A few more days passed by, and their plans for satisfying the growing demands for their toys have been coming along well. And now she, Edward, and Mage Henry were huddled in one of Whitman Manor's drawing rooms once again for a meeting.
The sun dipped low outside the tall windows, casting a golden warmth upon the study where Lady Whitman, Grand Duke Edward Chambers, and Mage Henry huddled over papers and miniature prototypes.
Mage Henry, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grinned as he placed another scroll on the table.
"Three more orders today," he announced with a flourish, "from none other than Baroness Halewood and Viscount Renwick. And word is, the emperor himself asked for a set each for the little Highnesses at the royal nursery."
Lady Whitman's fingers paused on the rim of her teacup. Her heart gave a small, almost childlike leap. The royal family...
Across from her, the Grand Duke leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head in lazy triumph.
"It's a scandal, truly," he drawled. "Imagine, grown men and women risking their dignity over a game of toppling wooden towers. Why, even the Lord Chancellor was caught sneaking a turn when he thought no one was looking."
Lady Whitman laughed—a sound light and genuine, filling the room with its rare sweetness.
"It's simple," she said, her voice softening, "but it brings people together. It reminds them that laughter isn't undignified... it's human."
"And it helps that the craftsmanship is superb, my lady. Nothing like it has ever existed before." Henry looked seriously at her, as if there's more he wanted to say.
Just then, a knock sounded at the door. Jane, Lady Whitman's loyal attendant, entered carrying a crisp copy of The Capital Times—the city's most widely circulated news sheet.
"Milady, you've been featured," Jane said breathlessly, offering the paper.
"Me? Featured?" Lady Whitman unfolded it carefully.
There, halfway down the page, printed in neat calligraphy:
-----000-----
A New Merriment Sweeps the Capital!
In a refreshing departure from the usual tales of court intrigue, a bright star has emerged in the form of Lady Bettina Anne Whitman, Countess of Whitman.
Together with His Grace, Grand Duke Edward Matthew Chambers, her ladyship has embarked on a most delightful venture—the crafting of whimsical tower toys that have captured the hearts of young and old alike.
Witnessed at gatherings from Baroness Grafton's tea salons to the royal nursery itself, these charming toys not only test one's dexterity and wit but encourage laughter and camaraderie—a true balm to the often-heavy airs of the capital.
Perhaps the rumors were true: The villainess has been put to rest, Countess Whitman has been reborn, and the gods saw fit to let her true skills finally shine through.
-----000-----
Stopping herself from reading the rest of the article, Lady Whitman stared at the inked letters, a soft flush rising to her cheeks.
The Grand Duke leaned over her shoulder, pretending to squint at the page.
"Next they'll crown you the empire's Minister of Merriment herself," he teased, ruffling her carefully arranged hair like an indulgent brother.
"Stop that," she swatted at him half-heartedly, unable to keep the smile from her lips.
Outside the confines of the Whitman estate, the toy was indeed sweeping the city like a summer breeze:
At Baroness Grafton's estate, ladies in silken gowns and powdered wigs clustered around low tables, holding their breaths as they balanced the tiny blocks, squealing with delight when the towers fell.
At Viscount Renwick's estate, solemn little boys and prim little girls forgot decorum and dove headfirst into games, their laughter echoing across manicured gardens.
Even in the royal palace, a secret messenger delivered a set to the children's wing. By moonlight, the Crown Prince himself was said to have stacked the tiny pieces with his young siblings, laughter muffled behind velvet curtains.
It was as if a hidden hunger had been uncovered—for something simple, something joyful.
Back in the study, Mage Henry unrolled a parchment sketch of their new woodworking machinery—each part neatly labeled and to be used for faster production of uniform block pieces for their new product.
"We insert a stencil here, place the precut blocks of wood there, recite this short spell," he pointed. "And the machine will cut the wooden blocks automatically in uniform sizes based on the inserted stencil."
"Perfect," Lady Whitman murmured, her mind already racing ahead to new ideas. "Like a 3D machine."
Henry glanced secretly at Lady Whitman with a sly smile, a 3D machine?
"All we need now are the complete set of sketches for each piece with size and dimension specifications for your second invention so our workers can start on making the stencils, my lady."
Edward, who was busy listing down materials needed for purchasing, looked up. "Not to mention a catchy name for our second toy—the...what shall we call it?"
"Wooden Bricks," Lady Whitman mused aloud. "Or perhaps 'Build-it-Yourself Blocks'?"
The Grand Duke snorted.
"You name it whatever you like, as long as it doesn't sound like a priest's sermon."
"Hush, Edward," she said, laughing. "We'll decide together once the final designs are ready."
There, amid laughter, parchment, and sunlight, an empire was quietly being built—not with armies, not with schemes, but with play, wonder, and hope.
And for the first time in many years, Lady Whitman allowed herself to believe: perhaps the past did not have to dictate the future.
Not hers.
Not the Earl's.
Not even the future of this vast, complicated world she had been thrust into.
And much later that day, in the early hours of the evening, and after Mage Henry and the Grand Duke had taken their leave—the former bustling with excitement over schematics, the latter striding away with his usual careless swagger—Lady Whitman remained behind in the drawing room, looking through books once more in an effort to learn more about magical sigils.
She did not hear the Earl's approach at first.
It was only when the faint scent of cedar and crisp linen brushed her senses that she looked up.
Anthony James Whitman stood by the door, one hand resting lightly against the frame. He was without his coat, his shirtsleeves turned back just slightly at the wrist, a faintly rueful smile playing at his lips. It seemed he was seeking her company more often as of late.
"You've caused quite the stir, my lady," he said, voice warm, but quieter than usual.
Lady Whitman straightened instinctively, flustered. "I— I hope it is not an unwelcome one?"
He stepped inside the room, his boots making no sound against the thick Aubusson carpet.
When he reached her chair, he crouched down slightly—so that they were eye to eye.
Too close! She thought. But instead of feeling threatened, instead of feeling fear, as he once made her feel, heart was fluttering differently at the Earl's proximity. Nowadays, his nearness causes her to feel as if butterflies were fluttering inside of her. It was a strange feeling.
She wanted to avert her eyes, but his gentle look invited her to look back at him. She had no choice but to see the pride flickering openly across his face.
"No," he said simply. "It's not unwelcome at all. I'm proud of you."
The words, unexpected and unguarded, struck deeper than any formal praise could have.
Lady Whitman's lips parted, but for a moment no sound came out.
"Thank you," she managed finally, voice a whisper. "It means more than I can say."
A long moment stretched between them—filled with sunlight and quiet and something tender, fragile as spun glass.
Then, almost lazily, the Earl's mouth twisted in a dry smile.
"Although..." he added, straightening to his full height, "I wonder—should I be worried about how easily you let the Grand Duke ruffle your hair like a mischievous kitten?"
Lady Whitman blinked—once, twice—then realized, mortified, that he must have witnessed Edward's casual, brotherly gesture earlier.
She opened her mouth to protest—then stopped, noting the faint glint of amusement (and something sharper, possessive) in his storm-grey eyes.
"It was nothing improper," she said primly, lifting her chin. "His Grace is merely... exuberant."
"Hmph," the Earl muttered, as if the word tasted sour.
But she caught it—the slight softening of his shoulders, the almost-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the way he lingered near her chair a moment longer than necessary before finally offering his arm.
"Walk with me, Bettina," he said—using her name without title, low and easy—a sound so rare it sent a peculiar warmth curling through her chest.
She set the paper aside and placed her hand in his offered arm, feeling the solid strength beneath the fabric.
As they moved toward the terrace where late-blooming roses brushed against the stone balustrade, Lady Whitman felt it—a shift.
Small, almost imperceptible.
But real.
Tangible.
The Earl of Whitman was not just noticing her success.
He was beginning—perhaps without even meaning to—to see her. Truly care for her.
Not the ghost of the past.
Not a duty-bound wife.
But the woman she was becoming.
And somehow, that knowledge was both exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
The terrace was bathed in the soft gold of garden lights that were coming to life due to the darkening sky.
Above, the wondrous sky with two moons, the first hints of autumn coolness could be felt threading through the air. Summer has truly left them now.
The Earl paced himself carefully to her slower steps, his arm steady beneath her hand.
He didn't comment when she gasped slightly at a particularly strong breeze—just shifted his body subtly, shielding her from the occasional breeze, adjusting their pace without making her feel weak.
It was such a small thing.
But Lady Whitman noticed.
And somehow, it mattered more than grand gestures ever could.
"It seems," the Earl said lightly after a few minutes of silence, "that you're becoming something of a legend."
"A legend?" she repeated, amused despite herself.
"Indeed. A businesswoman, an inventor, a mender of reputations... Tell me, Bettina—what title shall I add to your growing list of accomplishments?"
His voice was warm, teasing. But his gaze, when she glanced up at him, was serious.
Proud.
Lady Whitman tilted her head, feigning deep consideration. "How about..." she drawled, "'the tireless tamer of overbearing earls'?"
The Earl let out a bark of laughter, free, the sound low and genuine.
"Tread carefully, my lady. There are some beasts not easily tamed."
She smirked, emboldened by his rare, unguarded mood.
"I like a challenge."
They paused near the edge of the terrace where ivy draped lazily over the stone railing.
For a moment, they simply stood there—shoulder to shoulder—watching the flutter of leaves in the nearby trees.
"You frightened me," the Earl said quietly after a pause, almost as if speaking to the air itself.
"When I saw you lying beneath that window."
Lady Whitman's fingers curled reflexively around his sleeve.
"I'm all right now," she said just as quietly.
"Because you are stubborn," he said with a ghost of a smile. "And strong."
She bit her lip, feeling a sudden, ridiculous urge to blink away the sting behind her eyes.
"Because I have people who stayed by my side," she corrected softly. "Even when they didn't have to. I never had that before."
The words floated between them, fragile and unguarded.
The Earl's jaw tightened, a shadow passing over his features.
He looked down at her—really looked, as if seeing the echoes of battles she had fought alone.
"I'm sorry." He said quietly.
"For what?", she asked, surprised at his sudden seriousness.
"I'm sorry that I was not one of them," he said quietly, the admission rough in the autumn air.
Lady Whitman blinked, her fingers momentarily still against his arm.
"Not when it mattered," he added, a faint grimace tugging at his mouth. "I believed what I wanted to believe... and never thought to question whether the woman standing before me now had always been there, waiting to be seen."
A heavy silence fell. And then, just as quickly, he shook his head—as if brushing the weight of his words aside before they could take root.
A crooked smile, more self-mocking than amused, curved his lips.
"Another thing," he murmured, "for which I owe you an apology. One day."
He extended his arm a little more firmly toward her—not demanding, but offering.
A choice.
Lady Whitman gazed at him, something soft stirring in her chest. She wanted to ask him but she couldn't speak.
Because when their eyes met—the world seemed to still.
Moments passed and, eventually, the Earl only offered his arm once more, his expression shuttering into something gentler, safer.
"Come," he said. "The air's turning cold. And you're still not fully healed, stubborn or not."
After a beat, she took his arm again without hesitation, letting the moment pass unspoken.
Above them, the afternoon light glinted through the golden trees, and somewhere in the garden, the faint laughter of Jason echoed through the crisp air.
They walked on—slowly, side by side—beneath the autumn sky.
It would have been so easy, in that moment, to say something reckless.
Something irrevocable.
And as they turned back toward the manor, the warmth of his nearness, the easy way he adjusted his stride to hers, whispered a silent promise:
There would be time.
For more honest words.
For truths unspoken.
For everything waiting just beneath the surface.
Just... not yet.
But soon.
*****Let fates entwine*****
Days have passed and the season was now moving on from one to the next. Lady Whitman was walking sedately along the second-floor corridor of the countess's wing. No matter how busy she was becoming, what with the toy company that she was establishing with her partner, Grand Duke Chambers, as well as the increasing number of servants that occasionally approach her for advice on some household matters, she never forgot for one moment her ultimate goal. To go back home to Ethan…and be Mary Jane once again. Although, she knew without a doubt, that she would miss all these people terribly once she left them… two people more especially.
Even today.
To onlookers, it might look like Lady Whitman was just walking randomly, probably checking on the quality of work that the Whitman household have done in the manor's upkeep. But in reality, Mary Jane was looking around once more, searching for possible clues that could help her in her quest to go home.
She stopped at one of the doors. She had checked inside this room before, Jane had told her that it was the countess's study, but found that it was only a dark and unused room filled with dusty old books and aging furniture that had seen better days. Perhaps she should check it out again, no harm in double checking things, right? She might have missed a drawer or two there that would be worth taking a looking at once more.
With a deep breath, bracing herself for a cloud of dust to greet her, Lady Whitman opened the door.
What she found was a great surprise.
The countess's study, once a forgotten chamber cloaked in dust and disuse, had been quietly transformed. The scent of lemon oil and fresh parchment lingered in the air, replacing the mustiness of old books and shuttered windows. Where timeworn drapes once sagged, new velvet ones now framed the tall windows, their deep burgundy catching the late afternoon light. The ancient writing desk—its legs uneven and drawer swollen with age—had been replaced with a new, polished walnut piece bearing crisp edges and brass fittings. Shelves that once bowed under the weight of moldy ledgers have been exchanged with new ones that now stood neatly stocked with blank parchment, ink pots, and rolled account scrolls arranged with purposeful precision.
A single vase of fresh daisies sat atop the sideboard, inconspicuous yet intimate, a quiet sign that someone—either Mr. Clive the butler or Mrs. Potts the head maid—had taken more than functional care in the room's restoration. Even the hearth had been scrubbed and relined, ready to burn again. The space bore the air not only of renewal, but of subtle loyalty—of servants who had watched, waited, and finally decided their countess was someone worth preparing a place for.
Lady Whitman sat now behind that desk, straight-backed and started to pull open drawers right in front of her. She had just begun familiarizing herself with the contents of each drawer when a knock sounded by the half-open door.
"Milady?" The steward, Mr. Ferguson, stepped in with a leather-bound ledger in his hands and a hesitant smile on his face. "Pardon the interruption. I thought it best to bring this to your attention directly."
She beckoned him in. "What's up? Something to do with the toy company's accounts?"
"Yes, milady." He approached with practiced ease but not without the careful politeness that signaled growing respect. "The profits from your first toy—the stacking game—have begun trickling in through advanced orders, private commissions, and noble gift boxes. Modest, but notable. I believe it's time we created a separate ledger for the business."
Lady Whitman nodded slowly, tapping the desk. "Do you normally handle the ledgers for the entire estate on your own?"
"I do, though I report to the Earl monthly."
"Then, how about this?" Her voice grew more confident. "I'll handle the toy business ledger myself. If you teach me the basics, I'll take it from there. I'd like to learn."
The steward blinked in surprise, then gave a short, respectful bow. "Of course, milady. I shall prepare a simpler copy to start with and return this evening to guide you through it."
"Thank you, Mr. Ferguson. I'll be ready."
He paused before leaving, glancing back once with something almost like approval and admiration in his eyes. "It's been some time since this study was used, milady. It's good to see it restored to purpose."
Left alone, she ran her hand along the freshly polished desk, a quiet smile touching her lips.
Hours later, the scent of beeswax and lemon oil polish still lingered faintly in the air as she hunched over her first attempt at copying over income figures into her own blank ledger. Her pen scratched along the parchment with slow precision.
A light knock at the open door drew her attention.
"Yes?" She called out.
It was Clara, one of the younger housemaids. She lingered uncertainly on the threshold, clutching her apron.
"Come in, Clara."
The girl bobbed a nervous curtsy and stepped forward. "Milady… I—I beg your pardon for disturbing you. I was hoping I could take a few days to visit my family."
Lady Whitman set her pen down gently. "Of course. May I ask why?"
Clara's eyes shimmered slightly. "It's my father, milady. He's taken ill again—lung fever, the healer said. They say it's only a matter of days now."
Lung fever? Isn't that the same as pneumonia?
The countess's expression softened. "Have the healers prescribed anything?"
"Just rest and warm blankets, milady. But his cough is getting worse, mother said he was finding it hard to breathe. But they say there's not much else to be done." Worry was plainly etched in the maid's tone and features.
Lady Whitman's gaze sharpened. Lung fever. Pneumonia. She remembered the sharp rattle of a wheezing chest from her past life. "Clara, do you have access to fresh lemons? Garlic? Honey?"
The girl looked startled. "Not at home, no."
Lady Whitman rose and walked around the desk. "Before you leave, ask Cook to prepare a small basket. I'll write a list: lemons, garlic, honey, onions, and some of the apples from the orchard. Brew a tea with those—chopped garlic and onions steeped in hot water, sweetened with honey. Add lemon especially. Drinking this tea regularly will help alleviate his state."
"Yes, milady."
She was gratified to see that Clara was listening to her intently.
"Keep his chest warm, elevated, and the room ventilated. Make sure that, even though the room is ventilated, your father must also be kept warm. Also, tell them that you have to put bolsters in his back to keep him from lying prone on the bed, okay?"
"I will."
Now, Lady Whitman turned back on the table to grab a fresh sheet of paper and began writing more instructions. "Boil water and pour it into a deep bowl. Add a few drops of mint or thyme oil, if you can find them. Then, have your father lean over it with a towel draped over his head and the bowl—just enough to trap the warmth. Let him breathe deeply. The vapors will soothe his lungs and help loosen the illness."
Clara blinked rapidly, tears pooling. "Milady… I don't know how to thank you."
"Just take care of your father." She gently placed a hand on Clara's shoulder. "And if there's anything else you need, ask."
Clara curtsied again, more deeply this time, her hands shaking slightly with gratitude. As she left, the maid's posture seemed a little straighter.