The meal proceeded in a warm and cheerful atmosphere.

Emily’s dishes were flawless, and Mr. Surberton’s newly uncorked wine, in his elevated mood, complemented the meal exquisitely.

Above all, what made the dinner especially enjoyable was Sergeant Thornton’s storytelling.

Objectively speaking, he was not a man of many words. He was more talented at listening to others than at speaking himself.

Whenever Mr. Surberton spoke about the history of Blissbury and the stories behind its artworks, Thornton would respond with appropriate nods or expressions of admiration.

He occasionally asked questions to prove he was truly listening—none frivolous. Rather, they were the kind of inquiries that a new steward of Blissbury ought to know to clarify that he had not come here merely as a visitor.

Mr. and Mrs. Surberton were incredibly pleased with his attitude.

In truth, they had been uneasy about the arrival of a new steward.

Blissbury was not merely an estate that generated income for the Surberton family. Having managed it for a long time as one of Feltham’s prized estates, they had grown deeply attached to it, as if it were their own home.

If the new steward were to sweep away all the beautiful antiques filling the mansion in favor of the latest trends, how would they cope with such regret?

Yet, throughout the meal, their observations reassured them—Sergeant Thornton valued tradition as much as they did, not a man who would recklessly introduce new influences.

The dinner, attended by Mr. and Mrs. Surberton, Eloise, Reverend Harrison, and his wife from the village church, continued with endless discussions about Blissbury.

After everyone had polished off the perfectly roasted lamb Emily had prepared, almond pudding was served, followed by marmalade pancakes.

Emily’s extra effort in preparing the meal made the conversation even livelier, accompanied by frequent laughter.

The only one who remained detached from this perfect dinner was Eloise.

On any other day, she would have discreetly taken another lamb chop, ignoring her mother’s sharp gaze and constant reminders that a lady should not eat so much.

But tonight, Eloise had eaten almost nothing—about as little as a monk preparing for a pilgrimage.

‘When will this end?’

For the first time, she realized that a dinner she had always eagerly awaited could become such an excruciating ordeal.

Feigning interest in cutting her now-cold lamb chop, she glanced at Sergeant Thornton, who sat beside her father.

‘How shameless.’

When they were alone, he spoke as if threatening her, but he acted like the perfect gentleman in front of others.

The stark contrast made the piece of lamb she had barely swallowed feel like it was rising back up her throat.

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—everyone was too engrossed in discussing Blissbury to notice her state.

With the pancakes marking the end of the meal, the guests moved to the drawing room.

Pleased with the new steward, Mr. Surberton opened another bottle of his cherished wine, and the conversation carried on with laughter.

‘Perhaps it’s time to retire.’

Mrs. Surberton had always stressed that a proper lady should withdraw at an appropriate hour to ensure a restful night’s sleep.

Of course, Eloise had never once heeded her mother’s advice.

But tonight, for the first time, she considered doing so.

Still, she couldn’t pass up the wine. Just as she downed the contents of her glass and was about to excuse herself—

“Come to think of it, Sergeant Thornton, you were in the same battalion as the famous Lieutenant Colonel Wilgrave, weren’t you?”

At Mr. Surberton’s words, Eloise froze.

When the first letter about the new steward arrived, the detail most intrigued her.

But after being caught sketching a specific undressed male figure with Lieutenant Colonel Wilgrave’s face, she had lost any chance of questioning Sergeant Thornton about him.

If she brought it up now… it was all too obvious what kind of looks she would receive.

Instead, Eloise swiftly settled herself into a small armchair in the corner. Even if she couldn’t ask, she could at least listen.

“I was curious about that myself,” Reverend Harrison said, his eyes lighting up at the mention of the war hero. “You were both in the 57th Infantry Battalion, weren’t you? That must mean you met Lieutenant Colonel Wilgrave often.”

Reverend Harrison’s enthusiasm was evident when the conversation turned to war heroes. His wife, however, waved a hand dismissively.

“Oh, why do men enjoy war stories so much? It only just ended—why bring it up again?”

Perhaps because she had lost a younger brother in the war, Mrs. Harrison did not seem pleased by the topic.

“But Albion emerged victorious, did we not?”

Reverend Harrison gently grasped his wife’s arm as if to ask her to let it go before turning back to Thornton with a smile.

“If you don’t mind, Sergeant, I’d love to hear more about the 57th Battalion’s heroic exploits.”

At the reverend’s request, Thornton gave a wry smile.

“To be honest, I doubt it would be an entertaining story. A soldier’s life is mostly spent marching from place to place for months, just for a single battle. The heroic moments you envision occur only a few days out of the entire year.”

“And yet, you men performed miracles.”

Reverend Harrison remained persistent, eager to hear even the smallest detail.

Silently, Eloise cheered him on.

‘I want to hear more about the lieutenant colonel, too.’

Everything she had read in the newspapers about Lieutenant Colonel Wilgrave had been nothing short of astonishing.

He deciphered the enemy’s code, captured a spy, and saved the prince’s life. He ran alone through a battlefield under a hail of bullets to rescue an isolated comrade. His brilliant tactics enabled him to maneuver an infantry battalion so swiftly that he was called the ghost of the battlefield.

But what Eloise wanted to hear were things a little more modest than that: about how he spent time with his comrades, whether he had a favorite book, or, at the very least, what kind of food he liked.

She knew it was improper to take such an interest in the personal details of someone she had never even met. But she could not suppress her curiosity.

Hoping to hear something about Wilgrave that she did not already know, Eloise perked up her ears.

Yet, unexpectedly, Sergeant Thornton did not speak much.

Instead, Mr. Surberton and Reverend Harrison carried on, animatedly discussing the stories they had read in the newspapers, while Thornton merely nodded along at the right moments.

However, the others, already pleasantly drunk, did not seem to notice.

Sitting quietly in the corner, Eloise grew anxious. The men’s conversation surrounded everything she was most eager to know.

‘Oh, dear Lord. At the very least, I’d like to know what kind of dessert he enjoys! Or even whether he prefers blue ink or black ink!’

Deciding she would have to pray diligently at church this weekend, Eloise silently called out to God.

Just then, as the conversation continued to veer toward war stories, Mrs. Harrison, clearly irritated, finally spoke up.

“In the end, weren’t we all just played by that coward, Lieutenant Colonel Ryan?”

“Honey.”

Reverend Harrison, caught up in the lively discussion, tried to stop his wife. But it was not enough to keep her from speaking her mind; she was already upset.

“I heard that, due to the retreat at the Battle of Ingon, there are calls in the disciplinary committee to revoke his medal. Sergeant Thornton, you were there for that battle, weren’t you? What’s your opinion? The distinguished figures say that Lieutenant Colonel Wilgrave’s retreat was too hasty. Of course, I understand—who wouldn’t fear death?”

It was clear that Mrs. Harrison deeply resented Lieutenant Colonel Wilgrave.

Otherwise, the ordinarily mild-mannered Mrs. Harrison would never have expressed such hostility.

“The other units held out until the very end…”

She trailed off, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

‘It’s understandable in her case.’

The 57th Infantry Battalion had managed to withdraw from the Battle of Ingon with minimal casualties, but unfortunately, the unit her brother belonged to had not been as lucky.

In the end, her brother had lost his life in that battle.

Given Mrs. Harrison’s age, her brother had not been a young man, but age did not determine the value of a life.

Eloise understood the impulse to direct one’s grief at someone, but she believed Mrs. Harrison’s anger was misplaced.

She subtly turned to look at Sergeant Thornton.

The firelight and the flickering candles around the drawing room cast shifting shadows over his face.

His expression seemed either impassive or unbearably sorrowful, depending on how the flames moved.

Eloise clenched her hands tightly. She wished he would break the silence and stand up for his superior.

It was only natural.

After all, he was one of the men who had survived, thanks to Wilgrave’s sound judgment.

And Eloise was not the only one thinking this.

Reverend Harrison had fallen silent at his wife’s words, and Mr. and Mrs. Surberton turned to Sergeant Thornton.

Sensing their gazes, Thornton set down his glass and spoke.

Everyone expected him to begin defending Lieutenant Colonel Wilgrave.

However—

“The lady is correct. I, too, believe Lieutenant Colonel Wilgrave’s actions during the Battle of Ingon deserve to be condemned.”

His voice was so cold that even Mrs. Harrison looked startled.

Silence fell over the room. But Thornton remained unfazed and continued speaking.

“It is laughable that he was ever held up as a hero. He is a despicable man who discarded his patriotism and acted solely to save his own life.”

No one could find the words to respond to his scathing denunciation.

That was when—

“I do not agree with that opinion.”

Eloise’s voice, as cold as Thornton’s, rang through the drawing room.