Page 27 of The Indigo Heiress

26

The greater part of our happiness or misery depends upon our dispositions, and not upon our circumstances.

Martha Washington

Juliet felt trapped like a fox before hounds. A dozen different scenarios played out in her panicked thoughts, keeping her awake that night and bedeviling her on the return up the James River.

She could go to Philadelphia and live with Aunt Damarus.

But if she did, Father would sell Royal Vale.

She could press Loveday to accept the Scot instead.

But he had, for unknown reasons, chosen her.

If she herself refused him, she might deprive Loveday of a suitable match, perhaps even a romantic one, in Britain.

What did Mr. Buchanan think of her now?

She’d seen no more of him since yesterday. Not another word had been exchanged between them after their fractious library meeting following Christmas dinner, when they’d all moved to the music room for further festivities. But the burn of it lingered.

Jostled about in the coach on the rutted road, Juliet swiped at her eyes with a gauze pocket handkerchief, glad Loveday was dozing. They’d stayed up till midnight at the Ravenals’, and she’d been struck by how composed Mr. Buchanan remained the rest of Christmas Day, while she herself was a knotted thread.

She’d almost expected him to come bid her father and Zipporah goodbye this morning, but there’d been no sign of him. She’d overheard him say he had a few remaining stores to visit before his departure from York Town on one of his ships. Perhaps he’d already left. The Ravenals weren’t expected to return to Forrest Bend until after Twelfth Night.

She looked out the coach window to get her bearings, but it gave her no joy that they were almost home. Home as she knew it had ceased to be a haven, a refuge. It was simply a structure and a piece of ground to be sold or given over to a husband.

As they passed beyond the wrought-iron gates that marked Royal Vale’s entrance, it looked unutterably dreary, a stark landscape that simply reminded her of what had been lost and all that loomed.

Leith returned to the Ravenal townhouse after finishing his circuit of his Chesapeake stores. He’d stopped at the Williamsburg stationer’s for a letter book to record the business he’d transacted in the colonies and what still needed addressing, including penning letters to various factors to be posted before he left for Scotland. Time ticked on, and he received word the Glasgow Lass had returned to Virginia from Barbados with a hold half full of cargo.

After supper that night, Ravenal invited him into his study to tell him of his travels and discuss the latest political news. But their easy exchange eventually wound round to Juliet. Leith had made no secret of the circumstances from the first, at least with his host, who had been enlightened further by Colonel Catesby before he left on his honeymoon. Sore subject though it was, Ravenal dealt with it in his usual magnanimous way.

“So, how did you leave matters with Miss Juliet?” he asked, offering him the sweet leaf tobacco he once grew.

“On Christmas Day?” Leith lit his pipe absently. “Right before telling me she never imagined she’d be reduced to discussing matrimony with a mere merchant?”

Ravenal chuckled. “I don’t mean to make light of it, but after having three daughters, I am not surprised by her, um...”

“Domestic gust?” Leith answered wryly.

With a nod, Ravenal sat down in a leather armchair and trellised his fingers. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

“I doubt it would do much good. Her pride is wounded. She sees me as the enemy, the ruination of her family’s fortune, a lowly merchant.” Leith drew on his pipe, remembering her unchecked horror. “She’s also angry with her father, perhaps rightfully so.”

“Being used to settle a debt wouldn’t sit well with any woman, nay.” Ravenal paused. “Colonel Catesby has treated her more like a son than a daughter, letting her help manage his plantations and make decisions most women would balk at. She’s independent as a Patriot, besides.”

“You ken her well.”

“Being godparents, Catherine and I have known her since her christening twenty-six Septembers ago. She’s as fine a woman as Virginia ever made, and you could do no better.”

Leith studied the smoldering pipe in his hand, the bowl cherry red. “As it stands, I want to let her be.”

“Sail to Scotland without her?”

“I’ll not force her.”

“Then she’ll be left to face her father upon his return and all the consequences.”

“I’ll not have another tragedy on my hands,” Leith replied, the darkness creeping in again like dusk. “Not when the former is still in the papers.”

“Did you tell her of the first Mrs. Buchanan?”

“The timing didn’t seem right, though I’m surprised she hasn’t heard of it by now.”

“She may have. To her credit, she’s not a gossip and avoids those who are.” Ravenal got up to add another log to the fire. “Despite her, um, domestic gust, I’ve never seen her speak or act unkindly.”

“This is the second time she’s put me in my place.”

“The first being at the Raleigh Tavern?” At Leith’s nod he continued. “She’s not one to mince words when she stands in for her father, as you saw in the Apollo Room. Part of that has to do with the fact she feels he’s too swayed by his overseers and factors. The truth is, he’s long been bored with—even unsuited to—the planter’s life and all its encumbrances.”

“I gathered that. My fear is that if we wed, I’ll not hear the end of it the rest of my life.”

Ravenal seemed untroubled. “Perhaps she simply needs time alone to think matters through. She knows when you’re leaving?”

“I told her, aye.” Leith had relived the bitter exchange a hundred times in his memory. Usually he was better at scuttling unwanted thoughts, but worn down as he was of late, he’d entertained them instead. “I don’t have any illusions about her deciding in my favor.”

“I’ll continue to pray about it,” Ravenal said. “I’d advise you to do the same.”

Pray? Leith couldn’t recall the last time he’d gotten down on his knees. Not since childhood. But perhaps one’s posture didn’t matter. He’d rarely given that a thought either.

He stood, knocking the dottle out of his pipe in the hearth’s ashes before excusing himself. He started toward the door, the headache he’d returned with tightening around his temples. Swallowing past the rasp in his throat, he reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew the miniature. Stifling the urge to open it and look at the likeness, he simply placed it on the table near the open Bible, bade his host good night, and climbed the stairs to his room.