Page 50 of The Indigo Heiress

49

When my mother died I was very young,

And my father sold me while yet my tongue,

Could scarcely cry “’weep! ’weep! ’weep! ’weep!”

So your chimneys I sweep and in soot I sleep.

William Blake

Leith climbed the mansion’s stairs and stopped at the second-floor landing, hearing voices down the corridor.

“He’s a climbing boy, ma’am,” Mrs. Baillie was saying in her no-nonsense way. She stood with her back to him in the doorway of the guest bedchamber being readied for Juliet’s father and stepmother.

“But he’s scarcely bigger than Bella and Cole,” Juliet replied in a sort of anguish as he heard a scuttling that signified the lad had disappeared up the chimney.

“Only the wee ones can get up and down in such tight places, Mrs. Buchanan. Ofttimes their impoverished parents sell them into the trade or they’re workhouse orphans, lads and lassies both. The master sweeps keep them plenty busy in the city.”

“And they start them so young?”

“Four years old ofttimes,” Mrs. Baillie confessed. “Ye’ve nae coal fires in yer country?”

“Just an abundance of wood, at least in Virginia.”

“Nae chimney sweeps either, I take it.”

Silence.

Though he couldn’t see Juliet from where he stood in the corridor, Leith could imagine her looking up the chimney, ready to get soot-faced for a child she’d never seen and had little control over. And his own chest ached.

He moved toward the bedchamber door and motioned for Mrs. Baillie to go elsewhere. Standing where the housekeeper had stood, he saw Juliet doing just as he’d suspected, on her knees before the cold hearth, which had been covered by a sheet from mantel to marble tile to protect the chamber.

In a trice, a cascade of coal came whooshing down the chimney, followed by the thud of an iron ball as it pushed the brush down. The sheet ballooned but held, catching the storm of soot. A fascinated if dismayed Juliet waited, her back to Leith and still unaware of him. In time the small sweep emerged, his beleaguered blue eyes huge in his coal-blackened face, the tools of his trade in hand.

“Enough climbing for now, Arthur,” Juliet said in that soft, deferential way she had. “Are you well? What is that growling I hear?”

The lad darted a look at Leith, then returned his gaze to her. “My belly’s empty, ma’am.”

“Then please put aside your brushes and tools.” Taking him by the hand, she turned and drew up short when she saw Leith standing in the doorway. Flushing scarlet, she seemed almost alarmed. Had he that effect on her? Or was it just the shock of seeing him home in broad daylight?

“There’s plenty to be had in the larder,” he said as if to reassure her. His eyes fell to her soot-smeared hand as it clasped the lad’s grimy fingers.

Some strong, unidentifiable emotion reared up in him again. He looked at the sweep anew, seeing him through Juliet’s eyes and realizing the soul of the matter. Swallowing, he stepped back and let them pass, breathing in coal dust and rosewater in their wake.

Juliet didn’t take the servants’ stair but led Arthur down the central staircase, unmindful of his black footprints and Mrs. Baillie’s potential displeasure. Still startled by Leith’s appearing, she kept on toward the kitchen, sure her husband would slip out again as stealthily as he’d come in. Seeing him during daylight hours turned her more than a wee bit tapsalteerie.

“Madame Buchanan.” The French cook gave a little bow when she appeared.

“What do you have ready to eat, monsieur?” she asked. Her gaze roamed the cavernous kitchen, which was nothing like Royal Vale’s save the pots and pans and hearth.

“Ah, a small feast for a small boy? Chicken pie, a delicate white soup, wheaten bread, Stilton cheese, potatoes, potted pigs’ cheeks, even a steamed pudding with custard.”

“Everything but the potted pigs’ cheeks,” she said, afraid too much rich fare might turn his stomach. “And please pack him some things to take away, including nuts and several oranges.”

She asked a kitchen maid to bring water and a towel for washing, then pulled out a chair for Arthur. The lad sat, surveying the leaping fire and mutton turning on a spit, its fat sizzling, with a kind of famished bewilderment.

“Can I take a bite o’ bread for Sadie?” he asked, a hopeful cast to his lean face.

“Sadie? Such a pretty name.” Juliet took a chair next to him. “Is she your sister? She shall have more than bread.”

He nodded, plunging his hands into the water to wash. An uncut pineapple sat upon the table, and at his curiosity, Juliet asked another maid for a knife. The fragrance as she cut into it reminded her of home. Father had ordered pineapples from the Caribbean, but for some reason she’d not thought to see one here.

The maid whisked the washbasin and blackened towel away, then returned with a cup of cider, her face showing shock as she looked toward the kitchen door. Leith stood there, stoic, arms crossed.

Juliet excused herself to let Arthur eat in privacy. “Are you needing anything, Mr. Buchanan?”

He gave a half smile. “My wife.”

With a little sigh, she followed him away from the servants’ wing to his study. He shut the door, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and took one of her hands. With a few gentle motions he began removing the soot from her skin—or tried to. His face was so earnest, so intent, the years fell away and she saw the boy he might have been in a strangely loveless household, trying to do his best.

For now, she wanted to smooth away the faint purple bruise riding his left cheekbone and the split lower lip that nearly made her wince. Had Cochrane done that? All on account of Leith’s defense of her?

“Have you come to chastise me?” she whispered.

“Nae more than you do me my late hours and incessant trading and eccentric clock collection.”

“I’m ruining your handkerchief,” she lamented. The monogrammed B was hidden now in a swirl of black against white linen that would never come clean.

“Soiled handkerchiefs are of little consequence when a starving lad is in my kitchen.” He turned her hand over, his callused fingers gentle, and wiped the soot from her palm.

“Then we are of one mind.”

He let go of her hand. “Which reminds me...” He reached into his weskit and withdrew a small velvet box. “The bauble I promised you aboard ship.”

Bauble? She’d nearly forgotten the signet ring she’d returned. She took the box and opened it, stifling a gasp at the contents. When she hesitated to remove the jewelry, he did so for her.

“For my American bride,” he said, his voice more gruff than usual.

He slid the gift onto her finger, as snug as the other aboard ship had been loose. A gold signet ring, the intaglio a rich, deep blue and carved with an indigo blossom. The pairing of blue and gold was especially beautiful, but all that paled beside the thought behind it.

This was a glimpse of the vitally beating heart Lyrica had mentioned. “Flashes of it come out at uncertain times.” Without a doubt, this was Leith Buchanan at his best.

“I don’t know what to say.” She looked up at him, her eyes damp. “Thank you, Leith.”

She said his forename so rarely that even he looked startled.

“If you’re wondering why I’m home so early, my barber is due. ’Tis nearly the Sabbath and I canna go to kirk bewhiskered ... even if you prefer it.” His gaze canted to the window as if searching for the tradesman in question. “And while I’m waiting, there’s another matter that needs discussing.”

“Oh?” Was it time to return to Ardraigh Hall with the twins?

He sat down on the edge of his desk while she took a chair facing him. “My brother is besotted with your sister.”

She almost laughed at the absurdity of his words. “I knew that from the moment they met.”

“Aye, but things are not progressing as well as Niall had hoped.”

“And you want me to help move any fine feeling along.”

“In truth, I ken little about romantic matters, including my own.” His stoicism faded to perplexity as he passed a hand over his bewhiskered jaw. “So I ask your help, aye.”

“Then you shall have it.”

“Is she holding out for a title? I heard Lord Talisker’s heir has been by.”

“Loveday cares nothing for titles,” she said quickly. “But my sister does have a mind of her own.”

“A family trait.” He winked—or did she only imagine it? “Niall doesna want to press her if she’s not so inclined, but at the same time he doesna want to lose his place in line, quite literally.”

“She’s been besieged by suitors, truly, and he’s been very patient. I will do what I can, though these matters are somewhat ... delicate.”

“Delicate is the word, aye. I hardly ken where to begin.”

Was he implying more than Loveday and Niall? There seemed a sudden ruddy cast to his tanned features, or perhaps it was just a play of the light through the tall windows. Heat tingled about her neck and reached her ears and left her wishing for a hand fan.

“Lastly...” He looked at her as if keeping secrets. “Your father and stepmother are here, along with the domestic servants from Royal Vale.”

“What?” She stood, elated. “When?”

“Their ship has docked at Greenock, and once their baggage is dealt with they should arrive here shortly.”

She stared at him, coming to terms with the magnitude of what he’d done. He, as the new owner of Royal Vale, had arranged for the servants to come to Britain. “You’re aware that as soon as any enslaved man—or woman—sets foot on English soil, they are free.”

“Aye.” He met her damp eyes, and the steel in his softened. “I ken.”