Ask anyone about Feltham, and most will say it's a pleasant town with a good life.
Fertile land stretches in every direction. Forests have been moderately cleared, leaving rich hunting grounds untouched. A river that has never overflowed its banks in hundreds of years carries its waters calmly past fields and farmsteads.
The village that had absorbed all of this was dotted with rows of ancient houses—renovated and gradually expanded from generation to generation.
Here, at sunset, the rooftops bathed in warm sunlight shone like burnished gold.
*That* is why Feltham was considered an ideal retreat for aristocratic gentlemen escaping the distant, noisy capital.
A town worthy of the affection of well-bred and wealthy people.
However, this was merely the cherished wish of Feltham's residents, who dreamed of visits from high-ranking persons.
---
Since the end of the war last year, the world had begun to change rapidly.
Now, even the most remote villages were connected by railways, and people traveled farther and faster than ever before.
Because of this, the Grand Tour had become incredibly popular among the capital's nobility, allowing them to encounter far more diverse company than the *boring rural wilderness* could offer.
The ferries crossing the strait were always packed to capacity. People said that managing a hired crew at the port could earn more than owning rural land.
In such an era, Eloise Severton sat at home and painted.
---
"My lady, it's time for dinner."
It was said that capital aristocrats woke after midday and took their first meal then, but in Feltham this was unthinkable.
*Especially* for Eloise, Mr. Severton's only daughter.
> "To preserve the young lady's health, she will have to live a life similar to a farmer's, in a place with clean air. In other words—rise early, eat early, and take three meals a day."
When the doctor who examined Eloise as a child spoke these words, her mother, Lady Grace Severton, burst into tears as though the whole world had collapsed.
After all, this meant her daughter—whom she had intended to introduce into New's high society as soon as she recovered—was now forced to *vegetate* in the village her entire life.
However, the subject of this pronouncement, Eloise herself, smiled secretly beneath her blanket.
*Finally! I won't have to spend my whole life trudging through that dirty, smelly, bustling city anymore!*
Any other girl her age would have dreamed of the glittering life—New's magnificent streets lined with merchandise and opportunity. But Eloise *hated* the bustle.
Stuffy air. Crowds of people. A life in which every minute, every second, you had to remain on guard and weigh every word.
How *free* Feltham was compared to all that!
And although she had come here to be treated for an unspecified illness, the moment twelve-year-old Eloise first saw this town, she decided she would love it for the rest of her life.
---
Now Eloise was twenty-six.
She had already passed the age of marriage and lived amid her mother's sighs, but she still loved her Feltham.
"My lady!"
"I'm already coming!"
Eloise set down her charcoal with a sigh as Emily's voice grew more insistent.
Recently, she had begun painting people rather than landscapes. But due to the lack of a suitable model, her work had barely progressed.
"Oh my *goodness*, just look at your hands! And take off that apron!"
"Emily, you're only eighteen, and you grumble worse than my mother."
"Even if I were *four*, I would say the same! Now—wash your hands quickly!"
Such an address from a servant to her master's daughter might have been considered incredibly impudent elsewhere, but in the Severton household, no one remarked upon it.
Emily was not only a diligent servant but also the finest cook in all of Feltham.
Moreover, she possessed the loyalty of a fighting cock—if anyone insulted the Severton family, she would immediately rush to the attack and reduce the offender to tears.
So such caring grumbling could be tolerated.
After all, if one expressed dissatisfaction, one might end up with under-salted stew.
For the Severton family, that was the second-worst misfortune after missing Sunday church service.
---
When Eloise returned after washing her hands, the goose strutting before the house began to cackle loudly.
"Lancelot, *stop it!*"
The goose—who had somehow earned the title of Knight of the Round Table for bravery he did not quite deserve—heard Eloise's cry and lowered his fluttering wings.
"What a clever boy."
As praise, Eloise tossed a handful of barley that Emily had been drying into the yard, then greeted the postman who was waving a letter.
"Lovely to see you, William. Is everything the same in Cambon?"
Cambon was the nearest town to Feltham large enough to support a proper social life.
Lady Severton had long since given up trying to introduce Eloise to New's high society.
But this did not mean she had entirely abandoned the opportunity to attend gatherings of educated and elegant ladies.
> "Even if you live in the backwoods of Feltham, you are a *lady!* Don't you dare forget that!"
So once a month, Eloise had been required to attend social gatherings in Cambon, arm in arm with her mother.
But even this came to naught when Eloise began to be called an *old maid*.
Lady Severton could not bear to have her daughter pointed at as a woman with a flaw.
Thanks to this, Eloise now appeared there only once a season—just enough to show her face in public.
"As always, it's chaos." William shook his head with an air of utter exhaustion. "Now that the demobilization of ordinary soldiers is complete—excepting the regular army—many have returned to their homelands. This has kept the young ladies of Cambon awake at night. Ladies everywhere are dropping their handkerchiefs and fainting at the sight of a red uniform. It's gotten so bad the mayor has ordered more benches placed throughout town."
His words painted a vivid picture of Cambon's current state.
Last year, a war with a neighboring country—one that had lasted more than ten years—finally ended. Fortunately, in victory.
Thanks to this, substantial reparations had also gone to the soldiers who had fought for their country.
The survivors would receive lifetime pensions for their service and devotion to the homeland.
*Honor and money.* And if the soldier returned home safely—a strong body that had proven its worth.
New, of course, had its share of distinguished and wealthy men. But in Cambon or Feltham, a retired soldier was an excellent and *rare* commodity.
Proof of this was provided by Mr. Courtney, a well-known figure in Cambon, who—just a month ago, overjoyed that his eldest daughter was marrying a soldier awarded the Order of the White Lion—had gifted all his acquaintances bottles of Scotch whisky.
Eloise, who had secretly sampled some from her father's share, had fallen in love with its aroma and warmth.
From then on, she prayed earnestly that Mr. Courtney—who had five other daughters—might acquire *another* military son-in-law.
One way or another, it was obvious that things would remain unsettled in Cambon, where such eligible bachelors were walking about freely.
---
"Here's the mail."
William took a heavy stack of letters, tied with string, from his bag and handed it over.
Although Mr. Severton lived in Feltham because of his daughter, he had previously been a fairly well-known professor of history at New's university.
And even though he had retired, his reputation remained intact. Therefore, he still received frequent letters from university colleagues seeking advice.
Eloise assumed this delivery was the same as always. But when she untied the string, a dazzlingly white envelope slipped free and fell to the ground.
"Where is *this* from?"
Apparently the envelope seemed unusual to William as well, because he lingered, peering curiously over her shoulder.
It was a well-bred virtue not to inquire into the source of other people's correspondence. But Eloise and William valued curiosity above such nobility.
"Well, let's see... Rupert Derby... *Baron Stanford?*"
Without realizing it, Eloise's voice rose. William's eyes widened.
"Oh, my *goodness*."
At that moment, Mr. Severton appeared—either drawn by Eloise's exclamation or summoned by Emily's insistent calls for dinner.
He glanced at Eloise and William, then plucked the letter from his daughter's hands.
"If this letter is addressed to me, then you should have brought it to me directly."
"I was *just* about to, Father. But first I checked the sender to ensure it wasn't sent by someone dangerous."
"Ah yes, you were checking whether an enemy spy had sent me a threatening letter."
*There it was*—that familiar hint of mockery about her childhood prank, when at the age of eight, after reading too many spy novels, she had drowned all his correspondence in water, fearing the letters were poisoned.
Eloise pouted.
"Well, let's see..."
As he spoke, Mr. Severton—apparently curious himself—opened the envelope with a letter opener that had been lying on the windowsill.
Inside was paper as snow-white as the envelope itself.
As he read, a look of astonishment crossed his face.
"Ha."
"What is it? Has something happened?"
William, who had not yet departed, pricked up his ears in anticipation.
**"It seems a new manager is arriving at the Blissbury estate."**