Winter was fast approaching, and everyone in Feltham was busy.
It was necessary to prepare not only grain for the winter, but also preserved fruits and dried meat.
The farms were occupied delivering cheese and sausages, and the mill was packed with people who had come to grind their harvested wheat.
The joy that life had returned to normal after six months mingled with apprehensive sighs over wheat fields still needing reclamation—all of it echoing through the mill.
Soon, people's conversations turned to another topic.
"Have you seen Mrs. Ogilvy? She's absolutely beaming."
"And no wonder. Everyone—even if they didn't say it aloud—was worried about Abigail. She might have money from relatives, but money isn't everything... And now she's found such a good husband. How can you not be happy?"
"Even though the Ogilvy family is close-knit, the future is uncertain."
The siblings might look after each other now, but as time passed and they aged—when property transferred to their children—someone might come to see Abigail as a burden.
The Ogilvys had always worried about this. And now their most vulnerable child had found someone to spend her life with. How could they not rejoice?
"In Cambon, they're making a fuss about the Ogilvys' orders. They've ordered so much liquor and meat."
"They say they ordered more whiskey than Mr. Courtney! And even more expensive!"
It was legend in these parts that Mr. Courtney had treated everyone present to Highland whiskey at his eldest daughter's wedding.
It seemed Mr. Ogilvy wanted to create a wedding people would remember for even longer.
"Then we'll finally put those snobs from Cambon to shame, won't we?"
The fact that this legend would now belong to Feltham made those gathered at the mill chuckle.
Everyone knew the people of Cambon secretly looked down on Feltham's residents.
So when Ryan had arrived in Blissbury this year, they'd been certain he would marry someone from Cambon.
In the end, the woman he chose was a girl from Feltham.
"Abigail's all well and good, but what about Eloise? What's happening between her and Sergeant Thornton?"
After the Great Flood, many had noticed the relationship between the two had changed.
And no wonder—Ryan, who had maintained distance from all the girls, would approach and speak with Eloise the moment he saw her, remaining always at her side.
At first they'd assumed it was the bond of those who had survived mortal danger together. But watching them walk along the road, gazing at each other, it was easy to notice deeper, more complex—somehow *tickling*—feelings mixed into that friendship.
"They say he was urgently summoned to the capital. He'll probably come to Abigail's wedding with Mr. Osborne, won't he?"
While everyone was speaking this way, someone burst into the mill and shouted:
**"Did everyone hear? Abigail's wedding is postponed!"**
"What?"
At these words, everyone froze. Then the speaker recovered first.
"The wedding is postponed? What does that mean?"
Weddings were postponed only in the most extreme circumstances.
Once all relatives had been notified, food and lodging had to be prepared for them.
There was so much to arrange that if there was even the slightest problem with the schedule, chaos would ensue.
"What's happened?"
"It seems Sergeant Osborne won't be able to make it."
"*What?*"
Everyone in the mill gasped.
"He won't be able to come?"
"Is he injured somewhere?"
"He was a soldier, wasn't he? Did he actually die—"
"What nonsense! There's no war!"
A commotion immediately erupted. Then someone said quietly:
"Could it really be... a broken engagement?"
At those words, silence descended instantly.
Everyone had been thinking it, just a little.
Philip Osborne was an excellent soldier.
Even alongside Ryan and Richard, there had been plenty of girls who showed interest in Philip.
With his qualities, he could have found a partner not in such a village, but in a fine family in the capital.
So when the engagement was first announced, there had been many who doubted whether it was genuine.
Among them were those who, without hiding their malice, had quipped: *"Who would marry a lame woman? He'll just enjoy himself and leave. It certainly won't lead to marriage."*
At the time, everyone had dismissed it as empty chatter born of envy. But the moment someone spoke the words *"broken engagement,"* everyone remembered.
"No, that's not it. They say he sent gifts... and all of them were expensive."
The clarification left people even more confused.
*What's going on?*
---
"What's going on?"
Eloise's voice rose as she entered the Ogilvy house.
Abigail, who would normally have stopped her hastily, only covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
"There's—they say there's a problem that's arisen... *hic*..."
At the sight of her friend—unable to finish her sentence, dissolving into tears again—Eloise's eyes also reddened.
Clearing her throat and wiping her eyes with her sleeve, Eloise looked at what lay on the table.
A letter. And beside it, a necklace and earrings in an expensive box.
Philip had sent all of it.
"I'll read it."
Eloise took the letter and scanned it quickly.
The content was straightforward. Problems had arisen in the army, and he wouldn't be able to make it to the wedding. He had pleaded, but his superiors' orders were strict—he couldn't disobey. He was having difficulty even sending this letter. He asked her not to think his feelings had changed. As proof, he was sending what he had prepared for her in advance.
At the end, instead of a simple farewell, tender words of love were written.
Eloise lowered the letter helplessly.
While it was impossible to fully understand a person's heart from a letter alone, this one was clearly written with sincere, aching affection.
Eloise's gaze shifted to the jewelry lying on the table.
If Philip's intentions were as people crudely assumed, he would never have sent such expensive things.
She recalled the letter she'd just read. Though it contained touching sentiments, there was no mention of his exact situation.
*Just like Ryan's letters.*
The thought struck her just as Mrs. Ogilvy entered.
Her face was even more stricken than Abigail's.
"What should we do now? I've already notified all the relatives... some have probably already departed."
Abigail muttered through suppressed tears at her mother's words:
"What *can* we do? I can't go to the capital..."
Hearing those words, Eloise—without even realizing it—jumped up from her seat.
*To the capital.*
The phrase Abigail had just spoken echoed in her mind.
*Why haven't I thought of this yet?*
Eloise clenched her fists. Then, looking at her friend who still hadn't wiped away her tears, she spoke.
**"I'll go to the capital."**
Sitting and waiting was exhausting. Now she wanted to find him herself.
There was no reason she couldn't.
---
*Crack.*
In the spacious, antique drawing room, a fire crackled in the enormous fireplace set into one wall.
In recent times, many aristocratic families had begun using heating systems where fires were lit externally and hot water supplied through pipes to warm the rooms.
But in the house of Count Wallace, such a thing was unthinkable.
Even among conservative aristocrats, they were so rigid that other nobles clucked their tongues.
Because of this, the Earl of Wallace's household still stubbornly adhered to the traditional method of heating.
Count Wallace set down his newspaper and raised his head.
The newspaper world remained incredibly peaceful—a world where everyone was enjoying the sweetness of victory.
*Tch.*
He clicked his tongue in displeasure.
It wasn't that he disliked this world. He was simply irritated that this sweet taste of victory didn't include the name of the one who deserved to savor it most.
"Vivian will be raging again today."
He spoke his wife's name with a sigh and a note of irritation.
**Vivian Tasha Mary Agatha Bertie Seymour Wallace.**
Unlike his short name—Arthur Wallace—his wife's full name was so long he sometimes confused the order.
This was proof that his wife was of exceptionally noble blood.
In fact, *she* was the true mistress of Wallace House. Arthur was merely the fortunate man she had chosen to inherit the earldom.
Running his hand over his weary face, he looked toward the fireplace.
He remembered Ryan's letter—the one he'd dropped into the flames a few weeks ago.