Jahleel points to her with his cane. “Are you and your spinster Catholic? Though I’m not one to judge, out of allegiance to our King George, I must ask all Papists to leave.”
Mrs. Tisdale turns beet red. “No. I’m not. Neither is my daughter. I just needed an answer. There are rumors, sir.”
“That you have a spinster on your hands? She’s welcome to Anya House, home of the Duke of Torrance. I will not gossip of her choice to live unmarried.”
“Sir … Your Grace,” she says in a more formal tone. “Please clear up the rumors.”
“I am British and Russian. George III is of the Hanover line. That would be British and German. Our lovely Queen Charlotte is now British, but she originates from Mecklenburg-Strelitz, which is German. One might even say Moorish, too.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Mrs. Tisdale looks to the left and the right, and the wonderful crowd is representative of all of London—all faces, all colors. “Do you not have slave blood in your veins?”
Nobody moves or makes a sound. Jahleel’s countenance remains stoic. “My grandfather was Abram Petrovich Gannibal. He was a man of great intellect. He was from Landon, West Africa. My grandfather was stolen as a boy, enslaved but then freed. He came to prominence under Tzar Peter the Great. Tzar Peter became his godfather. I believe my grandfather’s final honors from the empire were as a general of engineers.”
“So youarepart Blackamoor.” Mrs. Tisdale becomes haughty once more. “So the rumor is true.”
“I’m proud of the blood that courses through my veins. It is ofEnlightenment and Empire—African nobility tempered by Russian steel and British … well, British guns, I suppose. How else can one explain King George’s reach all over the world? It’s simply mad.”
The crowd murmurs. I’m happy that he’s proud of who he is and proud of the blood in his veins. It takes profound courage and thoughtfulness for a man who suffers from the blood sickness to claim pride in his circumstances.
Jahleel shifts his cane. The sconce’s light catches it for a moment, sending sparkles everywhere. “Does this answer your question, Madame Tisdale? Tisdale, the purveyor of haberdashery and trinkets. But do not worry. I won’t hold these rumors against you or the spinster that you have are of common, simple middle-class stock.”
She wilts and reclaims her seat. Whispers swirl. I hear something about looking at his lips; that bit of color in his skin can’t just be from the sun.
“Why is your former wife here?” Mrs. Randolph stands again and points in my direction. “That seems an odd arrangement.”
Jahleel taps with his cane, directing all eyes to him. “Lady Hampton and I are friends. But our bloodlines are incompatible. That is my fault.”
He rises slowly. “I have the blood sickness.”
Gasps echo. Someone says, “Those Wilcoxes have it, too.”
He pounds his cane and again silences the packed parlor. “I wasn’t properly diagnosed until three years ago. I’m rather determined and have masked my setbacks.”
Jahleel glares at the crowd. “And from the gossips of Cheapside, you’ve noted that the Wilcox line carries this sickness, too. Many of you have ostracized them because of it.”
More gasps. Someone even points to Mrs. Randolph as the leader of the movement.
“Mr. Carew diagnosed me. He and his lovely wife and Lady Hampton have saved my life. I am indebted to them.” Jahleel lowers his tone. “Yet you can now understand the true reason weparted. A man in my position needs an heir. I need more assurances of a healthy son. I need a wife without the sickness in her lineage.”
Scarlett walks in, wearing Father’s boots. “Fifty percent. There’s a fifty percent chance that you and someone like Lady Hampton could have a healthy child.”
Jahleel looks directly at me. “Fifty percent is not enough. There will always be great affection and care between Lady Hampton and me, but she cannot promise me forever. I need my legacy to last beyond tomorrow. The House of Torrance will continue. I need a new bride who can offer me a future.”
I can’t breathe.
That’s the thing between us. My fear of him dying—I thought that meant no future for us, but I never considered his perspective. Knowing that our son died, that if we were blessed to have another, there’s a coin-toss chance of him being healthy and living without the sickness—that’s not enough for Jahleel. For him to choose me I’d have to be more important than the survival of the legacy he fought to preserve.
Am I selfish?
Yes.
Do I deserve happiness?
Also yes.
But how can I ask him to choose me? I love Jahleel, but for him to keep my heart, he must be willing to allow his legacy to die.
Chapter 31
