“Too impatient to practice?” he guessed.

She grinned at him, a lopsided grin that he’d never seen from her before. “Indeed. I caused my governess no end of despair—she couldn’t understand how I could hide myself away in the gardens for hours sketching the same flower over and over but couldn’t bear to seat myself before a musical instrument for more than ten minutes at a time.” She shrugged a bit, her attention once more on the sketch taking form before her. “I couldn’t explain it, either—when I have a pencil or charcoal or a paintbrush in my hand, everything around me goes still. It’s as though time slows to a trickle, and someone could be standing beside me speaking directly into my ear for some minutes before I realize they are there. Sitting at a pianoforte, by contrast, makes me feel like I’m about to climb out of my skin.

“They dismissed the governess after a while—I think they considered it a waste of money, and they felt that they’d already invested enough in Penvale and myself, considering that we weren’t exactly able to provide much in the way of funds.”

“Was there no money left over after the sale of Trethwick Abbey?” Jeremy asked. He had a vague notion of the situation from years of friendship with Penvale, for whom reclaiming ownership of the estate was something perilously close to an obsession, but he wasn’t sure he’d realized quite how desperate their situation must have been.

“Enough to pay for Penvale’s Eton fees, and to set aside for a pathetic dowry for myself, but nothing else,” she said. “My aunt and uncle paid for the entirety of the cost of clothing and feeding us, for launching me into society. Penvale borrowed blunt from my uncle for his Oxford fees, and paid him back as quickly as he was able—he said it was smart investing, but I suspect the gaming tables were the real source of that particular windfall.”

Jeremy held his tongue, not wishing to betray any confidences by telling her that her guess was entirely correct.

Instead, he asked: “Was it so dreadful, with your aunt and uncle?”

She did not reply for a long moment, her eyes fixed upon the page before her, her hand moving rapidly. He did not prompt her further, merely waited her out.

“No, and yes.” More silence, even as the hand continued in motion. After several seconds had elapsed, however, her hand stilled and she looked up once again.

“They were never unkind to us, you understand. This isn’t some tragic tale out of a penny novel. They always provided for us, as far as their means allowed. We had new clothes each season, and plenty to eat, and essentially free rein of the house and grounds. We had a tutor, and of course we had each other.”

“But?” he asked, after a lengthy pause. She had not resumed her drawing and was staring past him, at some point in the middle distance, and he was certain she was not seeing anything physically in the room at all. Her gaze was distant, and there was a look in her eyes—not pained, exactly, but somehow forlorn nonetheless—that he had never seen there before.

“They never said anything explicitly, but Penvale and I were somehow always made to understand that we were a burden,” she said at last. “We were never allowed to forget that our parents had left us with very little in the way of inheritance, and that most of what was left to us would have to be spent on Penvale’s schooling. Anytime he did poorly on an exam, he returned home to be reminded that he was wasting the bulk of our inheritance if he was not excelling at school. And I was always on the receiving end of… comments.”

“What sorts of comments?” Jeremy asked with more calm than he felt at the moment. Indeed, he felt a peculiar sensation growing within him, rather as though something were slowly coming to a boil.

“Just remarks in passing, now and then. Comments that it was a mercy I’d such a pretty face, since I’d likely need it. Gratitude that my looks would make an advantageous marriage likely, so I wouldn’t have to remain at home beyond my first Season. Nothing that was overtly cruel, you understand, just a steady litany that made me understand that my face was my only asset, and I was to use it as soon as possible to cease making myself an inconvenience to them.”

“The bloody buggering nerve,” he said, not bothering to apologize for his language. He realized, with a strange sort of removed tranquility, that he was really quite angry. “You were their family—your aunt’s own flesh and blood—and you were orphaned, left in circumstances that were no fault of your own.”

“And I’m sure if anyone had ever made such a comment to them, they would have agreed wholeheartedly,” she said, looking at him steadily. “I don’t even know that they were truly aware they were doing it. Which might be even worse, I think—if they were making us feel unwelcome, a burden, without even trying to do so at all. Careless cruelty is the worst sort, I sometimes think.”

“This explains why you were so determined to marry well your first Season,” he said slowly. At the time, he had understood that she had a small dowry, that she was going to have to rely on her face and figure and charm to land a husband of means. But he hadn’t understood quite why she was so desperate—her aunt and uncle seemed to lead a comfortable enough life as middling members of the ton; surely she did not need to be quite so mercenary?

But now it made perfect sense. Of course she did not wish to remain in a home with these people a moment longer than necessary. Of course she wanted to find a husband wealthy and staid enough to ensure security, stability, a permanent place.