Chapter 197 - 170: All is Well at Home

The entire living room fell silent.

Mother peeked out from the kitchen, a glass in her hand. She took one look and quietly retreated.

Evelyn’s eyelashes fluttered twice.

"You left it... at which inn?" Her voice was noticeably softer.

"The one in Osborne," Richard said with a sincere look on his face.

"On the last night, while I was packing, I put the gift on the nightstand so I wouldn’t forget it in the morning.

But the next morning, I woke up with a stomachache. I had to run to the toilet four times, and then I was in a rush to catch the train, so it completely slipped my mind."

"..."

Evelyn’s lips slowly formed into a pout.

She wasn’t about to actually cry, but the sense of being wronged was real. In fact, it might have been even more heart-wrenching than real tears.

She pulled her hands back from the edge of the table, unsure of where to put them, and ended up resting them on her apron again.

"So... how long will it take to mail it back?"

"From Osborne to Brighton, a mail packet usually takes a week."

"And I didn’t write down the inn’s address."

"Brother!"

Evelyn shot up from the table, planting her small hands on her hips.

"When I helped you pack before you left, I counted every single sock! And you come back and just tell me you forgot?"

"There was nothing I could do."

"What about that..." She poked the notebook he had taken out of his backpack. "You filled this with dense writing. How did you not forget *that*?"

"This is for work. It’s more important."

"So my gift isn’t important?"

Richard stared at his sister for a moment.

The little girl was red from the tips of her ears to the top of her head.

Her two gray eyes glared at him, but halfway through, the fire in them fizzled out.

"I thought..." she mumbled under her breath. "I thought you’d give me my gift the moment I opened the door."

Seeing his sister’s pitiful expression, Richard felt his heart soften.

But he couldn’t resist wanting to watch her like this for a little longer.

"However..." he said, pretending something had just occurred to him.

"I did happen to grab a supplement from the *Daily Mail* at the transfer station, want it? The front page is about the strike at the Sheffield Steel Plant..."

"I don’t want to read about a strike!"

"How about the horse racing results from the Imperial Capital?"

"I don’t want that either!"

"Then..."

Richard looked at his sister’s puffed-up cheeks.

"Alright," he finally said, breaking into a smile.

Evelyn froze.

"...Alright what?"

"I was teasing you."

Richard walked over to his suitcase, opened it, and pulled out a small cloth pouch.

"...You!"

Evelyn’s eyes widened first, then her mouth fell open, and finally, she just stood there, frozen to the spot.

She had fallen from hope to disappointment, and then from disappointment into a sense of injustice.

Just when she thought the one thing she’d been looking forward to most this year had gone up in smoke, the little cloth pouch appeared, safe and sound.

Evelyn rushed over, raising her hand to pinch his arm.

But she suddenly remembered her hands were covered in flour. Her hand trembled in mid-air for a moment before she finally choked out:

"I was about to cry!"

"Then I’m sorry."

Richard held the small cloth pouch out to her with both hands.

"My apologies."

Evelyn huffed, wiped her hands vigorously on her apron, and then reluctantly took the pouch.

She untied the drawstring. Inside was a small booklet with a picture of a plump Yorkshire pudding on the cover.

"A collection of traditional pastry recipes from Yorkshire. I bought it at a bookstore in town."

Evelyn opened it to the first page, her eyes already glued to it.

As she turned to the second page, she muttered, "...I still haven’t forgiven you."

"Mm-hm."

"You’re not getting any of the pie I’m making tonight." She turned to the third page.

Richard waited for her to turn two more pages, then pulled a small sachet tied with a silver ribbon from his suitcase.

He had bought it on a whim while passing through the entrance to Osborne Town.

"Here." He pressed the sachet into Evelyn’s hand.

"What’s this?"

"It’s made from wildflowers from around the ’Maiden Spring’ in Osborne," Richard explained. "Legend says it brings peace and safety, and it works best for unmarried girls."

"Really?"

"...It’s a legend."

Evelyn turned the sachet over, examined it, and tucked it directly into her apron pocket.

The gift for their mother was a small bouquet of dried flowers wrapped in cotton paper.

"Lavender from the Gael Highlands. The local innkeeper’s wife made it by hand. It’s more fragrant than what you’d find in a flower shop."

Mother took the dried flowers and brought them to her nose, taking a sniff.

"Mm... it is fragrant."

She decided to put them in her bedroom.

Richard walked to the study door and knocked.

"Dad."

He handed a tin can inside.

"A tobacco tin from the Sheffield Steel Plant."

Captain Field had recommended it; you could buy them near the transfer station.

His father took the can and turned it over to look at the steel plant’s mark on the bottom.

"From Sheffield. This is good steel, indeed."

Richard returned to the dining table. Evelyn was already on the fifth page of the recipe book, muttering to herself.

"Hmm... Yorkshire ’Flommen Tarts’ are made with a thin pastry crust. The flour should be sifted twice, and the temperature can’t be too high when adding the butter..."

She was completely absorbed in her baking notes.

"These Flommen Tarts require black treacle. Do we have any at home?" she asked, looking up at her mother.

"There should be half a jar left in the cabinet."

"Is half a jar enough for two batches?"

"More than enough."

"I’ll try making it tomorrow then." Evelyn lowered her head again. "And this ’Pajin Cake’ needs rolled oats and ginger powder..."

Beside them, their mother cleared the table, taking away the empty bowls and returning with a cup of hot tea.

She placed the teacup in front of Richard. "Dinner will be in an hour."

"Okay."

The fire in the hearth crackled.

Outside the window, the sky had darkened, and the streetlamps were lit.

He was home.

All was well with his family.