by Nichole Van
“Come,” she called.
The door to her study opened.
“Mr. Sloan to see you, madam,” her butler intoned.
Her solicitor strolled into the room, a smile peeking out of his beard. “Belle, my dear, it is always a delight to see you.”
“Mr. Sloan.” Belle rose to greet him, placing a fond kiss on his cheek. They had long ago abandoned any formality with each other. “How are Mary and your boys?”
“Well. The boys are thriving and Mary keeps us all sorted. How is your mother?”
“She is in good spirits, though she is already hinting at wanting to redecorate her new home.” Belle barely suppressed an undignified eye roll. “But she writes endlessly about a handsome widower who has recently taken a house near hers, so she appears well-entertained.”
“That is good to hear,” Mr. Sloan chuckled.
Belle motioned for Mr. Sloan to be seated in the chairs before the fireplace. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“I have some papers for you to look over, m’dear.” Mr. Sloan sat down, bending to retrieve some paperwork from his satchel. “You had inquired into creating an orphanage for children left parentless due to the conflict with Napoleon.”
“Oh, yes. I have so been wanting to create a sister project to Hopewell Manor.” Belle instantly perked up. “I had thought you too busy just now to set your mind to it—”
“I had an ambitious clerk begin the research. The challenge will be finding an appropriate property, as we’ve been saying. But I am tracing some leads and these initial reports are most interesting. I wished to get your thoughts on them before continuing.”
“Wonderful.”
Mr. Sloan spread the papers before her—several properties that could function as the basis of an orphanage. They discussed each estate in detail, pointing out the advantages and disadvantages.
“I would love to find a property that has an old church we could use as a school,” Belle concluded. “The children must receive a proper education.”
“Agreed. But a greater problem might be getting a local magistrate to authorize our project. Many do not like the idea of a large orphanage in their midst.”
Belle grimaced. “Well, we shall keep looking. Do you remember Thomas?”
“The veteran who accosted you in Bristol?” Mr. Sloan snorted. “I shan’t ever forget that moment. I am quite sure my heart stopped.”
Belle narrowed her eyebrows. “That was hardly the only incident, Mr. Sloan—”
“True, but part of me heartily hopes that there will come a time when I will see the last of such things. The risks you take, Belle dear—”
“—are my own. I will not allow my sex to relegate me to a gilded cage, Mr. Sloan. You know this.”
“I know.” Mr. Sloan sat back. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t worry for your safety.”
“We were perfectly safe visiting Hopewell Manor last month. England is hardly the wilds of India.”
“Hopewell Manor is safe, I agree. But your visit to the factory in Manchester, however—”
“I had to confirm, in person, if there was any truth to the allegations against our factor there. Mrs. White’s report was quite specific,” Belle’s voice rose. “You know I keep a midwife on call for each of my factories, and they keep me apprised of situations as they arise. Particularly if those situations involve one of my managers.”
For example, Mrs. White had written her with some decidedly disturbing news. Belle knew that having a midwife see to the needs of her female workers was unusual, but she could not leave the women in her employ without help. Many employers cared less if their female workers had children or not, as long as the women showed up to work. But as most workers were married, pregnancy and children inevitably followed. Many expectant mothers labored on the factory floor until the hour they delivered their babes.
Belle simply wished to ensure that all the women were properly cared for. And that meant tasking the midwives with keeping their eyes out for other problems.
“You should have waited for me to accompany you.” Mr. Sloan said his words carefully, but the reproach in them couldn’t be ignored. “A lady shouldn’t have to sully her mind with such . . . things.”
Belle bit back the retort that hovered on her lips. Well, someone needed to investigate if our man was accosting girls, as Mrs. White stated.
It was her factory, in the end. She was responsible for what occurred inside it.
She had taken two footmen and her man-of-affairs with her.
Of course, that hadn’t stopped the factor from launching himself at her man-of-affairs when the man fired him. It had taken the constable and a letter from Mr. Sloan to finalize the manager’s removal.
She loved John Sloan as a beloved uncle-figure. But he would forever see her as a young lady. Yes, she took risks, but she always made sure her behavior was discreet. She was careful.
“Regardless, back to my first question,” Belle said, “you remember Thomas? I visited with him and his wife when I visited Hopewell. Their two older ones are making tremendous progress with both their reading and their sums. I love the idea that our schools could one day produce the managers and other workers we need to run our various enterprises.”
“I agree with your assessment. I will continue the hunt for the perfect property.” Mr. Sloan nodded, gathering up his papers.
“Give my love to Mary and your boys, please.”
“Of course. We shall have to organize a leisurely dinner party some evening.”
“I would enjoy that, but I would enjoy it even more if your boys could join us.”
Mr. Sloan gave a wry laugh. “They are scamps, but I do love them.” He paused, meeting her gaze. “Does any of this create an ache in you, my dear?”
Belle tilted her head, a quizzical expression on her face.
“All this discussion of children?” Mr. Sloan clarified. “Does it make you long for one or two of your own?”
Belle drew back slightly.
Mr. Sloan rarely commented on her most private life, but when he did, it was with fatherly concern, like now.
Children? A family? She had been giving it some thought as of late, but she was in no hurry. She was barely four and twenty. “I should like to have children one day.”
That was her truth. Someday, she would like to have a child. Someone to pass along her insights and knowledge, just as her father had done for her. Someone to love and be loved in return.
What was it Blake had said to her that morning so very long ago?
What do you desire most?
For the longest time, her dream had been prospering her business, becoming the independent woman she currently was.
But without someone to share it all . . .
Children would require a husband, and Belle had yet to meet a gentleman who captured her interest.
Sometimes in the dark of night when sleep was fleeting, she would ponder this future life. A home, a husband, the patter of a child’s feet, the squeal of giggling laughter. Usually, her husband was a shadowy figure, a source of calm.
But lately, the fantasy husband had begun speaking with Blake’s words. She would often wake with a sense of laughing blue eyes and wavy chestnut hair.
Belle had only seen Blake a handful of times so many years ago, the last time being that fateful morning in Hyde Park. Clearly, her mind remembered his coloring and general physical appearance: taller, brown-red hair that curled at the ends, blue eyes sparking with life and good humor.
But she didn’t recall the timbre of voice. The exact set of his head, the shape of his face.
How could he be invading her dreams now?
It was as if Blake were seeping through cracks and crevices to inhabit her very soul.
Worse, Belle wasn’t entirely sure she found his presence there unwelcome.
She constantly felt his kinship. They were partners. Sometimes Belle felt as if she didn’t make a single decision without thinking of him and
considering what he would like her to do.
It was no real surprise, she supposed, that she would think of Blake as the partner in her personal life, too.
Colin shook his head, smiling politely, before taking a small sip of wine.
Another year. Another Epiphany spent with the Governor-General. Another winter away from home.
As usual, the Governor’s large dining room danced with light from chandeliers and reflected crystal. Servants in traditional Indian attire moved silently in and out, removing dishes, replenishing drinks. The ladies had left the gentleman to their conversation and port. Even half a world away from England, the Governor still imported the traditional wine from Duoro in northern Portugal.
The Governor-General was deep in conversation at one end of the table. Several of the other gentlemen were arguing over the outcome of a horse race earlier in the week.
“Have you been enjoying your time in Calcutta, Lord Blake?” The question came at him from a gentleman across the table—a Mr. Smith, was it? Colin could scarcely recall. People arrived and departed with such regularity, he struggled to remember them.
Besides, how many times had he been asked this very question?
“Yes, as much as one can when away from home,” Colin cordially answered, as he always did.
Mr. Smith cocked his head. Colin could nearly predict what he would ask next.
First, it was a question about his time in India.
Then . . .
“Devilish hot here. Do you ever get used to the heat?” Mr. Smith asked.
Yes, the weather.
Time-honored English topics of conversation.
Colin smiled, spinning his port on the table. “No, I’m not sure anyone ever gets used to this heat. You simply learn to tolerate it, I suppose.”
Mr. Smith grimaced. “That’s a pity.”
Silence.
And . . . they had exhausted all topics of conversation, it appeared.
Dash it all, Colin was tired of these inane evenings, where everyone said the same things and asked the same questions, but no one ever bothered to truly know the other person, to truly see them.
Loneliness, and its close friend, Self-Pity, were mental traps Colin valiantly tried to avoid. But as his time in India passed the five-year mark, his mind kept turning toward home. Often he wondered if it was England itself that he missed, or more just the companionship of true friends. The casual friends he had in Calcutta had teased him about it one night, pointing out that if Colin would just marry, he would solve most of his problems.
But even marriage was hardly a simple matter. Certainly there were women in Calcutta who would be delighted to fill the role of Lady Blake. But Colin wanted so much more than a marriage of convenience. He longed for a soul-mate, a marriage of the deepest love and respect and admiration—
He stopped right there.
Pondering too long on the topic was liable to lead him right into the mental mire he sought to avoid. He could do nothing to make the perfect woman magically appear. He simply needed to be patient. He would find her eventually.
Until then, he would be content with what he did have. Like his relationship with LHF, for example.
Damn, but Colin admired the man. Sensible. Good-natured. Honest nearly to a fault. His correspondence remained one of the highlights of Colin’s week.
Did Lord Halbert have a circle of close friends? Did they gather for evenings of laughter and lively discussion? Or did he favor family more?
Memories washed over Colin. His parent’s cozy home in Surrey as a child. Cecily and his sisters laughing over Christmas punch, exchanging stories. His father, home on leave, voice booming and warm. His mother arguing a philosophical point until they all had jumped into the fray.
Loss swamped him. His parents were gone, now. His sisters scattered to the winds with their husbands.
Sometimes in his more maudlin moments of homesickness, Colin imagined Cecily and George sitting with Lord Halbert after dinner. Perhaps Lord Halbert had confided in them about Colin. Perhaps they would read snippets of his letters together—
Colin shook his head.
Such mawkish sentimentality was unlike him. The holiday season brought it out, he supposed. Or maybe it was LHF’s insistence on maintaining the facade of anonymity that rankled more today.
Someday, Colin vowed, someday he would sit down for dinner with Lord Halbert and hear everything directly from the man himself.
A thought occurred to him:
Perhaps if he mentioned Cecily more in his letters—and by extension Lord Halbert’s son, George—Lord Halbert would get the hint and say something in return.
Hmmmm.
The idea was worth a try.
7
To LHF
Calcutta
April 14, 1821
My dear friend,
Thank you again for addressing my concerns over the fall off in silk prices. I’ve enclosed a detailed plan for our purchases continuing forward.
In other news, I have recently commissioned a portrait of myself. Yes, it is as vain as it sounds, though sitting still for hours on end is sufficient punishment for my vanity. My sister, Mrs. George Phalean, is endlessly pestering me for a current likeness, and I have decided to indulge her requests in this. It will take nearly a year to complete and reach her, but I hope she will be satisfied.
As for your proposed scheme of an orphanage, I am eager to help where I can. I understand that finding the correct location has been a challenge, but I trust in your abilities to secure us a suitable property.
Sincerely,
Blake
Belle traced the lines of Blake’s latest letter with a finger. His handwriting was distinctive. The commanding swoop of his capital letters, the gentle slope of his sentences. The lettering a microcosm of the man himself. Strong, self-sufficient, but possessed of unexpected depths of gentleness—
“If you stare at his letter too long, you are liable to burn a hole through it, dear. And you would be sad if you damaged any of Lord Blake’s fine scribblings.” Anne’s voice cut through Belle’s daydreaming.
Afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Belle’s study, flooding the room with light. Anne sat opposite Belle’s desk, calmly doing needlepoint before the popping fire. Even though Belle would reach her twenty-fifth birthday this year, she knew that as long as she remained unmarried, she would never outgrow the propriety of a chaperone and companion.
Not that Belle minded. Anne was a dear friend and Belle was always glad of her company. Despite Belle’s urging her to marry, Anne had no desire to leave Belle’s employ. She had lost her love in the conflict with Napoleon and had no intention of ever marrying.
“Will this be the year you tell him?” Anne interrupted her musings. “You are bolder than you were years ago.”
Belle stared into the fire, not missing Anne’s meaning. Will you tell Lord Blake who you are? Inform him that he has been writing a young lady of fortune all these years, not a middle-aged gentleman of some means?
“I have lost my shyness and hesitancy, that is true,” Belle sighed. “He continually calls himself Telemachus and me, Mentor—”
Anne snorted. “Without realizing that you are actually Penelope to his Odysseus? The woman patiently weaving at home, waiting for her other half to finish wandering the world and return to her?”
Belle nodded, managing a tired smile. “Though instead of weaving, I calculate probabilities and fashion trends.”
Anne chuckled.
They were in London for the Season. Again. Belle continued to attend, year after year. Not for the bevy of suitors and admirers who hunted her for her fortune (though there was no shortage of those, either), but more to keep her fingers on the pulse of modern fashions.
She was content to remain unmarried.
Besides, no suitor had captured her attention.
Worse, the more she came to know Blake himself, the more she compared every other man of her acquaintance wit
h him.
And, thus far, every other man had come up short. If only she could find a man as principled and intelligent as Blake.
It had been over five years. Five years of letters written and sent. Initially only every couple of months, but during the last two years, they had been corresponding nearly every week. Granted, their letters took upwards of six months to reach each other, requiring nearly a year to ask a question and receive an answer.
But the straggling nature of their correspondence did nothing to dim the excitement of it. Ideas and drawings exchanged. The endless riddles. Their shared interests in dreadful gothic novels and societal reform, which really were not as far apart as one might think.
Lord Blake had become one of her closest friends.
“Most of me wants Blake to know my identity, and surely I could summon the courage to tell him. But . . .”
“But he is a gentleman of honor.” Anne snorted. “The sort of man who clearly understands that an unmarried lady and eligible peer of the realm should not carry on a private correspondence. Were it to become known, ’twould dishonor him and ruin you.”
“Yes,” Belle slumped in her chair. “And I’ve come to realize that Blake prizes honor and honesty.”
She and Anne had this conversation with such regularity, Belle could recite their words before it began.
Anne: You could be ruined if you say anything.
Her: Possibly, but only if he is indiscreet. He never breathed a word about my behavior five years ago.
Anne: Granted. But neither has he ever spoken another word to Miss Heartstone.
Her: He has been in India for the past five years. How could he contact me?
Anne: Hrmph. Were he to discover your subterfuge, you risk losing your friend and business partner.
Her: Perhaps LHF could die, and I could introduce myself as his daughter? Arrive on his doorstep in black mourning—
Anne: You read too many gothic novels, my dear. They are starting to addle your brain. Besides, you have far too much honor yourself to engage in such an elaborate deception.
