“You, as a person, are worth far more than a marriage of convenience.” He shook his head. “I am worth more. Marriage is a lifelong contract. I do not want a convenient wife who will feather my nest with her money. I value myself more than that. I cannot imagine entering into such a binding agreement for anything less than the deepest love and respect. Why would you settle for less?”
“Well, my mother insists that I must marry and—”
“Does your mother control your fortune?” he asked, continuing pacing.
“No. Myself and my late father’s solicitor make all decisions for my estate.”
He shook his head in amazement. “Though your mother deserves your regard, it does not follow that she be allowed to control your future, telling you whom to marry and when. And if and when you do marry, your fortune will pass to your husband’s care. You will cease to be a person in the eyes of the law. When do you reach your majority and take sole possession of your fortune?”
“If I am still unmarried at the age of twenty-three, the entirety of my father’s estate comes under my care.”
Colin wanted to shake some sense into her. Heaven save him from young women! She did not remotely understand the power she held.
With her air of confidence, she was definitely pretty enough to capture a husband, even without her enormous fortune. But where would that land her ten or twenty years from now?
“Miss Heartstone, allow me to paint a clear picture for you.” He stopped pacing and studied her. “If you continue in your current course of action, you will marry a man you do not know and, perhaps, gain entrance into the highest levels of the peerage. For the dubious honor of taking another man’s name, you will turn over your fortune and freedom. Your husband will control not only your money, but your every move.
“I know that many women have no choice but to marry or face lives of penury. However, an unmarried woman of fortune has the world at her feet. Without a husband, you remain a person under British law. You can hold property, make decisions, and retain control of your estate. You simply must find the courage to stand up to your mother and society as a whole.”
Miss Heartstone’s eyes had grown three times in size as he spoke.
But he was not quite done. “Marriage is an admirable state, Miss Heartstone, but it is not something to be undertaken lightly. If you fall in love with a man who respects you—a man who sees you as his equal—then by all means marry. But only marry because it is your heart’s desire. Not out of some societal notion that marriage is required of you.”
“You are a revolutionary, my lord.” She took a cautious step backward.
“Perhaps. Though you must be something of one yourself, given your behavior this morning.”
“I concede your point.”
“My mother and sisters are tremendous followers of the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft.” He shrugged. “I have never been able to view women as mere subordinates of men. My mother would box my ears. She has always insisted that women have tremendous intellect and fortitude. You are capable of amazing things, Miss Heartstone. You merely need to believe in yourself.”
The young lady blinked at him. A cool breeze floated off the Long Water, ruffling the feathers in her fashionable bonnet.
She clearly did not know how to respond to his words. Granted, few people did, which is why he rarely voiced them. He knew his ideas were . . . revolutionary, to use her term.
“For myself, I am more than merely a title and handful of estates,” he continued. “You researched my life and fortunes and, from that, have extrapolated a series of behaviors and attitudes. But, at the end of the day, I believe myself to be greater than the mere summation of numbers and a handful of desirable qualities. You do not see me, Miss Heartstone—the man I truly am. So, though I am sorry to disappoint your expectations this morning, I am also quite sure you will one day thank me for my reticence in accepting your suit.”
She raised her chin a notch, shoulders straight. She was so young. So untried in the ways of the world.
“My lord, I would ask you reconsider—”
“God has granted you wings, Miss Heartstone. ’Twould be a shame if you never learned to fly.”
He tipped his hat in her direction and, clicking his heels together, gave her a short bow.
“I bid you good morning, Miss Heartstone.”
Belle returned to her London townhouse well before her mother awoke, Miss Rutger in tow. Disappointment sat heavy on her chest.
Lord Blake had been by far her best choice for a husband. She had prepared an extensive list of potential husbands, but no other man met all her criteria quite so readily. Did she want to move on to the next candidate? She chewed on the inside of her cheek.
Lord Blake’s words hummed through her head, buzzing like bees.
You are courageous and intelligent.
Why do you respect yourself so little?
She could see him yet, rimmed in morning light. The wind tugging at his greatcoat, chestnut hair curling from under his top hat. Eyes alternating between humor and firm belief in his opinions.
A crusading angel, fighting for her. A woman he did not know.
’Twould be a shame if you never learned to fly.
Her heart gave a painful thump.
Blink, blink, blink.
Why did his words bring her to tears?
She handed her bonnet and pelisse to her butler, still fighting the tightness in her throat. Pleading a headache, she retired to her bedchamber, before her servants registered the depth of her distress.
Lord Blake’s words would not be silenced.
You are worth far more than a marriage of convenience.
When was the last time she had said such a thing to herself? Why did it take a complete stranger saying them to actually believe them?
She pondered as she stood in her bedroom, wrapping her arms around her chest. She wiped a fugitive tear away, swallowing back the rest.
Blake’s words had taken the neat box of her life and upended its contents upon the floor. Leaving all the uncomfortable bits and pieces of her bare to the glaring light of truth.
Not even her father, God rest his soul, had ever spoken to her in such a forthright manner.
Had he?
When you marry, I would see you equally yoked. As I’ve always said, a lady should have options, Belle love.
Options . . .
She had always taken that to mean she could choose who she married. Her father had educated her in the ways of business so she could relate to her future husband, meet him as more of an equal. But after Lord Blake’s words today . . .
Had that truly been her father’s aim?
“Come, Belle, my dear. I have matters to discuss with you.” Her father slid a comforting hand under her elbow, steering her away from her mother. “You cannot talk ribbons and embroidery all day—”
“Bother, John!” Her mother pulled three more ribbon samples out of her basket. “However will she ensnare a husband if you keep dragging her off to talk shares and investments?”
“My dear wife, young ladies are hardly poachers, slipping through the dark night, laying ribbon traps for unsuspecting male game.”
“Heavens!” Her mother gasped. “What a vulgar—”
“Belle should have choices, my dear. I am merely ensuring she has her wits about her.” He shot a telling glance at her mother. “I would hate for her to make a poor or hasty decision . . .”
An advantageous marriage had been the driving goal of Belle’s life for . . . forever. She had thought researching Lord Blake’s personal history was what her father meant by avoiding a “poor or hasty decision.”
But what if that wasn’t the truth of his advice? Because the more she thought about it . . .
Her father had never once stated she must marry. No. That had always been her mother.
Why was she settling for marriage to a man she did not know? The more Belle considered it, the more her reasons escaped her.
But . . . what if?
/>
What if she chose to remain a single woman of fortune? Mr. White, her solicitor, was a dear friend of her father’s and supportive of her involvement in her own finances. The pressure to marry from her mother would not ease until she reached her majority in four years. But after that point . . .
She would be free. Free of her mother and uncle’s guardianship. Free to manage her fortune without begging for other’s approval.
You are capable of amazing things, Miss Heartstone.
The idea was . . . intriguing.
No. Revolutionary.
She felt fragile and new. As if truly seeing herself for the first time.
How could a single conversation so thoroughly shake the foundations of her life? How could she be reborn so quickly?
Belle grabbed a handkerchief and slid into a wingback chair before her fireplace. Her fingers beat a steady tattoo against the arm of the chair as she thought, thought, thought.
She did hope to marry someday. Children and a home—yes, she wanted all that. But did she desire those things at the expense of her freedom? Her self-respect?
No. She really didn’t.
She was not delusional. She knew she was no great beauty. Lord Blake, himself, had inadvertently pointed out how utterly forgettable she was . . . visibly invisible. No one remembered her face. All they remembered was her great fortune.
But Blake, at least, had the kindness to point out that she was more than the sum of her fortune. Just as he was more than the sum of his rank.
Of course, in the process of freeing her from the societal expectations of marriage, he had shown himself to be a man who would make a remarkable husband.
Ironic, that.
Her father had been such a man. And then spent his life married to her pretty, but frivolous, mother. All those years of advice . . . her father wanted her to avoid the same fate.
His death had shattered her. She was quite sure she had been almost sleep-walking through life since then. Allowing her mother to make decisions for her, to decide her future.
Belle swallowed, a painful lump having settled in her throat.
Papa would have wanted more for her.
Blake, bless him, had shaken her awake.
Her father would have liked Blake. They were cast from the same mold.
But she had nothing to offer Blake. He wasn’t eager for her fortune. And her person had not held enough charm for him to even remember that they had been previously introduced.
He had no interest in her.
She bit back a stab of longing at that thought, that swelling ache rising again. She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. So many emotions piled in, some were bound to bubble over.
Lord Blake and Miss Belle Heartstone—never to be.
No matter.
She rose and moved to the small writing desk situated before her bedroom window.
He was right, of course. She did not have to marry.
And even if she never saw him again, there was one thing she could do to thank the man who brought her to her senses.
Her father had taught her so much. It was time to pass along what she could.
Chapter Two
To The Most Honorable, The Marquess of Blake
May 2, 1816
My Lord,
It has been brought to my attention that you are searching for an investor for your current proposed excursion into the East Indies. As someone with considerable financial expertise, I have studied your proposal and find your business scheme has merit. Despite your own inexperience in such matters, a general inquiry into your background shows you to be a man of courage and intellect. Therefore, I wish to invest the requested sum of £5000, payable immediately. In return, I accept your proposal of a 50 percent profit share in the enterprise, as you can see from the enclosed papers. Please direct all correspondence through my solicitor, Mr. White, as I wish to remain anonymous.
I wish you Godspeed in your endeavors and hope for a fruitful return.
LTF
To LTF
May 5, 1816
Sir,
I thank you for your investment. Based on the ideas you enclosed, I discern you to be a man of wisdom. I firmly believe that your experience combined with my youth and enthusiasm will result in profitable yields for us both. You honor me with your faith in my abilities. They shall not be misplaced. We sail for Calcutta Wednesday next. I shall keep you apprised of our progress once we reach India in six months’ time. Until then.
Sincerely,
Blake
To The Most Honorable, The Marquess of Blake
August 12, 1817
My Lord,
I appreciate your recent letter detailing your progress with the Punjab and silk merchants. As I have repeatedly said, nothing is as effective as looking a seller in the eye as you shake hands on a business transaction.
The first shipment of silks arrived in London last week and fetched five percent more than we had anticipated. I have sent the details of the transaction to your solicitor, along with your percentage of the profits. I am enclosing my estimates for purchasing the cache of spices you mentioned. I believe the return would be worth the investment.
On a personal note, I find your continued descriptions of life in Calcutta to be fascinating. Large tigers, traveling by elephant, the smell of spices in the air. I am not sure I properly thanked you for the sketch you sent last month of a monkey eating a banana on your balcony. As I have mentioned, my personal circumstances do not permit me to travel. I deeply appreciate your kindness in sharing your experiences with me through your words and drawings. Just as you mentioned, when we began this endeavor, I did not think to find a friend either, and yet here we are. I will direct my cook to prepare my favorite curry tonight in your honor.
As per your repeated requests to know my identity, I would plead for your forbearance. I know you value honesty, and I do not wish to give you reasons to doubt my integrity. There are reasons for my silence on this matter, none of which would impact yourself. Consider me eccentric. I can, however, provide answer to your request for a description. I am neither tall, nor short in stature. Neither thin nor stout. My hair and eyes are a simple brown. In summation, I am utterly unremarkable.
And as for our recently begun game of chess, King’s Bishop to Queen’s Bishop fourth.
Your friend in this journey,
LTF
To LTF
June 21, 1818
Good Sir,
The spice investment has been a thorough success, thankfully offsetting the losses we suffered earlier in the year. I also deeply appreciated your sage words of advice in dealing with the tribesmen conflict. You have truly been Mentor to my Telemachus. Though in Hindu, they use the word guru more often to describe a trusted teacher. I bow to you in humble gratitude, my guru.
Please note my attached predictions for continuing to import spices at our current rate. Also, please thank Mr. White for securing the mortgage on my family seat in Dorset, as well as my townhouse in London. It is a relief to usher the marquisate back from the brink of ruin.
Also, thank you for forwarding the latest volume of poems from Mr. Coleridge. I find his descriptions of the Far East in Kubla Khan to be evocative. Though he describes China not India, his words do indeed remind me of my time here in Calcutta. I have included several pages of my scribbled thoughts as I read the volume.
I must admit to enjoying literature that explores the exotic and phantom more than I should. The works of Sir Walter Scott are a particular delight. A guilty pleasure perhaps, but one I am not ashamed to admit to among friends.
You are kind to continue to enjoy my drawings, inept as they are. I will never make my living as an artist. But I wish you to feel fully a part of the experience here in India.
I feel compelled to add, despite your protestations to the opposite, I find you anything but unremarkable. Your keen business sense combined with philosophical insights make you a most compelling correspondent. I appreciate having a seasoned ma
n of such wisdom as my partner in this endeavor.
Queen to Knight’s third.
Your friend,
Blake
To My Lord Marquess
May 12, 1819
Dear Lord Blake,
I have attached a separate letter for you with the details of your latest shipment. I do believe you will have enough to clear the rest of the debts left to you by the previous marquess. Also, I understand congratulations are in order for your appointment as counsel to the Governor-General. Well done, my friend.
Again, I greatly enjoyed the packet of drawings you sent last month. I could nearly smell the flowers. I have often wondered if I would find India fascinating or if homesickness would take me. Though with your words and images to keep me company, I do not have to leave my desk to experience other climes.
Your words describing the plight of the poor in India have lingered with me. Particularly, as you rightly observed, such desperation exists everywhere, even in Britain. Unable to purge your thoughts from my head, I have spoken with Mr. White about establishing a charity to help soldiers reduced to poverty after Napoleon’s defeat. Though it has been four years, many still do not have gainful employment, having lost limbs in the war. As a former soldier yourself, I hoped you would have insight as to what would be best. I have my eye on an estate in Dorset of around five thousand acres that is currently empty of tenants. I have been thinking of creating a working farm, of sorts. A place where soldiers and their families could build a new life and tend to the land without the weight of a heavy rent. Your thoughts, good sir?
In an attempt to remind you of home (and perhaps indulge in your taste for things gothic and ghostly), I have included a recently published short story. It is all the rage in London currently and titled “The Vampyre.” Lord Byron insists he is not its author, but regardless, it is a delicious pleasure to read. I hope it shivers your spine.
Bishop takes Knight.
Your true friend,
LTF
Spring in Hyde Park Page 17