Page 42 of The Indigo Heiress

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As for myself, I am now with Mr. Glassford and shall continue there for about four years. I have been very close confined there from 6 o’clock in the morning till after 9 at night.

William Scott, Glasgow clerk

“I do have another question,” Juliet said after greeting Mrs. Baillie the next morning. “Is it common for Glasgow merchants to work such long hours?”

“Indeed, ma’am, though their clerks have the worst of it, from six o’clock in the morn till after nine at night.” She began clearing the breakfast dishes away. “There’s plenty of leisure time for these tobacco lords, though, when they wish to be idle. Horse races and the pleasures of the bottle and gaming table get the best of some o’ them. But not the Messrs. Buchanan.”

She went out, carrying a tray of dishes, as Loveday rose from the table and looked out the nearest rain-streaked window. “We mustn’t forget the milliner and seamstress will be arriving right after breakfast, if I’m not mistaken.”

“How could I possibly forget?” Juliet answered, following her into the entrance hall. “Your illustrious debut here in the drawing room is days away.”

Loveday looked delighted. “To be immediately followed by an assembly to appease those not on the debut guest list, where you’ll be presented as Mrs. Buchanan.”

Juliet said nothing. Years of indebtedness at Royal Vale had made her cautious and uncomfortable. Nor did she want to create another divide between her and Leith with such expenditures. Had he really told the staff to do whatever she wished? Rather, had he meant what he said?

“I’m especially excited about the new violet taffeta for the ball,” Loveday was saying. “The lace detail is exquisite!”

Pondering the occasions to come, Juliet started up the stairs to meet with Minette, who was busy in their dressing room putting away the purchases that had arrived yesterday from the glover. At nine o’clock, a footman let in the seamstress and milliner accompanied by an apprentice laden with more goods. Loveday led them into the parlor while Juliet sought the dressing room.

Minette stood by a hatstand, arranging faux roses and ribbon on a bergère. “Madame Buchanan,” she said with a charming curtsy.

“Good morning, Minette. ’Tis a squally day, Mrs. Baillie said, but I’ve decided to take a carriage nevertheless if you’ll accompany me around town.”

“Alors! What shall you wear?”

Juliet considered several gowns draped over a sofa. “Something warm, perhaps the quilted petticoat and my new blue velvet redingote with matching feather muff.” Fingering the lovely fabric, she added, “And some butterfly curls?”

“Oui! Papillote curls are my specialty.” Minette began taking out curling tongs and brushes. “And perhaps your new French hat with the Italian flowers? The silk lilacs are a lovely foil to the blue velvet.”

An hour later they were confined in the carriage and beyond the mansion’s iron gates, moving past other homes and tenements that led to Glasgow Green and the Bridgegait. Ahead was the towering steeple of the Merchants House with its gilded ship weathervane. Soon their coach rolled to a stop in front of a century-old stone building, and Juliet and Minette stepped out onto the street in pattens that held them above muddy cobbles.

This was the heartbeat of the tobacco lords, a place she’d only heard about, the driving force behind Glasgow’s trade. Ignoring any qualms, she went through the door framed by tall columns and stone carvings into a foyer where a staircase beckoned upward into the guildhall.

“Shall we take the stairs?” she asked Minette, who smiled and followed her lead.

A bit breathless, she ignored the blatant stares of several men in black satin suits and scarlet capes as they conducted their affairs. Leith wasn’t among them. Nary another woman did she see. Juliet prepared her response in case they were stopped.

We’ve come to see the assembly room where balls and banquets are held. Being from the colonies, I am anxious to learn all I can about your great city.

The staircase led to an imposing rectangular hall that reminded her of a drawing room, oil portraits of former merchants on the walls. Was Leith’s father among them? Suspended from the ceiling was a fully rigged ship twin to the one atop the steeple. Juliet paused before a framed, painted board whose words surprised her.

S CRIPTURE R ULES TO B E O BSERVED IN B UYING AND S ELLING

Minette turned in a slow circle. “Will it suit, Madame Buchanan, for the assembly?”

“I believe so,” Juliet answered with a final misgiving.

But will I?

Somewhere here lurked the magistrates made up of tobacco lords. Mrs. Baillie remarked they had a fearsome reputation. Something told her these men might not take kindly to women encroaching upon their territory. She was surprised they’d not been confronted so far.

“We must be away,” Juliet said, a beat of excitement overriding her skittishness. “To the Buchanan countinghouse.”

Sensing something amiss, Leith looked up from the letter he was writing to a Virginia factor. The sudden hush among his clerks in the large chamber beyond his office door was telling. He pulled his watch from his pocket. Half past eleven. Not yet the dinner hour when they bolted like a herd of wild horses. Next he heard the scraping of chairs that suggested a great many of them had come to their feet.

Returning his quill to the inkpot, he stood, glad to ease the cramp in his hand from working on correspondence since dawn. He rounded his desk, went to his office doorway, and came to a halt. There, in the main entrance to the Buchanan firm, stood Juliet. She was exquisitely attired in shades of blue, her hat at an angle he could only describe as alluring, its flowered brim drawing attention to her hair and her pale, expectant features. He wasn’t the only one spellbound.

She smiled at the clerks and moved past them while her maid waited by the door, her back to their gawking. When Juliet came nearer she said, “So, Mr. Buchanan, is this your lair?”

“Aye,” he replied, extending a hand to invite her into his private sanctum before shutting the door. She was, he realized, the first woman to ever set foot in his domain.

Her gaze, alive with curiosity, trailed round the room, lingering on the glass-fronted bookcases that stood floor to ceiling and covered all the walls before returning to him. He held her gaze as emotion washed through him. Admiration ... aggravation ... amusement.

“You’re flying your American colors,” he said.

She smiled up at him from beneath that beguiling flower-brimmed hat. “Nice to blame any untoward behavior on that.”

He sat on the edge of his desk as she settled in a cane chair, her skirts a perfect half circle about her.

Gesturing to the bank notes on his desk, he asked, “Are you in need of any funds?”

“Nay, just seeing how the land lies.”

“So, where have you been?”

“Far enough to know to avoid the horse ford and slaughterhouse near the river and keep to the Bridgegait, the safe, respectable part of town.”

“Briggait, as we Glaswegians say.”

“Where exactly is Ardraigh Hall?”

“Are you bored with the city already?” He crossed his arms, remembering his promise about the twins. At her continued study of him, he yielded. “A few miles southeast of Glasgow, on the right bank of the River Clyde in the county of Lanark.”

She seemed relieved.

“I’ve sent word ahead of our arrival,” he added.

“Meaning all the house servants will be on tenterhooks.”

“All seven of them.”

“So few?”

“You’ll need to hire more. There’s already a veritable army for the gardens, park, stables, and the like.”

“Meaning you are more out of doors than in.”

“Aye.”

Reaching out, she fingered his waistcoat, pulled on the gold chain attached to his watch, and lifted it out of his pocket.

“Should I send for tea?” he queried, only half joking.

“Tea?” Her face flashed amusement. “Something tells me you prefer something stronger.” She let go of his watch and it returned to his pocket with a small plop. Her gaze rested on the bottle atop a small silver tray at the edge of his desk.

“I’ve more refined brandy if you’d rather.” He reached for the whisky and poured a dram. “You’ve ne’er tasted Scots whisky?”

“Having it flavor my marmalade is plenty.”

He swallowed it down, along with a lick of guilt. Confound it, but she trod on his temper. Did she mind his drinking?

With the door closed, she was driving out the scent of ink and paper and all his ironclad intentions with it. Rosewater, he guessed. She was so close, his right shoe buckle was hidden beneath the hem of her petticoat.

“Where do you take your midday dinner if not Virginia Street?” Her curious question was absent of blame or rebuke.

“Most days I go to the Saracen’s Head on the Gallowgate, renowned for its mutton.” He omitted the cockfighting and Jamaican punch. “Nobles and judges and the like gather there.”

“Then I shall leave you to that.”

She went out as gracefully as she’d come in, rosewater trailing in her wake, every clerk standing and looking after her. Nearly forgetting common courtesy, he watched her leave, then followed her to the front of the building and escorted her to her coach. When he returned, the office was again at a standstill.

“Return to your work!” he all but roared. “This isna a garden party.”

“But, sir, will there be nae introduction?” asked his senior clerk, the boldest of the bunch and a third cousin.

Introductions? He’d completely forgotten. Rarely did he mix business with pleasure. Further proof of the effect she had on him.

“That, lads, is Mrs. Leith Buchanan of colonial Virginia,” he said, hardly believing his good fortune.

Another lull ensued, no less astonished.

“With all due respect, sir...” Another clerk worked to conceal a red-faced grin. “I wouldna be wasting time here in the countinghouse with a lass like that at home.”