Chapter 12 — Something About Her
Alexander had known for weeks that something about Amara did not make sense.
The problem was that every new thing he learned created another question.
One morning, he found her in the library reading a newspaper that had arrived from the capital. She had spread several other papers across the table and was making notes.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading.”
“I can see that.”
“Then we're improving. You used to ask unnecessary questions.”
Alexander ignored her and looked over her shoulder.
The article concerned negotiations between two European governments over access to an important trading port.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Amara continued reading. “About what?”
“The agreement.”
“It won't last.”
Alexander pulled out the chair opposite her. “Why?”
“Because one side wants access to the port and the other wants political control. They are pretending those are separate questions. They aren't.”
Alexander studied her.
Amara looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is not your nothing face.”
“I have a nothing face?”
“You have several.”
She returned to the newspaper.
Alexander did not.
“How do you know so much about diplomacy?”
Amara's hand stopped for the smallest moment.
“I read.”
“Most people who read newspapers don't analyze treaties.”
“Perhaps they should.”
“Amara.”
She sighed. “What?”
“Who taught you?”
“Tutors.”
“What kind of tutors?”
“Educated ones.”
He smiled despite himself. “You know exactly what I'm asking.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I don't intend to answer.”
There was the wall again.
Whenever Alexander came too close to her past, Amara simply closed a door.
He was beginning to suspect there was something enormous behind it.
Later that day, he watched her speak with one of his father's foreign business associates.
The man had arrived unexpectedly from France and spoke limited English. Before Alexander could find someone to translate, Amara greeted the visitor in fluent French.
Not hesitant French.
Not the vocabulary of someone who had learned from a book.
Fluent, comfortable conversation.
The visitor immediately responded.
Alexander stood several feet away, listening.
They discussed his journey, the condition of the roads, trade, and finally political unrest in Europe.
Amara changed tone effortlessly. She knew when to be formal, when to joke, and when to avoid a sensitive subject.
The Frenchman seemed delighted.
When he left, Alexander found her arranging correspondence.
“You never told me your French was that good.”
“You never asked how good.”
“You said you spoke several languages.”
“I do.”
“Where did you practice French?”
“At home.”
“With whom?”
“Visitors.”
“What visitors?”
Amara looked at him.
“You are becoming repetitive.”
“And you are becoming suspicious.”
“I have always been suspicious.”
“That may be the first completely honest answer you've given me about yourself.”
She smiled. “Then treasure it.”
The questions continued.
Alexander noticed how Amara behaved around important guests.
She never seemed impressed by wealth.
Large houses did not impress her.
Expensive clothing did not impress her.
Military rank certainly did not impress her.
When a prominent judge visited the estate, Amara spoke to him exactly as she spoke to Alexander.
Respectfully when he deserved it.
Directly when he did not.
But it was more than confidence.
She understood formal etiquette.
At dinner, she knew which glass to use without watching anyone else. She recognized obscure dishes. She knew how to address foreign officials properly.
And when Eleanor once introduced a visiting diplomat by his full title, Amara responded with the correct formal greeting before anyone explained it.
Alexander noticed.
Of course he noticed.
That evening he found Catherine in the drawing room.
“I want your opinion.”
His sister looked delighted. “About Amara?”
Alexander frowned. “How did you know?”
“You have only one mystery at the moment.”
“I have military responsibilities.”
“Those aren't mysteries.”
He sat opposite her.
“Have you noticed the way she behaves?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
Catherine smiled. “I think she's beautiful.”
“That isn't what I meant.”
“It is still true.”
“Catherine.”
“All right. She is educated, confident, secretive, and completely unimpressed by you.”
“The last part is irrelevant.”
“It may be the part that interests you most.”
Alexander ignored that.
“She knows politics. Trade. Diplomacy. Languages. Horses. Formal etiquette.”
Catherine considered it.
“She certainly wasn't raised as a servant.”
“Exactly.”
“Perhaps her father really is a wealthy merchant.”
“Perhaps.”
But Alexander no longer believed that explanation was sufficient.
The following morning, he found another clue.
Amara was riding.
Alexander had allowed her increasing freedom within the estate, and she often rode before beginning her work.
He watched her from a distance.
Her posture was perfect.
Not merely good.
Perfect.
She handled the horse with the confidence of someone who had been riding since childhood and had been taught by excellent instructors.
When she returned, Alexander waited beside the stable.
She dismounted.
“You're staring.”
“I'm thinking.”
“That is usually where our problems begin.”
“Who taught you to ride?”
Amara handed the reins to a groom.
“My father's riding master.”
Alexander's eyes narrowed.
She realized the mistake.
“Riding master?”
“Yes.”
“Not a groom?”
“No.”
“A professional instructor?”
Amara sighed.
“Yes.”
Alexander followed her toward the house.
“How many horses did your family own?”
“I don't know.”
“Ten?”
“More.”
“Twenty?”
She continued walking.
“Fifty?”
“Alexander.”
He stopped.
Amara turned.
“What exactly are you trying to prove?”
“That your story doesn't fit.”
“I never gave you my story.”
“Exactly.”
For once, neither of them joked.
Alexander stepped closer, leaving enough distance between them.
“You were highly educated. You had private tutors. You speak several languages. You understand international politics. You had a riding master. Your family owned enough horses that you don't know how many. You know formal etiquette better than some of my relatives.”
“That last part isn't difficult.”
“Amara.”
She looked away.
Alexander continued more quietly.
“And someone is spending an enormous amount of money searching for you.”
Her expression changed.
He saw it.
“You weren't born into slavery.”
Amara looked back at him.
“No.”
The answer was quiet.
Simple.
Certain.
Alexander waited.
She said nothing else.
“You were free.”
“Yes.”
“All your life?”
“Yes.”
“And Rourke kidnapped you.”
“Yes.”
“From your home?”
“Near it.”
Alexander felt anger rise inside him.
Not at her.
At the men who had taken her.
“Then the papers used to sell you were fraudulent.”
“Did you really need me to confirm that?”
“No.”
He looked toward the house.
“But I needed to hear you say it.”
Amara studied him.
“Why?”
“Because it changes what I do next.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What are you going to do?”
“Find out exactly who sold you, who bought you, and who knew where you came from.”
“And then?”
Alexander looked at her.
“Then we find your family.”
For a moment, hope appeared openly on her face.
Then caution returned.
“You still don't know who they are.”
“No.”
“And I'm still not telling you.”
“I know.”
She seemed surprised.
“You're not going to argue?”
“I've learned.”
“Slowly.”
“Painfully.”
That brought back a small smile.
That evening Alexander returned to the library.
Amara was gone.
The newspaper remained on the table beside the maps she had been studying.
One map showed the African coast.
Alexander looked at it for a long time.
He now understood something he should perhaps have understood from the beginning.
Amara had not arrived in his world with nothing.
Everything visible had been taken from her.
Her clothing.
Her possessions.
Her freedom.
Her family.
Even her name had been reduced to a single word on a piece of paper.
But the men who had taken her could not steal what had been placed inside her long before they arrived.
Education.
Confidence.
Languages.
Knowledge.
Pride.
The instinctive expectation that when she spoke, people would listen.
Alexander thought about the first day in the courtyard.
Even exhausted, frightened, and dressed like a servant, Amara had somehow seemed to be the person with the most authority there.
He had mistaken it for arrogance.
Now he wasn't so sure.
There was something about her.
Something in the way she stood.
Something in the way she spoke to powerful people without fear.
Something in the way she expected respect instead of begging for it.
Alexander looked again at the map.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
There was nobody there to answer him.
But he was becoming certain of one thing.
Amara had not simply come from a wealthy family.
She had come from a world where she had been important.
And somewhere far across the ocean, powerful people were looking for her.