To Henry Fairfax, Esquire.

Dear Henry,

I received your letter with great delight. Thank you for your concern about my cold. It is almost gone now, and thankfully, the servants no longer have to stifle their laughter at my nasal voice. A relief for both my dignity and their teeth, I must say.

The painting you sent is a truly splendid gift. I am deeply grateful. In your artwork, I appear almost like a goddess—perhaps too idealized to feel like myself, but the deep affection you’ve poured into it warms my heart. I imagine when I’m old and recalling my youth, this painting will make those memories shine even brighter.

As for George’s education, Henry, don’t worry too much. Don’t try to keep that boy tethered to a desk. Keeping him still makes him act as if he’s deaf, blind, and mute all at once.

George is a remarkable child. His physical senses are astonishingly keen. When he’s running, tumbling, or climbing, he displays the potential of a champion athlete, a genius dancer, or a skilled fighter representing England. Such a boy shouldn’t be confined to a desk. Let him move freely while learning.

If you want to teach him Greek verb conjugations, write the letters on the ground and have him trace the order with his movements. If you’re teaching the history of the Tudor dynasty, stage a play of the fiercest battles of the Wars of the Roses and let him act it out. George will surely remember it all.

Writing this, I realize mere explanations won’t suffice. I’ll visit Dunville Park within the week, and we can teach George together. I have plenty of time these days. Your uncle has been constantly traveling to inspect the Dalton family’s railway construction sites, mines, sawmills, and quarries scattered across Yorkshire. The unfortunate incident in Barnsley recently has made him feel the need to visit the businesses more frequently.

I’ll shake off this cold completely and come to Dunville Park. Until then, please bear with George a little. If you whisper to him that his Aunt Laura will soon arrive with freshly baked cookies, he might just behave himself.

Until we meet again, farewell.

From your Aunt Laura,

who dearly misses her beloved Fairfax brothers.

—

To my dearly beloved Aunt Laura.

Dear Aunt Laura,

Greetings from George’s tutor, Henry. I hope your health is holding up well in this chilly late autumn.

Dunville Park is perfectly serene. The study, where George and I used to shout at each other daily, is now utterly silent. We’ve abandoned it entirely.

Since your visit four days ago, I’ve fully grasped how to teach George. Take him outside to run and play. Conduct lessons through physical activity. Never skimp on praise.

By following your example precisely, I’ve succeeded in teaching him dozens of Greek verbs I thought would never stick in his head. Now, George not only understands the difference between the Lancaster and York families but has memorized the entire outline of the thirty-year Wars of the Roses.

My admiration for you, which I thought had reached its limit, has now broken through to the heavens. How can you be so wise? I’m endlessly grateful to live close enough to seek your advice anytime. Without you, George would have learned nothing, and I’d have only grown frustrated with him. Thanks to you, I’m getting along with him more pleasantly than ever.

I’ve heard Uncle has been away from the estate often lately, and George is restless, begging to visit Whitefield. Would it be alright to take him there? I’d like to teach him about the reigns of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I. If we act out a play together as we did four days ago, he’ll master the lesson in half a day.

I await your reply. Until we meet again, stay well.

Your devoted admirer and fan,

Henry.

P.S. In the box accompanying this letter, you’ll find a hair comb. While walking with George through a shop, I spotted it on display. I picked one out for Mother and Olivia, and chose one for you as well. It’s made of colored glass and cost only a few shillings, so please accept it without hesitation.

—

“Good heavens, what a surprise. You, buying gifts?”

Mrs. Fairfax gazed impassively at the brass hair comb her eldest son had just handed her, its small green and blue glass pieces set in an arched frame, resembling the spread wings of a peacock.

Henry chuckled in response.

“It caught my eye while browsing the shop.”

“It’s a bit too flashy, though. I couldn’t wear this every day.”

Henry’s smile faded.

“A miss for Mother, then. Olivia, what about you? You love extravagant accessories.”

Olivia, sitting beside her mother and inspecting her own garnet-colored hair comb, shook her head with an expression as indifferent as her mother’s.

“The glass is too obvious. I couldn’t wear this to any proper occasion.”

“Too obvious?”

Olivia held the comb up to the oil lamp.

“Look, the color’s completely different from real gems.”

“Just wear it at home, then.”

“At home? Even the maids have sharp eyes these days. They’d know right away if the lady of the house is wearing real or fake jewelry.”

“Then toss it in a drawer, you picky little jeweler.”

“Oh, is my brother sulking?”

Olivia giggled.

Henry, with a hint of irritation, put his hands behind his head.

“Ugh, buying gifts for women is hard.”

Mrs. Fairfax placed the comb back in its box.

“I’ll take it gratefully, Henry. But next time, just give me cash instead.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Henry replied, pursing his lips. Truthfully, he wasn’t too disappointed. He hadn’t expected praise from his mother to begin with.

His mother, always aloof, had never shown her children the tender affection one might expect from a parent. While never cruel, she was consistently indifferent. Henry had long given up on receiving her warmth.

For some reason, Olivia carefully placed her comb back in its box and retied the ribbon she had undone.

“Brother, is it alright if I give this to someone else? There’s this girl, Lydia, who’s always bragging about her brother inheriting a fortune from our great-aunt. I’ll give it to her for her birthday.”

“Mother, are you just going to let Olivia be like this? She’s of marriageable age, but she acts like she’s still twelve.”

“Oh, please. Maybe you should work on your taste first?”

Olivia waved the box at her brother.

“What even is this? If you want to win a woman’s heart, either improve your taste or spend more money!”

“Oh, you cheeky—”

“Enough, both of you. Do you want the servants to gossip about how we’ve failed at raising our children?”

Mrs. Fairfax, sounding thoroughly exasperated, mediated between her children, then shivered and pulled her fox-fur shawl tighter around her.

“It wasn’t like this last year around this time. Why is it so chilly?”

Olivia, who had been teasing her brother, grew serious and rubbed her mother’s arms to warm her.

“Shall I have the kitchen bring up some hot tea?”

“No need. Henry, tell them to add more firewood.”

Henry rose from the sofa and called for a servant.

Once the servant added logs and left, the room quickly grew warmer. Olivia tucked her arm around her mother’s and rubbed her cold hands gently.

Olivia, once entirely self-absorbed, had matured enough to recognize her mother’s need for care. Though raised indulgently in wealth, she couldn’t escape the duty of a daughter with an ailing mother.

Meanwhile, Henry stared into the fireplace, where the flames roared upward.

“…I wonder if Aunt Laura will dislike it too…”

“What? Brother, you sent one to Aunt Laura as well?”

“Yes.”

Olivia shook her head with a sigh.

“The Dalton family has so many precious jewels!”

Henry turned to his mother.

“Is that true?”

“Of course. They have every kind of gem you can imagine—not a mountain of them, perhaps, but at least a small hill. Laura keeps them all locked away in a bank, though.”

Olivia groaned with envy.

“If I had them, I’d wear a different jewel every day and host balls to show them off.”

“You’d probably drop them everywhere and make the servants’ day. Laura’s wise to keep them in a bank vault. It’s the safest place for jewels.”

Olivia, still rubbing her mother’s hands, grumbled.

“But keeping them locked away feels like such a waste.”

“You wouldn’t understand, since you’d parade around with stolen goods if it meant showing off.”

“Tch.”

Olivia turned away from her mother with a sulky expression but kept rubbing her hands.

Henry suddenly stood up.

“I’m going to Whitefield for a bit.”

“That’s hardly ‘a bit.’ Even at a gallop, it’s a two-hour round trip.”

“Still, I need to go. I have important business.”

Henry strode out of the room.

“Hmm, he must be awfully embarrassed about giving such a cheap gift to his jewel-wealthy aunt.”

“….”

“What’s with that look, Olivia?”

“What?”

“You look like a private detective. Planning to become a female Sherlock Holmes?”

“No way. When did I—”

“Out with it. What useless thoughts are rattling around in that head of yours?”

Olivia sighed and crossed her arms.

“Mother, don’t you think Henry’s been visiting Whitefield Hall a bit too often?”

“You wouldn’t know, but your brother has always gone there frequently. It’s your uncle’s main estate.”

“No, that’s not it. Before George’s last tutor ran off, Henry visited at least three times a week, staying for half a day or more. And every time, Uncle was away inspecting his businesses. What business could Henry have at Whitefield when Uncle’s not there? He’s spending time with Aunt Laura.”

“Goodness, you’re really playing Sherlock Holmes now.”

Despite her mother’s sarcasm, Olivia remained serious, her expression eerily reminiscent of a pipe-smoking, long-faced genius detective.

“The most suspicious thing was last Saturday when Aunt Laura came to Dunville Park with cookies. Henry couldn’t take his eyes off her the whole time she was in the drawing room. His face was like a man intoxicated. By what? Wine, or perhaps…”

“Perhaps?”

“Forbidden love.”