They had not asked her for a response, Grayson noticed.
“On high tide two days from now. That should be enough time for her to pack, yes?”
Mrs. Smith stood abruptly. “If it’s no bother, I believe I will go with Captain…” She trailed off, glanced at him, and bit her lip once more, blushing. “The captain,” she amended.
Her mother had not been lying. She was bad at remembering names. She didn’t remember his. If he hadn’t seen her stumble on another name, he might have been offended.
“I can introduce him to Mr. Water…something before he has to leave.”
Mrs. Acheson glanced at Amelia, then at Grayson. Perhaps she was not as unobservant as Grayson had thought because she sighed. “It’s Waterman. His name is Waterman. And take a servant, Amelia.”
“Surely there’s no need to worry about proprieties, when—”
“It’s not about the proprieties, Amelia,” she said. “It’s about the circumstances. Take a servant.”
On the walk down the hill with Mrs. Smith, pollen drifted on the air. The servant who had let him in—an Indian woman of about forty years or so—followed behind them at about ten or twelve paces. And Mrs. Smith looked at him, casting him glances that were laden with discomfort.
Finally, she let out a sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“For what are you apologizing?”
She glanced at the house behind them. But for the landscape beyond—dark green mountains, higher and more angular than any peak in England—the vista behind would have fit in England with that square, heavy architecture.
Mrs. Smith compressed her lips and looked up at him. “All of it.”
Grayson shrugged. “You have my condolences as well.”
“It wasn’t your home! They weren’t polite to you.”
“And it is yours. All things considered, it seems a far worse burden to permanently live there than to visit for a quarter of an hour. My sincerest regrets on your situation, Mrs. Smith.”
“But—that is—” She looked up at him and her jaw squared. “That is my mother you are talking about.”
“Yes, well.” For a second, Grayson wondered—tell the truth? Or paper it over? Which would be better for his plans?
His attempts at calculation failed, and obstinacy won out over good sense. “As I said. My condolences. My sincere sympathies as well. I also have dreadful white relations who don’t understand basic civility.”
Her mouth gaped. “What are you talking about?”
“For me,” Grayson continued, “it’s my uncle on my mother’s side. He spent years saying that the family would eventually recognize my mother’s marriage instead of pretending she had perished. As soon as the time was right.” He glanced over at her. “If you guessed that the time was never going to be right, you would be correct. I know the type.”
“She is…” Mrs. Smith’s eyes grew rounder. “She may have been…” She shook her head. “She may not always succeed, but she tries.”
“Ah, see. The problem with that argument is that I know what trying looks like. My mother is white. She tries. She does not always succeed—even now after decades of marriage to a Black man she met because they were both working to abolish slavery in the British empire, she sometimes fails to understand things that I have known since I was three. But she does try. Trying means that if someone calls even the least favorite of her children uncivilized in her own drawing room, she would demand that they apologize sincerely. If they are unwilling, she has them tossed out.”
Mrs. Smith’s eyes grew rounder. “But that would be uncivil! To say the least.”
“Is it though? Is it uncivil to demand that your dearest loved ones be treated with basic respect?”
Mrs. Smith frowned. “But she loves me.”
Grayson rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Smith, you do not strike me as the sort of person whom it would be difficult to like. It says absolutely nothing about anyone’s character that they have chosen to do so.”
She colored faintly.
“I can pretend with the best of them,” he said. “I will bite my tongue when speaking won’t do any good. But I have a great deal of experience. I know when a white trader will knife me in the back for ten cents in profit and then turn around and claim they did me a favor. They always tell on themselves before it happens. Does she use those words often in your company, by the way?”
“What words?”
“Lesser races. Uncivilized. Savage.”
Mrs. Smith did not answer.
“So she does,” Grayson said. “That is what you were apologizing to me for, yes?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her give a quick nod.
“Enough of her. Let’s talk about you and your plan here. You’re supposed to be marrying a man who—what did Mrs. Flappert say again?—looks for a woman with a healthy constitution, a working grasp of English, and the ability to do all the boring chores. Sexual favors are an added incentive for him. Did I understand that correctly?”
Mrs. Smith bristled. “That’s not what she said.”
“It’s close enough. Is that what you really want out of life? Some people do. I doubt I could convince you if you were one of them.”
She glanced up at him, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. She did not answer immediately. Instead, she chewed her lip as if she had never contemplated the question.
Finally she spoke. “You said you were going to make me an offer of employment. What sort of employment?”
“I need someone to invent a telegraphic encoding for Chinese characters.”
She was no good at hiding her thoughts. He saw it all: the flash of interest, the light that crossed her face, the way her mouth opened as she turned to him. That was her first reaction. Then she froze in that moment of excitement. The spark leached from her eyes. She shut her mouth, compressing her lips. Then she shook her head.
“No.” She sounded regretful. “I don’t know what Leland told you about me. You were obviously expecting someone else. You didn’t even realize it was me at first. No.” Her voice was very soft. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Couldn’t?” Grayson asked. “Or don’t wish to?”
She looked out over the hill. “It wouldn’t be honest of me to take such an offer. Anyone who knows me would say the same thing. I’m flighty and forgetful. It takes me an age to remember anyone’s name at all. I cannot keep details in my head. I make stupid, ridiculous mistakes. I could not even do my buttons up properly this morning because I was distracted thinking of other things. So inventing an actual code for use by real people?” She shook her head rapidly. “I could not.”
“I see,” he said. “Then let us just converse about a Chinese telegraphic code in general. Did you know there’s a Frenchman who is working on his own version of Morse code for Chinese characters?”
“You see? That’s the sort of person you should hire.”
He had hired someone like that before. Two someones.
“I wonder what you would think of his premise,” Grayson said, looking off into the distance. “This is all intelligence I’ve received, so I trust you’ll keep it confidential.”