of them was dependable and skilled.

Even though the owners seldom visited, Blissbury was always spotless.

‘I hope the new steward is a decent person.’

The manor might not belong to her, but having grown up visiting it, Blissbury felt like a second home.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that half her childhood memories had been made here.

Even if she could no longer visit as freely as before, she wanted the estate to remain just as beautiful.

‘Since he's coming here to recuperate, surely he won't make too many changes...’

Praying that was true, Eloise stepped into the painting room.

She opened the cabinet tucked away in the corner.

A cascade of loose papers spilled onto the floor.

"Good heavens... Why are there so many?"

She knew she'd practiced diligently for quite some time, but she hadn't realized she'd accumulated this many.

After peeking outside and confirming no one was nearby, Eloise spread the drawings across the floor.

Her earliest attempts looked stiff, the proportions awkward and unnatural.

The more recent sketches, however, had become remarkably lifelike.

But now was hardly the time to admire her own progress.

Her hands quickly sorted through the pile, pulling out several drawings.

Every one of them had something in common.

They were studies of the completely nude human body.

That, however, was not the only problem.

Eloise searched until she found the drawings of male figures.

The moment she looked at them, her cheeks flushed crimson.

Every single one wore the face of Lieutenant Colonel Ryan Wilgrave.

There was no chance of finding a nude model in Feltham, let alone here at Blissbury.

So Eloise had copied the figures from a rare anatomy sketchbook she had managed to obtain.

The illustrations in that book, however, had no faces.

The artist had deliberately omitted them, believing that if faces were included, too many people would misuse the book for improper purposes instead of treating it as an artistic reference.

As a result, Eloise's own studies had always been faceless as well.

Looking at those unfinished bodies, she'd eventually thought:

‘It still feels incomplete.’

‘It needs a face.’

So she'd decided to add one.

But whose face could she possibly use?

She couldn't bring herself to copy the face of any man she actually knew.

She tried inventing imaginary faces instead, but they always looked awkward.

‘Isn't there anyone I can use as a reference without feeling guilty?’

Unable to use the faces of anyone around her, Eloise wrestled with the problem.

Then, one night before going to bed, she looked up at the portrait of a man illuminated by the flickering candlelight.

It was the portrait of Lieutenant Colonel Ryan Wilgrave,

the very one she had gone through the trouble of obtaining by writing to a relative in Newham.