Page 39 of The Indigo Heiress

38

When the heart is full the tongue will speak.

Scottish proverb

Leith definitely had a penchant for the color blue. In this case, Wedgwood blue. Tarrying on the staircase’s landing, Juliet touched the blue and white wallpaper that framed an immense Palladian window overlooking the Virginia Street mansion’s front lawn. Her lips parted before she reined herself in. Fawning and cringing didn’t become her.

Her gaze returned to the street, and her heart gave a little leap. There came her husband walking toward her with fierce purpose, his expression as inscrutable as if he were at a masked ball. His scarlet cloak reminded her of Virginia’s cardinals, and a dart of homesickness flashed through her.

Leith’s entrance was quiet, that same purposeful tread across the foyer to what she guessed was his study. Down the stairs she crept, feeling an intruder, hardly a bride. His door was open, revealing a marvel of mahogany bookcases and high crown glass windows.

She stood in the doorway without speaking. Again she wondered where he’d been last night, his first night home. He’d shaved, further removing them from the ship. When he coughed, she felt a beat of alarm, biting her lip to keep from cautioning him to rest and recover completely.

“Mrs. Buchanan,” he said, looking up from where he sorted through a stack of correspondence. “How goes your first hours in Glasgow?”

“Well enough,” she said.

“Any concerns so far? I ken you have needs since you left Royal Vale so suddenly.”

He gestured to the seat in front of his desk, a dark surface covered with more account books and ledgers than she’d ever seen in one place. Not even the Williamsburg printer boasted more. She sat, aware of a bewildering chasm between them. Gone were the ship’s close quarters, the forced intimacy. Any vulnerability he’d shown in illness had vanished. The desk seemed a hefty barrier, a hallmark of their new life and relationship.

“I’ll need a proper wardrobe,” she began tentatively, looking over his shoulder to the globe in the windowsill, blue brocade drapes framing it.

“Of course. Have what you will.” He uncorked a decanter and poured himself a drink. “Your custom will be welcome at any shop here, in Edinburgh, or London.”

Juliet watched him. Whisky? So early in the morning?

“The other Mrs. Buchanan has loaned one of her French maids to show you the places she herself frequents here,” he continued. “She arrives soon.”

Lyrica, her new sister-in-law, wife of Euan Buchanan of Paisley. She’d wondered how they’d met. Probably not an arranged marriage like hers.

“Thoughtful of her.” Juliet folded her hands in her lap, her gaze trailing to an inkwell. “I was wondering where to purchase an escritoire. I’d like to resume my letter writing soon.”

He nodded, setting down his empty glass. “Start your search at Mrs. Barclay’s warehouse opposite the Tron Church. You’ll find all manner of desks there, especially French made. For stationery supplies, Gardner’s at the sign of the golden ball above Bell’s Wynd should suffice.”

She filed the details away, thinking she could spend a fortnight—and a fortune—just wandering the streets of Glasgow. Since he wasn’t offering to go with her, she was doubly glad of Loveday’s company and the maid on loan.

“I imagine you have all kinds of business awaiting you.”

“Aye,” he said.

She bit her tongue again lest she ask if he’d be home for dinner or supper. How did one navigate an arranged marriage? Did one build fences or bridges?

Leith heard Lyrica’s maid delivered to the servants’ side door as Juliet stood up to leave his study. He’d come home briefly to collect a particular ledger and then return to the countinghouse for a meeting with his clerks but had been waylaid at every turn. And now ... his wife.

By all that was holy, did she have to wear that beguiling shade of blue?

She smiled at him, a tentative, almost shy smile that told him she was unsure of herself, of him, and their new relationship. He was hardly any better, overlooking the needed ledger in plain sight while raking his mind for the next sentence.

For the moment her attention turned to his bookcases. “Once I thought Nathaniel Ravenal’s study boasted the most books I’d ever seen, but I’d not beheld yours.”

“Mostly business tomes. Dry and dusty.”

“Have you no novels? No classics?”

“Nae time for them.”

“But you do have a library at Ardraigh Hall.”

“Aye, which I hope you’ll fill with the books I have nae time for.”

“What I most want,” Juliet said quietly, holding his gaze in that maddening way she had when she was intent on something, “is to meet your children.”

Och, the bairns. Bella and Cole seemed to be more in her thoughts than his. “We’ll see Ardraigh Hall soon enough.”

She bit her lip as if about to naysay him, a frown in her eyes if not on her lips. She minded the wait, he warranted.

“My brother sends his regards and said they are eager to welcome you at Paisley. As for matters here, did Mrs. Baillie show you the house?”

“Yes, she’s very thorough. I’ve been introduced to all the servants, including your French chef, and have been given the household’s account books to peruse.”

“You’ll be well occupied, then,” he said, retrieving the ledger. “As for shopping, the maid on loan has arrived.”

“Then I shall leave you to your business, Mr. Buchanan.”