The weighty bustle was not perfectly in place, but maybe nobody would notice? Amelia squeezed her eyes shut and shrugged into her gown. She had been a missionary’s wife once and was expected to become a missionary’s wife once more. Her clothing, despite its heavy layers, was simple to put on for a single woman on her own, buttoning up the front. Still, there were so many buttons.
“Amelia, the Lorrings arrived two weeks ago. You know how tides work.”
“Oh?” She grimaced. “Was that two weeks ago? Already?”
“Amelia.” A gentle thump alerted her to the fact that her mother had likely placed her forehead against the door. “Amelia. Honestly. You’re twenty-three. You’re a widow. You ought to have some sense by now.”
He values what is valuable. That line from her brother’s letter came back to Amelia.
Truth was she had always been just a little difficult. Despite expectations, despite everything she was told, somehow she kept setting her sights above her acknowledged value.
She constantly had to remind herself of the truth: She was a woman of Chinese descent. She’d be lucky to find a husband, any husband, let alone a decent, Christian man.
Hold on to your heart, some rebellious part of her whispered. But that came from the final vestiges of a false memory. She had to relinquish it.
Reality was here in this house where she had grown to adulthood. This was Amelia’s truth: the constant certainty that someone held basic expectations for her behavior, and that she was failing to meet them.
Hold on to her heart? Ha. Amelia had never met anyone’s expectations. She was always falling short. Her mother; her father; her first husband. She had no memory of the woman who had given birth to her, only shadows of feelings, thoughts that had long since lost their vitality from being probed so often. But whoever that mysterious woman was, whatever her name, whatever her language, Amelia must not have met her expectations either. She’d been given up.
Valuable. The word from Leland’s letter seemed to drop deep inside her, smoking like coal fallen out of the fire. Amelia stopped in the process of buttoning, her fingertips over her heart, trying her best not to burst into flame.
“Amelia? Hurry.”
She jumped.
“I’m almost ready. Just three more buttons.” She did one, then two, then winced and stopped. She looked up at the ceiling. Really? Really?
“Amelia?”
“I, um.” She looked down at her gown, and now she could see her error. There it was, down past her navel. In her haste, she’d misaligned the buttons when she’d started. Now she had one extra button at the top of her cleavage and the only empty buttonhole was down by her toes. “I may be a bit longer? I did my buttons up wrong.”
A long pause. She could imagine her mother counting to ten, trying not to lose her temper. Finally, she heard a deep sigh through the door. “Honestly, Amelia. I’ll go tell Mrs. Flappert that you’ve returned from your walk, that you’re changing your clothing and will be down shortly. Hurry up, Amelia. You know how important this is. Whatever will she think of you if you dawdle?”
Chapter Three
The sun had climbed ten degrees higher in the sky by the time Grayson went up the path to the Achesons’ home. It was a formal two-story affair of brownstone, built in the English style: straight walls rising to an angular roof. The large glass windows must have been imported from some distance. They proclaimed the wealth of those who lived here to all who passed by.
He knocked at the door, and while the servant who answered stiffened at the sight of him, the promise of a letter from Mr. Leland Acheson and the offer of news from out of the country eventually gave him reason to be allowed inside.
The parlor where he was led had windows thrown wide in the summer heat. A bit of a breeze circulated comfortably. The table was set with tea things—biscuits, little sandwiches—as if the ladies were pretending they lived in a fashionable London address.
Mrs. Smith was already present. She sat uncomfortably in a single straight-backed chair. Next to her were two women, both white, and presumably both English if the stiffness of their spines was any guide. The one closest to Mrs. Smith was dressed with an extravagance that spoke of particular effort. She wore a lavender muslin gown with little embroidered blossoms floating over layers of skirts, which were bright white lace at the cuffs with a hem that looked as if they might brush the ground. White lace trailing against the ground? That shouted wealthy trader’s wife, money to burn louder than any words. This must be Mr. Acheson’s mother then. Unlike Mr. Acheson, she was short and slim and dark-haired.
The other woman, in a serviceable dark gingham, with her modest neckline and excessively stuffed expression? Grayson had met her like too. She was a missionary. Most likely the dreaded Mrs. Flappert.
Both of them were staring at him as if he were some poisonous insect that had crawled out of the woodwork.
“Ladies.” He bowed from the waist and used his best British accent. “Captain Grayson Hunter from Lord Traders Telegraphic Company.”
They continued to look at him as if he were a talking centipede who had suddenly developed a fatal case of the manners.
“My mother was Lady Elizabeth Denmore,” he explained. “She met my father in England where he was a speaker on the abolitionist circuit.”
He did not mention that his parents had eloped without her family’s support. He did not need to; that would be assumed by all present. But the affronted gazes fixed on him softened ever so slightly.
Sometimes Grayson felt as if he were a walking repository of accents and mannerisms. When pressed, he could do a reasonable approximation of a wealthy British accent. He’d spent time in England and his mother had been an English lady. Furthermore, he’d grown up with his elderly many-greats-not-actually-uncle Henry who had, before he’d run off to sail ships with his equally many-greats-but-actually-an-uncle John, been English gentry himself.
They had now slotted him in place. Not British in their minds, no matter who his mother had been. But British-adjacent. British enough to know the rules. British enough to converse with.
A conversation was all he needed. He didn’t care about them and their small minds, not when Mrs. Amelia Smith was sitting next to them, soaking in every word he said with wide, interested eyes.
“I’ve come from Hong Kong,” he explained, “with intent to trade in Fuzhou. An acquaintance of mine—Leland Acheson—asked me to carry a letter and his regards to you.”
The trader’s wife—Mrs. Acheson—melted at that. “Oh. Leland. My Leland.”
Mrs. Flappert squinted at him as if she were not yet sure of her eyes. “How very good of Mr. Acheson to think of his family.” Another pause. “He is a missionary like my Alden. Has he converted you to Christianity then?”
Mrs. Smith winced. She tried not to, but her emotion—that deep embarrassment, the way she looked down, keeping her expression rigidly unchanging—showed all too plainly.
Grayson tried not to have real emotions at all, let alone in public. His feelings now were a carefully managed affair. He kept the smile on his face. Friendly. Open. “My mother is the daughter of the Duke of Castleford. My uncle is a bishop in the Church of England. My father was active in the abolitionist community in Britain, which I am sure you are familiar with. I was baptized in London before I could walk. I was not in need of conversion.”