The Heiress Effect

“I suppose that is possible,” Anjan said politely. “But Miss Emily’s father is a barrister, and her uncle is a tutor in law. She can introduce me to people besides just Lirington’s parents. It’s an advantageous match in that regard.”

Mrs. Bhattacharya narrowed her eyes at her son. “Of course you try to convince me that way. You are just being sensible.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice as she spoke. “You do not care that she is pretty. You did not write to me that you could talk to her of everything. It has nothing to do with any of that, does it?”

Anjan’s lips twitched into a real smile. “Of course,” he said dryly. “What could be more pragmatic?”

She gave him a look. “I am not stupid, Anjan.”

“You know me too well. But I’ve already told you I’m in love with her. If I want to someday have influence on the English, I need someone who understands them. Someone who does that, and yet doesn’t wish me to forget who I am, too.”

“Forget?”

“Practically everyone in England eats meat and drinks alcohol,” Emily said. “Imagine your son going to a gathering and being served a roast. Who would you talk to beforehand to make sure that didn’t happen? Who would make sure there was lemonade in his glass instead of white wine? Taking care of such arrangements is a wife’s work.” She glanced over at Anjan. “I do not think you son would ever forget, of course, but I could help smooth the way.”

Mrs. Bhattacharya frowned, considering this.

“And of course we’re hiring an Indian cook.”

“Hmph.” Anjan’s mother looked somewhat mollified. But when she realized that her expression had softened, she glared at Emily with renewed intent. “Meals are meals. And India? You want him to forget about India? To never come home, never have his children know where they are from?”

“No,” Emily replied. “Of course not. We’ll visit as often as we can.”

“I see. Who is this girl, Anjan, who wants everything you want? I am not sure I believe her.”

“But I don’t want everything Anjan wants,” Emily said. “He explained to me how it works. I want everything you want.”

Silence met this at first. Then Mrs. Bhattacharya tilted her head and looked at Emily. “You do?”

“Of course I do. I know nothing about being married to Indians, raising Indian children. Who else would I ask for advice?”

Mrs. Bhattacharya raised one eyebrow and turned to her son. “You told her to say that.”

Anjan coughed into his hand. “I promise, Ma, I didn’t. I did tell her that you were in charge, but she figured the rest of it out herself.”

Mrs. Bhattacharya shook her head, but her lip twitched, too—an expression of suppressed humor that reminded Emily of her son. “Well, at least she knows how to go on.”

Anjan smiled at Emily, and she found herself smiling back. Getting lost in his expression…

His mother rapped the table smartly. “Did I say you could smile at each other like that? I promised my husband I would not go easy on you. There are still seventeen items on my list. We are by no means finished.”

The list ranged from questions of how Emily felt about hosting family members who came to sit for the civil service examination, children, religion, children again, Emily’s fits and her family’s history, children…

“Do you love him?” Mrs. Bhattacharya finally asked.

“Yes,” Emily said. “In fact—”

“No need to convince me,” the other woman interrupted. “Of course you do. Who couldn’t?”

Emily smiled.

Mrs. Bhattacharya’s expression scarcely changed. “We’ll have to talk with your family about the most auspicious time to have the wedding.”

Emily’s smile spread. Anjan had told her not to worry, that if they were both respectful, they could bring her around. But maybe she hadn’t really believed it.

But then Mrs. Bhattacharya continued. “You don’t have a mother. Who is responsible for you?”

“I have a sister.” Emily grimaced. “And an uncle. But it might be better if…if…” She trailed off.

“What is she saying now?” Mrs. Bhattacharya asked, an expression of disbelief on her face.

Anjan came over and sat next to Emily. “Ma,” he said, “there may be a little difficulty with her uncle.”

“Difficulty? What kind of difficulty?”

“I’m not of age,” Emily said. “I need his permission.”

Anjan spread his hands.

“Oh.” Mrs. Bhattacharya’s jaw set. “That difficulty.” It was such a familiar expression on her face—hauntingly familiar, in fact. After a long pause, she shrugged. “I will talk to him. When your father was having those kind of difficulties with Colonel Wainworth, I handled it.”

But Anjan shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “I appreciate the offer, Ma, but this time, I think I must do it.”

Jane stood at the window, peering down into the street below. The hotel Oliver had brought them to was on a quiet street, far from the pressing crowds they’d encountered at the train station. He’d given a false name when they had signed in. He’d come up to the room, but he had paced back and forth for ten minutes before finally dashing off a handful of notes and ringing for someone to deliver them.

“My brother,” he’d said by way of explanation. “And an acquaintance, who will inquire of the bar as to the whereabouts of your sister’s…barrister.”

She didn’t ask him why he had needed to think so long before deciding to let his brother know he was in town. Or why he’d given the hotel a false name. Or why they had come here, to this quiet hotel more than a mile from the center of town. She already knew.

It wasn’t that he was ashamed of her. He just…didn’t want anyone to know of their affair. That was all.

So why did it rankle?

A few minutes back, the boy he’d sent to deliver the messages had returned, this time laden with a bag. It had been filled with paper: newspapers, copies of parliamentary minutes, notes, invitations. He’d made his excuses and retired to a desk, leaving Jane to look out the window and think her own thoughts.

If there was one thing she had learned in the months since she had met Oliver, it was that problems were best met with bold action. Every time she’d cowered and hid or made herself smaller, her problems had grown in size. This—this growing affection between them, this love affair that was impossible—was a problem.