by Nichole Van
He could read, he supposed. Or visit the taproom of the tavern down the street.
Neither option sounded too appealing.
Instead, he slumped further into his chair, head back, allowing his mind to wander.
What was Lord Halbert doing right now, he wondered? Enjoying a festive dinner with George and Cecily? Laughing in cozy warmth as snow fell outside? Surely, they would light a yule log, servants keeping the enormous log burning through Twelfth Night.
He could see it now. An old-fashioned, wood-lined dining room, snug and welcoming. Candles flickering from sconces and the candelabra on the table. Pine boughs and cut holly decorating the fireplace mantel. Perhaps even some mistletoe hung across the doorway. Cecily would make some remark about missing her brother, Lord Blake, and Lord Halbert would smile—
Colin took several deep breaths, forcing back the painful longing threatening to choke him.
He would have that, he vowed. At some future point, Colin would sit with them together at that table and celebrate Christmas.
But until then, he would have to settle for Lord Halbert’s letters. Writing to LHF had become something of a catharsis, Colin realized. A much-needed line of connection to home. Colin appreciated the warmth and kindness that shone through every letter he received from the man. He had come to feel a strong connection to his sister’s father-in-law.
Before Colin could consciously make the decision, he was moving toward his small writing desk and pulling a sheet of paper out, beginning yet another letter to LHF.
My Lord Marquess
February 12, 1817
Dear Lord Blake,
Thank you for your letter last week regarding the on-going purchase of silks in Calcutta. I have enclosed a report on the sale of the spices and tea you sent on.
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.
Per your request, I am enclosing my estimates for purchasing further caches of spices. I propose that the return would be worth the investment.
Also, I am not sure I properly thanked you for the sketch you sent of a monkey eating a banana on your balcony. I could nearly smell the flowers. I will direct my cook to prepare my favorite curry tonight in your honor.
Sincerely,
LHF
To LHF
Calcutta
March 28, 1817
Good Sir,
The silks are on their way and I pray the market holds fast. They will be arriving late in the season, but I have faith that their quality will command a high price. I have found another supplier for black tea who promises a stronger rate of return and a more nuanced taste. I will journey three days north of Calcutta next week to ascertain the veracity of this. You hit upon genius to think more of a lady’s sensibilities when creating our tea blends. Most men overlook the fact that it is the lady of the house who makes decisions as to tea, not her husband. You are wise to focus more specifically on their wishes and tastes.
I feel compelled to add that your keen business sense combined with philosophical insights make you a most compelling correspondent. I appreciate having a seasoned man of such wisdom as my partner in this endeavor—
Belle shook her head as she read through Lord Blake’s most recent report.
The man had proved a much more diligent correspondent than she had ever anticipated. He wrote with shocking regularity and liked to include observations and items unrelated to their business. This letter, in particular, was more personal than most.
Belle was unsure what to do with his comment about having ‘a seasoned man of such wisdom as my partner.’ Clearly, she needed to tell him about her gender, but what would happen if she did? Would he dissolve their fledgling business? If things fell apart right now, the results could be disastrous for not only her and Lord Blake, but for the thousands who were relying on them—
The door snicking open jerked Belle’s eyes upward, breaking her train of thought.
“Belle, love. Lord Armstrong should be arriving within the hour.” Belle’s mother appeared in the doorway to the study, her mouth drawing down as she took in Belle’s desk strewn with correspondence and business ledgers. Not that her mother knew a thing about Lord Blake or the goings on of Belle’s day-to-day business.
More to the point, managing her mother’s incessant requests and discreetly running a thriving international trading empire was pushing Belle’s reserves to the limit.
Some days, it felt like she barely had enough time to breathe.
“You must change your dress,” her mother continued, her expression a maternal mix of exasperation and dismay, clearly struggling to understand how she had birthed such a daughter.
Only years of experience kept Belle from rolling her eyes.
She had no interest in Lord Armstrong or any of the legions of men that her mother trotted in front of her. Marriage was far from her thoughts currently. Calculating transportation costs and tea prices was far more pressing and important than balls and routes and slow carriage rides in Hyde Park. Her mother simply didn’t understand that getting tea and silks to market when demand was at its highest was the difference between fifty- or one-hundred percent profit. A sizable profit meant being able to secure future work for her factory laborers, instead of cutting back.
Thousands depended on Belle and Lord Blake making sound decisions. Something her mother clearly did not understand.
Worse, lately it seemed the more Belle resisted marriage, the more her mother pressured her to accept it.
Her mother did understand her daughter well-enough to read Belle’s expression. Mrs. Heartstone bustled into the room, hands fluttering, hair and clothes perfectly styled. Despite her years, Mrs. Heartstone still retained the dainty prettiness that had so attracted Belle’s father.
“Belle,” she said, heaving an exasperated sigh, “you need to accept one of these gentlemen.”
“Must I, Mamma?”
“Yes!” Her mother’s voice climbed an octave. “You come into your inheritance in only six months’ time. I am sure that your father, God rest his soul, would not have wanted you to be a . . . a spinster.” Mrs. Heartstone said the word as if it were particularly repellent.
Belle, truth be told, was decidedly tired of this conversation. She and her mother had been doing a similar dance for nearly a year now, with Belle avoiding telling her mother the truth.
But today, Belle said the first words that crossed her tongue:
“Mamma, I am quite sure that my father, God rest his soul, would not have cared whether I married or not.”
“Not cared?!” Now her mother did screech.
Oh dear.
This was why Belle had avoided stating the situation so baldly to her mother. She set down her quill.
Perhaps it was the slew of unanswered correspondence before her—decisions about silk orders for the next few months, questions about investing in a factory outside Paisley, and could she possibly contribute to Lord Wallace’s charitable foundation?
Perhaps it was a lack of restful sleep worrying over the little white lie she continued to tell Lord Blake finally catching up with her.
Or, perhaps, Belle was tired of using work as an excuse to avoid this very conversation.
So even though she knew she shouldn’t bait her mother further, Belle replied anyway. “Mamma, one must be well beyond the age of twenty to be considered a spinster.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed to small slits. “You are in definite danger of spinsterhood, young lady. Mark my words. And then who will have you? You’ll have to settle for a mere mister and all my hard work—No! Your father’s hard work!—will have been for naught.”
Belle bit her tongue. Heaven forbid! A mere mister. Gasp. All the civilized world knows we cannot have that!
Only six more months, Belle repeated her mother’s words to herself. Only six more months until her mother and uncle had no
more say over her.
Six more months to complete freedom and independence.
“There is more to life than marrying a title.” Belle said the words without carefully considering them.
Her mother blanched, face turning deadly white. “I cannot believe a child of mine would say such a thing. Of course, you must marry a title. I shall speak with your uncle immediately. We cannot force you to marry, but you must rethink your reluctance—”
“You’re not listening to me.” Belle rose from her chair. “Marriage isn’t all that is important—”
“No, daughter. Nothing is more important.” Her mother’s cheeks flushed. “Someday you will understand how the world works and you will see.”
“I understand enough, Mother. I don’t need—”
“You need to marry!”
“No, Mamma! I don’t.”
“You do!”
“I don’t! In fact, I may never marry at all!”
Belle’s words landed between them with a loud splat.
Mrs. Heartstone gasped, hands clutched to her bosom, all the color draining from her face.
“You c-cannot be in earnest, Belle.”
Belle straightened her spine. The action had become more and more familiar over the past year.
“I am in dead earnest, Mamma.” She jutted out her chin. “I am in no hurry to marry. If I meet a man who sparks my interest, I will consider marriage. Until then, however, I will remain unattached.”
Mrs. Heartstone sat down on a chair, face aghast.
“You used to be such a biddable, obedient daughter. What has caused you to change so?”
“Mamma—”
“Why must you abuse me in this fashion?”
“Mamma! This is hardly abuse.” Belle gave her mother a mollifying look. “I have merely realized that I do not wish to marry right now. Perhaps in the future, that will change.”
Silence rang between them.
Finally, her mother managed to swallow.
“But . . . but what will become of me?” her mother whispered. “Who will manage . . . everything? Where will I even live?”
Ah.
The truth at last.
Belle’s heart softened.
Of course. Her mother was concerned about her place in the world. Without a man to oversee things—whether that be a husband or a son-in-law—Mrs. Heartstone was adrift. The woman had been adrift for years and was at loose ends trying to find her way back to surer ground.
Belle understood that feeling well.
Her mother needed something to help her see that life could be lived without a man at her side.
“Mamma, who do you think has been managing our investments since Papa’s death?”
Her mother blinked at her, as if slowly attempting to comprehend Belle’s words.
“Mr. Sloan, I presume,” she replied
Belle nodded. “Mr. Sloan has been helpful. But I have been managing it all, Mamma. And I will continue to manage it for myself and for you. You have nothing to fear.”
Her mother continued to stare, eyes wide. “I don’t think it seemly for you to involved yourself to such a degree—”
She and her mother would never see eye-to-eye on the issue of running a business.
“Mamma, have I told you about the lovely property I found for you just outside Cambridge?” Belle changed the subject.
There was no such property. But Belle would set one of her stewards to finding one immediately.
More paperwork, she sighed.
She would need to hire another clerk. Possibly two.
Yet another task.
But . . . if it gave her mother something else to focus on . . .
“Property?” Her mother frowned clearly trying to follow the change in topic.
“Yes. Remember how I mentioned building you—I mean, us—a new house?”
“Oh! Yes!” Her mother’s eyes lit with interest. “A new house.”
Belle tapped the papers before her. “Give me another fifteen minutes, Mamma, and I will come to meet with Lord Armstrong, and then we can discuss the new house.”
And you will have a project to obsess over other than myself, Belle mentally continued.
One more task. One more thing added to her to-do pile.
Belle swallowed a tired sigh.
“A new house,” her mother repeated, eyes dreamy and clearly focused on building and furnishing a home.
Worth. It. Belle decided then and there.
Particularly as the reprieve allowed her time to pick up a pen and reply to Lord Blake’s letter. She would deal with the issue of her identity and gender later.
For now, she and Lord Blake had business to attend to:
August 27, 1817
My Lord,
I shall jump straight to the good news. The first shipment of silks arrived in London last week and fetched five percent more than we had anticipated. The colors and patterns were spot on for fashions this year. Three of the leading modistes in London snatched up the lion’s share of the fabric before it was even taken off the ship. I have sent the details of the transaction to your solicitor, along with your percentage of the profits.
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. 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. 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.
And to reply to your posed riddle . . . What grows when it eats, but dies when it drinks?
A fire. Hah! It took me a moment to think of the answer.
Here is one of my own: At night, they come without being fetched. By day, they are lost but never stolen. What are they?
Your friend in this journey,
LHF
6
To LHF
Calcutta
June 21, 1818
Good Sir,
The spice investment has been a thorough success, thankfully offsetting the losses we suffered earlier in the year. I still regret that our last load of silks arrived too late for the first rush of dress orders for the Season. We will do better next year. That said, I deeply appreciated your sage words of advice in dealing with the tribesmen conflict. Without your guidance, I don’t know that we would have gotten the silks to market at all.
Like in Homer’s Odyssey, you have truly been Mentor to my Telemachus. Though in Hindi, 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 if we continue to import spices at our current rate. Also, please thank Mr. Sloan 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.
As for your last riddle: What always runs but never walks; always murmurs but never talks; has a bed but never sleeps; has a mouth but never eats?
Hah! A river.
And now one for you: Four days start with the letter ‘T.’ One is Tuesday. The other, Thursday. Can you name t
he other two?
Your friend,
Blake
Colin removed his hat, using a handkerchief to mop the sweat dripping down his face.
Damn and blast but India was hotter than Hades on a good day.
A train of pack mules and wagons stretched ahead of him, circling toward a small village. Hired guards rode the perimeter, their colorful silk robes collecting dust, rifles glinting in the bright sun.
Shoving his hat back onto his head, Colin drank deep from his water flask.
Colin wouldn’t breathe a sigh of relief until this shipment was safely loaded aboard ship. Only two more days until they reached port. He would be damned if he was late getting silks and tea to market in London this year. He had spent the last several months forging stronger bonds along trade routes, moving deeper into India.
Fortunately, the tribesmen Colin had hired to protect his wares had done their job. There had been the occasional skirmish over the past week—an enterprising group of teens had tried to run off some of their horses one night, a small band of would-be thieves had fired at them from a distance before racing off—but never a pitched battle.
Granted, Colin had laid his plans carefully. He needed the locals to see him as a force to be reckoned with. So Colin had hired several “drunkards” to spread word of his fearsome reputation as a former captain in His Majesty’s Army through the taverns and streets of Calcutta.
Colin was quite sure that his actual ferocity did not match the rumors he had spread, but that was entirely the point of the rumors.
It was LHF who had suggested laying the initial groundwork of rumors.
The man was a bit of a tactical genius, to be honest. Where others would use more traditional methods of brute force, LHF always suggested employing the sections of society that Colin would never have considered—widows, orphans, injured veterans, etc.— to carry out more stealthy, emotional attacks. LHF’s thinking was always unexpected and cleverly cunning.