picturing your hair down the way I saw it in Macao, and wishing to see it thus again.”
“It is unlikely that you will, even if you are Easterbrook and expect the world to conform to your pleasure. I am a mature woman now, and must look like one.”
He would soon see it however he chose, but he let it pass. “Tell me how your brother fares. You spoke of his capability with trade but nothing else.”
She settled back, perhaps relieved by such an easy topic. “He looks much like my father now that he is grown. There is little of my mother in him.”
“You said that he goes to Canton now. That means he has to leave you alone in Macao during the trading season. It must be lonely for you.”
From October to May, the European traders lived at Canton, outside its walls in the trading houses—or factories—maintained by each country on the narrow strip of land designated by the emperor. Their movements were strictly regulated by the Mandarins who executed the imperial will.
Even their visits to their families in the Portuguese enclave of Macao involved an elaborate protocol and the payment of high fees. Since Canton was the only portal for legal trade with China, the restrictive system was tolerated even though it was strongly resented.
“Not so lonely. There are other women who wait as I do. I have Isabella, and Tong Wei remains as a guard.”
“Does your mother's family aid with the business? There was no need to be involved while your father lived, but your brother is young still.”
Her expression turned cool. “Although our company still bears their name, the Tavares family chose to sign away their rights to their share when my father died. They calculated it would fall into ruin, and did not want any debts to make their way back to them.”
“Since it did not fall into ruin, they calculated wrong.”
“It appears so.”
The better calculations had been hers. She knew her own abilities and worth as her mother's family never would. Christian could picture her, the grieving daughter, perhaps dramatic in her desolation at her loss, silently weighing the risks and profits if the Tavares family handed over their share.
“Pedro broke the engagement at the same time, I assume.” He watched her closely, left with nothing more than normal instincts to ascertain just how sly she had been.
“Yes, it all happened at the same time.”
A little disturbance trembled toward him. Not from Leona, but from Isabella.
Sadness. Sympathy.
The companion remembered Leona's distress back then, even if Leona masked it completely.
Not so distressed that she did not play her cards shrewdly, though. Whether the Tavareses wanted to distance themselves from a failing business or from awoman insulted by a fiancé, Leona had secured whatever remained for her brother, in total.
Leona made a display of gazing along the path, announcing with her distraction that this particular topic was finished. He occupied himself with admiring the fine bones of her face and the unfashionable, erotic fullness of her lips.
Maturity favored her unusual beauty. That mouth and her eyes reflected her Portuguese blood, but the rest of her face was English. The combination resulted in the familiar tinged by the exotic, and her dark eyes contrasted starkly with the translucent paleness of her skin.
“Lord Easterbrook, you are still summoning a good deal of attention,” she observed. “There is a man over there by those trees who just stares at you, much as if he is seeing a ghost.”
He noticed the man in question. Handsome, dark-haired, and elegant, he accompanied a woman far less fashionable in dress but lovely in her Celtic way. Right now the beauty was noticing her companion's interest in the Easterbrook carriage and expressing her own gape-mouthed astonishment.
“If you mean that man with the woman whose red tresses are flowing the way I would like to see yours, that is my youngest brother Elliot. The woman is his wife, Phaedra.”
“Why is
“It is unlikely that you will, even if you are Easterbrook and expect the world to conform to your pleasure. I am a mature woman now, and must look like one.”
He would soon see it however he chose, but he let it pass. “Tell me how your brother fares. You spoke of his capability with trade but nothing else.”
She settled back, perhaps relieved by such an easy topic. “He looks much like my father now that he is grown. There is little of my mother in him.”
“You said that he goes to Canton now. That means he has to leave you alone in Macao during the trading season. It must be lonely for you.”
From October to May, the European traders lived at Canton, outside its walls in the trading houses—or factories—maintained by each country on the narrow strip of land designated by the emperor. Their movements were strictly regulated by the Mandarins who executed the imperial will.
Even their visits to their families in the Portuguese enclave of Macao involved an elaborate protocol and the payment of high fees. Since Canton was the only portal for legal trade with China, the restrictive system was tolerated even though it was strongly resented.
“Not so lonely. There are other women who wait as I do. I have Isabella, and Tong Wei remains as a guard.”
“Does your mother's family aid with the business? There was no need to be involved while your father lived, but your brother is young still.”
Her expression turned cool. “Although our company still bears their name, the Tavares family chose to sign away their rights to their share when my father died. They calculated it would fall into ruin, and did not want any debts to make their way back to them.”
“Since it did not fall into ruin, they calculated wrong.”
“It appears so.”
The better calculations had been hers. She knew her own abilities and worth as her mother's family never would. Christian could picture her, the grieving daughter, perhaps dramatic in her desolation at her loss, silently weighing the risks and profits if the Tavares family handed over their share.
“Pedro broke the engagement at the same time, I assume.” He watched her closely, left with nothing more than normal instincts to ascertain just how sly she had been.
“Yes, it all happened at the same time.”
A little disturbance trembled toward him. Not from Leona, but from Isabella.
Sadness. Sympathy.
The companion remembered Leona's distress back then, even if Leona masked it completely.
Not so distressed that she did not play her cards shrewdly, though. Whether the Tavareses wanted to distance themselves from a failing business or from awoman insulted by a fiancé, Leona had secured whatever remained for her brother, in total.
Leona made a display of gazing along the path, announcing with her distraction that this particular topic was finished. He occupied himself with admiring the fine bones of her face and the unfashionable, erotic fullness of her lips.
Maturity favored her unusual beauty. That mouth and her eyes reflected her Portuguese blood, but the rest of her face was English. The combination resulted in the familiar tinged by the exotic, and her dark eyes contrasted starkly with the translucent paleness of her skin.
“Lord Easterbrook, you are still summoning a good deal of attention,” she observed. “There is a man over there by those trees who just stares at you, much as if he is seeing a ghost.”
He noticed the man in question. Handsome, dark-haired, and elegant, he accompanied a woman far less fashionable in dress but lovely in her Celtic way. Right now the beauty was noticing her companion's interest in the Easterbrook carriage and expressing her own gape-mouthed astonishment.
“If you mean that man with the woman whose red tresses are flowing the way I would like to see yours, that is my youngest brother Elliot. The woman is his wife, Phaedra.”
“Why is
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