A few children shuffled inside and surrounded the two ladies.
One of them tugged on Juliana’s skirts. “Are you gonna read to us, Miss Juliana?”
“O’ course she is, Emma. Now, you git the rest and set down in the corner there.” The children ran off and Eunice stood. “Mr. Tucker is buyin’ food wit’ the money our secret benefactor sent o’er yesterday.”
Opening the satchel, Juliana withdrew two books. “And you still don’t know who gives you such a large sum? Two pounds every month, is it?”
“Yes’m. It’s such a huge help.” Eunice shrugged. “But the note the servant leaves wit’ the money is jist signed Mr. A.”
“Well, praise be to God for this Mr. A, whoever he is!”
“Amen!” Eunice added.
Two hours later, after giving the children their reading and writing lessons, Juliana held young Rose in her arms, attempting to help the child fall asleep with a lullaby Juliana remembered her mother singing to her when she was young. After only a few choruses, the child snuggled against Juliana and drifted off, despite the noise of children playing in the room. Juliana smiled. According to Eunice, Rose rarely slept peacefully. Nightmares plagued the three-year-old, who had been discarded in a filthy alleyway six months ago with a note pinned to her chest saying, “Her mum is gone an’ I can’t care for her. God forgive me.” Anger and a host of other emotions she couldn’t name had riddled Juliana at the discovery. Mayhap ’twas because Juliana’s own mother had died and her father wanted naught to do with her that she felt drawn to young Rose above the others. They had both been abandoned.
Still, as she embraced the thin child, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to hold and love a child of her own someday. Chastising herself, she quickly banished the thought. She had no time for marriage or children. She must devote herself entirely to her father’s shipping business or she would not only never marry, she would be on the street. Just like her friend, Abilene.
Marriage brought thoughts of Lord Munthrope to mind and their recent bargain. She refused to call it an engagement. Not with that cheeky coxcomb. She’d not seen or heard from him in a week, and the thought had occurred to her that mayhap he had changed his mind. No matter. She wasn’t altogether sure she’d made a wise choice.
A knock on the orphanage door startled her. Isaac, who had since returned, ambled to answer it. At five-and-sixty, his years of farming had taken a toll on his body in the form of callused hands; skin the sun had turned into parchment; and a slight limp. Even so, the man always met each hardship head-on. He opened the door.
Juliana’s groomsman, Mr. Pell, dashed into the room. “Master Rowan is hurt, miss. Beat up pretty bad. You must come home quickly.”
Chapter 9
“Rowan, darling.” Juliana knelt beside the settee where her brother lay bruised and bloodied from head to toe. He moaned and cracked one eye to look her way, wincing from even that small movement. His other eye remained swollen shut beneath a gash on his forehead that dripped blood into his hair. He attempted a smile, but cuts across his lips prevented it. Instead, he groaned and whispered. “I shall recover, dear sister, never fear.” His voice was gravelly and thick with pain.
“Who did this to you, dear one?” Juliana’s eyes burned with tears. She took his hand in hers, but he cried out, grabbed his arm, and removed it from her grip. “Please. I’m all right,” he rasped. “I beg you, acquit me. I just need to rest.”
“You need more than that, Brother.” Juliana stood and glanced toward the door. “Wherever is the doctor?”
“He’ll be here soon,” Abbot said, gazing out the window.
Ellie entered with a bowl of water and a towel. “It will be all right, miss.”
Grabbing the cloth, Juliana dipped it in the water and dropped beside her brother again, her skirts puffing around her. “Who would do such a thing? Rowan, what happened?” She couldn’t imagine who would beat her brother so violently. He was such a jovial, lighthearted soul. Harmless, really. But wait. Mayhap Mr. Blanesworth had returned from overseas and found Rowan with his wife. She dabbed the cut on his forehead, remembering the time a few years past when Lord Rathsford had called Rowan to swords for a similar offense. She ground her teeth together. If only her foolish brother would stay away from other men’s wives!
“Who did this to you?” she repeated.
Rowan shook his head. “’Twas nothing. I owed them money.”
“Money, how much? Who? Honestly Rowan, if this is about gambling!” She pressed the cloth a bit too hard on his lips. He grimaced. Standing, she tossed the rag into the bowl, her ire rising enough to cast aside her concern and instead berate her brother for his shameless behavior. But a knock on the door stayed her tongue and sent Abbot to retrieve the doctor.
“Come, miss. Let ’em do ’is work.” Miss Ellie dragged Juliana from the room as Dr. Verns passed her with a look of concern before he stooped to examine Rowan.
“Doctor, please come by my father’s study when you are finished.”
He nodded but said nothing, then lifted Rowan’s eyelids to peer within.
Back in the study, with Ellie gone to fetch some tea, Juliana could not concentrate on the documents scattered across her father’s desk. Numbers and letters blurred before her into an unknown language that made no more sense than her life. Why, oh why, wouldn’t Rowan behave? Wasn’t it bad enough he wouldn’t help her run the business? Did he have to gamble away her profits too? And then get beaten to within an inch of his life?
Standing, she moved to the open French doors and gazed out upon her mother’s garden. A red-and-green parakeet landed on the fence and cocked its head curiously at her before warbling a happy tune and flitting to the branch of a palmetto palm. The scene brought to mind something Jesus said in the Bible about not worrying about what you would eat or wear because the birds don’t worry about such things since their Father in heaven takes care of them. Was that true? Or mayhap God had no problem caring for innocent birds, but considered sinful humanity beyond the limits of His grace.
A warm breeze fluttered the hair at her neck and brought the scents of heliotrope and the sea. Oh that she might sprout wings and fly away like that parakeet, never to worry again about money or sick fathers or wastrel brothers or trying to earn a living in a male-dominated world.
A throat cleared behind her. She turned to find Dr. Verns standing in the doorway, one hand carrying his medical satchel, the other laid across a prodigious paunch bedecked in a silver-trimmed doublet. The curls of his black periwig made his face all the more pale, though a flat, round nose and chin gave him a look of kindness.
“Come in, Doctor.” She gestured toward a chair, but he merely approached the desk and stood, head bowed in thought. Mr. Abbot followed him in.
“Pray, tell me, shall my brother be all right?”
“He will, Miss Juliana, though he’ll be in pain. He has a broken arm, cracked ribs, and several bruises and cuts.”
Mr. Abbot addressed her. “We’ve moved him to his chamber where he’s resting now.”
“Thank you.” Juliana moved back to the desk, fearing the answer to her next question. “Did you check on my father, Doctor?”
He nodded. Lifted his gaze to stare at the painting of a ship hanging behind the desk, then swallowed and glanced out the window.
“Am I to guess that he is worse?” she said, clutching the desk.
“I cannot deny it, miss. His fever has risen, his legs have swelled, and blood appears in his spit. In addition …” He glanced up at her as if just remembering he was speaking to family, then changed his tone. “Not to fear, Miss Dutton. Indeed some patients often get worse before they recover. I will come by and purge him again in a few days.” He moved forward and laid a hand on her arm, sympathy filling his eyes. Eyes that betrayed his words of hope.
She tried to smile. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Doctor Verns. Mr. Abbot will see you out.”
Benumbed, Juliana propped herself ag
ainst the desk and hadn’t moved an inch by the time Abbot returned. Was the look of despair on his face due to Rowan’s condition or had something else gone wrong? Please, God, I cannot handle any more bad news.
“Never fear, Abbot, we will discover to whom my brother owes money and pay off the debt lest the villains cripple him permanently next time. Or worse, leave him for dead.”
Abbot merely nodded. “I will have Mr. Pell ask around.” Yet the butler’s thin gray brows continued to collide.
“Pray tell, Abbot, what is it?” Skirting the desk, she lowered into the chair and studied him, trying to guess the cause of his distress. “Your great success last week in dealing with the incoming shipment gave me hope we can continue our charade and make Dutton Shipping more lucrative than ever. But here you are looking as dour as a goose before the slaughter.”
“Yes, good news, indeed, about the shipment. I astounded even myself. I grow more comfortable in my role and become more accepted down at the wharves.”
“But …?” She examined him. She’d known him too long to not notice the hesitation hovering around his mouth, the distress in his eyes.
“It may be nothing. Perchance I can put him off.”
Juliana groaned inwardly. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know to whom he referred, yet she found herself asking the question anyway.
“Mr. Wilhelm Edwards.”
“Mr. Edwards, yes. He’s a friend of my father’s. Runs a merchant fleet from Dover to Barbados.”
“The same. He oft comes to town to see a mistress he keeps here. One time when he saw the Esther’s Dowry at the dock, he asked the shipmaster where to find your father. The man directed him to me. He told me many times to say hello to your father and asked to see him. On one occasion, he insisted on traveling home with me. I’ve been able to put him off with various excuses, but I fear the next time he sails into Port Royal, I will be out of excuses.”
Did a cloud absorb the sun, or did the room suddenly become gloomier? Juliana closed her eyes. She knew Mr. Edwards. He and her father had been childhood friends in Bristol. He would not relent until he saw his old friend. And once he did, he was not the type of man to keep a secret. Even worse, he would never approve of a woman running a business.
She rubbed her temples, where a headache began to form. “What else can go wrong, Abbot? I fear I cannot tolerate any more bad tidings.”
Miss Ellie entered the study, carrying a tray of tea and cakes and set it on the desk. “Here you go, miss. Oh, you do look tired. Poor dear. Never you fear about Master Rowan. Weel get ’im well soon enough, you’ll see. But ’tis you who must stay well.” She stopped to take a breath and dab the moisture on her neck with a handkerchief. “I must check on your father and Master Rowan. Cook says she’ll ’ave dinner ready soon.”
Rising, Juliana approached the flustered maid. “Thank you, Ellie, for all that you do. Mayhap you should get some rest as well.”
“Naw, miss.” She waved her away. “If you aren’t restin’ then I’m not restin’.” And with that pronouncement, she hurried from the room.
“An’ I ’ave,” Mr. Abbot began, “I mean to say, I have business down at the docks. I’ll return before sundown.”
Juliana smiled. “I’m so proud of you, Abbot.”
He halted midstride to say, “It is you we are all proud of, miss,” before he marched from the room.
Proud of her? She shook her head and poured herself some tea. Plunking broken bits of sugar into the steaming liquid, followed by a dollop of cream, she stirred and watched the steaming tea spin round and round. Like her life was doing. Like her head was doing at the moment. She raised a hand to steady it, when she saw a post on the tray with her name written in stylish letters. In all the mayhem, Ellie must have forgotten to mention it. On the back, a red seal bearing a single initial M stared back at her as she broke it and opened the missive.
My coach will arrive at eight p.m. this Saturday to escort you to our betrothal gala.
Forever yours, Munthrope
Fie! She’d nearly forgotten about the ball on the morrow. She tossed the note to the desk. With all that was going on, the last thing she needed were the attentions of some jingle-brained fop. Yet how could she bow out now with the invitations already sent and the celebration already planned? She simply must speak with Lord Munthrope before the announcement, give her regrets, but tell him she has changed her mind. Then he could announce whatever he wished. With his vivid imagination and flamboyancy, he would no doubt invent a grand tale with which to fascinate the crowd.
She sauntered to the French doors and leaned on the frame, drawing in a deep breath of moist, tropical air. Above her, puffy clouds strolled across a cerulean sky as if they knew exactly where they were heading and were in no hurry to get there. Ah, her fortune for such direction and peace in her own life. God, where are You? Juliana had done everything right. She prayed, she read her Bible, she gave to the poor, helped the orphans and widows—just like God commanded. Yet problems and trials continued to plague her. What am I doing wrong? She stared heavenward, hoping for an answer, but only the croak of a frog and buzz of insects replied.
Mayhap she wasn’t doing enough. She needed to work harder, give more to the poor, help the orphans more, be a good example for her wayward brother, be kinder to the servants. Mayhap she needed to spend more time reading her Bible and praying. Then—maybe then—God would be pleased with her. Then He would shine His favor on her and all these trials would cease.
♥♥♥
Before he even laid eyes upon her, Alex knew Miss Juliana Dutton had stepped into his home. Like one coming out of a deep sleep or awaking from the darkest of nights to the breaking of dawn, the world around him came alive. The lanterns glowed brighter. The air was fresher, the scents sweeter. The mindless cackle of his guests drifted into the background. Even the orchestra began to harmonize. He stood on the landing above the massive foyer, peering down at her as she entered through the front doors, taking pause at the anger weaving through her features. She wore a lavender tabby gown fringed in black lace, a jeweled stomacher bedecked with pink ribbons, beruffled bell sleeves, and a low décolletage pressing against her creamy breasts. Golden hair spiraled in delicate layers atop her head, sparkling as much as the pearls woven betwixt the strands. She floated across the coral stone floor like a swan, ignoring calls of greeting thrown her way. She scanned the crowd, no doubt looking for her host, and from the looks of her tight mouth and sharp eyes, it wasn’t to give him a kind greeting but to chastise him for sending his man to escort her instead of picking her up himself.
Alex adjusted the silly wig atop his head. He couldn’t blame her. It was beyond incorrigible, but what else could he do? He mustn’t give her any opportunity to call off their betrothal, as he suspected she may attempt to do. A week’s time, no doubt, afforded her enough moments of lucidity in which to regain her senses. After the announcement, propriety would forbid her to reject his suit—at least until enough time had passed. And time was all he needed. Time with her. Toward what end, he had no idea, save to satisfy a yearning within him to know this fine lady. But now, how to avoid her for the next thirty minutes or until he could gather his guests for le grande declaration.
Chapter 10
When Juliana found that vainglorious cur, Munthrope, she would forget her manners and her station and tell him exactly what she thought of his lack of chivalry. Never in all her years had she been kept waiting for hours to be escorted to a ball—not by previous suitors, not even by her indifferent father. And then to find that the cretin wasn’t even in the coach but had sent one of his lackeys to escort her. If this was any indication of his skills as a cavalier, she should break her bargain with the man here and now. Which was precisely what she intended to do.
As soon as she found him.
Halting at the edge of the ballroom, she strained to hear his effeminate lilt, his shrill laughter at one of his own jokes. But nothing but the giddy tittering of the crowd and the mel
ody of the orchestra resounded in the glittering room. Quite a good orchestra, she had to admit. Difficult to find such skilled musicians on Jamaica. Why, there was even a violinist. The sweet dulcet notes at the beginning of Beethoven’s Fifth caressed her ears, making her long to play her own violin in the privacy of her home.
Apparently, Lord Munthrope spared no expense for the announcement of their betrothal. Neither in the orchestra nor in the lavish display of delicacies spread across the long banquet table she now passed: banana custard, broiled fish with lemons and capers, roasted wild boar, turtle puffs, lemon cake, and her favorite, mousse au chocolat. Sweet and spicy scents stirred her stomach to life and lured her to stop and sample a bit of the mousse. But she was on a mission. In the drawing room, two jugglers entertained the crowd, while in the garden a trained monkey danced and performed tricks for a cheering mob. No expense, indeed. Whom was Munthrope trying to impress?
The sound of trickling drew her to the middle of the garden’s courtyard, where a knot of guests circled a bubbling fountain. Curious as to what drew their attention, Juliana soon discovered ’twas not water that spilled from the carved angels atop the ornate structure, but sweet Madeira, into which several people repeatedly dipped their cups. She had never seen the likes of it. What an unusual man this Munthrope was.
Back inside the house, barefooted mulattos wove expertly through a crowd that barely noticed their presence—until a tray of drinks or pastries was held before their noses.
“Have you seen Lord Munthrope?” She stopped Sir Branwell to ask.
“Nay, my dear. Not since I arrived. But if you are looking for a dance partner?” His bloodshot eyes sparkled with interest.
She declined and hurried along. Another lady had just seen him in the billiards room, but when Juliana arrived, he was gone. A gentleman told her he was upstairs in the library regaling a crowd with his tales at court as a young man. But he was not there.
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