~Chapter 82~
“Wow…”
The voice of admiration came from Harry.
Before us stretched the wide new room—his very own art studio.
“How is it? Do you like it?”
“Like it? Of course I do. You prepared this room for me, Milady.”
Harry’s cheeks were flushed with excitement as he looked around.
The studio was carefully prepared. Canvases of all sizes were neatly stacked. Chairs that were comfortable, but not too soft—perfect for painting.
And not just that—
all the supplies were of the highest quality.
To brighten the space, I had even arranged plants in various corners, and sunlight poured in warmly through the upper windows.
This was the room I had prepared for Harry—no longer just a servant, but the official painter of this household.
“I’m glad you like it,” I said, patting his shoulder gently.
“Harry Jackson, I hope you can pour all your passion into your art here. From now on, you are not a servant, but an artist.”
“Thank you… truly, thank you, Milady.”
His voice trembled, eyes glistening with emotion.
Then, as if he had to steady himself, Harry cleared his throat and walked toward the easel at the center of the studio.
The sunlight fell directly on him as he set a canvas, prepared his paints, and carefully squeezed colors onto a palette.
With a deep breath, Harry raised his brush—and began painting.
I watched, proud, before quietly leaving so as not to disturb him.
A few days later,
I sat in the sunny garden, staring seriously at a withered flower in my hand.
“Send it… don’t send it…”
Each time I spoke, I plucked a petal and let it fall.
This was the habit of my favorite novel’s male lead, Eric Henderson.
When standing at a crossroads, he would always pluck leaves or petals to divine his choice.
And so, I borrowed his method for my own dilemma.
“Send it… don’t send it… send it…”
At last, the final petal fell.
“…Send it.”
I whispered softly, then set the stem down.
Glancing at the table, my eyes fell on the letter I had written—
the unsent reply to Lady Elina.
Sending this letter means admitting it. Admitting that my heart is turning toward Fabian.
That was why I hesitated.
Should I acknowledge these feelings, or keep denying them?
“Milady, what are you looking at so seriously?”
“…Ah, Sophie.”
She approached with a tray of tea and snacks. Feeling guilty, I quickly hid the letter.
“It’s nothing. Did you bring tea?”
“Yes… but are you really alright? You’ve been spacing out so much lately, I can’t help but worry.”
“I’m fine, really… haha.”
Avoiding her eyes, I reached for my cup.
Then suddenly, a thought struck me.
“By the way, how has Harry been lately?”
“Oh, him? Don’t even ask. He hasn’t stepped out of the studio for days!”
“Really…?”
Sophie shook her head.
“Only that boy, Pin, goes in and out sometimes. I think Harry even eats and sleeps in there now. He’s completely lost in painting.”
“I see…”
I had told him to pour his soul into his art, but I hadn’t expected him to take it quite this far.
“Prepare one more teacup, Sophie. I should go see him.”
Knock, knock.
“Yes, come in.”
At my knock, Harry’s steady voice came from inside.
When I opened the door, his eyes immediately met mine.
“Ah, Milady, you’ve come.”
He set down his brush and stood from the easel.
“I thought we could share some tea. I didn’t disturb you, did I?”
“Not at all. Please, come in.”
He looked a little tired, but his eyes shone with burning passion. Even without asking, I could see how hard he had been working.
“They say you haven’t left the room. It’s good to be passionate, but remember to rest as well.”
“Haha, no, it’s just… I like this space so much. I didn’t realize it had spread as a rumor.”
As I set down the teacups, my eyes were drawn to one particular canvas.
“Wow… this is…”
I couldn’t help stepping closer.
It was a familiar sight—something I had seen on our first trip together.
“Is this… the Lisman Port?”
“Yes. You recognized it quickly.”
Indeed, it was Lisman Port.
But not exactly as it had been.
The real port was full of blue and white, but here warm golden tones spread across the canvas, soft and glowing.
Reading the question in my eyes, Harry explained:
“It is Lisman Port, but I painted it with the feelings I had back then. The memory, not just the view.”
“I see. That’s why it looks different from reality.”
“Yes. At that time… traveling with you felt so warm in my memory.”
His cheeks flushed slightly.
I too remembered it warmly—eating herring together, fighting those little villains, saving Pin.
The painting truly carried the warmth of that time.
And Harry’s skill was far greater than I had realized. His art could rival anything I had seen at Marquis Lanchester’s exhibition.
“Harry, this is amazing. If you keep painting like this, you’ll really succeed as an artist.”
“For me, I’m already successful. Just being able to paint freely like this… I couldn’t ask for more.”
We sat at the tea table, continuing our talk.
Harry looked down at his teacup and said:
“Honestly… every day feels like a dream. I don’t know if I deserve such fortune.”
“Fortune? If you call it that, then I should be the thankful one. I’m only giving what I can.”
Smiling, I waited, but Harry suddenly asked:
“Why are you so kind to us, Milady? We’re just… passing commoners, after all.”
