Bo Li carefully observed Erik’s eyes.
He allowed her scrutiny. Behind the white mask, his gaze was utterly calm, as though he truly believed that Mitt’s matter had nothing to do with him.
If not for that day, when his eyes lingered repeatedly upon her lips, betraying—by accident—the impulse to kiss her, Bo Li might never have guessed that the person before her harbored feelings for her.
He was far too adept at disguise.
“Fine then, if you don’t wish to say, I’ll let it be,” Bo Li feigned regret. “I was merely curious—since Mitt was possessed, then who was it that gave me this dress?”
Erik’s voice grew even colder. “You do not know who gave it to you, yet you dare to wear it?”
“Of course not!” She raised her voice with a touch of grievance. “Did I not say that I thought it was from Mitt? But now that Mitt is possessed, he surely would not have had the time to send me a dress. Then who was it?”
Her words had already reached this point; if he understood even a little of the matters between men and women, he ought to have answered in kind.
Yet all he did was mock her: “Many green dyes are poisonous. Before you concern yourself with who sent the dress, perhaps you should first care about your own health.”
Bo Li: “…”
Were it not that his taste in dresses had never changed—always plain silk with a single belt—she might have been deceived by his words.
Left with no choice, she bypassed the subject and instead expressed her gratitude for his actions that day. “Erik, regardless of whether Mitt’s affair has anything to do with me, regardless of why you appeared at my side today… I am very grateful that you always reach out to me at just the right moment.”
“If one day,” she lifted her head to look at him, “you should need my help, please do not hesitate to tell me. I will give my utmost to aid you.”
Her eyes were a most beautiful shade of light brown, with long lashes. When she gazed at him with full attention, it was as though she were scratching at his heart.
Beneath the black gloves, his fingers trembled faintly.
Erik lowered his gaze, avoiding her eyes.
He did not believe she could help him in any way.
What he wanted, she could not give.
What he did not want—no matter how much she gave—it was of no use.
“No,” he said. “I do not need it.”
Yet when he spoke those words, his gaze once again drifted over her lips.
She caught it, collided directly with his eyes, and then he swiftly withdrew.
If not for the fact that he was still young and had never been close to a woman, Bo Li might almost have thought that he was the one lowering the fishing line, trying to draw her into the hook.
Bo Li fluttered her lashes and tentatively said, “You feel now that you are still young, that I cannot be of help to you, but what if in the future you meet a girl you like, and need me to offer some advice—”
“Enough,” he cut her off, his tone rough, his chest heaving with intensity. “I said, I do not need it.”
Bo Li fell silent.
Erik closed his eyes heavily, unable to understand why every single word from Bo Li’s mouth could ignite his fury, driving his reason to the edge of collapse.
At the height of his anger, he loathsomely discovered—that his body had responded.
For a moment, his loathing of himself rose to its peak.
He had always despised his own body—his face, his hands, his voice. He even hated his own breathing, body heat, and height.
Yet, as though to defy him, it never ceased.
So long as he ate normally, his height continued to increase, making him tall and strong, monstrous in appearance.
Had he not met Bo Li, he would have preferred to grow gaunt and skeletal, without any sense of presence at all.
But as time went by, he began to desire that his shadow might envelop her, that his hand might touch her, that his voice might surround her.
Later still, he even wished for her to feel his breath and his warmth.
Last night, when his thoughts reached their most extreme, he had even wanted her to sense that clammy, chilling touch, to be marked by that salty, acrid breath.
These thoughts unsettled him, throwing his mind into disorder, his breathing growing rough, and he felt himself utterly revolting.
Thus, when Bo Li drew near once more, he all but lashed out as if in reflex: “Stay away from me.”
After Bo Li left, he felt an emptiness unlike any he had ever known.
That hollow void compelled him to draw closer to her.
…To possess her.
That was Mitt’s word.
So filthy, so base.
Erik had never expected such a word to burrow into his mind, spreading into a chaotic shadow.
Bo Li noticed the abnormal redness in his eyes, as though her words had stirred a violent upheaval in him.
Just as she was about to tell him not to take it to heart, he swiftly turned his horse’s head, spurred its belly with his boot, and rode away.
Bo Li’s expression was tinged with innocence.
She truly had only meant to vex him a little, never imagining he would be so quick to lose composure.
She gave the reins a shake, wandered the streets for a while longer, then returned to the villa.
Inside, Emily, Marbelle, and Flora were playing cards. Flora was lively in temperament, her voice shrill, her laughter filling the entire villa. With them, even Emily’s face bore far more smiles than usual.
Thorn, meanwhile, was learning his letters from Theodore.
After spending some time together, Bo Li discovered that Theodore was not ill-natured at heart. He was simply too tall, too unskilled with words, and so gave others the impression of being distant and forbidding.
Bo Li greeted them, and just as she was about to go upstairs for a bath, Theodore called out to her.
He came up to her, his height of two meters forty radiating an oppressive presence. She had to tilt her head all the way back just to see his chin.
“Miss Claremont, this…” Theodore crouched down, producing a gift box. “This is for you. Thank you for your care during this time.”
Bo Li was taken aback. “What is it, are you leaving?”
“No, not at all.” Theodore spoke softly, his face slightly flushed. “I simply wished to give this to you. At first, my attitude toward you was poor, because I thought you were like Tricky and Boyd… But during this time, everything you’ve done for everyone—I’ve seen it all. You are a good person, a truly good person. I’m sorry I misunderstood you before.”
Bo Li recalled that in Western custom, one was expected to open gifts in front of the giver, so she said, “It’s all right, may I open it now?”
“Of course, it would be my honor,” Theodore replied.
When she opened the box, inside lay a wide-brimmed hat, adorned with the pure and beautiful feathers of a white egret.
Bo Li was momentarily stunned. If she remembered correctly, egret feathers were exceedingly precious.
Only a small number of wealthy ladies could afford hats trimmed with egret plumes.
Theodore seemed to sense her doubt and explained: “I picked this up in the marshes. Perhaps a hunter had been frightened away by a crocodile, or saw a bird of even greater value and abandoned the egret there. I was fortunate enough to cut its tail feathers before the carcass rotted. At first, I meant to sell it at the market, but thinking of how kind you have been to me… to all of us, I brought it to the tailor and had it made into a hat for you.”
Fearing he might think she disliked it, Bo Li removed the hat from her head, put on the egret-feathered one, tied the satin ribbon beneath her chin, and smiled at him:
“Thank you, I like it very much.”
The egret feathers were thin and delicate, like white gauze, setting off her eyes with a lively and noble gleam.
Theodore dared not look for long. He straightened and said, “As long as you like it.”
Then, with a nod, he returned to teaching Thorne his letters.
Bo Li gave it little further thought—until Emily, Marbelle, and Flora saw her egret hat. They crowded around her, showering her with praise.
At once Bo Li cast aside any strangeness she had felt from Theodore, and basked in the admiration, her mood soaring.
Back in her room, she gazed at herself in the mirror, thinking indeed she looked very beautiful.
So she locked the egret-feathered hat in the uppermost part of her wardrobe, saving it to wear on some important occasion.
After her bath, Bo Li lay down on her bed, read for a while, and soon fell asleep.
She remembered, when she had first transmigrated, she had most feared hearing footsteps at midnight—not knowing whether Erik would awaken her with a dagger at her throat.
Who would have thought that, gradually, she would begin to anticipate Erik’s midnight visits to her chamber.
Yet for some reason—perhaps the agitation of the day—he had not come to her room for two nights in a row.
What did arrive, however, was the very report she had predicted.
That morning, she had just risen and had not yet washed, when Madam Freiman’s booming voice rang out:
“—Miss Claremont, a reporter from the newspaper has come! He says he has urgent business to discuss with you!”
Bo Li wrapped a scarf about herself and sat up. “Let him in.”
The reporter entered straight into her bedroom, holding a newspaper in his hand. “Miss Claremont, the article you spoke of has appeared!”
She gestured for him to calm down, took the paper, and glanced over it.
It was the front page of the local paper, the headline in bold capitals, strikingly eye-catching—“The Circus Performance That Drives Gentlemen Mad.”
The subtitle read: “—Unveiling ‘Polly Claremont’s Circus,’ the Viperous Woman’s Path to Fortune.”
The writer first lavished praise upon Mitt’s character, family background, and appearance, nearly presenting him as the most perfect gentleman in the world, never once mentioning his insults toward Bo Li.
Then, the tone shifted: “At that time, no one expected that a single performance would drive a perfect gentleman into hysteria. One cannot imagine how grieved Mr. Mitt’s family must be.”
At last, the article called upon the city government to ban such dangerous performances.
The reporter said, “Fortunately, just as you advised, I had already written the rebuttal draft in advance, and it has passed the editorial board’s review. It can be published in another newspaper tomorrow. Otherwise, I truly would not know how to respond to such a situation.”
Bo Li finished reading and calmly closed the paper. “Do not worry, the situation is still under control. This article only appears frightening, but in reality, it is to our advantage.”
“To our advantage?”
Of course it was to their advantage.
What was the haunted house most lacking?
Sensational appeal.
Otherwise, why in modern times would people buy actual murder houses to turn into haunted attractions?
Besides, Mitt had merely been frightened into speaking nonsense—he had not died.
So long as he had suffered no actual harm, all such commentary was beneficial to her.
Even if Mitt were to die, as long as the investigation proved it unrelated to her, no blame could fall upon her.
These days, Bo Li had been studying American legal documents, discovering that though there were no explicit provisions regarding the right to reputation, judges would pass rulings according to custom and historical precedent.
This meant that so long as she filed suit against Mitt, Wright, and Davis for their statements previously published in the newspapers, she would certainly win.
Although in the nineteenth century women faced countless restrictions—unable to wear trousers, to ride astride, to walk alone on the streets, or to conceive out of wedlock—
Correspondingly, men, especially gentlemen, were expected to shoulder certain responsibilities.
The most important of these was that they must not slander women.
Bo Li had indeed done many things deemed contrary to womanly virtue, but the fact remained that she was a woman, which meant she was considered a hothouse flower, a lamb within the fence.
Men, as beings of a higher order—superior in intelligence, strength, and status—were expected to bear the duty of protecting women, and under no circumstances were they permitted to defame them.
Men had never before encountered a woman capable of doing business. Thus, they never anticipated that the very social rules which had always worked in their favor would turn into the blade that pierced them.
When she published proof of her victory in the papers, and coupled it with the sensational devices she had already planned, there was no way the haunted house would not draw wide attention.
It was then that Bo Li suddenly realized why she felt drawn to Erik.
He was dangerous, silent, cold—like an untamed beast, brimming with aggression, his thoughts and actions impossible to predict.
The masculine aura on him was so strong that his every move carried an undeniable charge of virility.
Yet, because he had been cast out and rejected, never having received the education of the secular world, he was free of the base defects so common to most men.
No matter what she did, he had never once sought to restrain her with so-called social conventions.
He regarded himself as a freak, never as human—yet in truth, from the modern world to the nineteenth century, he was the most normal man she had ever met.