A single blink was the only sign of discomfort. “Oh, but of course you are not. Who would say otherwise?”
It was so utterly brazen, her attempt to pretend that it had not just been she who said it. But Grayson was not trying to stir things up, which meant leaving this woman to her petty untruths.
“I won’t bother you ladies much longer.” He took the letter from his pocket and set it on the table. “I will say that when I saw Leland, he was well. He particularly pressed upon me that I was to assure his mother that he was eating well and looked in fine health.”
“How lovely to hear,” said Mrs. Acheson with a real smile. “I’m lucky to have such an attentive son.”
It had not escaped Grayson’s notice that none of the ladies here had introduced themselves to him, nor did they seem likely to do so. They had not thanked him for the delivery. Perhaps they had not noticed that it had taken time and effort on his part.
At one point in his life, he had harbored emotions about that sort of oversight. Now he refused to let such things bother him. He took all the frustration, all the rage, and siphoned it off into determination. They’d pay him back, all of them. They would pay it all back eventually.
Mrs. Smith leaned forward. “Well. Was he?”
Grayson blinked.
“Was he eating well? Did he look in fine health? You said that he asked you to assure us that this was the case; you didn’t say it actually was the case.”
Mrs. Acheson’s smile froze. “Amelia,” she half whispered. “Leland wouldn’t ask someone to lie on his behalf. Think of what you are saying about your dear brother.”
“Do you not remember the time he had cholera?” Mrs. Smith’s back straightened. “He had—would you believe—a stash of undated, nonspecific letters which he ordered sent out for two straight months during the worst of his illness so we wouldn’t worry about him. Lying is exactly the sort of thing he would do to assuage our fears.”
“Amelia.” Mrs. Acheson’s smile wavered. She glanced at the woman next to her as if trying to think of what to do. “Amelia, that is so like you.” She smiled again at the woman, this time ingratiatingly. “She is the sort to care, you see. To want the best for those around her, and to see to their health.”
Mrs. Flappert’s nose wrinkled. “Perhaps a little vociferously.”
Mrs. Acheson just beamed wider. “But you know how it is. In these less civilized places, with these less civilized people, a little vociferousness goes a long way. You have to tell them what to do, you know. I see that as an integral part of Amelia’s utility—she knows how to communicate with natives wherever she goes.”
Grayson glanced at Amelia once more. She didn’t flinch at that, and he’d observed her enough that he suspected she would have if this kind of treatment were unfamiliar.
Did they always say such things in front of her? Talking about her as if she were nothing but a conduit, as if she could translate from civilized to uncivilized? It took some real inattention to detail, reality, and history to call either the Chinese or the varied nations that made up what Britain called India uncivilized, but then English propriety was that rare combination of inattention to everything that mattered coupled with a minute fascination with everything that didn’t. After all, they were accusing China of being uncivilized while residing in the territory of one of the oldest civilizations in the world.
Criminally underutilized, Mr. Acheson had said of his sister, and Grayson was beginning to understand that this had been an understatement. He could not imagine what it would be like for a Chinese woman of her intelligence to be raised in such an atmosphere.
There was nothing to do but cut off the conversation before it did any further damage. He just nodded. “No need to worry, ma’am. I didn’t have a chance to see him eat, but Mr. Acheson looked to be in good health when we spoke. I won’t impose on you much longer; I only wish to ask for one small point. He mentioned earlier that a personal friend of his worked in the British records office here. He knows I have some small interest in an introduction. Might I prevail upon you to make it?”
Mr. Acheson had not mentioned any such thing, but he was the sort of personable, voluble fellow who made intimate friends everywhere he went with literally everyone. The records office was large; there would be someone who fit the bill.
Grayson let his eyes meet Mrs. Smith’s. He did not do anything so obvious as raise an eyebrow; he just looked at her. You promised, he thought at her. You promised to hear me out.
If this was what her life was like here, he could have her for a song.
His request was met with a beat of silence, and in that moment Grayson realized his mistake. He shouldn’t have asked for an introduction. He’d fallen too far into British mannerisms; introductions were things that were made between near equals, and no matter who Grayson was, no matter where his parents came from or what he had accomplished, people like these would never see him as an equal. He should have asked for a kind word or some such.
Then Mrs. Smith spoke. “You must mean Mr.…” She trailed off. “At the customs house? The blond fellow? The one with the sideburns, who wears the hat?” She gestured with her hands, describing what seemed to be absurdly tall dimensions.
“Mr. Waterman,” Mrs. Acheson said after a beat. “Amelia, you’ve met him a dozen times.”
“Waterman,” Amelia repeated, an expression somewhat like concentration crossing her face. “Of course. He lives by water and is a man. Waterman.”
“She really is very bright,” Mrs. Acheson said to Mrs. Flappert in something that was not quite an aside. “You mustn’t think much of this. She occasionally fails to remember names, but—”
The other woman shrugged. “You don’t need to sell me on whatever finer points you’re imagining. I wasn’t expecting much by way of intelligence. We both know what a missionary needs in a wife. A woman with a good constitution who can manage a household and meet his other needs so he needn’t bother the natives. I only wanted to make sure she spoke English well enough. I’ve seen plenty; your daughter will do with enough training.”
In that moment Grayson could see Mrs. Smith gathering up a response. Her eyes, dark brown, glittered. A rebellious spark rose visibly in the twitch of her nose. He inhaled, waiting to see what would happen.
Then all of that was repressed in the bite of her lip.
Grayson considered himself an excellent judge of character; he’d had far too much opportunity to judge it over the years. In this short space of time, he’d developed as clear a picture of Mrs. Smith as he could. He had no idea how Mrs. Smith had been taken into this household, but he could imagine precisely how it had been for her, with the talk of conversion to Christianity and civilized people. It had been hell, and she’d likely been taught that anything other than compliance would damn her even further.
And yet she’d talked to him so openly. Mrs. Smith kept her heart on her sleeve. It was almost as if she were begging for someone to not casually crush her into dust.
Criminally underutilized. Criminally undervalued. Not a surprise. When it came to valuing people other than themselves, colonialists were masters of a vast criminal conspiracy.
“Excellent,” said Mrs. Acheson. “When will you leave?”