Her journal lay spread on the table before her, with her favorite pencil she used for sketching lying beside it, but she had yet to put the pencil to paper.
She wanted to soak in as much as possible about this wild, rugged land, and she couldn’t do that with her eyes glued to the page.
It was foolish, really. She’d probably be able to sell her sketches of Sitka the moment she got back to Washington, DC. She wouldn’t need to wait for Mikhail to write a letter to a publisher for that. People in America couldn’t seem to get enough of this vast frozen land.
But still, she couldn’t bring herself to pick up her pencil. Couldn’t bring herself to think of anything other than the wild mountains surrounding her and the man who understood them.
What was Mikhail doing right now? Had he even thought of his promise to write to a publisher on her behalf? She sighed. Probably not. He was surely busy spending time with his family.
And she couldn’t blame him. They had seemed so excited to see him when theAuroradocked, so filled with love and concern for him.
She couldn’t imagine what it might feel like to have such a large group of people excited about something she’d done. Her father and brother loved her, sure, but not in the same way Mikhail’s family seemed to love him. Not in the same way Mikhail loved them back.
She took another sip of tea, moistening her suddenly dry mouth. Had Mikhail even thought of her since they parted ways at the wharf? Because all she could seem to think about was him.
And this was why she never should have let him kiss her. Because all she could do was think about the way it felt to have those strong arms wrapped around her. All she could do was remember the way his scent had filled her senses while she’d been pressed against him. All she could?—
A soft knock sounded on the library door, and Bryony turned to see Rosalind enter, her golden hair piled elegantly onto the top of her head. “Father is asking for you in his study.”
“Me?” Bryony blinked. “Is it about the expedition?” She stood and headed toward the door.
Rosalind offered her a small smile. “I would assume so, but I can’t say for certain. Father doesn’t share business matters with me.”
No, she didn’t expect he did. But it seemed strange that Mr. Caldwell would want to talk to her. She’d assumed he would talk to her father and Heath and Dr. Ottingford. The governor had spent all of yesterday afternoon at the house, and the five of them had been cloistered in Mr. Caldwell’s office for hours.
So why did he want to talk to her?
She stepped into the hallway, repinning a few loose strands of her hair as she allowed Rosalind to lead her down the stairs to her father’s study.
Rosalind raised her hand to knock on the door, then stilled, her brow drawing into a dainty little frown.
Voices floated through the heavy wood, and only then did Bryony realize why Rosalind had paused.
“Who do you think the next secretary of the interior will be?” It was her father’s voice, rusty and coarse, floating through the door.
“I suspect Jameson or perhaps Arnold,” Mr. Caldwell answered. “Why?”
“Jameson is a widower, is he not?” Again, it was her father talking, and she stepped closer to better hear the conversation.
Rosalind’s fist was still poised to knock, but Bryony reached up and wrapped her hand over it.
Rosalind looked at her but didn’t seem to need any other explanation. Instead, she let her hand drop to her side.
“Yes. Jameson is a widower.” The voice that answered was different from Mr. Caldwell’s but still somewhat familiar—the governor. “And Arnold isn’t faithful to his wife, though I’m not sure you’ll find that information useful.”
“I don’t,” her father answered. “Bryony needs to marry, so unless Arnold’s wife up and dies between now and next summer, a secretary of the interior with a mistress or two doesn’t do me any good.”
Her cheeks grew hot as she stood outside the door, but fortunately Rosalind wasn’t looking at her.
“She might die,” the governor added. “Arnold’s wife is a rather sickly sort.”
“Your cousin, the senator, meets with the president every now and then, doesn’t he?” her father asked. “Surely he can put in a word for Jameson over Arnold as secretary of the interior. My only question is, what do I need to do to make sure your cousin speaks with the president?”
A low, deep chuckle echoed through the door. Bryony couldn’t tell if it was from Mr. Caldwell or the governor, but every muscle of her body turned stiff.
She wasn’t naive. She knew these types of negotiations took place in Washington, DC, on a regular basis, and she knew her father participated. But usually they had to do with getting funding for his studies and expeditions—not changing the course of her life.
But here her father was, taking actual steps to barter her future away to a man neither of them had ever met, and all because he hoped that if he married her to the right man, he’d never need to beg or maneuver or perform another favor for funding again.
