Episode 3

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,