“She’s a liberty-loving lass.” Leith quashed the urge to show Euan the miniature in his pocket and tried to dismiss Juliet from his thoughts. She’d occupied them too much of late. “We met a gale on the return cruise, which helped move us here faster instead of blowing us off course. So there you have it—my American travails in short.”
“I suspect there’s a great deal more to them than that. You’ve dropped a stone since I last saw you. I’d caution you against your usual six o’clock start and nine o’clock finish.”
“Five months I’ve been away.” Leith reached into his pocket for his watch with its heavy gold chain. “There’s much to be done with so much time lost.”
“Lost? I say there’s much you’ve gained.” Euan motioned for more coffee. “Lyrica cannot wait to welcome her.”
“Juliet wants to meet the twins.”
“Fond of children, then? A fortuitous start.”
Leith felt a pang he’d not asked about them sooner. “How are they?”
“Running everywhere. Cole took a nasty tumble on the bridge and blacked his eye while Bella has finally gotten over a severe cold. They spent half their time at Ardraigh Hall and half at Paisley.”
“Bethankit,” Leith murmured, his thoughts returning to Juliet.
“On a weightier note, what’s happening with the American rebels?”
At the overloud question, every voice in the large room faded. Leith had an audience again, and though he wanted to get to the guildhall, he knew there needed to be an accounting with his fellow merchants first.
Looking out over the grim, familiar faces, he said, “Expect North American ports to close and all tobacco trading to cease.”
38
When the heart is full the tongue will speak.
Scottish proverb
Leith definitely had a penchant for the color blue. In this case, Wedgwood blue. Tarrying on the staircase’s landing, Juliet touched the blue and white wallpaper that framed an immense Palladian window overlooking the Virginia Street mansion’s front lawn. Her lips parted before she reined herself in. Fawning and cringing didn’t become her.
Her gaze returned to the street, and her heart gave a little leap. There came her husband walking toward her with fierce purpose, his expression as inscrutable as if he were at a masked ball. His scarlet cloak reminded her of Virginia’s cardinals, and a dart of homesickness flashed through her.
Leith’s entrance was quiet, that same purposeful tread across the foyer to what she guessed was his study. Down the stairs she crept, feeling an intruder, hardly a bride. His door was open, revealing a marvel of mahogany bookcases and high crown glass windows.
She stood in the doorway without speaking. Again she wondered where he’d been last night, his first night home. He’d shaved, further removing them from the ship. When he coughed, she felt a beat of alarm, biting her lip to keep from cautioning him to rest and recover completely.
“Mrs. Buchanan,” he said, looking up from where he sorted through a stack of correspondence. “How goes your first hours in Glasgow?”
“Well enough,” she said.
“Any concerns so far? I ken you have needs since you left Royal Vale so suddenly.”
He gestured to the seat in front of his desk, a dark surface covered with more account books and ledgers than she’d ever seen in one place. Not even the Williamsburg printer boasted more. She sat, aware of a bewildering chasm between them. Gone were the ship’s close quarters, the forced intimacy. Any vulnerability he’d shown in illness had vanished. The desk seemed a hefty barrier, a hallmark of their new life and relationship.
“I’ll need a proper wardrobe,” she began tentatively, looking over his shoulder to the globe in the windowsill, blue brocade drapes framing it.
“Of course. Have what you will.” He uncorked a decanter and poured himself a drink. “Your custom will be welcome at any shop here, in Edinburgh, or London.”
Juliet watched him. Whisky? So early in the morning?
“The other Mrs. Buchanan has loaned one of her French maids to show you the places she herself frequents here,” he continued. “She arrives soon.”
Lyrica, her new sister-in-law, wife of Euan Buchanan of Paisley. She’d wondered how they’d met. Probably not an arranged marriage like hers.
“Thoughtful of her.” Juliet folded her hands in her lap,her gaze trailing to an inkwell. “I was wondering where to purchase an escritoire. I’d like to resume my letter writing soon.”
He nodded, setting down his empty glass. “Start your search at Mrs. Barclay’s warehouse opposite the Tron Church. You’ll find all manner of desks there, especially French made. For stationery supplies, Gardner’s at the sign of the golden ball above Bell’s Wynd should suffice.”
