“Miss Eliot, this is my son, Grey.” Sexton didn’t sound particularly happy or proud of the fact.
“Emily.” Alex’s tone was tender but with a hard edge beneath it, one that demanded her attention.
She turned to him.
He smiled. She didn’t.
“Why don’t you take Grey down to the kitchen for some refreshment?” he suggested.
“Certainly.” Emily walked to the desk and retrieved her book.
Alex offered her a soft look. She compressed her lips. She didn’t feel particularly soft towards him. He ought to commit to their wedding and set a date or else forget it. But this wasn’t the time or the place to get into a huff about it. She swept out of the chamber without a backwards glance and Grey’s footfalls sounded behind her.
“They’re very rare,” he said when they were a ways down the corridor.
“What?” she asked without stopping.
“The mouse that I saw on the lawn. It’s very exciting to see one, don’t you think? He got to travel all this distance only to die in Mr. Dalton’s yard.”
“Fascinating,” she said dryly, trying to hurry her pace without tripping.
“Is that your book?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“May I see it?”
“Yes, when we get to the kitchen,” she said, trying not to snap. It wasn’t the boy’s fault that his father had all the charm of a corpse or that Alex kept putting off their wedding plans.
“It is about the Barbary captives?”
“Yes.” She gave an inward sigh. All she needed at this moment was to have to deal with some inquisitive adolescent boy.
“It is so unfortunate. They are kept in worse conditions than Negro slaves are here,” he said as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
That made her pause and turn. “Well, perhaps the captives in Barbary are not treated so much worse.”
“Yes, the conditions in which the Barbary captives are kept are absolutely worse. Everyone knows this.”
The arrogant tilt of his chin mirrored his father’s. Irritation bristled over her. This obviously pampered boy didn’t know the first thing about slavery in America. Of course, she didn’t either, not first hand. But she’d taken the time to listen to those who did. She inhaled deep and forced her tone to be patient. “In many cases—most, I fear—it is very much the same here with our slave masters and plantation owners.”
He compressed his lips, his gray eyes piercing her for a moment as if he would quell her statement simply with the sheer force of his persona. When that didn’t work, he added, “Do you really think so?”
Damn it anyway, she’d had enough of men and their arrogance. She certainly wasn’t going to let some gawky boy tell her that she didn’t know whereof she spoke. Especially when she happened to be correct.
“I know so,” she said, lifting her chin with calm confidence.
He raised his brows and dropped his jaw slightly in a somehow elegant gesture of doubt. “How can you know that? Did you ever know any slaves from a real plantation? I mean, personally know them?”
“Yes, I did. I know someone who was given her freedom but was once a slave. She saw unspeakable things growing up. And it is not just on plantations. Slaves kept as servants can be treated poorly too.”
All the arrogance dropped from his expression and he grew serious. “You sound very concerned about the matter.”
“I am. Slavery is not right, no matter what others say. It is just not right.”
His features contorted with something like sympathy and his gray eyes shone like silver coins.
She caught her breath at the transformation.
“It must be hard to reconcile to what your father did, then?” he said, his voice suddenly so deep and mature and ringing with compassion. He also looked genuinely curious in the blunt way of young men.
His words skipped over her brain like a stone over ripples of water. She gave a nervous laugh. “Pardon me?”
“Your father, Thomas Eliot. He traded in slaves.”
Her neck muscles went rigid and she clenched her jaw. Oh, damn Richard Green to the blackest hell for his lies. He had tarnished her father’s name forever. It was beastly unfair.
“No, my father most certainly did not trade in slaves!” She took a deep breath trying to control her temper. He was only a boy. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”
He frowned. “But it is not gossip. My father knew Captain Eliot—he once sailed for us, when he was a young man, before he earned enough money for his own vessel. Once he had his own ship, he traded in African slaves. Father and Mr. Dalton were talking about it just yesterday at tea—”
Her blood began to roar in her ears and she could no longer hear what the boy was saying. It didn’t matter. He’d said all she needed to hear. She stormed back to Alex’s study and burst in.
Both men looked up at her then their mouths fell open one after the other.
But she narrowed her gaze on Alex and turned the full force of her fury on him. “You. Kept. The. Truth. From. Me.”
Chapter Seven
At first Alex’s eyes were bemused and then the color drained from his face and the light of comprehension dawned in his eyes. A small smile curved his lips as he came to her. He reached for her hand, his eyes shining with sympathy and love.
“No, no, no.” She backed up, shaking her head. “You will not charm your way out of this.”
He took her shoulders. “Now, my love, let us not air our differences in front of our guest.”
He turned back to Sexton.
The stern-faced merchant prince had already stood. “It’s time I was on my way. We’ll talk soon.”
“Yes, I shall see you at Exchange.” Alex’s hands tightened on her shoulders and he turned back to her, his gaze imploring her silence until Sexton and his son had left.
She couldn’t refuse him. She closed her eyes and swallowed deeply, struggling for control. She wouldn’t shame herself further in front of that cold-eyed merchant.
The door clicked closed, the sound jarring in her heart.
“Is it true?” She knew she needn’t explain what she meant.
Alex nodded. “It’s true. Asahel told me.”
“Why?” she breathed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t see the need for you to know. Grey told you?”
“Yes,” she said impatiently. What the devil did the messenger matter?
“Insensitive little coxcomb to bring it up to you. I shall have to speak with Asahel about it.”
“Please do not. He’s a boy, he doesn’t know any better. He thought he was offering me sympathy and I am glad he told me.”
“Sympathy?” Alex frowned. “It wasn’t his place to speak to you of such things.”
“What is there to say for you? You who kept the truth from me.” Her stomach churned sickeningly with her anger.
He stared back at her calmly. “You didn’t need to know. You could have gone the rest of your life not knowing it without adverse effect. I wanted to spare you the pain.”
She couldn’t believe he would actually think that. It related to and affected everything about her. Everything she thought she knew about her father and her own history. “But it changes everything—if it is true.” Hope sprang in her chest. “C-can Mr. Sexton really be sure? Maybe he’s mistaken.”
Alex’s expression turned so grave, so ashen-gray, he looked to her as if he might be ill any moment. “He is a most careful man. He’d never say something like that unless he were totally sure. And he only confirmed things I had known before, albeit vaguely.”
“My God.” She went weak all over.
He caught her. “Why don’t you go rest.” He caressed her upper arms through her muslin sleeves. “I’ll bring you something to make you sleep. You slept little last night. When you wake, we shall discuss this deeper.”
His high, broad forehead wrinkled as if in sympathy. How dare he pretend concern for her when he hadn’
t taken her feelings into consideration enough to be truthful with her?
“I don’t want to sleep.” She pushed away from him.
“It’s a shock. You need to let the first blow pass.”
She placed a hand to her forehead. “I have to think. I need to think what to do.”
“What do you mean ‘to do’? What must you do?”
“I must atone for this.”
“Atone? But you’ve done nothing.” He spoke so sharply, his words sliced into her. “Nothing.”
She dropped her hand and glanced up at him. His face looked so angry with the skin pinched around his nostrils.
“You’ve done nothing, do you hear me, Emily? You will not take this on to yourself nor go about wearing a hair shirt over it. You have no control over what your father or any other ancestor of yours did. None of us has such control — neither you nor I, nor anyone else.”
He would never understand. His family was so upstanding, so prestigious. No sin could ever touch them. Their blue blood and wealth would wash it clean again. Such was the benefit of being the better sort. But people from her class took such matters seriously. A bad mark on your father’s name was a mark on your own. Then it came to her in a flash what she must do. What she wanted to do. “I shall write a new book.”
He scowled. “A book?”
“Yes, I shall detail all the injustice, all the horror of slavery in this country. I shall seek out those who have run from abuse and enslavement and sketch their likenesses and make it all so personal no one can ignore it. I shall devote my life to the cause.”
He raised a forestalling hand. “Now wait a moment—”
She shook her head. “No, it is what must be done. It simply must.”
He took two steps closer and stared down at her steadily for a moment, looming over her. The tension levels rose between them until her palms began to sweat and she took several steps backwards.
“Well, I don’t want you doing this,” he intoned as if this were the final word on matters.
She gaped at him, disbelieving. “Why ever not?”
His jaw tensed. “I won’t have it, Emily.”
The edge in his voice startled her. She had never suspected he might try to interfere in this part of her life. The thought of going against him, of displeasing him, dismayed her but she squared her shoulders and forced her voice to be calm. “You have no say over my work.”
“I shall be your husband, your lord and master. Of course I shall have a say. Indeed, I shall have the final say.” He almost shouted the last words. She’d never seen his refined, handsome features look so fearsome.
Her throat seemed to close off. She placed a hand to her collarbone and gasped. “You can’t mean that,” she said in a hoarse voice. She took a hitching breath and cleared her throat. “You must take it back immediately.”
He blinked several times.
“You must,” she repeated firmly.
“I mean it, Emily.”
The pulse in her ears pounded loudly as her anger rose. Heated words rushed to her lips, refused to be held back. “Then, if that is how you feel, I shan’t be marrying you after all.”
The shock of her own words washed over. She began to tremble. But she wouldn’t relent. Not over something this important. She fisted her hands at her sides, digging her nails into her palms, using the pain to steady herself.
He compressed his lips and paused, his eyes flashing with ire. “Oh, for the love of God, don’t become so dramatic over this.”
He spoke these words as if she were merely upset over having been served blueberry crumpets instead of apple pie at tea. Hurt blossomed in her chest. She had thought he valued her work, that he took her seriously. However, ’he had viewed her art as no more than a means to an end with the Naval Bill. He saw her as no more than a bedmate, someone to control. “You want to stifle my free expression. I will not stand for that. It is just another form of slavery, sir.”
She turned, picked up her skirts and ran from the study. In the corridor, his footfalls echoed behind her. She hurried, reached her bedchamber and slammed the door behind herself and locked it. Then she flung herself on her bed.
She couldn’t imagine living without him. Yet no one—no one—would ever dictate to her. No one would interfere with her ability to use her art as she saw fit.
She had trusted him not to try and impinge upon her freedom.
He had just killed that trust.
How could she go on without loving him?
She couldn’t possibly love a man who sought to bind her wings like this…
Around and around, her anguish churned within her like a violent whirlwind until her stomach lurched. She laid a hand on her belly and swallowed convulsively.
It was over between them.
All over.
Forever.
The rasp of a key in her door brought her head up. She swiped at her eyes, gaping in disbelief as the door opened.
“Do you not have any respect for another person’s privacy, sir? How dare you just barge in here!”
“Stop calling me ‘sir’.”
“Isn’t that how it is to be between us now?”
He held up a staying hand. “Just listen to me. I want to explain my feelings.”
She stared at him, pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth to keep it still. Part of her was dying to hear what he would say. Part of her wanted to tell him to go to the devil.
He walked to the bed. “Slavery is an ugly issue. I don’t want you consumed with it any longer. I want to provide a happy life for you.”
Her heart went cold. “If you really wish for my happiness, you would understand that I am most content doing something of importance with my art. Something that can make a change in the world,” she blurted breathlessly. She paused to slow down. “I thought you were the same. I saw your passion about the National Navy issue. I thought you wanted to work to end the Barbary danger.”
“When the Naval Bill passes, I shall have done what I can about the situation in Barbary. I want to forget the whole matter. I want to live a happy life.”
“How is slavery in this country any different from the Barbary issue?”
“It isn’t—on that we’re agreed. But it is a thorny issue. Too many people have too much invested in it and they will not give it up without a bloody fight. I am worn down. I do not wish to fight matters like this. I don’t keep slaves. Isn’t this enough? I want to forget all the ugliness. I want to live a happy life with my wife and, God willing, our children.”
Disbelief and disillusionment crushed her. His handsome, tall figure blurred in her vision. For a moment, her chest went tight and she couldn’t breathe. Her heart went cold. Completely blood-coagulating, bone-chilling cold. Time seemed to slow down. She could breathe again. And she could see him clearly. Too clearly.
He startled, his eyes going wide. Then he drew his brows together fiercely. “For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that!”
“My God,” she said slowly, reluctant to put her realization into words but needing the release. “I have allowed myself to be so blinded. I have been in a… a trance all these months.”
“What the devil are you doing, Emily? You need to calm yourself.”
“I am perfectly calm now. And I see that you want to live a vacuous life. Just like the one you were living when we met. Crawling into one bed after another and jaunting off on one voyage after another, not worrying a whit about the rest of humanity.”
His eyes flared with anger. “That’s a ghastly thing for you to say.”
Her heart beat all the faster and her stomach knotted but she raised her chin, unable to back down. “It’s true.”
“Well, then, damn me to hell for wanting to have happiness and lightness in my life.” He’d said the words calmly, coolly, and they had all the greater impact for it. “But I shall have it, no matter the price.”
A rough-edged sadness burrowed its way into her chest until each breath seemed to increa
se the rawness. “If that is the way you feel, I am very heart sore over it, for I cannot allow myself to love a man like you.”
“What the devil does that mean?”
“It means we are done.” She jumped to her feet, knelt then reached under her bed, tugging and pulling on the handle of her valise. But it was stuck. It wouldn’t budge. After several moments, breathless, she sat back on her heels and resisted the urge to curse.
He knelt at her side. “Back away, I shall get that for you.”
“I can manage just fine.” She reached for the handle again and gave it a hard tug.
He laughed softly. “Oh, yes, like you were managing when I met you. Would you still be hanging about the Blue Duck now, I wonder, letting God knows who take you to bed?”
His words stung. Not so much for the sarcastic way he said them but for the truth behind them. She was young, untried, alone in the world with no kin, without funds of her own. No matter. She wouldn’t live in less than an honorable manner. She wouldn’t marry a man who was far less than she had thought he was. As Alex said, no matter the price.
She let go of the handle. “I should be better off on my knees in the muck of the alley behind the Blue Duck than here with a man who wants to control me and force me to live in some false utopia with him.”
With one stout yank, he freed the valise then stood holding it. “Good God, that’s an ugly thing to say.” He laid the valise on her bed. “A God-awfully ugly thing.”
“Why? This world is an ugly place. Girls in this city make their living that way every day. Better I live in the ugly world than callously turn my back on it. Maybe I shall write a book next on the subject of adolescent whores forced into that life by poverty.” Still feeling that dreadful inner pain, she crossed to her mahogany dresser, her movements slow, all her energy drained.
“No one would print a book about the abuse of young girls, not when married, powerful men enjoy it all too well.”
“Then I shall aim to reach their wives.”
“Yes, their wives. Rich, spoiled creatures who are happy they can delegate such base acts and save themselves the bother of bedding their insensitive husbands.” His voice resounded with cynicism.
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