Richard’s expression turned grave. “Because of the peasants who live there. Many of them are coerced into working for the British planters. They’re forced to grow indigo on land they once used to feed their families. The crop is incredibly hard on the soil and it strips the land of nutrients, leaving it barren.”
Olivia, who had been listening quietly, set her spoon down with a soft clink. “That’s horrible. But what happens if they refuse?”
Richard sighed. “Then they’re punished. Beaten. Starved. In some cases… worse. There are accounts of entire villages being decimated for resisting theNabobs.”
“Nabobs?” she asked.
“It’s a term used for British men who go to India and return with vast fortunes, often made through dubious means. It’s not a flattering title.”
Olivia turned to Evander, her brow drawn with concern. “How can your father support such cruelty?”
Evander’s face was unreadable for a moment, then he exhaled slowly. “Because he cares only for what fills the family’s coffers. Not the lives that are ruined in the process.”
Richard added, “Indigo is in high demand here. It is used in dyeing silks, linens, woolens, and military uniforms. But it’s a dangerous business, especially for those with a conscience.”
“What are you going to do?” Olivia asked, her gaze fixed on her husband’s face.
Before he could answer, a deafening crack shattered the evening calm—a sharp splintering sound that echoed through the dining room like a musket shot.
A large brick came hurtling through the tall sash window, striking the floor with a heavy thud, shattering a pane of glass and scattering shards across the polished wood and patterned carpet. The gust of night air rushed in behind it, fluttering the table linens and extinguishing several candles along the sideboard.
Evander shoved back his chair and rose swiftly to his feet, glass crunching beneath the soles of his boots as he crossed the room. Olivia stood, too, heart pounding in her chest, her hand clutching the back of her chair.
He crouched beside the brick and examined it. “There’s a note,” he said, reaching down and untying the coarse string that held a scrap of parchment wound around the projectile.
He unfolded the paper and read aloud a single word, harsh and scrawled in thick black ink: “Nabob.”
Richard was already beside him, his eyes scanning the note with narrowed focus. “This is no jest. It’s a warning. We ought to send for the constable.”
Evander straightened slowly, tucking the paper into his jacket pocket. “It’s not the first threat I’ve received.”
Olivia gasped as she stepped around the table. “What do you mean?”
He met her eyes, reluctant but resigned. “A few days ago, I was accosted outside our townhouse. A man threatened me with a knife. He told me to sell the indigo plantation and to get out of India, or else.”
The room fell into stunned silence.
Dosia’s hand flew to her mouth, and even Olivia’s mother looked visibly shaken. Olivia stared at Evander, her mind racing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” he said. “And I had hoped it was an isolated incident. Clearly, it was not.”
Richard folded his arms. “You’ll need help. Someone who can keep their head when things turn violent.”
Evander gave a single nod. “That’s why I need to speak with Warwicke.”
With a nod, Richard said, “I agree.”
A smile came to Evander’s lips that looked forced. “I don’t wish to let this ruin the evening,” he said, gesturing towards the table. “Shall we return to our seats?”
Olivia moved towards him slowly, her voice quiet but steady. “We may continue dinner, but you must promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“You will tell me everything. No more secrets.”
He hesitated for the briefest of moments, then replied, “You have my word.”
Though her questions still burned within her—about the plantation, the man with the knife, and what Evander truly planned to do—she forced herself to return to her chair. But she would not forget. Not tonight. Not tomorrow.
