She found two others, one a disastrous attempt at a man on horseback. Disastrous in technique, but again without indication of malice. Part of the disaster came from the attempt to show a wide smile. No normal human showed quite so many teeth.
Then Genova came across a series of pictures of a child, of an infant just beginning to sit up. Perhaps Lady Augusta had taken more lessons, for the attempt was a little better. Or perhaps the drawing master had done more than instruct. Many a lady’s portfolio of sketches was the work of her drawing master, not herself.
Whatever the explanation, the solid roundness of the infant was clear, and the positions seemed natural.The head was in proportion to the body. Surely the many pictures of her firstborn child were not the work of a trapped, unhappy woman. Mrs. Harbinger had said she doted on her firstborn. But carelessly.
Genova remembered that this was Lord Rothgar as an infant. What was it like to grow up in awareness of such a troubled mother? To witness her at her worst. Was that why he’d developed an obsession with machines, which could be controlled, could be made right?
What did that say of herself? Perhaps her own interest in machines was as insignificant as a preference for cherries over plums, or perhaps it sprang from a rootless life often at the mercy of chaotic elements. Or even from her mother’s shocking, inexplicable death.
She shivered.
Ash looked up. “You’re cold?”
He rose and walked around the table, shrugging out of his embroidered coat. With some difficulty, she noticed. It was made to fit without a ripple.
He put it warm around her shoulders.
She could make a number of polite protests, but she gathered it close. “Thank you.”
He sent her a look that was troubled but caring, then sat again to his book. He’d read through over half of the journal, but she still could see no reaction.
She allowed herself a moment to admire him in his fine lawn shirt and embroidered silk waistcoat, and another to savor the delicious sense of him that encircled her from his coat. She peered at the buttons. She thought they really were diamond, but close to, she saw they were composed of many small stones.
She’d progressed far into absurdity if she could be relieved at that.
She settled back to work.
She put the pictures of husband and child to one side and closed the folio, then began on the letters. She untied another faded ribbon, red again. Lady Augusta had clearly liked red. Did her son’s fondness for it come in the blood?
She found a mix of letters to the Marchioness of Rothgar, and drafts or copies of letters Augusta had sent. They were in order, so someone had organized them. Of course they had. Two Marquesses of Rothgar must have searched these documents for evidence of Augusta’s motives.
Genova settled to read, holding Ash’s coat close, and admitting to some guilty pleasure at having an excuse to peer into private lives.
She skimmed letters from Lady Augusta’s mother, which were doting, but often included admonishments to cease being so wild and reminders that Augusta was a great lady now and must act with dignity.
Augusta’s letters to her mother were stilted and dutiful. The ones to her sisters and brothers were more relaxed but revealed no secrets. There were occasional letters back, and the sisters at least clearly envied Augusta her amiable, indulgent husband.
If Augusta had problems, to whom would she confide them?
Friends?
There were a few letters from friends, but by the time Genova started on the second bundle, she was struck by their rarity.
She herself was in the same situation, but it was because of her wandering life. She’d made and left a hundred friends. Sometimes she’d tried to keep up the connection through correspondence, but mail was slow and unreliable and she wasn’t an eager letter writer.
She glanced at Ash again. Perhaps one of the unusual skills she’d developed was the ability to judge people rapidly, and develop a friendship quickly. Someone met in a port might leave in weeks or even days.
Was it that friendships, like love, needed the test of time? Could she trust her rapid, passionate response to him? Was he, perhaps, wise to fix his eye on steadier goals?
She sighed at that, and he looked up. “This is tedious, isn’t it?”
He began to close his book, so she said, “No, it’s not that. Just a thought. I’ll tell you later.”
Maybe, she added silently as he settled again.
She returned to Augusta and friends. Lady Augusta Trayce hadn’t led a wandering life, so her circle of acquaintances would have been stable. Yet Genova found no sign of a regular correspondence with one particular friend.
Of course, those letters could have been destroyed. If so, what might they have contained?
