Douton

The Duke seriously doubted his own resolve was as strong as he’d imagined. Keeping this child under his watch was meant to protect him, to shield him from harm.

Yet Edward grew increasingly uncertain whether he might become the one to hurt this child.

Seated in the carriage, an unusual silence hung between them—a rare occurrence for these two. Yet while the Duke was deep in thought, Tang Feiliu, having nearly overstepped his bounds, dared not indulge in reckless behavior. Thus, they arrived safely at Nandeng Township and soon reached Mr. Allen's estate.

Mr. Allen stood waiting at the estate gate, signaling his esteem for Tang Feiliu.

Spotting the Duke's carriage approaching from afar, he spread his arms wide, ready to embrace his like-minded friend across generations. But just as his smile touched his lips, he saw the Duke emerge—dark-haired, dark-eyed, and wearing a face as cold as ice.

The Duke leapt from the carriage, turned, and embraced the little blond Lance—dressed exactly like him—before taking a few steps forward and setting Lance down.

The moment Lance's feet touched the ground, he joyfully ran over, laughing and calling out loudly as he ran: "Mr. Allen, long time no see!"

He ran up and threw his arms around Alan, who was still reeling from the shock.

Alan watched the Duke stride toward them, his gaze nearly scorching through him. A man of the world, Alan instantly grasped the meaning behind the identical attire, the joint arrival, and the intimate gesture. He understood profoundly that whether intentional or not, the Duke was undoubtedly issuing a warning. Alan quickly patted the excited Tang Feiliu and said with a smile, I've prepared some sweet wine and a few overseas delicacies. We didn't find the grains you mentioned last time, but we did discover some peculiar alternatives—things resembling those potatoes you described. Come take a look!"

Tang Feiliu's attention was instantly captured. He hurried forward, chattering as he walked, "Really? Those yellow potatoes? How many?"

"Yes, that thing..." Alan began, but Edward stepped forward and took over the conversation. "Lance, you're looking for potatoes? People brought that stuff back years ago. Poor folks ate it and ended up vomiting and having diarrhea. Some even died... It has no taste and is poisonous."

"You found this stuff ages ago?!" Tang Feiliu turned back. "Didn't anyone figure out why it's poisonous?"

"No," Edward replied. "After that, the sea merchants realized it was useless and never brought it back again."

"Potatoes are super, super delicious!" Tang Feiliu insisted earnestly. "They're toxic only if stored improperly—they sprout, and if they develop green sprouts, they become inedible. Eating them then causes discomfort, vomiting, diarrhea, and in some cases, even paralysis... Of course, cultivation requires careful attention too."

When discussing his area of expertise, Tang Feiliu became remarkably talkative. With a smile, he added, " "And cultivation requires careful attention. Actually, York's high latitude makes it quite suitable for potatoes. They grow fastest in this cold weather, and the yield per acre far surpasses wheat... typically 1,000 to 2,000 jin per mu. Of course, we lack sufficient compost now, but even in the worst case, we should still get 500 to 600 jin per mu!"

"Are you serious?" Not just Alan, but even Edward was visibly moved. Crops yielding such high yields in York—a place with vast land and sparse population—would mean even the poorest wouldn't go hungry!

And Tang Feiliu even said it tasted delicious!

"It's true. The trickiest part is crop rotation—you can only plant it twice in the same field before switching to something else, or yields drop drastically," Tang Feiliu explained rapidly as Alan led them into the grand reception hall.

Upon entering, they saw several large tables laden with all manner of strange and exotic items. Precious goods like pearls, gems, and rare cooking spices were scarce, but no one had eyes for those curiosities now. Alan guided them to a corner where two burlap sacks sat, heaped haphazardly with potatoes that had clearly begun to sprout.

"They're sprouting already—unfit to eat... But is this all there is?" Tang Feiliu sighed before adding, "This won't be enough to plant much."

"...These belong to a merchant named Doton. He was swindled by fellow passengers and locals who convinced him this was some new crop. He bought it hoping to make a small profit... Since he lacked capital for other goods and was sailing for the first time, he knew nothing. Now he's lost every penny." Alan recalled as he spoke. "I only got my hands on this stuff because he refused to give up, dragging his cargo around trying to sell it. A few days ago, he arrived in York City with a group of merchant ships delivering goods."

"Is he still here?" Tang Feiliu tensed immediately. Allen quickly reassured him, "He should be. He said he'd stay in York for a few more days..."

"Have your servant contact the one who came with me," Edward said softly. "Have Jess immediately gather twenty men and retrieve all the remaining potatoes—along with that merchant."

Tang Feiliu stared in surprise. "Why bring the merchant back too?"

"If it's true, we must ensure the news doesn't spread elsewhere so quickly." Edward rubbed his head, clearly unwilling to elaborate further. Tang Feiliu pondered for a moment, surmising Edward likely intended to secretly hoard the potatoes for himself. He found this plan quite appealing and thus refrained from pressing the matter.

Alan bowed respectfully. He might have sensed something else in the air, but he said nothing. He simply watched as the duke slowly stroked Tang Feiliu's golden hair. Those rough hands, calloused from gripping swords, moved with surprising gentleness as they caressed the pale neck, rubbing softly.

Tang Feiliu remained utterly unaware, chatting cheerfully on. His blue eyes held a pure, cloudless clarity, like a sky without a single wisp of cloud.

The hand slid from her neck, circling to rest on her shoulder. Alan caught Edward's warning glance and immediately lowered his gaze.

In Tang Feiliu's memory, this was a pleasant meeting. He happily carried the pile of potatoes back to the castle and resumed his seedling cultivation project—in the servants' quarters designated by Edward, which had been Tang Feiliu's original room.

Those potatoes had long since sprouted green shoots. After Tang Feiliu provided them with a comfortable growing space, they began sprouting wildly, almost frantically. Two days later, disregarding the Duke's objections, Tang Feiliu went out into the fields himself to instruct everyone on how to plant them.

The farmers listened intently as he explained that potatoes became toxic due to improper sprouting, storage, and cultivation methods. People of this era were simple souls whose greatest wish was to avoid hunger. Hearing about the various ways to cook this crop suddenly filled them with boundless energy.

Adding to this, Tang Feiliu—a young nobleman of such high standing—was now squatting in the fields daily, patiently explaining potato preparation and precautions to them. This filled everyone with anticipation, and not a single person raised any doubts.

Of course, it might also be because, unbeknownst to him, Tang Feiliu had earned the profound respect and gratitude of everyone in the domain for his actions during the previous winter. Not only had they all survived the harsh season safely, but those patrolling the village had seen their incomes rise. Their families had even enjoyed fragrant bread at Christmas—bread free of wood shavings!

Adam, the youngest son of a freeman, had bragged to his friends all winter long. He endlessly described how soft the Queen's Bread was, how rich its milky aroma, and how, thanks to his father's new income, he could now drink fresh milk every other night.

This description made all the children dream. One of Adam's friends even sighed wistfully, "If I could eat such bread one day, I'd do anything."

Others might not have felt as strongly as Adam, for his father was known among the freemen as a particularly shrewd manager of his wealth. Stewart, Adam's father, was a man skilled at managing his wealth. While several of his brothers had squandered their fortunes through poor business decisions, ending up destitute and even selling themselves into servitude to the duke just to survive, Stewart carefully guarded every penny, never spending frivolously. As a result, his wife and children consistently lived among the better-off families in the village. This virtuous cycle allowed Stewart to eat well and build strength, enabling him to secure a position on the patrol during the selection process. This new role brought his family a better, more stable income.

When he received the patrolman's thick uniform, he had already celebrated his decision with a mug of ale. But as he returned home late night after night for months, collecting his half-pound from the sheriff each time, Stewart's wife grew so excited she couldn't sleep. Even the slightest sound in the middle of the night would send her scrambling to check the clay pot under the bed—where their entire fortune was stored.

In short, this winter was far from harsh. In Adam's heart, no season had ever been better. Though his father left daily, his temper grew milder. His voice grew louder, yet it carried a proud, cheerful edge. His mother smiled every day. They no longer subsisted on watery barley gruel. Every few days, his mother would visit the mill, bringing some wheat to Monica and Zhen to be ground into fragrant, warm bread.

This was the first time Adam had ever eaten bread in winter since his birth. In previous years, everyone had been too frugal to indulge. York's winters were long and bitterly cold, and no one wanted to till the fields hungry come spring. Thus, they carefully rationed their food. Paying a fee at the mill for bread in winter was clearly less economical than boiling barley gruel. Thus, every winter until now, Adam had only ever eaten thin, watery barley gruel—unappetizing and unsatisfying. He hated it.

But this winter was different. Each day brought half a loaf of bread, barely mixed with sawdust, satisfyingly filling and sweet. But what Adam cherished most was the Queen's Bread—when he first held it, he couldn't even recognize what it was. It was so soft and fluffy, with a rich, milky aroma wafting from within. His parents had even baked it, sliced it open, and tucked a generous chunk of sweet butter inside.

Adam's eyes widened at the first bite, his comical expression making his father Stuart laugh so hard he nearly dropped his own slice of bread stuffed with thick-cut bacon. Adam's sister was clearly tasting such food for the first time too. They ate with great care, finally licking their fingers thoroughly for a long time until not a trace of the milky flavor remained, before turning to the bowl of hearty soup loaded with ingredients.

Potatoes were still scarce, so the soup contained only whipped cream, butter, and some broccoli. While not as astonishing as the fluffy Queen's Bread, it was enough to make Adam and his sister ask their parents when the next Christmas would come... because their parents had told them such delicious bread was only available at Christmas.

And it wasn't just Adam's family experiencing this change. Forget the patrolmen—just look at the two skilled girls baking bread at the mill. Monica's father had nearly sold her off to the city, but now he dared not utter such words again. His daughter earned half a pound a month! More than he did!

Monica's mother stood tall at home, no longer weeping while holding her daughter. One day she even flung a loaf at her husband's face—all because he'd mentioned an ill-suited match for their daughter.

Everyone said Monica and her mother were finally living well—for failing to produce a son, Monica's father had actually considered selling them both off to buy a new wife with the money.

In short... Tang Feiliu had no idea what his moment of kindness had truly brought to this little village. But he was genuinely pleased. Everyone was pulling together, trusting him completely. This time, he'd mentioned potatoes without any proof, yet everyone was so happy. Though the free men hadn't received any shares this round, they all looked forward to the duke's harvest and the widespread promotion of this crop.

Though Tang Feiliu rarely interacted with these villagers, he preferred this bustling scene—people gulping down barley wine, tearing into bread, and greeting each other with hearty laughter—to the village's usual quietude. He loved the children running about, giggling and shouting "Honorable Magistrate!" from afar while playing; he loved the women helping in the fields, planting beans and vegetables with faces radiant with peace and joy.

...This, he thought, was the true idyllic pastoral scene. The allure of such idylls lay in their tranquility and joy, not in backwardness, squalor, or poverty.

This scene filled Tang Feiliu with delight and strengthened his resolve. Within his power, he would hasten to make these scenes grow ever more beautiful and bountiful.

So when Mr. Doton was brought to the castle, it was perfectly understandable that Tang Feiliu, without even wiping the mud from his clothes, rushed back with Ivana in the oxcart.

The moment Tang Feiliu dismounted, he dashed toward the castle— —Over the past few days, the castle servants had overheard young Mr. Lance constantly mentioning Mr. Douton and knew how eagerly he awaited his arrival. Seeing Tang Feiliu running toward them, they grinned and opened the door, pointing the way. This allowed Tang Feiliu to find Mr. Douton, pacing restlessly in the hall, with almost no delay.

Just as Mr. Douton was at a loss, a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy burst through the door, panting from the run. His eyes lit up upon seeing Mr. Douton, and he exclaimed with delight, "Are you Mr. Douton?!"

The boy appeared young, with fair skin. His attire was simple—a plain shirt and jacket made of ordinary cotton fabric—giving no impression of high nobility... But as a merchant, though not particularly successful, Doughton possessed basic observational skills. He noticed that upon the boy's entrance, all the servants bowed their heads in greeting. The senior valet opened the door for him, and the stern face of the butler, Dave, twisted slightly—not in disgust, but with a mix of feigned severity and resignation, much like an elder toward a mischievous child.

Most crucially, the boy had barged in with such unabashed boldness. The duke who had just moments ago regarded him with sternness now turned to look at this blond child, his face mirroring Dave's expression—a blend of indulgent resignation.

Dave swiftly assessed the reactions of those present and realized this boy, whose identity he did not know, was undoubtedly someone important. He quickly stood up, removed his hat, and bowed: "Yes, I am Doton, Your Excellency."

Author's Note:

Document crashed, had to rewrite this twice. Taking tomorrow off to cool down.

(I suspect this might be Edward's long-suppressed curse.)