Page 26 of The Indigo Heiress

25

Gestures in love are incomparably more attractive, effective, and valuable than words.

Francois Rabelais

Leaving their wraps in the Ravenals’ foyer, a maid ushered the Catesbys toward the dining room on Christmas Day. With a wince, Juliet, in the rear, looked up to the generous bunch of mistletoe hanging by a red velvet ribbon from the chandelier. Unbidden, future intimacies leapt to mind. Though theirs was an arranged marriage, what sort of union would it be? In name only? Or did Mr. Buchanan want more children?

She smoothed her skirts, having chosen the indigo silk gown she’d worn for her portrait painting, with its tiers of lace ruffles falling nearly to her wrists. A sign of surrender? Nay. A statement that she was now well aware of his and her father’s intentions.

Though Loveday had donned a wig for the occasion, like Father and Zipporah, Juliet chose unpowdered papillote curls, her one vanity. The tidy, tight spirals cascaded about her shoulders nearly to the small of her back, a velvet indigo ribbon threading through them. When she stepped into the dining room where all the Ravenals were gathered, her gaze found Mr. Buchanan by the hearth—and he was looking straight at her.

Did he know Father had told her all?

“A happy Christmas to you Catesbys!” Nathaniel greeted them with his usual high spirits. “Come, make yourselves at home. I’m sure I’m not the only one whose stomach is rumbling—but first some Christmas punch.”

Tearing her gaze from Mr. Buchanan, Juliet looked to the sideboard, which held a cut crystal bowl afloat with limes and lemons atop the proverbial holiday punch. She took a cup and, in a few moments, moved to the dining room and her assigned place, unsurprised when the Scot sat to her left. Did the Ravenals know of their impending nuptials? Rattled, Juliet turned her attention to the spotless linen napkins folded like swans and the beautiful blue and white dreftware dishes.

She was very aware of the man beside her. His plain attire contrasted sharply with Father’s gaudy green velvet dress suit. He regarded her with a tight smile as if gauging her reaction to being seated beside her future husband. Given that, how would she be able to choke down a morsel of food?

“A happy Christmas to you, Miss Catesby,” he said, eyes on the ornate sugar sculpture atop a mirror at the table’s center.

Her reply was a whisper. “And to you, Mr. Buchanan.”

Across the table, Loveday sent her a reassuring look.

The next hour was a blur of dishes, dialogue, and dismay. Juliet felt the latter welling inside her as course after course was served. There was none of the banter like before when she’d explained any curious foods or customs. He seemed sunk in thought too, making no more attempts at conver sation after his subdued Christmas greeting. Everyone else indulged in lively conversation and laughter.

When they rose from the table for the customary firing of the guns outside, Father took Juliet aside to tell her she was needed in the library. She froze, hands on the back of her chair, as Loveday and the Ravenal daughters moved to the music room across the hall.

“I’ll leave you and Buchanan alone to discuss your future and all the particulars,” Father said.

With that, he left and Juliet entered the book-lined room ahead of the Scot. Both of them passed beneath another giant knot of dangling mistletoe. Someone seemed intent on making kissing a requirement for every room.

She took a seat, feigning a calm she didn’t feel, hands folded demurely in her lap. He sat in the chair opposite, feet to the fire, his engraved silver shoe buckles a work of art.

She focused on those, not his handsome face. There, she’d admitted it. He was handsome. Braw, didn’t the Scots say? A trace of lime or mint lingered about his fine garments—or perhaps it was the punch. Desperate, she searched for something pleasing to murmur, feeling pushed into a corner.

“I sense this is as awkward for you as it is for me,” he finally said.

She took a slow breath, saying on its release, “Yes.”

“So I’m going to conduct this like the business venture it is.”

“Very well.”

“I’m leaving Virginia on Twelfth Night. I need to return to Scotland.”

So soon? Twelfth Night was but a fortnight away.

“Upon the day of our marriage, you’ll become my wife and Royal Vale will become my property, clearing any outstanding debts owed by your father.”

Enormous debts, amassed over countless years. “You shall keep Royal Vale, not sell it?”

“Aye, for the time being,” he replied, a bit too evasively for her comfort. “Once we land in Scotland, you’ll reside at Ardraigh Hall and take possession of it as mistress and stepmother to my children.”

“What are their names?”

“Cole and Isabella,” he replied. She sensed a rare softening about him, and for a trice it softened her. “Rarely are they in Glasgow. They’ve recently turned three.”

“Who cares for them?”

“Their aging nurse, who takes one too many naps.”

She almost smiled, but he went on, as factually and formally as if they were hammering out a binding business contract. “I’ll reside at the Virginia Street mansion in the city, only coming to Ardraigh Hall when time warrants.”

“Not often, then.”

His nay was so final, so dismissive, she envisioned a long, lonesome future. But aside from her, had he no more regard for his children than an occasional visit?

“If you should need something once there, send word to me by one of the servants.”

“Ardraigh Hall is not far from Glasgow, then.”

“A few miles.”

The faint hope she’d brought into the room was now nearly extinguished. She loathed the arrangement more the longer she listened. “You don’t need a wife, Mr. Buchanan. You need another nursemaid, and though I am rarely guilty of napping, I am not that woman.”

“You would have otherwise, Miss Catesby?” His gaze swung to her instead of the leaping fire at their feet. “Then state your terms.”

Beneath his sudden scrutiny she nearly squirmed. “As the stepmother of your children, I would require your ongoing presence, not for my benefit but theirs. How else are they to know you as their father?”

“My ongoing presence?” He turned dark as a thundercloud. “I’ll not be dictated to about my time or my relationships.”

“You told me to state my terms. That is one of them.”

“And I’m offering you marriage with honorable, contractual conditions.”

“Contractual, yes. But marriage is foremost a covenant.”

“I suppose that is some sort of biblical concept muddying the matter.”

“ Muddying the matter? Then I suggest you devote some time to it since it has existed since the foundation of the world.”

“I need not ponder it. A covenant requires some sort of relationship. What I’m offering is a contract, in name only. I am a busy man with little time to expend. Many marriages are by arrangement under less suitable conditions, yet you balk. Given your father’s finances, you have little to bemoan and less to demand.”

“Yet I do have demands, namely my sister’s dowry of five thousand pounds.”

He shrugged as if she’d asked for fivepence. “Name whatever price you will.”

“I ask that you forsake all trade built upon the backs of slaves.”

His jaw hardened. She saw it and she hated it. His entire empire was built on rum and sugar, tobacco and misery.

“Yet you yourself are from a slave-owning family, Miss Catesby, while I own none.”

A flash of white-hot fury swept through her. “My father owns slaves, Mr. Buchanan. I do not. And if we’re to have any semblance of a relationship, you must find more noble ways of enriching yourself at the expense of others.”

“Diversify, you mean.”

“Let Nathaniel Ravenal be your example. Many inside and outside Virginia are doing the same. He’s no longer in debt and has a clear conscience.”

“I’m not here to discuss Ravenal, admirable as he is. Our marital arrangement is a way to cancel a debt with very generous terms.” He leaned back in his chair, hands curving over its wooden scallop-shell arms. Confident. Unconcerned. The glint of his signet ring—of the very design that had sealed the bond owed, the one she’d found on Father’s desk—caught her eye. Another reminder that she had little voice in the matter.

“I sense there is far more that needs discussing. What else would be required of me as your wife?”

“I would require your company on occasion,” he said. “There are some society functions that demand my attendance—and yours.”

On occasion. More a marital front, a mirage. Did he sense her continued resistance?

“I could augment the proposition. Take you to Bath.” He ran a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “A honeymoon by all appearances.”

Bath? Did he know she’d always wanted to visit there? Father must have told him. Perhaps in Bath she could find relief from the headache that almost continually beat about her temples. Yet he was offering her Bath like a bauble on a silver plate. A sort of bribe. A faux honeymoon.

She nearly squirmed, her humiliation complete. She was livid not only with Father but at their circumstances, tobacco and all its ensuing wretchedness, and the powerful men who perpetuated it.

“I may be indebted, but I am genteel, Mr. Buchanan,” she said breathlessly. “Never in my life did I imagine I would be reduced to discussing matrimony with a mere merchant.”

Silence. Had she hurled one insult too many?

The gaze he turned on her was ice-blue. “I won’t force you, Miss Catesby.”

Shaken and needing air, she got up with what remained of her tattered dignity and fled the library, going in search of the music room. Leith Buchanan didn’t follow.