If only she could find someone who would be willing to create a true partnership with her—a meeting of minds. A bonding of equals. Respect. Affection. Unity. The things she had always craved.
Pushing away from the table, Poppy angrily scooped up the holland cover, not caring about the dust which now covered her clothes.
During the long voyage from Ceylon, Jonathan hadn’t once raised the subject of marriage. Nor had he ever attempted to share Poppy’s bed. She had been too busy running the Empress Catherine to pay it much mind, but it was quickly becoming a matter of importance.
George Basden had left the matter of his daughter’s betrothal somewhat vaguely incomplete. And while she had always assumed that there was an understanding of sorts between Jonathan and her father, nothing had ever been set in writing.
What seemed at the time as an oversight on her father’s part now presented itself as an opportunity. If Jonathan was in no hurry to wed, then neither was she.
Perhaps Jonathan had also viewed the opportunity to move to London as a means for him to escape George’s sphere of influence. The Ceylon spice trade was a fiercely competitive one, and Jonathan had made little headway in it over the years. If that was the case, did his plans actually include her?
It would go a long way to explaining how cold and distant he is with me.
With the covers wrapped up in her arms, Poppy headed toward the door and back to the ship. The covers would be hung over the rope lines on board the Empress Catherine and the wind would do much of the work of blowing away the dust.
As a captain, she had always been fair with her crew and that included Jonathan. She would give him one last chance to show he was serious about their partnership. And if he didn’t take it, then as far as she was concerned, they were done.
With a year before her father was due to arrive, she would have plenty of time to find herself a suitable husband. One who would pull his weight. One who valued her.
And when George Basden finally did make it to London, he would have to accept that his daughter had not only decided her own future, but with whom she would share it.
Francis set his coffee cup down with a sigh and pushed back from the breakfast table. Charles glanced up from his newspaper and slowly shook his head.
“Pouting is something reserved for children, not a businessman such as yourself, Francis. You are going to have to accept that the warehouse next door to the shipping office has been let. Being petulant about it won’t get you anywhere.”
He might have been in his early twenties, but Francis was not above a scolding from either of his parents—the price of being the last of the offspring left at home.
“You know I need that storage space and the dockside berth,” replied Francis.
“Want, not need. Saunders Shipping lasted all those years at the old docks before we moved to London Docks. Granted, there were times when it was difficult to manage cargos and ships but manage I did. You will do the same, extra warehouse notwithstanding,” said Charles, continuing to shake his head in obvious parental disapproval.
Hand resting on his knee, Francis clenched his fist. He hated it when Charles offered him these words of wisdom. They grated on his nerves.
The dark side of ambition was an inability to accept criticism. He was thin-skinned and easily offended. Francis knew it was fault in his character. It hadn’t always been a problem, and he had kept it mostly under control. But over recent months, as the time for his father to retire drew closer, Francis had loosened his hold on the reins.
He wanted to be a success, to be able to stand alongside his titled relatives and know they viewed him as an equal. For his father to not only see him but be proud of his achievements.
I don’t have the mental capacity this morning to endure another lecture.
Rising to his feet, he stretched his six-foot, six-inch frame to its full height and bowed to his father. The shipping office beckoned.
“While I appreciate the history lesson, Papa, I must respectfully disagree with you. I need that warehouse. When the spice contract begins, the space we have will not be sufficient. Renting storage away from the docks will cost both time and money.”
“So, what are you going to do?” challenged his father.
Francis held Charles’s worried gaze. His father was on the verge of retiring, but he was still very much involved in the shipping business. Saunders Shipping had been built up over the years by Charles, and its reputation as a reliable, honest company was well known. If Charles thought Francis was about to do something rash, he might well reconsider his plans to leave the business. That would put Francis in an untenable position.
He might well be a hot head, but a fool he was not. Francis understood the precious and fragile nature of a company’s good name. Once damaged, it was nigh on impossible to repair. The London business community had a long memory.
“I am going to go and speak to the superintendent of London Docks. I want to know who this new tenant is and how they managed to get the lease,” he replied.
Charles frowned. “You are going to look for a loophole—is that what you really mean? A way to void the contract. If so, I caution you to tread carefully. May I remind you that you do not take over full management of the company until the first day of January. I won’t have the Saunders name dragged through the mud.”
Yes, I am well aware of the fact that it is still your company. When will you learn to trust me?
He had no intention of doing anything rash, but he wasn’t going to simply let someone else, some unknown interloper, steal his future out from under him. There had to be a way to overcome this unexpected and unwelcome turn of events.
“I never said I was going to cause trouble. I am just going to have a quiet word with the superintendent. Make sure everything is above board. We can’t have the wrong people taking up valuable warehouse space in the docks.”
