That night, dinner at the Whitman Manor was a lighthearted affair. The Earl and his men have made so much progress in their document organization that they felt relaxed enough to join her and Jason in the dining hall. As such, dinner became filled with banter and more gratitude towards the countess who helped kickstart their difficult task of salvaging their charred books and papers.
It was the very first time in her entire life that Mary Jane heard so much words of thanks and praise for her ingenuity and cleverness that she couldn't stop blushing the entire time. And no matter how much she claimed that anybody could have given them those suggestions, they just wouldn't stop. Even Anthony voiced his agreement to his men's declarations.
Eventually, she had to ask them about the progress of their investigation just to divert their attention back to their work.
Still, Mary Jane never knew how good it actually felt to be appreciated vocally for her efforts. And so, she floated happily, despite herself, back to her bedroom to get ready for bed.
With Jane's help, she took a calming bath and changed into her bedclothes. And yet, she couldn't sleep. She was still in high spirits.
Ah, maybe I should write down some sketches and ideas for my toy company.
My toy company. She smiled. She could never imagine this day would come for her. That she would have the capability to create or recreate (thank you to the original creators on Earth he he) things, enlist help from others in her creation, and be able to sell them—it was just amazing.
With no one to intimidate nor hurt her, Mary Jane now felt like she could fly.
Through the wide windows of Lady Whitman's bedroom, the night sky stretched vast and clear, a tapestry of stars scattered like diamonds across the dark velvet backdrop. Walking over at the small secretary desk by the window, Mary Jane — Lady Whitman, she reminded herself — picked up the quill between her fingers, staring thoughtfully at the rough sketches she had drawn. Packaging designs, toy logo drafts, scattered doodles of future projects.
It had been a productive day, but now she's ready for a little bit more and her mind set to work.
After maybe an hour of sketching and editing, bent down on the sheets of paper before her, she leaned back on her chair as she started to feel her back muscles protests. She stretched her arms high above her head with a soft groan, leaning back until her foot nudged the leg of the secretary.
Clack.
She froze.
The sound was faint, barely louder than the rustle of paper, but unmistakable. Slowly, she drew her foot back, then knelt to peer under the desk. There, at the base where the marbled floor met the heavy wooden structure, a tiny, uneven crack caught her eye. Curious, she crouched on all fours, reached over, and ran her fingers along it — and with a gentle tug, a narrow strip of the marble lifted free.
Her heart thudded.
A small, dusty cavity lay hidden beneath — just large enough for a slim bundle wrapped in faded, once-elegant silk. Hands trembling slightly, Lady Whitman eased it out and carefully unwrapped it.
Inside was an old diary, the leather cover cracked and worn by time. A delicate silver clasp, tarnished with age, still kept it closed.
She sat back on her heels, staring at it.
The room felt unusually still, as if the very air was holding its breath.
Gently, she opened the clasp and turned the first page.
Neat, youthful handwriting greeted her — elegant, but tinged with the earnestness of someone very young, very hopeful.:
-----000-----
Dearest Diary,
Today, Mama and Papa took me to the harbor for my birthday. Papa carried me on his shoulders so I could see the ships, and Mama laughed when I shrieked at the seagulls swooping too close. We ate pastries so sweet they made my cheeks sticky, and I wished the day would never end...
-----000-----
Mary Jane blinked, feeling a sudden, unexpected sting behind her eyes. Why was there a sudden feeling of nostalgia that was enveloping her body? As if it somehow remembers what was written here. She traced the inked letters lightly with her fingertips. There was such joy in those words — so much warmth. This must be Bettina's diary. The countess had been happy once, cherished and loved, long before the cold shadows appeared that would one day swallow her life.
She turned to another page.:
-----000-----
Papa says one day I will help him run the Sutherland Trading Company. He says I have a clever mind and a strong heart. Mama says I must never be afraid to speak the truth, even if others would silence me. They believe in me more than I believe in myself sometimes...
-----000-----
A lump formed in Mary Jane's throat.
They loved Bettina, she thought fiercely. That fire took her parents away from her.
Mary Jane may not have experienced the kind of love that should be expected from one's parents, but she could imagine that this would be it. A part of her felt envious of Bettina, that she had a loving family. And yet, another part of her felt very sorry for her, that she also lost it. Lives that were stolen too soon.
Carefully, she turned to another fragile page, and then another. Mary Jane blinked against the sudden burning in her eyes. These pages showcase the happiness of a girl who grew up well under the care of good parents— warmth, love, a family that once felt eternal. The type of family that she and her stepbrother, Ethan, have always dreamed of.
She flipped over more pages, skimming through them, trying to see if she could find something that could be helpful to her. That is, until one page jumped out at her.:
-----000-----
I could not sleep tonight, the echoes of Father's raised voice still ringing in my ears. I had gone to fetch my sketchbook from the study when I heard him arguing — not just with anyone, but with Lord Marcus Whitman.
Their words were heated, sharp enough to make the very walls tremble. It made me tremble.
Father accused him of trafficking in goods better left untouched, of muddying our family's name in pursuits unworthy of it. More than that, he spoke of "dirty profits" being passed through our Company's books, and then made to look clean and respectable. My heart turns cold even writing of it.
When I later asked Father what it meant, he warned me not to repeat what I heard, not even in whispers. But I could see the lines of worry etched deep across his brow. It frightened me. Lord Marcus carries himself with the polish of a gentleman, yet there is something restless and grasping in him that unsettles me. Everyone knew that, even though he was a man of high-ranking nobility, they were one of the impoverished nobles that few people associated with. Only father would be kind enough to give a man a second chance.
However, if Lord Marcus would risk so much for wealth, what might he do if cornered?
I fear that, blinded by ambition and desperate for riches, he might drag all of us — and the Company — into ruin.
I pray Father can find a way to sever the partnership without inviting scandal... but what if it is already too late?
I fear for the Company. I fear for Father.
-----000-----
Mary Jane's fingers tightened around the worn edges of the diary.
A chill prickled down her spine, the memory of that strange, vivid dream surfacing — the sharp tones of a man who was called Evert, by the low, urgent growl of the man who was called Marcus in response.
She hadn't imagined it.
This entry confirmed it.
She could almost hear their words again, echoing in her mind:
"I've made my decision, Lord Marcus. I will not yield. Goodnight, my lord."
"Let us hope, for your sake, that this choice does not return to haunt you."
The pieces slid together with a dreadful kind of clarity.
Dirty profits. Shady dealings hidden in clean books.
It was old-fashioned money laundering, plain and simple — and even in this world, greed had the same stench.
A heavy, sour feeling settled in her chest.
If Lord Marcus had been desperate enough to taint the company's reputation... who knew how far he'd gone to silence anyone who found out?
Evert. Bettina's father. And, Lord Marcus Whitman. A high-ranking nobleman. Was he someone related to Lord Anthony Whitman, Bettina's husband?
Gently, she traced the faded ink with the tip of her finger, a quiet vow stirring inside her.
Gripping the diary more tightly, she rose slowly to her feet, her gaze shifting to the moonlit window.
The world outside bustled on, unaware. But inside her, a deep resolve was crystallizing — not just to survive in this world, not just to build a new life for herself.
But to do right by the girl whose life she now lived.
No more would the countess' voice be lost.
No more would her truth be buried.
Mary Jane brushed a thumb across the diary's cover, whispering aloud, "I'll figure this all out. I'll finish what you started. I promise."
And somewhere, in the hush of the room, it felt like someone was listening.
She gently closed the diary, her hand resting atop it for a long moment. Head bowed, forehead touching the cool wood of the secretary desk, she let out a slow, trembling breath.
She made that silent promise to Bettina, but she didn't really know where to start. It was already quite scary to know that someone definitely left that locket for her to find and now she just happened to find this diary on a loose marble floor that wasn't there before. Not to mention, her original goal was to find a way back home to her own planet.
But, reading this diary now, perhaps the person who left her that locket and who allowed her to find this diary was someone who needed her help. Perhaps that person was even related to Bettina. And perhaps she should have a good talk with that person.
"Whoever you are," Mary Jane spoke aloud. "Why don't you talk to me directly? Let's figure this all out together."
Instead of a response to her declaration that she wasn't really expecting, a knock startled her.
Light — hesitant.
She straightened, hastily wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm.
"Come in," she called, forcing her voice into a steady, welcoming tone.
The door creaked open a sliver, and Jason's tousled head peeked around it. His small figure was swamped in a too-large nightshirt, and he clutched a storybook tightly against his chest.
"Mother," he said softly, almost whispering, "may I stay with you tonight? I... I can't sleep."
Her heart twisted so sharply it almost hurt.
She pushed back the chair and rose to her feet, offering him a smile — a real one, warm and full of relief.
"Of course you may, sweetheart. Come here."
Jason padded across the carpet barefoot, hesitating only long enough to make sure he was truly welcome. When she opened her arms, he practically flew into them.
They settled together on the settee by the fireplace, Mary Jane tucking a throw over both of them. She took the storybook from his hands — a simple collection of fairy tales — and opened it, her voice soft and rhythmic as she read.
Jason leaned into her side, his small head resting against her shoulder, his breathing slow and steady.
"...and the little bird, though small and plain, sang the sweetest song of them all — the song of home, of safety, of belonging."
Mary Jane paused, her throat thick.
She glanced down at Jason, who had drifted to sleep, his lashes fanning over his cheeks.
Carefully, she closed the book and set it aside.
Her hand brushed lightly through his hair, marveling at how trusting he was — how brave to keep on loving even after everything that had happened to him.
Bending close, she whispered against his crown,
"Good night, my little Jason."
Outside the window, the wind stirred the night trees into a gentle rustle.
Inside the room, there was only warmth — the fragile, stubborn beginnings of a bond was forming. The bond of family.
Careful not to wake him, Mary Jane rose and gently gathered Jason into her arms.
He murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, clutching the front of her gown, and she smiled — a smile that ached as much as it comforted.
She carried him to her bed, the soft covers turned down invitingly.
Settling him against the pillows, she tucked the blankets up to his chin, smoothing them tenderly.
For a long moment, she simply stood there, watching him.
The firelight danced across his small, peaceful face, casting golden halos in his hair.
In that instant, Mary Jane — Lady Whitman — felt the weight of her second chance pressing deep into her soul.
Not just a second chance for herself.
A second chance to build something good.
Something worth fighting for.
She picked up the diary and placed it back where she found it once more before going to bed and lying beside the sleeping boy.
She would read more of the diary tomorrow.
Tomorrow would bring more battles, more mysteries, more burdens.
But tonight... tonight was for the quiet victory of a love discovered.
And so, with Jason's even breaths filling the room and the soft crackle of the fire keeping watch, Mary Jane let herself lean back, eyes drifting closed, guarding the first true piece of happiness she had found in this world.
And just before sleep claimed her, her gaze drifted once more to the secretary by the window, where a single glint of silver peeked out from beneath its carved legs — a whisper of secrets waiting patiently in the shadows, ready to change everything.
She would not fail them.
Not this time.
*****Let will and purpose intertwine*****
The musical chirping of morning birds could still be heard faintly even through the closed windows along the hallway while the morning sun streamed through, casting long, pale beams across the halls. Anthony James Whitman, The Right Honorable Earl of Whitman, strode purposefully down the corridor toward Jason's room, his footsteps light despite the lingering stiffness in his shoulders.
He had been feeling guilty that he wasn't able to spend any time with his son these days because of too much work. He wanted to wake the boy up himself, get him ready for the day, and walk down to the dining hall with him. Jason had always been very understanding of his busy father, despite his young age, never demanding that he spend more time him — especially not now, when the boy had seemed so much happier these past months.
Reaching Jason's chamber, he knocked once, then opened the door without ceremony.
The bed was empty. The covers, tossed and rumpled, offered no sign of where his son had gone.
Anthony stilled, instincts prickling.
Without a word, without even a conscious thought, he turned on his heel and crossed the hall to the wing that belonged almost exclusively to the countess.
With satisfaction, he noted a few improvements in the countess' wing which looked neglected and dreary just a few months ago. Now, the carpets were replaced with new ones, the flower pots and décor were polished and shining, and the flowers themselves were freshly picked and arranged beautifully to brighten up the corridors.
When he reached the countess's door, he paused, noticing that it was slightly ajar. Instinct warred with caution. For a moment, Anthony hesitated, his hand hovering just above the doorknob.
How many times had he stood outside this very room, dreading the confrontation that awaited within? How many times had he prepared himself for another verbal sparring match, another cold rebuff?
Some remnant of that old tension curled through him — memories of arguments, of cold shoulders and cutting words — but he pushed them aside.
I am just looking for Jason.
Quietly, he eased the door open wider, letting his gaze drift inside.
What greeted him was a scene so unexpected, so achingly tender, that he found himself rooted to the threshold, unable to move.
There, amidst the soft folds of her bed, lay Lady Whitman — no, his wife, as he'd begun to think of her lately — her hair a tumble of gold and chestnut against the pale linen pillows. In slumber, without the armor of propriety and protocols, her face was heartbreakingly unguarded — almost girlish in its vulnerability.
She was fast asleep, her arm curved protectively around the boy on her side, her face soft in the morning light.
And Jason was curled up like a kitten against her side, his small arms flung around her as if he had every right to be there, and she were his most precious treasure.
Completely unguarded.
Both slept deeply, utterly at peace, the first hints of sunlight caressing the edges of their hair.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, hand still resting lightly on the doorframe, watching them.
Anthony felt something catch in his chest — a feeling sharp and unfamiliar, a strange warmth that unraveled the last shreds of his lingering doubt. And that warmth caused something in his chest to crack fully — a quiet, splintering sound he could neither name nor halt.
He hadn't seen his son look so... safe and at ease in years.
And the Countess— the woman he had once thought of as a bitter thorn— had an expression of such unguarded tenderness it made his throat tighten.
She had not merely tolerated Jason.
She had embraced him. Protected him in his sleep with an instinct as fierce and natural as any mother's.
He remained there for a long moment, watching his wife and son, the quiet of the room wrapping around him like a blanket. The sunlight, filtering through the sheer curtains, painted both their faces in a soft glow.
Faint memories surfaced:
Jason's laughter echoing down the halls.
The handmade toys being enjoyed by his son with multiple people in the household.
That dazzling and proud smile that Lady Whitman had given Jason during the garden tea party.
All of it — each small, quiet act of care — they couldn't have been faked so consistently.
He thought back to the previous day — the way she had calmly and competently sorted through the ruined documents by his side, the quiet dignity with which she had accepted his gratitude. No anger, no biting remarks. No smugness. Only a silent, steady willingness to help, without demanding anything in return.
And now this.
A small smile touched the corner of his mouth — barely there, and yet real.
Anthony exhaled slowly, scarcely aware of the breath he'd been holding.
Without making a sound, Anthony drew the door closed again, leaving Jason and Lady Whitman undisturbed in their shared slumber.
As he made his way back down the hall, he found the knot of tension in his chest had loosened— the suffocating weight of suspicion and fear that had lived there for so long seemed to have evaporated.
For the first time in a long while, Anthony allowed himself to believe — to truly believe — that perhaps, against all odds, this marriage could become something more than a cold alliance born of obligation and betrayal.
Perhaps — just perhaps — they could become a real family after all.
He turned to leave — and found Nanny Jones walking toward his direction.
The older woman blinked up at him, her hands folded in front of her. She seemed to be looking for the errant boy as well and had the same thought of checking with the countess.
"My lord," she said with a small curtsy.
"Nanny," Anthony murmured, voice low, as though afraid to disturb the fragile peace behind him.
They both glanced, almost involuntarily, toward the countess's door.
Understanding bloomed in Nanny Jones's weathered face.
She offered him a small, tentative smile — one lined with hard-earned wisdom and cautious hope. "The boy feels safe with her, my lord," she said softly. "And happier than I've seen him in a long time."
"Maybe people could change," she added quietly. "Maybe… sometimes, miracles did happen, just quietly, when the world wasn't looking."
Anthony said nothing. He didn't trust himself to speak.
Nanny hesitated, then added, "Moons have passed. Perhaps... perhaps it is no longer necessary to watch so closely when he is with her. If I may be so bold."
Her words, offered with the gentlest deference, struck true.
The Earl gave a slight nod — a quiet acceptance.
They stood for a heartbeat longer in the warm hush of the corridor, two sentinels acknowledging a battlefield slowly healing.
Then, without another word, they parted — each carrying a new, unspoken trust that the protective walls around their hearts might not be needed anymore, no longer needed because of suspicion, but replaced with something far stronger, and more positive.