Page 30 of A Figure of Love

“And you, Mr. Lockheart, how is it that you learned to do—” her hand fluttered as she sought the correct word. “Whatever it is you do?”

How to explain what he did? He had tried, once, to Dec, but had given up at his friend’s mystified look. Did she really want to know? Or was this polite conversation?

As if he had spoken the words aloud—which he knew he had not—she answered. “I am asking because I know you are knowledgeable about mathematics and its applications and my son seems to have taken an interest in those areas.”

Ah, so she was interested. “He does not wish to sculpt?”

She chuckled. “No, I’m afraid his talents lie elsewhere. He dislikes any form of artistic rendering but seems to enjoy drawing when it involves solving a problem, as with his automaton.”

Gareth could sympathize with the boy. Art often made him uncomfortable with too much emotionalism, or inexplicable tangents and lack of uniformity or logic. But machinery? Even something as simple as a toy? There was a certain type of poetry in things that worked. And numbers? Well, there was something about the precision and beauty of mathematics that made his soul—if humans indeed possessed such a thing—sing.

“I have always found patterns—mathematical patterns—in even the most mundane of things. They existed before I could understand them. And when I was exposed to my first lesson in the simplicity and power of numbers, I knew I would need to keep seeking until I could know the whole of it.” He paused, considering his foolish words. “Of course the more you learn the more you realize that is not possible.” He could not recall the last time he’d spoken so much to a stranger. Luckily, Mrs. Lombard did not seem to find his words odd.

“That is how you were able to look at the drawing and know there was a problem, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, if the drawing is properly to scale.”

She nodded, her eyes wandering back to her plans.

“Do you have a tutor for your son?” That was a question that had not come from his list, either.

“Not yet. I have been teaching him myself, but I have reached the end of what I can offer when it comes to many subjects. He is of an age where he should go off to school, but that is not,” she hesitated, “possible.”

Gareth wondered why that was. Money? Emotional attachment? Naturally he did not ask.

“He will meet us at the stables after finishing his breakfast in the schoolroom. I’ve told him this is not a holiday, but an opportunity to learn. I believe he will greatly appreciate the calculations that go into building a dam. Besides,” she smiled, “he was delirious with joy when he heard there was a horse waiting for him.”

Gareth looked down at his plate, his stomach tight. He was glad to have pleased the boy—he had liked his quiet, thoughtful way immediately. But he did not wish to be the recipient of effusive gratitude from either Oliver or his mother.

He pushed back his chair with a loud scrape. “If you will excuse me, I’ve forgotten something I meant to take care of.” He bowed. “I will meet you at the site.” He turned before she could answer, nodding to the footman who opened the door and facilitated his escape. He knew his behavior was rude, but he did not wish to be trapped in the stables and forced to endure an emotional scene. Just the thought of facing such a situation made him feel ill. He realized he hadn’t eaten much and knew that might be part of it. He tended to forget food when either immersed in thought or some other interesting activity. How interesting that he’d forgotten about eating in the woman’s presence. He could not recall that happening before.

∞∞∞

Serena half-expected Mr. Lockheart not to be at the dam when they arrived. She couldn’t help wondering if she had said something to drive him away. But she’d gone over her words a dozen times in the past half hour and had come up with nothing—at least nothing rude or offensive. And she knew he liked Oliver, so it couldn’t have been that he would be joining them. No, the man was an enigma.

The horses he’d brought for Serena and her son were by far some of the finest they’d ever ridden. Thanks to the generosity of his grandparents, Oliver had been riding since before he was breeched.

Serena had ridden a lot as a girl, mostly her mountain pony and astride. On a side saddle she was an adequate rider, but she took no great joy in the activity, only in the sense she was able to get from one point to another that much quicker.

And so they’d headed out, Serena and Oliver on their new mounts, followed by the nine young dogs they had found living in the stables on their arrival. The stable master, Horrocks, had told them Oliver was welcome to them—if he would train them. The dogs had gone from a half-mad hoard to reasonably obedient companions over the past five weeks and she was proud of her son. So when he’d asked this morning if he might bring them along, she had assented.

“You may take the dogs today, Oliver. But I want you to take them for a run and exhaust some of their enthusiasm before you come to watch the workers.”

Her son nodded, but she could tell his head was elsewhere—flying across the hillside on his new steed, which he had immediately named Starling because of his unusual mottled coat.

Her own horse, a pretty chestnut mare with a sweet disposition, suited Serena’s abilities to the ground. She must thank Jessup, who had apparently paid close attention to both her and Oliver to be able to make such a report.

Her son’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Mama?” Oliver was twisted sideways in his saddle, looking at her with a mournful expression.

Serena laughed. “Go on, already, and ride. But be careful.” He was gone before the second word left her mouth, his pack of hounds like a noisy tail to his comet. She had ceased worrying about his horsemanship several years ago, when she learned he raced the countryside unattended by adults with his herd of cousins.

It took her only a few minutes on horseback to reach the worksite. At first she’d thought not to need a horse, but after two weeks of making five or more trips a day, she’d realized that was foolish—and not efficient.

She saw Mr. Lockheart’s horse before she saw him—that was because he had taken off his coat and was down in a ditch, using a stick to draw something for a group of men standing about watching.

She dismounted and left her horse beside his. He looked up as she approached.

“I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Lombard, but I have taken the liberty of showing the men how they might save part of this work and only re-dig a small section.”