“But isn’t boxing illegal?”
“When you’re a Buchanan you make your own rules, my dear.” Zipporah looked to the hearth as a footman added wood to the fire. “Though young, he’s also a noted art collector, having toured Europe. He calls himself a dabbler in antiquities, but it’s rumored his new estate—I forget its name—has an enviable array of Greek statuary in particular. He’s a braw bruiser, as the Scots say.”
“So there are three Buchanan brothers,” Juliet observed, still stung by the fact the eldest wasn’t as aged or as homely as she’d been hoping.
“All three form Buchanan and Company, a family enterprise begun by their great-grandfather. But you’re already familiar with the firm, as they deal in your tobacco.”
Loveday’s brow tightened. “Tobacco aside, I do wonder what became of his first wife. And what he named his children. The sort of questions that are none of my business and I daren’t ask.”
With a nod, Zipporah poured more chocolate. “A person’s past is best left for them to divulge in their own time.”
“Yes, ’tis best,” Loveday said. “I admire Mr. Buchanan’s fortitude. Atlantic crossings, especially in autumn, are fraught with danger. I’ve only been to England and back, though Juliet braved a voyage with Father when she was but sixteen.”
“Only to the West Indies, which is a much shorter sailing time.” Juliet took another sip. “How long is Mr. Buchanan to be here?”
“Your father said he came to find a colonial bride.” Zipporah passed a dish of small sugar-dusted cakes. “I don’t know that he’ll leave without one.”
Juliet took a cake and could hardly contain a smile, delighted their conversation kept circling back to the Scot.
“Well, he certainly has a bevy of beauties to choose from, staying with the Ravenals,” Loveday replied with a sudden nonchalance that pained Juliet.
“But aren’t they a bit youthful and overly frivolous for a man like himself?” Juliet countered. “Besides, Frances is nearly affianced with one of the Byrds, and there’s talk of Lucy aligning with the Lees. That leaves Judith, who is entirely too young. Surely a man of Mr. Buchanan’s stature and sphere needs a more mature partner. Someone who has a fondness for small children and an understanding of estate management. Someone with a head and heart for entertaining.”
Both Zipporah and Loveday stared at her, cups suspended.
“Think of all the possibilities with such a fortune,” Juliet said with relish. “One could share the wealth, invest in the lives of others less fortunate, do all manner of good.”
“Indeed,” Zipporah replied, a mischievous light in her eyes. “We shall be considering all you’ve said most seriously.”
Loveday gave an equally disconcerting wink. “And in the meantime we must hang some mistletoe.”
20
A good conscience is a continual Christmas.
Benjamin Franklin
Leith returned to Williamsburg half frozen to the saddle, snow turning his matchcoat stark white. He’d made a circuit of half his Virginia stores on the coast and up the James River till rough weather had beaten him back. Visiting the southern colonies in summer was punishment enough, but mayhap winter was worse. His horse had thrown a shoe in the northern neck, and he’d had to cross a stream that seemed more river when a ferry failed. One tavern had no private room, so he’d shared a garret with one too many odiferous, snoring colonials. The next night, rather than repeat the travesty, he’d slept in the stables.
Now, frozen to the core, he’d never been so glad to see a kirk spire or smoke rising from countless brick and wood buildings. He turned onto England Street, the slush muting his horse’s hooves. The borrowed stallion was smaller than he was used to and trained to a snaffle bridle yet tough as an Indian pony and of impeccable pedigree.
“Well done, Janus.” He ran a gloved hand down the snow-white mane once he’d dismounted at the Ravenals’. Behind their townhouse, a small brazier burned at the stable door. “An extra measure of oats,” he told the groom through numb lips.
After scraping his boots clean at the rear entrance, he went through the back door and up a back stair, finding the house empty. Had the Ravenals gone upriver again? His host had given him free rein of the townhouse during his stay, and the silence was welcome. Too exhausted to be good company, he passed down the second-floor hallway to his bedchamber, needing a bath and a meal but not necessarily in that order.
Within an hour he’d had both. The hearth’s robust fire chased the chill from the room and cast orange light on the papered walls. Snow still swirled down and mounted against the windowsills. Finished with a hearty meal on a tray, he dozed in a Windsor chair beside the fire, chin to his chest. A deep, dreamless sleep was curbed by the sudden snap of the fire, returning him to the December dusk. Voices sounded from outside.
“The first noel the angel did say
was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay;
in fields where they lay keeping their sheep,
on a cold winter’s night that was so deep.
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel...”
He pulled himself to his feet, went to the nearest window, and looked down, finding a dozen or so carolers crowding the front steps below. Mumming and wassailing he was used to, but not caroling. They were a picturesque bunch in the snow, all wearing capes, the women’s bonnets trimmed with bright ribbon, the men in beaver hats.
