Page 35 of The Indigo Heiress

34

His descent was like nightfall.

Homer

Leith’s indigo eyes shone with sudden clarity, though his voice seemed rusty with disuse. “Why is my signet ring back on my finger?”

Juliet sat beside him, stunned by his recovery, the water she’d been trickling down his throat a sheen upon his lips. “’Tis too large and I don’t want to lose it,” she said quickly, sensing he mistook her action as an affront, another rejection.

“Then I shall get you another bauble that fits if ever we land.” He tried to sit up, but the effort was too much for him. “Get paper and ink.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hurry,” he told her, steel in his tone. “There’s nae time to waste.”

She set down the cup, then retrieved a lap desk, inkstand, and quill. The daybook she’d been writing in since they’d departed York Town still held plenty of blank pages. She returned for a half-guttered candelabra.

“Listen carefully and record all I tell you.” He reached out and gripped her free hand with surprising strength before letting go. “I want you to defend my interests like you would your Royal Vale indigo.”

“Of course.” She inked the quill, willing her nerves to settle, as his intensity startled her so. “You have my word.”

He grew quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on a far wall. “Once you arrive in Glasgow, your priority is to continue fitting out the Buchanan fleet, primarily the merchantmen, with arms for future Caribbean and European trade.” He coughed, the sound so deep and thick it seemed all her prayers were for naught. “Don’t let anyone deter you from the Carron cannonade, which doesn’t slow a ship as markedly.”

“You’re talking defending and arming a fleet I know nothing about.”

“You’ll ken more in time. We already have privateers with a letter of marque and reprisal against the French freighting outwards from the Clyde. Sailing in convoy is recommended at all times, though it’s nae guarantee.”

The scratching of her quill seemed to steady him, and he continued.

“If there’s to be a war with the colonies and ports close, the scarcity of tobacco will spike the price. Summon all the partners of Buchanan and Company to discuss selling their stock, then offer to buy each partner’s share at a fair price. Few will refuse you. Keep a close eye on the market, then sell all of the accumulated stock before the price rises further, guaranteeing a sizable profit.”

She kept up with his ragged voice, though her mind was reeling. “What if your brothers object to me, a stranger, handling your affairs?”

“They’ll make peace with it in time.” He paused, now hoarse. “In that vein, Niall has too much enthusiasm and Euan too much restraint. They’re currently purchasing properties with mineral and mining rights throughout Britain, thereby investing in coal, ironstone, and other metals, having formed the Buchanan Coal Company.”

“Land speculation,” she murmured. A risky endeavor.

“Aye, with the added investment of turnpike roads and canals and such. Euan has in mind to be the foremost coal master in Britain, whereas Niall has begun an extensive planting of Scots firs, larches, pines, and other trees on acquired land.” He stilled, allowing her to ink her quill again. “As for my fellow tobacco lords, beware of Cochrane and associates foremost. He’s continually tried to undercut us in colonial trade. Engage in nae custom with them at any level. They’re naught but a pack of liars and thieves.”

She penned the Cochrane name with distaste, sensing an animosity years in the making.

“Look to my other commercial interests in almost every mercantile undertaking in Glasgow and elsewhere, including Edinburgh and London. There are numerous Buchanan sugar houses, rope and sailcloth industries, including bottleworks, printworks, and other staple textiles. Our main export markets remain France and the rest of Europe, not America.”

“Have you diversified enough to form a buffer against bankruptcy?” she asked, so well acquainted with debt she couldn’t shake loose from the notion no matter how vast one’s fortune.

“I’ve learned a great deal from the financial crisis of ’72, having watched some of the most spectacular fortunes in Glasgow collapse. The Ayr Bank and the Bogles of Daldowie come to mind. They’ve since had their estates put under trust.”

“I read about it in the newspapers.” She wouldn’t say that at the time she hoped he’d follow suit. The remembrance shamed her.

“If you need an ally in the firm, consult my foremost factor in Glasgow, Leo Tate.”

She penned the name then paused. “Do you truly believe you might die?”

“Wheest!” He closed his eyes briefly, his jaw clenched against a cough. “You’re a braisant lass. But that boldness might stand you in good stead, given there’s some abuse going on in the firm that I canna put my finger on.”

“Abuse?”

“Aye. Missing ledgers and questionable accounts. Bank withdrawals that dinna make sense. Just a few instances of late, but they form a troublesome pattern.”

Embezzlement within the firm? Fraud?

Aware he’d come to the end of the matter if she had not, she set aside the quill. “’Tis not your earthly affairs that weigh most on my mind. Not even suspect business dealings. Have you ever seen merchant princes depart this life fisting any funds?”

He regarded her with a cool detachment as he lay back against the pillows, his dark hair loose about his shoulders. “Och, a halie lass too, preaching to me on my deathbed.”

Holy? She returned his hard stare, weary beyond words—and now entirely bereft of them. His eyes were clouding again as if the effort of speaking had worn him out. Or perhaps it was the emotion behind the words, entrenched as he was in Buchanan affairs.

“And lest you think I’m a complete heathen...” He took a labored breath, as earnest as she’d ever seen him. “I helped found the Literary Society of Glasgow, funded a new theater and an institute dedicated to sacred music as well as an almshouse for the poor.”

She took up her quill again, adding these, though not at all assuaged given the blatant pride in his tone. When she looked up again, he was asleep.

Concern kept Juliet awake till she could not keep her eyes open, and she finally retired to the uncomfortable hammock. The next morning the ship’s surgeon came to the cabin to assess their patient, turning on Juliet with a canny eye.

“You look nearly as ill as Mr. Buchanan,” he rebuked her, “which will profit him nothing. Take yourself to the quarterdeck while I tend to your husband.”

Juliet reluctantly obeyed. Rarely had she had time for fresh air or exercise since they’d embarked. Wrapped in her hooded wool cape, she traded the sickroom for the deck after taking a last look at Leith.

The January air was bracing, and sailors swarmed in every direction. The captain greeted her and, after inquiring about Leith, showed her the porpoise leaping alongside the ship in colorful abandon. Her joy vanished when several jacks set about trying to catch it for supper.

“I shan’t eat any,” she told Captain Hicks with a sad smile. “Let the beautiful creature alone.”

“Porpoises are only beautiful in the water, where their colors are at play. Once caught, they fade to a dull gray.”

Dismayed, she went below again to find Leith with Loveday, who sent her a concerned glance as the doctor prescribed yet another sleeping draught. He left abruptly, vowing to return soon, though several sailors were ill with some minor malady, demanding his attention elsewhere.

“No more sedatives,” Loveday told her once the door was closed. “I believe if Mr. Buchanan could shake off his lethargy and move about, it would help clear his lungs. His pallor is concerning.”

“He’s very weak being abed so long.” Juliet removed her cape and repinned her cap, half torn away by the wind. “I’ve asked Cook to prepare more broth. Perhaps between the two of us we can get some down him.”

“We shall try.” Loveday looked toward the stern windows. “I feel a change in the weather.”

“The navigator feels a storm brewing. ‘Mares’ tails and mackerel scales make lofty ships carry low sails,’ he said.”

But the weather was the least of their concerns. Juliet went to Leith, who was so alarmingly still. Was he even breathing? She placed a hand on his chest, wanting to feel his heartbeat beneath the linen shirt, and bent low to feel his breath on her cheek. When it didn’t come, she grasped his shoulders and shook him, her panic a living, breathing, clawing thing.

“Juliet!” Loveday was behind her at once, her hand on her shoulder.

Letting go of Leith, Juliet gave a little cry, her backside colliding with the bed and jarring him further. “Is he breathing? I cannot tell—”

“Be easy, Sister.” With the calm resolve of a competent nurse, Loveday felt his wrist. “His pulse is faint but his fever seems to have lessened. I’m most troubled by the rattle in his chest. He has been too long on his back. Perhaps if we were to turn him over onto his side once he’s fed...”

The cabin boy appeared with broth and the ship’s biscuits no one was fond of. Little by little Juliet spooned the broth to Leith, following it with a healthy dose of water. He cooperated before sliding into sleep again, this time on his side.

“We’ll continue with broth and water round the clock,” Loveday said. “And look forward to trading ship’s biscuits for Scottish bannocks in the near future.”

Bannocks sounded no better to Juliet’s thinking. “We’ve been at sea nearly a fortnight. I pray that’s half the journey. I’m dreadfully homesick and long to be on land.”

“As do I.” Loveday took a seat by the stern windows, her sewing box in her lap. “I pray for calm seas. I don’t want to be off my feet again. You’re a far better sailor.”

“I’m glad we have our handwork to help pass the time.” Juliet felt a surge of thanks. Such offered a semblance of normality, at least. Loveday’s needles were flying. “What are you knitting?”

“A blanket for your firstborn. I plan to adorn it with ribbon embroidery.”

Firstborn?

“A fool’s errand!” Juliet hissed, aghast. “I suggest you make mitts for yourself instead.”

“Fiddle-faddle! Mitts are so mundane.” Loveday gave a wistful sigh. “Need I remind you Mr. Buchanan is no monk.”

What? “How you can have a virile thought about a dying man is beyond me.” Weren’t Leith’s midnight rallying and the copious notes in her daybook proof he wasn’t long for this world?

“Nor are you a nun,” Loveday continued sweetly. “You yourself confessed you’re attracted to him.”

Stiffening, Juliet turned her back on Leith as if it could block Loveday’s overloud words. “And I kindly invite you to forget it.”

“Never. You’ve not said that about another man living save Colonel George Washington.” Loveday’s knitting continued apace. “I believe Mr. Buchanan shall overcome. He’s not one given to defeat even in illness.”

“Nae, I am not.” The voice from the bed was hoarse but firm.

Juliet whirled to meet Leith’s amused gaze. How much had he heard? Somehow he had raised himself up to a half-sitting position. Hope smothered her shame, and with cheeks burning, she went to pour him more water as if nothing had been said.

He drank it down with reassuring gusto, expression still amused.

“So, you’ve risen from the dead.” She plumped his pillows, unable to meet his gaze a second longer. “Please turn on your side again, and then later, if you can manage it, the steward and I will try to get you to your feet to walk about the cabin. Or perhaps sit in a chair by the hearth.”

She wanted him to continue talking, but his eyes closed again, and in minutes he’d slipped away from her, her hopes with him. Meanwhile, Loveday’s needles continued their maddening work, forcing Juliet to ponder any future Buchanans.