The Heiress Effect (43 page)

Anjan smiled at Emily, and she found herself
smiling back. Getting lost in his expression…

His mother rapped the table smartly. “Did I
say you could smile at each other like that? I promised my husband
I would not go easy on you. There are still seventeen items on my
list. We are by no means finished.”

The list ranged from questions of how Emily
felt about hosting family members who came to sit for the civil
service examination, children, religion, children again, Emily’s
fits and her family’s history, children…

“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.

“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 will 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.