To that end, he began lifting items out of the trunk. The letters went to one side. Even Tristan balked at the thought of reading Ledger’s private correspondence. Also, why didn’t the Royal Mail require senders to list their address, as well? Unusual, to be sure, but certainly helpful in a situation like this. As it was, Tristan doubted the letters would hold the specific information he sought, so why further violate Ledger’s privacy?
The clothing was next—simple but well-tailored items made from excellent cloth. Ledger didn’t have many coats or waistcoats, but the ones he did have were high quality and well-cared for.
Meticulous, Tristan thought, like Ledger’s conduct and work—all befitting an employee of the Duke of Kendall.
Ledger’s collection of books was even more impressive. Tristan removed title after title. Dickens and Shakespeare.Aristotle and Thackeray. William Whewell and Milton. Tristan felt as if he were looking through his own library, books he himself would choose to take on a journey.
The bottom of the trunk yielded a well-worn chess set of carved ivory and a journal filled with detailed notes on steamships and on Tristan’s own ship, theSS Statesman, in particular.
And with each possession Tristan touched, he wondered.We appear so similar. How could I not have known?
An intense feeling of kinship bloomed beneath his breastbone. Emotions constricted the muscles in his throat; he labeled them, one by one—affection, sympathy, worry, urgency.
As usual, Isolde had been correct. Ledgerwasa friend. Or, perhaps more accurately, Tristan wished to claim him as one. He resolved then and there to believe with the fervor of an acolyte everything his beautiful wife told him. She usually had the right of things.
Unfortunately, nothing in the trunk hinted at Ledger’s current location.
Carefully, Tristan repacked the items, his hand lingering on the stack of correspondence. Reading the letters would be an inexcusable invasion of Ledger’s privacy. But . . . worry knitted Tristan’s brow. What if something had happened? What if Ledger needed his assistance? Tristan might be new to friendship, but he understood that true friends rushed to aid one another.
Besides, what if the letters provided more information about Cousin Aubrey’s troubling behavior?
Tristan paused for approximately two seconds before taking the bundle in his fingers. Leaning against the leg of an armchair, he carefully untied the ribbon holding the correspondence and opened the first letter.
It was a missive from his sister dated two years past, shortly after Ledger began his position with Tristan. She gave the normal pleasantries and then wrote:
. . . How lovely to hear that His Grace is an exacting but fair employer. I know you were most nervous to make a good first impression, but given how His Grace has entrusted you so quickly, I think you have nothing to worry about on that score . . .
Tristan frowned.
How jarring to read about himself through the eyes of Ledger’s sister. Or rather . . . Agatha, as that was how she signed her name,Your loving sister, Agatha. At least, her words about Tristan were kind ones. If the letters turned caustic, it would perhaps serve him right. How did the saying go . . . eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves?
Well, he would rather know the truth of Ledger’s opinion of him before making a cake of himself and assuming more connection between them than actually existed.
Tristan flipped to the next letter. Again, from Agatha. This one was dated only seven months ago. She wrote at length about some contretemps with a neighbor and then added:
I am glad you are so delighted with your employment. I saw the Duke of Kendall from a distance in Hyde Park last week, and I must say, he appeared handsome but fierce. I think I should quake in my boots should I ever converse with him directly. But you speak so highly of his perspicacity and good sense, I know you admire him greatly . . .
Something hopeful ignited in Tristan’s veins. Was this true? Ledger admired him? Perhaps . . . he would be amenable to a friendship with Tristan, as unorthodox as it might seem.
Tristan continued, reading letter after letter. He learned of Agatha’s adoration of her husband, Matthew, and their two children, as well as the workings of their household—apparently the maid-of-all-work, Matilda, had pinched sugar for several months last summer. Agatha and Ledger’s parents lived somewhere near Birmingham, Tristan gathered. His mother wrote the occasional letter, as well as a friend named John.
But, as he had suspected, nothing hinted at a specific location or even divulged Agatha’s last name.
However, a particular letter from Agatha cinched Tristan’s resolve to find Adam Ledger. This one was dated over five weeks past and appeared to be the most recent letter received:
Oh, Adam! I am still devastated for your loss. Your sobs yesterday rang in my ears for hours after your departure. I am so sorry that your kind duke is no more. I wish you Godspeed on your journey north to Oban to retrieve his body. Your devotion to your employer is a credit to us all . . .
Ledger had wept when he heard of Tristan’s supposed death? His secretary had appeared so contained when he arrived in Oban, acting as if retrieving Tristan’s body were merely another task to complete, of no more note than transcribing a letter or discussing his appointment diary.
Now, sitting on the floor beside Ledger’s trunk, Tristan swallowed back the stinging ball of emotion in his own throat.
Blinking through eyes gone blurry, he made a vow:I will find you, my friend. Even if the worst has happened, I will ensure that those you loved are cared for.
Somehow. Someway. Tristan would see it through.
He read through the remainder of the letters without finding even a breadcrumb of a clue.
Disappointment sat heavy on his shoulders.
