Page 19 of The Indigo Heiress

18

But you would have me say I am violently in love.

Mary Wortley Montagu

Back in her bedchamber, Juliet returned her hat to its stand as she prayed for ample opportunities to sequester Loveday with Leith Buchanan. She’d seat them together at dinner. Send them out to the garden for a walk after. Corner the Ravenal sisters so they wouldn’t be underfoot. Perhaps even make them co-conspirators in her plan—

“Juliet?” The frantic tap at the door preceded its opening. Loveday entered, her flaxen hair falling to her waist. “I wanted to wear my wig, but it’s not freshly powdered. Please help with my hair.”

Was she wanting to be seen at her best? Juliet’s hopes soared.

“Betimes we need a maid, or at least a hairdresser.” She began subduing her sister’s unruly locks with pearl combs. “There, you look lovely. ’Tis a perfect color on you, that shade of rose.”

Loveday darted a look toward the open door. “My, what a noise they’re making downstairs.”

“We’ve not had dinner guests in some time. Perhaps you could show Mr. Buchanan the dovecote afterward.”

Loveday made no reply. She simply smiled and glanced in the looking glass a final time before they went downstairs together. Their noisy guests were gathered in the dining room—all but one. The Scot stood in the entry hall pondering a portrait. Loveday’s steps quickened, and she slipped into the dining room, leaving Juliet alone with him.

Drawn in by the romance of the past and the particularly intent way he was studying the old portrait, Juliet said, “That is my great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side. His is quite a story.”

He glanced at her before returning to the oil painting. “Do you have time to tell it?”

“With pleasure.” She pondered the gentleman who’d settled the very ground they stood upon. Handsome and dark, he wore the garments of a lost century. “Alexander Renick was among the first settlers who arrived in Jamestown in 1607 and survived. He went on to marry a Powhatan princess, who showed him the secrets of tobacco cultivation before she died young.”

“Did he remarry?”

“In time, yes. Selah Hopewell was another colonist who helped bring the tobacco brides to Virginia. She became a stepmother to his son, Oceanus, who grew up to marry Watseka and live here at what was once Rose-n-Vale.”

“Was Oceanus an only child?”

“The oldest of ten.” She smiled, imagining it. “Six sons and three daughters followed. By that time King James had granted them more acreage for tobacco production, so Rose-n-Vale became Royal Vale and has remained so to this day.”

He gestured to the painting beside it. “And this is Selah Hopewell Renick?”

“Yes, but if you look closely, you’ll see Alexander’s first wife in the portrait too, by the window.”

“They’re not wearing indigo like one descendant I ken.” He turned toward her. “Do you always wear that color?”

“I do, in all its varying hues.”

“Did I mention I prefer blue?”

“Yet you wear mostly black.”

“I’ve just come out of mourning.”

“I understand.” Suddenly missing Mama, she changed course. “Speaking of colors, is it true you have black swans at Ardraigh Hall?”

He paused as a burst of laughter came from the dining room. “Aye, black, not indigo.”

She tried to suppress a smile. “Perhaps you could dye them a lovely shade of blue.”

“A waterfowling feat.” That steeliness Loveday had mentioned softened for the barest moment. “Better luck dyeing wool.”

“So you have sheep?”

“You tell me. You seem to ken a great deal about Ardraigh Hall.”

Guilty. She warmed all over. “Our gardener was your gardener once upon a time. Mr. Hamish Hunter. He often talks about British estates that have employed him. But,” she added with a slight smile, “he said nothing about your sheep.”

“Short-wool Blackface.”

He was still regarding her much as she was regarding him, so keenly she completely lost the thread of conversation. His gaze seemed to travel about her face as if she were another painting. Such unusual eyes he had. The color of indigo—

“Juliet.” Behind them, in the dining room’s doorway, stood Father. “Are you regaling our guest with tales of Virginia’s founding?”

With an apology, she started toward the scarlet-paneled chamber where a great many enticing aromas mingled. Everyone else was seated, and Father returned to the head of the table, which left two empty places side by side. Alas, Loveday was safely ensconced between Mrs. Ravenal and Frances. Juliet had no other options. She looked at all the dishes spread upon the cloth and went from famished to flummoxed. Another lost opportunity for Loveday.

“A blessed day when ten are gathered round this table,” Father was saying, clearly in the highest of spirits. Raising his wine glass, he looked toward Zipporah. “To new beginnings!”

Flushing, she raised her glass in turn. “Indeed, my love.”

All followed suit, then fell upon the Sabbath feast as if there’d been no breakfast. Juliet passed platters and dishes, explaining the less obvious ones to the man on her left as conversation hummed on all sides of them.

“Succotash,” she said. “Father’s favorite. A medley of okra, tomatoes, corn, and bacon.”

“Okra,” he repeated as if perplexed.

“You have none in Scotland, then. Well, try these sweet potatoes, though I doubt you grow them either. They’re my sister’s choice.”

“What is yours?”

“These yeast rolls.” She passed him Rilla’s specialty, their buttered tops golden.

“Bread I recognize,” he replied wryly, adding it to his plate.

She handed him another steaming dish. “And lastly, the humble potato and turnip.”

“Neeps and tatties. Fine fodder for livestock.”

“I suppose your Scots fare resembles little here. I do wonder what you’d serve me if I were to sit down at your Glasgow table.”

“Haggis.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?”

“You’re liable to cast up accounts if I tell you.”

“Oh?” That odd amusement she’d begun to experience in his presence bubbled to the top again.

“I do enjoy your Virginia hams seasoned with brown sugar. Second to none,” he said, taking plenty of that.

Over the next hour, Father steered them safely around all political talk. Their voices echoed in the large chamber and their laughter seemed deafening. Company was a refreshing change since it was often only Juliet and Loveday of late.

Toward the end of the meal, she tried to catch her sister’s eye. To no avail.

“I’m hoping my sister shows you the dovecote,” she said to Mr. Buchanan. “’Tis said to be the oldest structure here at Royal Vale and is quite charming. It even bears my great-great-grandparents’ entwined initials.”

“Your sister...” He took a drink of claret. “Why not you?”

She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. Mr. Buchanan was nothing if not forthright, though she’d found that to be true of many Scots. “You may be tiring of my company.”

He turned toward her slightly as he set down his glass. “Mayhap you’re tiring of mine.”

Was she? Nay. The realization turned her pink. She felt a rush of heat from her head to her slippered feet. Thankfully, Rilla brought dessert, a French custard, while Mahala poured coffee. The strong, almost burnt scent braced her, and she took a sip without her usual sugar and cream, trying to clear her head.

This didn’t fit into her scheme. She thought matchmaking would be simpler. Loveday was the prettiest, the most engaging. The most desirous of being wed. Yet not once had Loveday looked at Mr. Buchanan or directed a comment toward him during dinner. Obviously, Juliet must change her tactics.

But for now, she herself would show him the dovecote.