Chapter 8 — Captain Alexander Whitmore
Alexander Whitmore liked order.
He liked soldiers who arrived on time, horses that obeyed the reins, reports containing facts instead of excuses, and mornings that began according to plan.
At thirty-four, he had spent enough years in uniform to develop a reputation for discipline, competence, and an unfortunate ability to notice mistakes from across a parade ground.
His men respected him.
Some feared him.
His younger sister claimed he had been born forty years old and had become more serious ever since.
Alexander disagreed.
He simply believed that life functioned better when people did what they were supposed to do.
Then Amara arrived.
He first saw her from the second-floor window of the Whitmore family estate.
A carriage stopped in the courtyard shortly after noon. Alexander barely noticed it. He had returned home only three days earlier after months of military duty and was attempting to finish correspondence before dinner.
His mother had already informed him that several new household workers were expected.
Alexander had responded with the enthusiasm he normally reserved for discussions about curtains.
The estate employed dozens of people. He had no reason to concern himself with two more.
Then shouting came from below.
Alexander continued writing.
The shouting became louder.
He put down his pen.
A woman's voice said something he could not hear clearly.
A man's voice answered.
Then came a sharp crash.
Alexander stood and walked to the window.
In the courtyard below, a broken wooden crate lay on the ground.
Beside it stood a young woman in a plain dress.
She was tall, strikingly beautiful, and very angry.
Another woman stood close behind her.
An estate overseer was pointing toward the servants' entrance.
The first woman was pointing somewhere else.
Alexander opened the window.
“I said you go through there,” the overseer told her.
“And I said my cousin needs water.”
“She'll get water after you're inside.”
“She needs it now.”
“You don't give orders here.”
Alexander's eyebrows rose.
The woman's posture changed slightly.
Even from above, he could see the warning in her expression.
“I am not asking for champagne,” she said in precise English. “I am asking for water.”
The overseer reached for her arm.
She moved away before he touched her.
“Do that again and you may discover how much damage I can cause with a wooden shoe.”
Alexander almost smiled.
Almost.
The overseer apparently lacked the same instinct for self-preservation.
“You'll learn manners soon enough.”
The woman looked him up and down.
“So will you, I hope.”
This time Alexander did smile.
He immediately stopped when he realized it.
He left the room.
By the time he reached the courtyard, the argument had attracted several servants.
Alexander disliked scenes.
He disliked unnecessary audiences even more.
“What is happening?”
Everyone became quiet.
The overseer straightened. “Captain Whitmore.”
The woman turned.
Their eyes met.
Alexander stopped for half a second.
She was even more striking at close range. Her skin was deep brown, her eyes dark and intelligent, and despite the simple clothing and exhaustion visible on her face, she carried herself with extraordinary confidence.
Not confidence, Alexander thought.
Authority.
That was unusual.
Most newly arrived servants lowered their eyes when speaking to him.
This woman studied him openly.
Alexander found himself being inspected.
He did not particularly enjoy the experience.
The overseer explained, “Mr. Harris sent these two women from the port. I was taking them inside, but this one refuses to follow instructions.”
“This one has a name,” she said.
Alexander looked at her.
“What is it?”
“Amara.”
“Amara what?”
“Amara.”
He waited.
She did not continue.
“And your companion?”
“Lela.”
“Is she ill?”
“She has barely eaten, she's exhausted, and she has spent weeks on a ship. So yes, she is not feeling particularly wonderful.”
Alexander glanced at Lela.
She did look unwell.
He turned toward a servant. “Bring water and food.”
The servant left immediately.
Amara's expression changed.
Only slightly.
Alexander noticed.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You're welcome.”
The overseer began, “Sir, I was going to—”
“Next time someone asks for water, give it to them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alexander looked at the broken crate.
“And what happened there?”
Amara answered, “It fell.”
The overseer stared at her.
“You kicked it.”
“It fell after I kicked it.”
Alexander looked from the crate to Amara.
“Why?”
“He was shouting.”
“That usually doesn't require destruction of property.”
“It was an ugly crate.”
Alexander stared at her.
Behind him, someone coughed.
He suspected the cough concealed laughter.
Amara's mouth moved slightly.
Alexander realized she was enjoying this.
That irritated him.
“Take them inside,” he said.
The overseer nodded.
Amara did not move.
Alexander waited.
She continued standing exactly where she was.
“Is there another problem?”
“Yes.”
“Of course there is.”
For the first time, she looked almost amused.
“Lela and I stay together.”
Alexander glanced at the other woman.
“That can probably be arranged.”
“Probably?”
“It means I will ask the housekeeper.”
“No. It means we stay together.”
Alexander was accustomed to being obeyed by soldiers, servants, junior officers and most sensible civilians.
He was not accustomed to negotiating with a newly arrived woman in his own courtyard.
“You appear to misunderstand your position.”
The amusement disappeared from Amara's face.
“No. I understand my position perfectly.”
Something in her voice made him pause.
She looked directly at him.
“That does not mean I accept everything done to me.”
For the first time, Alexander wondered exactly where these women had come from.
Not geographically.
Before that.
The servant returned with water.
Amara immediately took the cup and handed it to Lela before accepting one herself.
Alexander watched.
She drank slowly, then thanked the servant by name after hearing someone address him.
Again, unusual.
Everything about her was unusual.
“Take them to Mrs. Bennett,” Alexander said. “Tell her they remain together.”
Amara nodded.
Not bowed.
Nodded.
As though they had completed a business negotiation between equals.
Then she walked away.
Alexander watched her cross the courtyard.
The overseer muttered, “That one will be trouble.”
Alexander looked at the broken crate.
“Yes.”
He had no idea how correct he was.
At dinner, Alexander learned more.
His mother, Eleanor Whitmore, presided over the table with the calm authority of a woman who had managed a large estate, three children, a frequently absent husband, and several decades of family complications.
Alexander's younger sister Catherine was also present.
His father was away inspecting another property.
Halfway through dinner, Eleanor mentioned the new arrivals.
“Mrs. Bennett says one of the women is extraordinary.”
Alexander continued cutting his meat. “That is one description.”
Catherine looked interested. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
His mother smiled. “A crate was apparently attacked.”
“The crate survived poorly.”
Catherine laughed.
Alexander ignored her.
Eleanor continued. “Her name is Amara. She reads.”
Alexander looked up.
“So?”
“She reads English.”
That was more interesting.
“Fluently?”
“Apparently. Mrs. Bennett gave her a list of household duties. Amara read it, corrected two spelling errors and asked why the linen inventory was organized so inefficiently.”
Catherine nearly dropped her fork.
Alexander stared at his mother.
“You're joking.”
“I am not.”
“What did Mrs. Bennett do?”
“Reorganized the linen inventory.”
Catherine laughed so hard she had to put down her glass.
Alexander leaned back.
“Where did this woman come from?”
“That,” Eleanor said, “is an excellent question.”
The documents accompanying Amara and Lela contained little useful information. They had arrived through an agent connected to a distant merchant. Their exact origins were unclear.
Alexander frowned.
His family had extensive commercial interests, farms, shipping investments and property. People moved through the estate constantly.
He normally trusted his father's agents to handle such matters.
For the first time, he wondered whether he should have paid more attention.
“Who purchased them?”
His mother looked at him.
“Your father authorized Harris to acquire additional household labor before he left.”
Alexander disliked the phrasing.
“Did Father meet them?”
“No.”
“Did Harris?”
“Only at the transaction.”
Something about the entire situation bothered him.
Catherine smiled across the table.
“You're thinking about her.”
“I am thinking about the irregularity.”
“Of course.”
“Catherine.”
“She is beautiful.”
Alexander looked at his sister.
“I noticed she destroyed a crate.”
“That was not what I asked.”
“You didn't ask anything.”
“Exactly.”
His mother hid a smile behind her wineglass.
Alexander decided the conversation had become ridiculous.
“Can we discuss something else?”
Catherine's smile widened.
“Certainly, Captain.”
The next morning Alexander was in the stable yard before sunrise.
Routine restored his mood.
He inspected two horses, spoke with the head groom, reviewed several military messages and was preparing to ride when he heard a familiar voice.
“You are holding it incorrectly.”
Alexander turned.
Amara stood near one of the younger stable hands.
The boy was attempting to calm a nervous mare.
Amara took the reins.
“Not so tight. You're making her more frightened.”
The boy loosened his grip.
The horse settled almost immediately.
Alexander watched from several yards away.
Amara stroked the mare's neck and spoke softly to her.
The animal relaxed.
Interesting.
“You know horses,” he said.
Amara looked over.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I ride.”
“That wasn't the question.”
“It was the answer.”
Alexander approached.
She wore a simple working dress, but once again nothing about her manner resembled the other servants.
“How well do you ride?”
“Very well.”
“Everyone who rides badly says that.”
“Do you?”
Alexander stared at her.