The Heiress Effect

  “Do you love him?” Mrs. Bhattacharya finally asked.

  “Yes,” Emily said. “In fact—”

  “No need to convince me,” the other woman interrupted. “Of course you do. Who couldn’t?”

  Emily smiled.

  Mrs. Bhattacharya’s expression scarcely changed. “We’ll have to talk with your family about the most auspicious time to have the wedding.”

  Emily’s smile spread. Anjan had told her not to worry, that if they were both respectful, they could bring her around. But maybe she hadn’t really believed it.

  But then Mrs. Bhattacharya continued. “You don’t have a mother. Who is responsible for you?”

  “I have a sister.” Emily grimaced. “And an uncle. But it might be better if…if…” She trailed off.

  “What is she saying now?” Mrs. Bhattacharya asked, an expression of disbelief on her face.

  Anjan came over and sat next to Emily. “Ma,” he said, “there may be a little difficulty with her uncle.”

  “Difficulty? What kind of difficulty?”

  “I’m not of age,” Emily said. “I need his permission.”

  Anjan spread his hands.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Bhattacharya’s jaw set. “That difficulty.” It was such a familiar expression on her face—hauntingly familiar, in fact. After a long pause, she shrugged. “I will talk to him. When your father was having those kind of difficulties with Colonel Wainworth, I handled it.”

  But Anjan shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “I appreciate the offer, Ma, but this time, I think I must do it.”

  Jane stood at the window, peering down into the street below. The hotel Oliver had brought them to was on a quiet street, far from the pressing crowds they’d encountered at the train station. He’d given a false name when they had signed in. He’d come up to the room, but he had paced back and forth for ten minutes before finally dashing off a handful of notes and ringing for someone to deliver them.

  “My brother,” he’d said by way of explanation. “And an acquaintance, who will inquire of the bar as to the whereabouts of your sister’s…barrister.”

  She didn’t ask him why he had needed to think so long before deciding to let his brother know he was in town. Or why he’d given the hotel a false name. Or why they had come here, to this quiet hotel more than a mile from the center of town. She already knew.

  It wasn’t that he was ashamed of her. He just…didn’t want anyone to know of their affair. That was all.

  So why did it rankle?

  A few minutes back, the boy he’d sent to deliver the messages had returned, this time laden with a bag. It had been filled with paper: newspapers, copies of parliamentary minutes, notes, invitations. He’d made his excuses and retired to a desk, leaving Jane to look out the window and think her own thoughts.

  If there was one thing she had learned in the months since she had met Oliver, it was that problems were best met with bold action. Every time she’d cowered and hid or made herself smaller, her problems had grown in size. This—this growing affection between them, this love affair that was impossible—was a problem.

  She wanted a bold solution.

  But what she was getting instead…

  Watching him work through the papers was like watching him work himself away from her. With every letter he opened, every new amendment he read, he seemed more distant. More aware that the card he’d received invited him to a supper where Jane would never fit in.

  Wrens, he had said, not phoenixes. She had told him once that she was ablaze, but the women who married men like Oliver wouldn’t even have dared to strike a match and light a fire.

  She could do it. She could simply throw money at the problem—hire etiquette instructors who would browbeat Jane night and day until she stopped making mistakes. Hire a woman who would be wholly responsible for Jane’s uninteresting, drab, perfect little wardrobe. She had enough money to cut all her feathers and bleach them beige. With work, she could make herself fit.

  But when she thought of an existence composed of lies, she shivered. Once was enough.

  She shook her head and turned back to the window, back to the question of how to find a bold solution to a very quiet problem.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Who are you?”

  Anjan had been let into the dim study at the back of the house. It took him a moment to focus on the man who must have been Titus Fairfield. He was rounding and bald, and he watched Anjan with a grave expression on his face.

  Anjan had seen him before. Years before, another Indian student—one who had taken his degree the year Anjan had arrived—had pointed him out as a private tutor. Not one that could be used; one who was unlikely to take on an Indian pupil. If he had known that man was Emily’s uncle…

  He probably wouldn’t have asked her to walk in the first place. Just as well he hadn’t known.

  He’d dressed in sober colors, had made sure that he looked perfectly respectable. His collar was starched so stiffly he could feel the points against his cheek when he turned his head. He handed over a card.

  “I’m Mr. Anjan Bhattacharya,” he said, “and I’m here on a matter of some importance.

  Fairfield set Anjan’s card on the desk without glancing at it. “Well,” he said in a jolly voice, “I’m not taking any pupils this year.” He had a crafty look in his eye, as if somehow Anjan wouldn’t recognize that he was being put off.

  “Just as well. I have no interest in a tutor. I took the Law Tripos in March,” he informed the man. “But I did know your last pupil—John Plateford. You did good work with him.”

  Mr. Fairfield had not expected flattery. He blinked and was unable to summon up the rudeness necessary to ring the bell and have Anjan thrown away. So Anjan sat on the other side of his desk. For a moment, Fairfield simply stared at him, unsure of the etiquette of the situation. His natural pride, such as it was, won out after a few moments.

  “Yes, Plateford,” he said happily. “He received first-class honors.”

  “A credit to you,” Anjan replied politely. “So did I.”

  Fairfield blinked once more at that and then shook his head, as if to dispel the idea that Anjan might have ranked alongside his pupil.

  “I’m a barrister in London now,” Anjan continued. He waited one moment to see if Fairfield would connect his profession with the note that Emily had left.

  But he didn’t. Fairfield sat there frowning owlishly at Anjan.

  “A few days ago,” Anjan continued after too long a pause, “Miss Emily Fairfield came to me.”

  Her uncle sucked in a breath. “You?” he said in shock. “Why would she go to you?”

  “Because I’d asked her to marry me,” Anjan said. “And because she wanted to tell me yes.”

  “Ridiculous!” Fairfield shook his head, pushing against the desk as if he could thus reject the words Anjan was saying. “Insanity! It’s not possible.”

  Anjan might have listed all the ways it was possible—starting with the good-luck kiss she’d given him the prior evening. He might have mentioned the long talk they’d had last night, discussing their future. Instead, he decided to misunderstand the man.

  “I assure you,” Anjan said, “there is no prohibition.”

  “That isn’t what I meant.” Fairfield grimaced. “You know. I meant that you can’t marry her.”

  “You mean that I can’t marry her on account of the fact that you object.”

  Fairfield looked relieved to have the matter stated so plainly. “Yes. Yes. That’s it. I object.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Anjan said. “I am here to relieve you of your objections. I know you must be feeling a little worried about how your niece will be treated.”

  “Indeed.” Fairfield puffed out his chest. “I am worried about her treatment.”

  “I can understand that,” Anjan said. “My father is highly placed in the civil service. My uncle is the native aide-de-camp for the Governor-General. I know you must be worried that I w
ill think your niece beneath me.”

  Fairfield blinked rapidly. “Uh. Well.”

  “Never fear,” Anjan said. “I don’t. I’ll care for her as well as any lesser man might. We may be better off than your humble circumstances, but I am just another one of her Majesty’s loyal servants.” The words hardly tasted badly in his mouth as he spoke them.

  Mr. Fairfield seemed nonplussed. He skimmed his hand over his head, grimacing oddly. “That was not…”

  “Ah. It’s her fits, then? You fear she wasn’t truthful with me about them. Mr. Fairfield, I applaud your desire to make sure that there has been adequate and proper disclosure between all parties before entering into a permanent relationship. But I assure you that I’ve known of them from the start. They’re scarcely worth thinking about.”

  “You don’t understand.” Fairfield was beginning to look pale.

  “Ah,” Anjan slowly stood, setting his hands on the desk. “It’s because I’m Indian.”

  There was a long, pregnant pause.

  “I am not sure that Emily is well enough to marry,” her uncle finally said. “But if she were, then, yes, I’d refuse you. Because you’re—you’re—”

  “From India,” Anjan supplied helpfully. “It’s the name of a place, not a loathsome disease. You’ll have to learn to say it; we’re going to be family.”

  “No, no, of course we’re not,” Fairfield said mulishly. “I don’t have to say anything. I won’t give permission. I won’t.”

  “Perhaps you can explain.”

  “Because I know your race,” Fairfield growled. “You’re weak and you’ll take ten wives and if you die, you’ll force my niece to burn herself on your funeral pyre.”

  “Yes,” Anjan snapped back. “Because it would be so much better to let her have no husband at all, to burn her with pokers while she’s still alive, and to subject her to electric shock. You’ve no call to lecture me on that front, Mr. Fairfield. I, at least, have never hurt her.”

  Fairfield swallowed. “That’s different. She was—is—ill. And…and…”

  “And you made it worse. Did you know that I have only seen your niece cry once? It was when I told her that her guardian should treat her as a precious treasure.”

  “But—”

  “While we are discussing the matter, I suppose a few points of clarification are in order. Hindus believe in monogamy; I do not know a Hindu who has more than one wife. When my brother passed away, his wife mourned him, but she is still alive.” Anjan felt his hands shake with anger. “I don’t claim that my race, as you call it, is perfect, but I try.” He glared at the man. “I’ve seen Emily’s scars, and that’s more than you can say.”

  Fairfield shrunk away from the anger in Anjan’s voice. “I meant well,” he whispered.

  Anjan leaned forward across the desk until he was an inch away from the other man. “Mean better.”

  Fairfield slouched in his seat. “I…” He looked around. “You…you’ve seen her scars?”

  Anjan nodded.

  “But they’re…”

  Anjan nodded.

  “She would have had to…remove a bit of clothing to show you them.” He looked perturbed, and Anjan decided not to mention that he hadn’t seen all of Emily’s scars. “You say that when Emily ran away, she went to you?”

  “She did.”

  “Then she’s…ruined. She has to marry.” He licked his lips.

  There was no point clarifying the exact state of Emily’s ruination.

  Mr. Fairfield didn’t say anything for a long while. His lips moved, as if he was arguing with himself…but at least he appeared to be arguing back. Finally, he straightened. “You’re Indian,” he finally said. “Doesn’t that mean that you have…special healing abilities? I think I remember hearing about them. Special…” He made a gesture. “Things. With stuff.”

  Anjan had his degree in law from Cambridge—the exact same degree that Mr. Fairfield had earned. He wanted to laugh. He ought to have corrected the man.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “I do things with stuff. How ever did you know?”

  “Maybe this is for the best,” Fairfield said. “You might know of a whole range of cures that I have not been able to access. This might be the best thing for her after all.”

  Anjan didn’t nod. He didn’t smile. “I’d be happy to try anything that seems like a good idea,” he said, and Fairfield looked pleased with himself.

  “Good, good. But—just to make sure—we’re putting it in the settlements. No burning her alive.”

  “Well,” Anjan said generously, “you do have to look out for your niece.”

  The end came upon her so swiftly that Jane didn’t even realize she was looking at it until the moment had already passed.

  The end came first in happiness—when Oliver’s inquiries were swiftly answered in the affirmative. There was a barrister named Anjan Bhattacharya. Addresses were discovered; messages exchanged via swift courier, and two hours later, Jane found herself at her sister’s hotel, flying into Emily’s arms.

  Emily was nearly incoherent. She had just received a scrap of paper—a telegram—from Titus of all people.

  “I can’t believe it,” Emily said. “I have no idea what Anjan said to him, but he agreed. I’m getting married! He won’t be my guardian anymore. It’s over.”

  It was over. Jane laughed with her sister—and agreed to be her maid of honor—and hugged her and listened to her describe the difficulties of needing two marriage ceremonies.

  She heard more about Anjan, too.

  “You’ll have to meet him when he returns. You’ll like him, I promise. Oh, Jane, I’m so happy.”

  There were details to be hashed through after that—details of settlements for Emily, her trousseau… These were happy details. Jane floated back to the hotel room she shared with Oliver.

  He now had a second pile of paper in front of him. He kissed her, though, long and slow. “I’m glad that’s all settled,” he said, when she explained everything.

  But he didn’t sound glad. And he didn’t meet her eyes when he said he had to get back to his work. It was all settled…and he’d only talked about this affair lasting until Emily was found and made safe.

  Jane retreated to the dressing room to change her gown for dinner. The hotel maid had undone the laces of Jane’s gown when the knock came.

  She heard the door open.

  “Mr. Cromwell?”

  Jane recognized the voice of one of the hotel staff, and hid a smile at the assumed name.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a woman here to see you.”

  “A woman?” Oliver asked. “I’m not expecting a…” He trailed off.

  Jane was stripped to her corset. Even if she had been dressed, she could not have walked out into that room. To announce her presence in his room at a time like this… She might not care much for her reputation on her behalf, but his reputation still had some value.

  There was a pause, the sound of footsteps. And then…

  “Mother?” he said. There was another pause. When he spoke again, his voice had altered from swift and business-like to anguished. “Oh my God, Mother. What’s wrong?”

  Jane motioned to the servant and sent her away through the smaller servants’ door. No maid needed to overhear this. Jane shouldn’t either, but she had no place to retreat to.

  “I’m just glad I found you in time,” the woman—Oliver’s mother—said. “The duke said—well, never mind. I can’t really think—Oliver, listen to me, I can’t get a straight sentence out of my mouth. It’s just…”

  “Take a deep breath. Take your time. Tell me.”

  The other woman’s voice broke. “It’s Freddy.”

  “What happened to her? We can take care of her, find her the best doctors, give her—”

  “They found her in her bed a day and a half after she passed away.”

  “No.” But Oliver didn’t sound as if he were denying it, just reflexively pushing away the words. ?
??That can’t be. I saw her not so long ago. She looked a little ill, but…”

  “It was an apoplexy. They say she didn’t suffer.”

  “Oh, Mother.” Oliver’s voice was muffled. “I should have said something to you when I saw her, should have let you know she wasn’t doing well. I should have had you come out and—”

  “Enough. I told her I loved her the last time I saw her. We’ve had our differences, but we’ve also had our good times.” The other woman’s voice quavered. “Don’t lay blame. There’s more than enough sorrow without it.”

  There were no words for a while after that, just a few sniffles. The sounds of family giving—and receiving—comfort.

  Oliver had mentioned his aunt Freddy in the bookshop all those months ago. It was one of the first things that had drawn Jane to him—that he’d talked about a woman who obviously had her own peculiarities with such respect and affection.

  It was as if someone had whispered to Jane that if he could love an ornery, stubborn, strange old woman, he might like her.

  And he had.

  “It’s tomorrow,” his mother said. “The funeral. Everyone is down—Laura and Geoffrey, Patricia and Reuven. Free and your father. We’re having dinner tonight.”

  “Of course I’ll be there.”

  There was a long pause.

  “And Oliver, the woman who is staying with you…”

  Jane froze.

  “What woman?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re here under an assumed name. You’ve never used my soap, and yet someone here has washed with my May blend. I smelled it the instant I walked in. I only wanted you to know… There won’t be many of us present, just family and a few others. If she’s important to you, if she would bring you comfort, you should bring her.”

  “Mama.”

  “I won’t pinch your cheek in front of her, and if you’re worried about the example you’ll set for your sister…”

  “Mama, please.”

  “…don’t. Free will probably lecture you better than I could.”

  There was a long pause. Oliver had to know that Jane was listening. He had to be wondering what she was thinking, what she would make of all this. Jane wrapped her arms around herself and wanted. Even if this didn’t last. Even if they never saw each other again after their days together, even if he married his perfect little wren next month.