In the dead of night, the door quietly creaked open. Immediately sensing the intruder, Ryan swiftly grabbed the dagger by his bedside and sprang up, subduing them instantly.

Under the dim light, the intruder was revealed to be one of the mansion’s maids. Upon seeing Ryan, she brazenly spoke.

“Oh, you’re not even the Lieutenant Colonel. Let me go. I must have entered the wrong room.”

Unashamed, she demanded his silence, claiming that she had arranged a secret meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Ryan, who had returned to the mansion that day.

“But you know, you’re actually my type. How about tomorrow? To be honest, I like all soldiers.”

Even with the man she was looking for standing right before her, she failed to recognize him. Amused by her foolishness, Ryan let out a dry chuckle.

Fortunately, to avoid unwanted visitors, he had casually told the butler to introduce him as the Lieutenant Colonel’s friend. Otherwise, this brazen maid would never have backed down so easily.

Ryan immediately ordered the butler to dismiss her. Realizing that even his residence in the capital was no longer a place of peace, he returned to the military headquarters and stayed in the barracks instead.

Yet, even there, he found no respite.

Negotiations for the war’s end had begun, and discussions regarding commendations for soldiers followed.

Preparing for the peace talks was the easy part. Having been defeated, the opposing side adopted a gentlemanly and cooperative attitude to secure better terms.

What honestly wore him down were the Albion generals—his own allies.

A disciplinary committee was convened before deciding on military honors. Ryan endured all manner of scrutiny there.

“We acknowledge your contributions, but given your young age, that particular honor might be a bit…”

“Why did you retreat so quickly during the Battle of Ingon? We could have seized the area much sooner if you hadn’t withdrawn. You even disregarded orders from the high command…”

“We heard you were forceful in demanding independent operational command from your previous battalion commander. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

They had said nothing during the war. But now that it was over, they were eager to discredit his achievements.

The hypocrisy was nauseating.

He had never set out to achieve significant military glory.

His only goal had been to survive—and to ensure that those around him did as well.

In the end, that meant saving others, defeating the enemy, and somehow earning the title of a hero.

But now that the world no longer needed heroes, they were trying to cast him aside.

As the relentless summons to the committee took a toll on him, Baron Stanford, a former superior Ryan genuinely respected, visited him.

With a serious expression, the baron said, “You need rest. You should get away from these insufferable people and spend time in the embrace of clean, beautiful nature. Maybe then, your deathly pale face will recover a bit.”

He then mentioned a place Ryan had never heard of before—Feltham.

“There’s a small retreat house there called Blissbury. I don’t visit often, but it’s one of my most cherished estates. If you leave under the guise of recovering in the countryside, the committee won’t insist on summoning you. What do you think? How about taking half a year to rest in peace?”

It wasn’t a bad suggestion.

In such a secluded place, he wouldn’t have to endure the constant presence of people who disgusted him, as in Newham.

Seeing Ryan hesitate, Baron Stanford clapped him on the shoulder with a smile.

“I assure you, you’ll love it there. Everything about it is beautiful.”

…And yet.

Now that he had finally arrived, he felt nothing in particular.

The countryside scenery he had seen along the way was certainly clean and peaceful, unlike the village of his childhood—but that was all.

It was quiet and dull. If anything, it might prove even more unbearable than life in the capital.

The wildflowers blooming in the fields and the clear river rushing by might offer temporary peace of mind, but they would soon become tiresome.

There was no way he would come to love such an unremarkable place.

Recalling Baron Stanford’s confident words, Ryan smirked bitterly.

Still, he was grateful for the man’s kindness. He should at least try to regain some stability while he is here.

‘The study in the mansion is supposed to be decent, isn’t it?’

Reading had never been his particular interest, but it seemed like the only way to pass half a year in a place like this.

Although he was nominally the estate’s steward, the actual manager was someone else. He would simply stay quietly and leave when the time came.

It wasn’t as if he would oversee renovations or take up farming.

Setting aside the towel he had used to dry his hair, Ryan glanced back at the sketch on the table.

“…Eloise, was it?”

The steward’s daughter. He recalled her wild, tousled light brown hair and the sharp green eyes that had glared at him.

Though disheveled, she might look like a proper lady if neatly dressed.

“Now that I think about it, she was introduced as ‘Miss Eloise.’”

In Albion’s marriage market, women became anxious at twenty.

She was well past that age, yet she was still called “Miss Eloise”—a clear sign that, like many others in the countryside, she had missed her prime marriageable years.

“I should be careful not to get involved with her by mistake.”

If Ryan Wilgrave were burdened with dishonor, he wouldn’t dare to approach so quickly.

But here and now, he was Ryan Thornton, a sergeant.

An unmarried soldier. Moreover, even by his judgment, he was in good health and not bad-looking.

He could easily guess how valuable a groom he would be in a rural town like this.

Perhaps, just as in the capital, someone is willing to create a scandal to secure a marriage.

‘Though she didn’t seem like that kind of woman…’

He recalled how her stubborn eyes had gradually hardened, and her lips had pressed tightly together when he deliberately made a teasing remark.

Rather than clinging to him, she had looked as if she was about to slap him at any moment.

Ryan chuckled softly and looked at the drawing she had left behind.

Though still somewhat unpolished, the skill was not bad. Then, his gaze fell on the name scribbled in the corner—Ryan Wilgrave.

It was a sketch in which she modified the face after seeing his fake portrait. Since it wasn’t even his real face, he could have just laughed it off…

His eyes drifted lower on the drawing.

As expected, even upon a second look, it was too small. But for Ryan Wilgrave’s honor, he couldn’t show her the real thing very well.

Feeling unreasonably wronged, he folded the paper and shoved it into the desk drawer.

In any case, for his peaceful retreat, he needed to ensure this oblivious woman never set foot in Blissbury again.

***

Abigail Ogilvy, the eldest daughter of the Ogilvy family, had always been a calm and quiet woman.

At times, she displayed unexpectedly bold actions, but only in front of a select few she was close to. As a result, she was widely regarded as a very demure lady.

Having suffered a severe illness in childhood that left one of her legs impaired, her cousin, the Dowager Viscountess Clavis, had taken pity on her and arranged for a lifelong trust fund in her name.

One hundred pounds a year.

A sum sufficient to employ a maid and live comfortably in the countryside.

Moreover, as she still lived with her family, she was able to save most of that money.

Only two unmarried women had secured such financial independence in all of Feltham.

One was Abigail, and the other was Eloise.

Abigail’s security came from the trust fund arranged by the dowager viscountess, while Eloise’s came from the savings set aside by the Surberton couple, who had no other children but her.

This shared circumstance had fostered a deep friendship between the two since childhood.

So much so that they would visit each other’s homes freely, without an invitation.

Today was no different.

“Eloise! I’m here!”

Leaning on her cane, Abigail called out at the entrance. Soon, Emily emerged and greeted her with a slight nod.

Though Emily often quarreled with the Ogilvy family’s maid to the point of pulling each other’s hair, she wasn’t crass enough to be rude to a guest.

“My lady hasn’t left her room since yesterday.”

“Why? Is she ill?”

Abigail’s expression grew concerned as she remembered that Eloise frequently fell sick this season.

“I don’t think so. She finished two full bowls of stew I brought to her room. So I believe she’s more emotionally wounded than physically unwell. But she’s clammed up like an oyster, and I do no know why.”

Lowering her voice, Emily whispered to Abigail.

“To be precise, it started after she returned from Blissbury yesterday. Could you find out what happened?”

Amused by the maid’s desperate curiosity over her mistress’s troubles, Abigail smiled.

“Alright. The weather is too lovely today to be spent sulking indoors. I’ll get her out for a walk, one way or another.”

With her crutch in hand, Abigail climbed the steep stairs and knocked on the door of Eloise’s room, where bundles of dried herbs hung.

“Eloise.”

“…”

No response came.

After a brief moment of consideration, Abigail’s lips curled into a smile.

Then, without hesitation, she lifted her crutch and threw it to the floor.