Your Ryan - Chapter 1

If someone were to ask about Feltham, most people would say it is a pleasant place to live.

Fertile land, a forest partially cleared for cultivation, abundant hunting grounds, and a river that has flowed quietly for centuries without ever overflowing significantly.

A village embracing all these elements, lined with stately homes that have been restored and expanded little by little over generations.

A place where, at sunset, the golden light bathes the rooftops, making them glow like gold.

For these reasons, Feltham was an ideal retreat for the nobles of the bustling capital, a perfect destination for relaxation.

A village naturally beloved by the refined and affluent.

But that was merely the wish of Feltham’s residents—who longed for such esteemed visitors.

Since the war ended last year, the world has been changing rapidly.

Now, even remote villages are connected by railways, allowing people to travel farther and faster than ever before.

Because of this, the nobles of Newham no longer sought the dull countryside; instead, the Grand Tour, offering encounters with a greater variety of people, had become all the rage.

The ferries crossing the strait were always full, and rumors spread that a carriage driver at the port could earn more money than a rural landlord.

In such times, Eloise Surberton sat at home, painting.

“Miss, it’s time for your meal.”

It was said that nobles in the capital rose past noon for a late first meal, but such customs did not apply in Feltham.

Especially not for Eloise, the only daughter of Mr. Surberton.

“If you wish to maintain good health, you must live like a farmer in a place with clean air. That means rising early, eating early, and having three meals a day.”

When the doctor had declared this during Eloise’s childhood, her mother, Lady Grace Surberton, wept as if her world had crumbled.

After all, she had planned to bring her daughter into Newham’s high society as soon as her health improved—only to be told that Eloise would be confined to the countryside for the rest of her life.

But the person in question, Eloise, secretly smiled under her blanket.

Finally! She would never have to set foot in that filthy, smelly, and chaotic Newham!

While other girls dreamed of Newham’s social circles and its dazzling, shop-filled streets, Eloise detested such busyness.

The polluted air, the endless crowds, and a life where every word had to be carefully measured—every moment spent under watchful eyes.

Compared to that, how liberating Feltham was!

Though she had come here to recover from an unknown illness, from the moment she first saw this place at the age of twelve, Eloise had vowed to love Feltham forever.

Now, at twenty-six, long past the prime age for marriage, she still lived under her mother’s sighs—yet she loved Feltham just the same.

“Miss!”

“I’m coming down now!”

With a sigh, Eloise set down her charcoal pencil at the increasingly impatient call of Emily, the maid.

Recently, she had started drawing people instead of nature. But progress was slow—perhaps because she lacked a suitable model.

“Oh dear, look at your hands. And take off that apron!”

“Emily, you’re only eighteen, yet you nag more than my mother.”

“I’d have said the same even if I were four. Now, wash your hands quickly!”

Though Emily’s manner toward the young lady of the house was shockingly blunt and impertinent, no one in the Surberton household ever corrected her.

She was not only a diligent maid but also the finest cook in all of Feltham.

Moreover, if anyone insulted the Surberton family, Emily would charge at them like a fighting c*ck, reducing them to tears without fail.

So such well-meaning nagging was easy to tolerate.

After all, displeasing her might mean receiving a bowl of under-seasoned stew—an outcome the Surbertons dreaded nearly as much as missing Sunday church.

As Eloise returned from washing her hands, the geese outside the house honked loudly.

“Lancelot, that’s enough!”

The goose, grandly named after one of the Knights of the Round Table, lowered its flapping wings at Eloise’s command.

“How clever.”

As a reward, she tossed a handful of barley into the yard, which Emily had been drying earlier.

She then turned to greet the postman, who was waving a letter.

“Hello, William. Anything new from Camborne?”

Camborne was the nearest city to Feltham and large enough to sustain a social scene.

Mrs. Surberton had long given up on introducing Eloise to Newham’s high society.

But that did not mean she had abandoned all hopes of her daughter attending refined and elegant gatherings.

“No matter how deep in Feltham you may live, you are still a lady! Never forget that!”

Because of that, Eloise had to attend Camborne’s social gatherings once a month, led by her mother’s hand.

However, that, too, waned when people started calling Eloise a spinster.

This was because Mrs. Surbiton could not bear the thought of her daughter being labeled as a problematic woman.

As a result, Eloise now only had to make an appearance once a season before returning home.

“As always, it’s quite lively. Now that all the enlisted soldiers, except for the regular army, have been officially discharged, many have returned home. Because of that, the young ladies of Camborne can’t sleep at night. At the sight of a red uniform, they’re dropping handkerchiefs left and right and fainting all over the place. The situation’s gotten so bad that the mayor even ordered more benches to be placed around town.”

William, the postman, shook his head in exasperation.

Hearing his words, Eloise could vividly picture the situation in Camborne.

The war with the neighboring country, which had lasted for over ten years, ended last year. Gloriously, it had ended in victory.

Thanks to this, a massive amount of reparations was distributed to the soldiers who had fought for the country.

Those who survived were rewarded with pensions in return for their loyalty and the lives they had risked for their homeland.

Honor, wealth, and, if they had returned alive, a strong, battle-hardened body.

While Newham had plenty of high-status and wealthy individuals, retired soldiers were highly sought-after grooms in places like Camborne and Feltham.

A prime example of this was Mr. Courtney, a well-known figure in Camborne, who had been so overjoyed that his eldest daughter was marrying a soldier awarded the White Lion Medal that he gifted Highland whiskey to all his acquaintances.

Eloise, having secretly taken a sip behind her father’s back, had instantly fallen for its aroma and taste.

From then on, she had sincerely hoped that Mr. Courtney, who had five more daughters, would welcome another soldier as a son-in-law.

In any case, with such desirable bachelors wandering around Camborne, it was bound to be bustling.

“Here, your mail.”

William handed over a hefty bundle of letters tied with string from his bag.

Even though Mr. Surberton now lived in Feltham for his daughter’s sake, he had once been a renowned history professor in Newham.

Though he was now retired, his reputation had not faded. Because of this, university professors often sought his advice through letters.

Assuming that these, too, were all the same, Eloise untied the bundle—when suddenly, a particularly white envelope slipped out.

“Where is that one from?”

Even William, sensing something unusual, lingered instead of leaving.

For the well-mannered, it was considered improper to show curiosity about letters addressed to others. However, both Eloise and William valued curiosity far more than etiquette.

“Let’s see… Rupert Derby… Baron Stanford?”

Eloise’s voice unconsciously rose. William’s eyes also widened.

“Oh, my.”

Just then, Mr. Surberton appeared, either having heard Eloise’s exclamation or drawn out by Emily’s nagging about mealtime.

He cast a glance at both Eloise and William before taking the letter from his daughter’s hands.

“If a letter is addressed to me, it should have been brought straight to me.”

“I was just about to do that. I only checked the sender first in case it was from someone dangerous.”

“Oh, I see. You were making sure it wasn’t a threatening letter from an enemy nation’s spy.”

His voice carried a teasing lilt, mocking the prank she had pulled as a child—back when she, after reading a spy novel given to her as a gift at the age of eight, had dunked all of his letters in water for fear they might be poisoned.

Eloise pursed her lips.

“Let’s see…”

Despite his words, Mr. Surberton seemed intrigued as well. He took a paper knife from the windowsill and sliced open the envelope.

Inside was a letter just as pristine as the envelope.

As he read through it, surprise spread across his face.

“Well, well.”

“What is it? Did something happen?”

Even William, who had yet to leave, pricked up his ears in anticipation.

“A new steward is coming to Blissbury Manor.”