say
Wednesday
next,” Mrs. Jolly interjected. “There is nothing more to say on the matter.”
“Yes, there is,” Juliana said as she stepped forward. “I am not a child, and I do not need a nursemaid. With all due respect, Mr. McGregor, I do not need your assistance.”
“Don’t you, lass? Are you familiar with the maritime laws, or the customs requirements in Bombay and the Burmese territory, or the tax on spirit vending, or the salt monopoly, or the—”
“Enough!” Mrs. Jolly cried. “You can explain all that to Lady Juliana on Wednesday. I am sure it will meet with her pleasure.”
Juliana looked as if very little about the situation met with her pleasure, but she said nothing. Instead she bowed stiffly, and with a final glance at Mr. McGregor, she left the room.
Hortensia watched her go, noting the defiance in the girl’s eyes. Stubborn. Willful. And, though Hortensia would admit it to no one but herself, a great deal like herself at Juliana’s age. “Mr. McGregor, in addition to your chaperone duties, I wish you to write me daily to apprise me of how Lady Julianacomports herself. Take special care to note her actions and the people she associates with. Can you accomplish that?”
The solicitor’s expression was curiously unreadable. “Your wish is my command, my dear woman.”
“I am not—oh, blast,” Hortensia said, for McGregor had exited the room. “That rumpled Scotsman is excessively annoying.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” the commodore commented as he sat beside his mother. “I am sure Mr. McGregor will be quite helpful to Juliana.”
“Humph. ’Tis more my hope that he shall bore her to death, and that she will tire of the whole affair before she is eaten alive by rascal sea captains and scoundrel merchants. Or before she irrevocably damages her chances at a suitable marriage.”
Jolly scratched his chin in thought. “But Mama, don’t you think a man would value her pluck in taking on her father’s company?”
“Only if that pluck brings with it a substantial dowry and a spotless reputation. Juliana risks both by mixing with business concerns. Let us hope that another scandal of greater proportions rises to eclipse her folly,” she added as she picked up the latest copy of the
Tattler
. “Let us see. Whatever is Princess Caroline up to now …?”
Wednesday next dawned unusually bright and cheerful for a midwinter day. The weather matched Juliana’s mood as she looked out the coach window at the busy London docks. To the left were the great warehouses, the immense, splendid structures of brick and stone that had been engineered by John Rennie at the beginning of the century. Four stories tall, they towered over the narrow streets like giants, and were packed to the rafters with rice, tea, tobacco, and every other commodity that came from Britain’s far-flung kingdom. Almost everything imported into England came throughthis noisy, bustling city within a city. Carters and laborers swarmed like bees, moving the heavy crates and barrels that held the bounty of the world’s greatest empire.
Juliana gripped the edge of the coach window and felt excitement bubble up in her veins. As a child, she’d spent hours gazing out the second-story window of her father’s office and made a wonderful game of guessing what mysterious treasures lay hidden inside the mountains of cargo. “Look, Meg, that’s a crate of tea from China. And that barrel is from India—do you think it holds silk and spices?”
“Or rubies,” Meg said, catching the excitement. “Oh, Julie, the only rubies I ever saw were the paste copies in my mother’s old acting trunk. What if that barrel is
stuffed
with rubies?”
“I ken more likely ’tis stuffed with rubber,” an unenthusiastic voice from the other side of the coach commented.
Juliana turned to Mr. McGregor, whose glum expression was the only dark spot in an otherwise bright day. “It could be rubies.”
“I dunna think so. Rubber is an
Wednesday
next,” Mrs. Jolly interjected. “There is nothing more to say on the matter.”
“Yes, there is,” Juliana said as she stepped forward. “I am not a child, and I do not need a nursemaid. With all due respect, Mr. McGregor, I do not need your assistance.”
“Don’t you, lass? Are you familiar with the maritime laws, or the customs requirements in Bombay and the Burmese territory, or the tax on spirit vending, or the salt monopoly, or the—”
“Enough!” Mrs. Jolly cried. “You can explain all that to Lady Juliana on Wednesday. I am sure it will meet with her pleasure.”
Juliana looked as if very little about the situation met with her pleasure, but she said nothing. Instead she bowed stiffly, and with a final glance at Mr. McGregor, she left the room.
Hortensia watched her go, noting the defiance in the girl’s eyes. Stubborn. Willful. And, though Hortensia would admit it to no one but herself, a great deal like herself at Juliana’s age. “Mr. McGregor, in addition to your chaperone duties, I wish you to write me daily to apprise me of how Lady Julianacomports herself. Take special care to note her actions and the people she associates with. Can you accomplish that?”
The solicitor’s expression was curiously unreadable. “Your wish is my command, my dear woman.”
“I am not—oh, blast,” Hortensia said, for McGregor had exited the room. “That rumpled Scotsman is excessively annoying.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” the commodore commented as he sat beside his mother. “I am sure Mr. McGregor will be quite helpful to Juliana.”
“Humph. ’Tis more my hope that he shall bore her to death, and that she will tire of the whole affair before she is eaten alive by rascal sea captains and scoundrel merchants. Or before she irrevocably damages her chances at a suitable marriage.”
Jolly scratched his chin in thought. “But Mama, don’t you think a man would value her pluck in taking on her father’s company?”
“Only if that pluck brings with it a substantial dowry and a spotless reputation. Juliana risks both by mixing with business concerns. Let us hope that another scandal of greater proportions rises to eclipse her folly,” she added as she picked up the latest copy of the
Tattler
. “Let us see. Whatever is Princess Caroline up to now …?”
Wednesday next dawned unusually bright and cheerful for a midwinter day. The weather matched Juliana’s mood as she looked out the coach window at the busy London docks. To the left were the great warehouses, the immense, splendid structures of brick and stone that had been engineered by John Rennie at the beginning of the century. Four stories tall, they towered over the narrow streets like giants, and were packed to the rafters with rice, tea, tobacco, and every other commodity that came from Britain’s far-flung kingdom. Almost everything imported into England came throughthis noisy, bustling city within a city. Carters and laborers swarmed like bees, moving the heavy crates and barrels that held the bounty of the world’s greatest empire.
Juliana gripped the edge of the coach window and felt excitement bubble up in her veins. As a child, she’d spent hours gazing out the second-story window of her father’s office and made a wonderful game of guessing what mysterious treasures lay hidden inside the mountains of cargo. “Look, Meg, that’s a crate of tea from China. And that barrel is from India—do you think it holds silk and spices?”
“Or rubies,” Meg said, catching the excitement. “Oh, Julie, the only rubies I ever saw were the paste copies in my mother’s old acting trunk. What if that barrel is
stuffed
with rubies?”
“I ken more likely ’tis stuffed with rubber,” an unenthusiastic voice from the other side of the coach commented.
Juliana turned to Mr. McGregor, whose glum expression was the only dark spot in an otherwise bright day. “It could be rubies.”
“I dunna think so. Rubber is an
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