“What was it you wish to speak to me about?” Mr Hayward asked as he settled his large frame into the cushioned seat.
* * * *
Grace sat impassively and listened to what her father had to say. She was greatly touched and felt honoured that he wanted to discuss a business transaction with her. For many years, she had longed for her father to take notice of her and to help him in the running of the plantation. Excitement filled her entire being at the prospect of being able to do some morally good works on the plantation.
The longer she sat patiently and listened to what her father had to say, the more her excitement died and heart began to fail her. She could barely keep her countenance. Were her ears deceiving her or was he revealing to her that she was to be married off in order to secure a trader and exporter for their spices? That she was to be a pawn for financial gain?
“Are you telling me that I am to be sold off as a slave, Papa?” Grace stood and paced up and down in front of the hearth.
George Hayward wiped his brow with his handkerchief, closed his eyes, and sighed in exasperation. “Now, Grace dear, do not be so vulgar. It is not becoming of a young lady.”
“Not becoming? Vulgar, am I?” Grace turned and stared at him incredulously. Her heart pounded in her breast and she could barely form the words she wanted to say to him. Tears stung her eyes. “What would you call it then, Papa? If it is not slavery, what is it?”
George chuckled nervously and shrugged. “Business.”
Grace threw her hands in the air and let out a cry of frustration. “Will he treat me as one of your slaves?”
“Grace—”
“Will he beat me the way they are?”
“Grace! That is enough!” George growled between gritted teeth, his nostrils flaring above his bristly moustache. He stood and stared at his daughter. His eyes bulged out of his head so far and his face was so red that she feared he would have a fit of apoplexy. “My workers are not mistreated in any way. I will not allow it!”
Grace deflated. “You really believe that, do you not, Father?”
“Yes. It is the truth.” George was still red but calmed at her softer tone.
“Perhaps you should watch your plantation manager more closely, Papa.”
“What do you mean?” He looked horrified as the realisation of what she was saying hit him.
“Many a slave has been beaten to within an inch of their lives by him. Mr Keen is as his name suggests, Papa. He is overly keen on punishing the slaves.”
George closed his eyes and put out his hand. “Stop using that word. They are workers and Mr Keen carries out his work diligently. You are imagining things, Grace.”
“They are unpaid and legally your property. They are slaves.” She paused, lowered her voice and her gaze, “Just as I will be.”
Clearly deflated, beaten by her cutting words, and shocked at the revelation that his daughter knew more than he did of his manager’s behaviour, George Hayward sank down onto the settee looking crestfallen. “What am I to do? The French and Dutch patrol the waters constantly. They prey on any British ship. I need an alliance with someone like Richard Emberton to strengthen the business. I need his ships—they are stronger and faster than the competition—to get to London with the spices intact and undamaged. You must see how important this is.”
“No, Papa, I do not see how important this is.” Grace looked down on him with pity, but the anger still bubbled up inside her. “I will not have my future thrown away because you need someone to transport your spices by sea.”
George sighed again, clearly exhausted by the conversation. He stood, reached out, and lifted Grace’s face by the chin. He looked into her eyes as he spoke. “Child, the deal is done.” Grace watched his face harden. “Richard Emberton petitioned me for your hand in marriage and I accepted.” He ignored Grace’s cry of indignation and continued. “We signed the business contracts last night after dinner.”
“How could you? How dare you, Papa!” Grace clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms.
Grace watched as her father’s jaw clenched. Clearly, he had enough discussion. “I have made my decision, and you will abide by it.”
“I will not consent.”
He did not look at her as he replied. “You will do as you’re told, and that’s an end to it.” She watched him retreat from the room and close the door quietly behind him.
Part of her wanted to scream, to cry out, but the rest of her wanted to lash out. Her mind worked hard to think of a way to prevent this tragedy from playing out. Suddenly she smiled as relief flooded her body. “Ah, Papa. You forget social etiquette. Only a woman can break off an engagement, and I certainly have no intention of seeing this one through to its conclusion.” Feeling her strength rise, Grace smoothed down her skirts and marched out of the room and into her adjoining bedchamber. She would dress for dinner with the Embertons that night, but she would be as cold as ice towards Richard. She would make him see that signing on the dotted line did not, in actuality, procure him the wife he obviously thought would come with this business arrangement.
If Grace’s plan worked, she and her father would be on a ship and bound back home for India within a fortnight. As she opened the armoire doors to choose a dress, she smiled. “I will be mistress of my own destiny and not a slave to anyone else’s desires.”
Chapter Four
Richard could not make head or tail of Miss Hayward’s behaviour that night. She would not look at him. She would not talk to him. And she was certainly bordering on rude. As dinner progressed, it became ever more evident to Richard that the business arrangement he and Mr Hayward had entered into did not sit especially well with Miss Hayward at all. Neither Richard nor his mother was a fool. Edwina, once Richard had secured Mr Hayward’s consent, had taken her son aside and had discussed the question of marriage even if the young lady did not agree to it. Richard was stunned by the conversation, but his mother clearly knew more about a woman’s heart than he did, or perhaps ever would know. The very thought of entering into marriage by proxy revolted him, but if Miss Hayward did not wish to be his bride—to secure her father’s business, to secure her future—and be the mistress of Emberton Hall itself, then perhaps marriage by proxy, without the need for her consent, was their only option.
As he continued to eat his meal, he watched Miss Hayward out of the corner of his eye and remembered the hushed discussion he had with his mother. At the time, the list of marriages she reeled off that had taken place without the bride’s consent surprised and sickened him. Richard Emberton was not a man to treat any other human being with such disrespect, and yet when it came to marriage, very few women ever got to choose the man they wanted. It saddened him that Miss Hayward would be one such wife and that he would be her husband on such terms. Nevertheless, if she was determined to resist the match, then that is how it would have to be. His mother had clearly shown him a solution to the problems the family business faced. Richard’s only recourse was to marry an heiress, and here was such a woman. What difference if she was not happy about the match? How many women ever were? And in his mother’s own words, the love would come in time.
Richard put down his knife and fork. He had eaten enough. He needed to make a statement, one that Miss Hayward could not misunderstand. He picked up his wine glass and raised it in toast towards her father, Mr Hayward. “To Mr Hayward and to our business arrangement. May it be strong and prosperous.”
“Hear! Hear!” chorused Mr Hayward and Edwina triumphantly.
As Richard took a deep mouthful of wine and drank to the toast, his eyes flicked towards Miss Hayward. The colour in her face had deepened from a delicate pink to a deep crimson. Her eyes blazed with fire. She was clearly furious at him and adamant that she would not be Mrs Emberton. Richard smirked at her over the rim of his glass. There was something in her indignation that spread fire throughout his body and ignited his passions. He would have Miss Grace Hayward for his wife, and, judging from the way s
he made him feel as their eyes locked across the table, he was going to enjoy every minute of it.
* * * *
The following morning dawned bright and sunny, as though the sun was desperately trying to hold back the inevitability of autumn. Richard sat once again in his library, as he often did before breakfast. His mind took him back to the last evening. Grace Hayward tried her hardest to ignore him and to be curt and rude whenever possible. Her father, Richard noticed, had grown increasingly irritated with his daughter. Edwina, his own mother, had been the peacekeeper that evening. Her qualities and deftness as a hostess completely shone through the situation. Richard had never been prouder of his mother. It reminded him of his childhood when his father would host such grand and extravagant parties, and he would watch from the staircase as his mother entertained everyone, seeming to never stop, seeming to never tire, and making every person present feel as though he were the guest of honour. He would have to remember to thank her later that morning.
The thing that entertained Richard the most about the evening before was Miss Grace Hayward’s attitude. She was clearly under the impression that this was a battle in which she would be the victor. But he knew the odds were stacked against her. Her own father wanted the match; Richard’s mother wanted the match; and now, after seeing the fire in her eyes, Richard wanted the match—not only for the benefits to his business that it brought, but also for the comely bride he would gain. Her image seemed burnt into the backs of his eyelids. Every time he closed his eyes, he thought of Grace. He had never met a woman like her. Within the circles that his family moved, there were many beautiful, accomplished, and marriageable women, women of refinement, women who did not display such a fire and passion of character that Grace had shown the night before. Richard was intrigued. He wanted to know her better, to assail her fiery temper and discover what lay beyond.
Reluctantly, he turned his attention to the papers sitting on his desk. He forced himself to trudge through the business of the day. He remembered his father’s words to him. “Work hard, play hard, my boy.” His father had lived by those words, and they were a mantra that Richard repeated to himself now. There would be no point whatsoever in chasing Miss Hayward if there was no business left because he was negligent. He threw himself into the task before him and determined that he would be finished before breakfast. A wry smile curled his perfect lips and creased his handsome face. Then he would dedicate the entire day to wooing and winning over Miss Grace Hayward.
* * * *
Richard was disturbed a while later by the arrival of his brother Edward, who knocked politely on the door of the library before he entered. This amused Richard. His brother was expert at the niceties of life.
“Might I disturb you a moment, brother?” Edward whispered as he stepped into the room.
Richard looked up from his papers. “Of course you may.” He leant back in his chair and stretched languidly. “What’s on your mind?”
“I simply wanted to take my leave of you. I am needed back in London. I met with Sir Guy last night.”
“Fortescue? Our Member of Parliament?”
Edward nodded, “Hmm…the one and the same.” He perched himself on the corner of Richard’s desk and played with a heavy glass paperweight. “He wants my help on something.”
Richard watched his brother’s face, who was evidently concerned about something. “And this is something that you are not comfortable with. Am I right?”
Edward looked up at his older brother with a cockeyed grin. “You know me oh-so well, don’t you, brother?”
“How could I not know someone I had grown up with?”
This drew a laugh from Edward, something Richard had noticed was less frequent of late. The weight of Parliament and business therein seemed to weigh heavily on his brother. “I do not agree with his proposal. I must return to London this very day, to seek out others who are of the same mind as my own.”
“Of course.” Richard nodded and stood to stretch his limbs. He walked around his desk and stood before his brother. “You do what you have to do, Edward. You went into politics because you wanted to make a difference, because you believe that a difference can be made. You always were the one out of the three of us with the most integrity. I would not expect anything less of you now.” He reached out and clapped his brother’s shoulder. “Will you at least stay for breakfast?”
Edward shook his head. “No. I must leave immediately. I must get to London before Fortescue does.”
“That serious, eh?”
“Yes, but you know I cannot tell you more.” Edward looked sad and more than a little older than his years. He slipped off the desk and walked towards the door. “Mama told me,” he said as he turned back to look at Richard, “about Miss Hayward. I wish you the very best with that.” He flashed a brilliant smile, and Richard saw once again the young man he knew and loved.
They both laughed.
“Thank you.” Richard cocked his head to the side, “I think.”
Again they both laughed as Edward opened the door and exited the room.
* * * *
Grace was reluctant to rise that morning. She barely slept a wink all night long. Over and over again, her mind played the conversation with her father and the events at dinner last night. Why, oh, why can Papa not see that I do not wish to marry Richard Emberton? Slowly she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and placed them on the floor. She looked down at her tiny feet with their perfectly formed toes and wondered what the future would hold. At some point during the night, Grace had realised the inevitability of marriage to Richard Emberton. She did not love him, she did not even care for him, and she certainly did not like him. She had wondered if this opinion of him was based solely on her being forced into marriage or whether it was a true assessment of his character.
It was then that she wished so very strongly that Eliza was with her. She stood up, picked up her robe, and crossed the room to the small writing desk in front of the window. She would write to Eliza. The letter would arrive at some point that day, and if Eliza replied immediately, she would either receive a reply by nightfall or by the very next morning. She drew a sheet of paper closer to her and dipped the pen into the inkwell, then poured out her very heart and soul into that letter. She knew that neither she nor Eliza had the life experience to offer advice to each other, but they were kindred spirits in this situation. Neither girl was marrying for love.
Grace paused and leant back in the chair. She began to question whether she was merely being childish. Was romantic love the stuff of fairy tales? Was it complete nonsense to wish to marry the man of one’s dreams rather than a complete stranger?
She turned her attention back to the missive and wrote those questions down on the paper. Again she paused before writing the next question: In this cruel world in which we live, is it futile to hold on to childish notions of love when we know the realities of life rarely are romantic or filled with love?
Grace looked out of the window and watched the birds fly across the sky from tree to tree as a profound heaviness took hold of her heart. She realised how small and insignificant she truly was in the scheme of things. Perhaps the best thing of all, perhaps her only chance of happiness, was to accept the inevitable, was to accept the arrangement her father had made. After all, she would have all she could ever wish for—except love.
She finished off the letter hastily and determined to try to accept her situation. If she spent her life moping about and being miserable, she would never accomplish anything. The noblest thing to do would be to make the best of a bad situation.
Grace sighed, sealed the letter, addressed it, and rang the bell to dress for breakfast.
* * * *
When Richard entered the breakfast room, his mother, Mr Hayward, and Grace were already there. He greeted them cheerily and bade them good morning before sitting himself opposite Grace.
She blushed deeply but greeted him courteously. Richard was relieved. Perhaps he was making some h
eadway with her after all.
“I trust you both slept well.” He kept his voice steady and polite as he accepted a cup of tea from the butler.
Grace blushed, he was pleased to see. “Yes, thank you very much, Mr Emberton.” Her voice was quiet and the politeness a little forced.
Richard caught his mother’s eye and watched the corners of her mouth curl upwards in a smile that, had he not been looking, he would have entirely missed.
“I am exceedingly glad to hear it,” Edwina said. “Do please remember to tell me if there is anything more that I can do for you. For such dear guests, no attention can be too small.”
There she was again, his mother, being the perfect hostess. Over the last few months, since his father’s death, Richard had not seen eye to eye with his mother. However, now he saw the advantages that she brought, and he was glad to have her on his side.
“Yes. Whatever you need, it will be our pleasure to provide.” Richard meaningfully stared at Miss Hayward and was rewarded as he watched her blush deepen to crimson. It was all he could do to maintain his countenance and not chuckle at the change in this woman. She may not particularly want the marriage, but it was growing more and more evident that, as a woman, she was attracted to him, so he assumed. Inwardly Richard was triumphant. This information gave him a new bargaining chip and gave him a stronger hand to deal with.
“I wonder, Mr Hayward,” Edwina began, as she raised her teacup, “if you and your daughter would like to tour the grounds today.”
Mr Hayward was caught unprepared with a mouthful of food. He chewed quickly and swallowed in haste needing a gulp of tea to help wash it down. “Oh, Mrs Emberton, what a splendid idea. Perhaps my daughter would like to tour the grounds and the house. I personally would prefer to tour your business premises in London.” He looked up and over his spectacles at Richard. “If that is amenable to you, of course, Mr Emberton.”
The Spice Bride (The Emberton Brothers Series Book 1) Page 3