She wanted a bold solution.

But what she was getting instead…

Watching him work through the papers was like watching him work himself away from her. With every letter he opened, every new amendment he read, he seemed more distant. More aware that the card he’d received invited him to a supper where Jane would never fit in.

Wrens, he had said, not phoenixes. She had told him once that she was ablaze, but the women who married men like Oliver wouldn’t even have dared to strike a match and light a fire.

She could do it. She could simply throw money at the problem—hire etiquette instructors who would browbeat Jane night and day until she stopped making mistakes. Hire a woman who would be wholly responsible for Jane’s uninteresting, drab, perfect little wardrobe. She had enough money to cut all her feathers and bleach them beige. With work, she could make herself fit.

But when she thought of an existence composed of lies, she shivered. Once was enough.

She shook her head and turned back to the window, back to the question of how to find a bold solution to a very quiet problem.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Who are you?”

Anjan had been let into the dim study at the back of the house. It took him a moment to focus on the man who must have been Titus Fairfield. He was rounding and bald, and he watched Anjan with a grave expression on his face.

Anjan had seen him before. Years before, another Indian student—one who had taken his degree the year Anjan had arrived—had pointed him out as a private tutor. Not one that could be used; one who was unlikely to take on an Indian pupil. If he had known that man was Emily’s uncle…

He probably wouldn’t have asked her to walk in the first place. Just as well he hadn’t known.

He’d dressed in sober colors, had made sure that he looked perfectly respectable. His collar was starched so stiffly he could feel the points against his cheek when he turned his head. He handed over a card.

“I’m Mr. Anjan Bhattacharya,” he said, “and I’m here on a matter of some importance.

Fairfield set Anjan’s card on the desk without glancing at it. “Well,” he said in a jolly voice, “I’m not taking any pupils this year.” He had a crafty look in his eye, as if somehow Anjan wouldn’t recognize that he was being put off.

“Just as well. I have no interest in a tutor. I took the Law Tripos in March,” he informed the man. “But I did know your last pupil—John Plateford. You did good work with him.”

Mr. Fairfield had not expected flattery. He blinked and was unable to summon up the rudeness necessary to ring the bell and have Anjan thrown away. So Anjan sat on the other side of his desk. For a moment, Fairfield simply stared at him, unsure of the etiquette of the situation. His natural pride, such as it was, won out after a few moments.

“Yes, Plateford,” he said happily. “He received first-class honors.”

“A credit to you,” Anjan replied politely. “So did I.”

Fairfield blinked once more at that and then shook his head, as if to dispel the idea that Anjan might have ranked alongside his pupil.

“I’m a barrister in London now,” Anjan continued. He waited one moment to see if Fairfield would connect his profession with the note that Emily had left.

But he didn’t. Fairfield sat there frowning owlishly at Anjan.

“A few days ago,” Anjan continued after too long a pause, “Miss Emily Fairfield came to me.”

Her uncle sucked in a breath. “You?” he said in shock. “Why would she go to you?”

“Because I’d asked her to marry me,” Anjan said. “And because she wanted to tell me yes.”

“Ridiculous!” Fairfield shook his head, pushing against the desk as if he could thus reject the words Anjan was saying. “Insanity! It’s not possible.”

Anjan might have listed all the ways it was possible—starting with the good-luck kiss she’d given him the prior evening. He might have mentioned the long talk they’d had last night, discussing their future. Instead, he decided to misunderstand the man.

“I assure you,” Anjan said, “there is no prohibition.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Fairfield grimaced. “You know. I meant that you can’t marry her.”

“You mean that I can’t marry her on account of the fact that you object.”

Fairfield looked relieved to have the matter stated so plainly. “Yes. Yes. That’s it. I object.”

“I don’t blame you,” Anjan said. “I am here to relieve you of your objections. I know you must be feeling a little worried about how your niece will be treated.”

“Indeed.” Fairfield puffed out his chest. “I am worried about her treatment.”

“I can understand that,” Anjan said. “My father is highly placed in the civil service. My uncle is the native aide-de-camp for the Governor-General. I know you must be worried that I will think your niece beneath me.”

Fairfield blinked rapidly. “Uh. Well.”

“Never fear,” Anjan said. “I don’t. I’ll care for her as well as any lesser man might. We may be better off than your humble circumstances, but I am just another one of her Majesty’s loyal servants.” The words hardly tasted badly in his mouth as he spoke them.

Mr. Fairfield seemed nonplussed. He skimmed his hand over his head, grimacing oddly. “That was not…”

“Ah. It’s her fits, then? You fear she wasn’t truthful with me about them. Mr. Fairfield, I applaud your desire to make sure that there has been adequate and proper disclosure between all parties before entering into a permanent relationship. But I assure you that I’ve known of them from the start. They’re scarcely worth thinking about.”

“You don’t understand.” Fairfield was beginning to look pale.

“Ah,” Anjan slowly stood, setting his hands on the desk. “It’s because I’m Indian.”

There was a long, pregnant pause.

“I am not sure that Emily is well enough to marry,” her uncle finally said. “But if she were, then, yes, I’d refuse you. Because you’re—you’re—”

“From India,” Anjan supplied helpfully. “It’s the name of a place, not a loathsome disease. You’ll have to learn to say it; we’re going to be family.”

“No, no, of course we’re not,” Fairfield said mulishly. “I don’t have to say anything. I won’t give permission. I won’t.”