Tessa frowned. “When I found a dock who would take you, and for nearly the same price, I transferred the booking.”
“You...?” he began. He paused. He appeared to be thinking over what she said. He continued slowly, “Forgive me if I struggle to comprehend how you knewwhereto go orfor whatto ask. You’ve no notion of the type of brig, the length or the height. You didn’t even know the date we would return—”
“Yes, well, I suppose I asked, didn’t I?” she said, watching his expression. How gratifying it was to watch his disbelief dissolve into shock. “I asked and asked and asked. I am still asking and still learning, but I am not the mindless girl you left ten months ago.”
“I never thought you were mindless, Tessa,” he said quietly, seriously.
“Yes, well.” She was unsettled. She examined the nib of her pen. “Perhaps that was how I viewed myself then.” She forced herself to return to the topic at hand. “Regardless, I’ve askedyoua question, and I should like an answer.” She returned to her notes. “Also, can you tell me how much poundage you carry?”
“No,” Joseph said, “Icannot. Who has taught you the termpoundage?”
She screwed up her face. “Have you been listening to a word I’ve said? I’ve taught myself. I do speak the language of English and can expand my vocabulary with negligible effort.”
“And this—this—has been your preference? To bother yourself with learning jargon likepoundage?”
“Well, if I wished to sort out thelevieson imported goods—yes. And if you must know, I found it rather fascinating. Exciting, really, to learn the business of which my father and brothers have made such a study all these years. Perhaps their rejection only fueled my desire to learn.”
He thought about this. Finally said, “Fine. What if I tell you the poundage is 121 tons?”
“You’ve squeezed 121 tons into a ninety-foot brig?” Tessa’s head snapped up. “Your previous booking called for only 118 tons.”
He smiled then, a proud, handsome smile. “We’ve been very busy, Tessa.”
“Well done,” she enthused, and she meant it. “121 tons.”
“Of course, I’m doubtful I’ll find available warehouse space to store it at such short notice.”
“I’ve arranged for 20,000 feet of additional space just in case,” she told him. “But I believe we can broker more.”
“You’vewhat?” Now he shoved up. “Tessa—stop. Simply stop. I understand your motivation, that you wanted to help. I believe that you have been very diligent, although I still do not understand why. But this discussion is beyond the pale. For the love of God. I’ll admit that you have learned a few new words, but you—a woman, alone, who has never lived in London and who has no notion of shipping or docks or even bloody commerce, and whohas a new baby—could not have arranged a dock reservation, and certainly not warehousing.”
Tessa crossed her arms over her chest. She had expected this. “I can, and I have,” she said.
Joseph shook his head. “Look, I believe you have been rejected by your family, and for that, I am sorry—truly. I also know your regard for me is very low. I hardly think being disowned is reason enough for you to try to manage even a fraction of this on my behalf.” He spread out his hands wide. He was almost shouting.
Tessa blinked once, twice, and then snapped. She bolted up, standing nearly nose-to-nose with him. She began to rattle off the facts.
She told him the name of the new dock, which was St. Katharine.
She said the name of the dock master, Mr. Harold Blue.
She quoted the size of the slip, the contingencies for their unknown arrival, the cost, their time in port, the dimensions and security of the warehouse space, the levies on the poundage... The list went on and on, and she explained it all, one detail after the other, months of research and negotiation and diligence—and results. So many solutions to so many problems.
And she had loved every minute of it. She wondered if this came through in her litany of names and numbers. She wondered if he would care.
She was winded when she finished, her chest heaving up and down. He stared at her, not blinking, his expression beyond disbelief. He looked as if someone had sloshed a bucket of cold water on his handsome, golden face.
While she had his attention, she added, “And you have no idea of my regard for you, clearly, so please don’t suggest that you do. I can appreciate that you are surprised, Joseph, but I refuse to hear that my work is not legitimate or does not count simply because you didn’t expect it. I refuse.”
Chapter Eleven
Joseph couldn’t remember the last time his brain let him down. His brain had always been so very reliable and sofast. When his heart led him astray or his body gave out, his brain leapt adroitly forward, quick and smooth, with no confusion or fogginess or doubt.
Until now.
Until the spiel of facts and figures tossed out by his wife had literally ground all intellectual function to a dead stop. Once stopped, it hung there, flapping uselessly in the windy place inside his skull.
He felt himself drop into his seat. Everything she’d said—about the dock and the warehouses, the levies and the cargo—made perfectly reasonable sense. And not the kind of sense that compelled him to marry her for £15,000 and the potential of a pretty wife. It made literal sense. He understood everything she’d said. He saw the reasoning behind it. He would have done it the same bloody way himself.
