Jennifer Ashley - The Seduction of Elliot McBride

Elliot had told her, through Mahindar, that she could buy whatever she wanted or needed, with an open-ended account. Juliana, with the frugality and efficiency she’d strived to learn since girlhood, looked for the best things she could for the very best price.

By the time she’d finished her correspondence and emerged to have Hamish carry it to the village, it was time for luncheon, which she ate informally with Priti. Priti had been taught table manners, Juliana saw, holding her fork and spoon properly, eating only her bread with her fingers.

Juliana’s heart warmed as she watched her. Who couldn’t love this child, with her wild black hair and winsome smile, her prattling talk, in a mix of English and Punjabi? Her eyes were deep brown, but she had the look of Elliot. She would be lovely when she was grown, and Juliana vowed to watch over her every step of the way.

After their luncheon, Channan arrived to lead Priti back to the kitchen. Priti was glad to go, to play again not only with the goat, but with her other new friend—the setter who seemed to have no inclination to return home to Mr. McPherson.

Priti climbed onto Juliana’s lap and kissed her cheek, and Juliana held her close. She was glad Elliot had brought her here from India, to a place where she could be safe.

Priti gave Juliana another sticky kiss, climbed down, took Channan’s hand, and pulled the older woman away.

They had not been gone thirty seconds when Mahindar walked into the dining room, looking distressed.

“Memsahib, you have callers.”

“Callers?” Juliana rose, dabbing with her handkerchief where Priti had left her honeyed kiss. “Good heavens, who would call while we’re at such sixes and sevens?”

Mahindar presented the silver salver he held in his big hands. The two cards bore the names of Mrs. Terrell and Mrs. Dalrymple.

“Oh Lord.” Juliana sent up the fervent prayer. “I remember distinctly telling them the house wasn’t fit for visitors, and wouldn’t be until the fête. Where am I to put them?”

“Do not distress yourself, memsahib. The room you said you wanted for the morning room is clean and neat. I can bring you tea there, with little cakes. Miss Rossmoran has been teaching Channan how to make little cakes.”

“Excellent, Mahindar. You’re a wonder. Yes, put them there, and tell them I’ll be right in.”

Mahindar departed swiftly and quietly.

Juliana neatened her hair in the mirror. She was hardly dressed for accepting callers, in a workaday gown of brown poplin without much trim, though her Edinburgh dressmaker had always managed to make her dresses pretty even if they were inappropriate for the occasion.

They’ll have to take as they find, Juliana thought irritably as she walked across the chaos of the house to the morning room.

Mrs. Terrell and Mrs. Dalrymple rose as Juliana entered. They took in her gown, glanced at each other, and kept their expressions fixed.

“I apologize for the dust and noise,” Juliana said, her face heating. “We have the builders in, as you can see.”

The ladies sat down, exclaiming that of course they expected nothing, that her morning room was lovely, had the best of views, would be splendid when it was finished. Mahindar glided in while they were chattering and set down the tea things, the ones Ainsley had given Juliana, plus a three-tiered tray filled with tiny cakes and petit fours.

Juliana poured out the tea.

“I wonder that your husband brought his Indian servants home with him,” Mrs. Dalrymple said as she accepted a cup and plucked a cake from the tray Mahindar held. “One had to put up with them in India, of course, but I like plain Scottish servants now. The Indian ones do creep about so, and most of them are blatant thieves. It’s unnerving.”

Juliana looked at Mahindar, who kept his face completely blank. “Mahindar and his family are not thieves,” she said. “They are perfectly fine people.”

“Mark my words, they’re not to be trusted,” Mrs. Dalrymple said, waving her tiny cake. “What on earth Mr. McBride was thinking, I cannot imagine. The Hindus find it bizarre to cook a chop, can you imagine, Mrs. Terrell? They eat no meat themselves.”

“Mahindar is not Hindu,” Juliana said. “He’s a Sikh.”

Mrs. Dalrymple shuddered. “Even worse. They are so bloodthirsty.”

“I have not found Mahindar to be bloodthirsty in the least,” Juliana said. “What’s more, he speaks perfect English.” She gave Mrs. Dalrymple a pointed look.

Mrs. Dalrymple paid no attention, being busy taking a bite of her cake. She chewed a moment, then her face took on a peculiar expression, and she started to cough. “Good heavens, help us. He has poisoned us!”

Mahindar’s eyes widened in astonishment. Mrs. Terrell, who had been staring out the window and paying no attention, jerked around. Juliana quickly handed Mrs. Dalrymple a napkin and tried not to cringe when the lady spit out the chewed cake.

“Poison,” Mrs. Dalrymple rasped. “You must send for the constable at once.”

“Nonsense.” Juliana snatched up a cake from the tray and took a bite. The flavors were unexpected but ones she now recognized. “Cinnamon, cardamom, and a bit of black pepper, that is all. How lovely. Please extend my compliments to your wife, Mahindar.” She smiled, trying to convey to Mahindar that if he valued his sanity, he’d flee the room now.

Mahindar made a polite bow. “Thank you, memsahib.” With dignity intact, he turned and silently departed.

“You see what I mean about them creeping about?” Mrs. Dalrymple said. “And putting pepper into a cake? How ignorant. How foolish. Plain cooking is beyond them.”

“Mrs. Dalrymple,” Juliana said, no longer bothering to keep her temper in check. “If you have come here to insult my servants and disparage my food, I must ask you to leave.”

“You know very well why I came today,” Mrs. Dalrymple said.

Mrs. Terrell nodded. “We’ve come to give you another warning, is all, dear Mrs. McBride.”

Mrs. Terrell was about thirty-five but she might have been fifty, round faced, her hair going to gray, a woman who would die rather than stoop to artifice to cover the gray threads. She wore clothes made well of costly fabric, but they were painfully, almost boastfully plain. Her entire being shouted, My husband has money, but I am frugal and will never bring him shame…unlike some wives who wear gowns of dull poplin to receive guests.