“Then I shall get you another bauble that fits if ever we land.” He tried to sit up, but the effort was too much for him. “Get paper and ink.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hurry,” he told her, steel in his tone. “There’s nae time to waste.”
She set down the cup, then retrieved a lap desk, inkstand, and quill. The daybook she’d been writing in since they’ddeparted York Town still held plenty of blank pages. She returned for a half-guttered candelabra.
“Listen carefully and record all I tell you.” He reached out and gripped her free hand with surprising strength before letting go. “I want you to defend my interests like you would your Royal Vale indigo.”
“Of course.” She inked the quill, willing her nerves to settle, as his intensity startled her so. “You have my word.”
He grew quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on a far wall. “Once you arrive in Glasgow, your priority is to continue fitting out the Buchanan fleet, primarily the merchantmen, with arms for future Caribbean and European trade.” He coughed, the sound so deep and thick it seemed all her prayers were for naught. “Don’t let anyone deter you from the Carron cannonade, which doesn’t slow a ship as markedly.”
“You’re talking defending and arming a fleet I know nothing about.”
“You’ll ken more in time. We already have privateers with a letter of marque and reprisal against the French freighting outwards from the Clyde. Sailing in convoy is recommended at all times, though it’s nae guarantee.”
The scratching of her quill seemed to steady him, and he continued.
“If there’s to be a war with the colonies and ports close, the scarcity of tobacco will spike the price. Summon all the partners of Buchanan and Company to discuss selling their stock, then offer to buy each partner’s share at a fair price. Few will refuse you. Keep a close eye on the market, then sell all of the accumulated stock before the price rises further, guaranteeing a sizable profit.”
She kept up with his ragged voice, though her mind was reeling. “What if your brothers object to me, a stranger, handling your affairs?”
“They’ll make peace with it in time.” He paused, now hoarse. “In that vein, Niall has too much enthusiasm and Euan too much restraint. They’re currently purchasing properties with mineral and mining rights throughout Britain, thereby investing in coal, ironstone, and other metals, having formed the Buchanan Coal Company.”
“Land speculation,” she murmured. A risky endeavor.
“Aye, with the added investment of turnpike roads and canals and such. Euan has in mind to be the foremost coal master in Britain, whereas Niall has begun an extensive planting of Scots firs, larches, pines, and other trees on acquired land.” He stilled, allowing her to ink her quill again. “As for my fellow tobacco lords, beware of Cochrane and associates foremost. He’s continually tried to undercut us in colonial trade. Engage in nae custom with them at any level. They’re naught but a pack of liars and thieves.”
She penned the Cochrane name with distaste, sensing an animosity years in the making.
“Look to my other commercial interests in almost every mercantile undertaking in Glasgow and elsewhere, including Edinburgh and London. There are numerous Buchanan sugar houses, rope and sailcloth industries, including bottleworks, printworks, and other staple textiles. Our main export markets remain France and the rest of Europe, not America.”
“Have you diversified enough to form a buffer against bankruptcy?” she asked, so well acquainted with debt she couldn’t shake loose from the notion no matter how vast one’s fortune.
“I’ve learned a great deal from the financial crisis of ’72, having watched some of the most spectacular fortunes in Glasgow collapse. The Ayr Bank and the Bogles of Daldowie come to mind. They’ve since had their estates put under trust.”
“I read about it in the newspapers.” She wouldn’t say that at the time she hoped he’d follow suit. The remembrance shamed her.
“If you need an ally in the firm, consult my foremost factor in Glasgow, Leo Tate.”
She penned the name then paused. “Do you truly believe you might die?”
“Wheest!” He closed his eyes briefly, his jaw clenched against a cough. “You’re a braisant lass. But that boldness might stand you in good stead, given there’s some abuse going on in the firm that I canna put my finger on.”
“Abuse?”
“Aye. Missing ledgers and questionable accounts. Bank withdrawals that dinna make sense. Just a few instances of late, but they form a troublesome pattern.”
Embezzlement within the firm? Fraud?
Aware he’d come to the end of the matter if she had not, she set aside the quill. “’Tis not your earthly affairs that weigh most on my mind. Not even suspect business dealings. Have you ever seen merchant princes depart this life fisting any funds?”
He regarded her with a cool detachment as he lay back against the pillows, his dark hair loose about his shoulders. “Och, a halie lass too, preaching to me on my deathbed.”
Holy? She returned his hard stare, weary beyond words—and now entirely bereft of them. His eyes were clouding again as if the effort of speaking had worn him out. Or perhaps it was the emotion behind the words, entrenched as he was in Buchanan affairs.
“And lest you think I’m a complete heathen...” He took a labored breath, as earnest as she’d ever seen him. “I helped found the Literary Society of Glasgow, funded a new theater and an institute dedicated to sacred music as well as an almshouse for the poor.”
