If her intent was to make him understand, she did the worst possible thing. She placed two books on the desk blotter, side by side. One bound in blue; the other in red.
He peered at the titles. His sense of foreboding didn’t improve. “Cookery books?”
“Humor me for a moment. You’ll see.” She opened the first—a faded blue volume—to the listing of contents. “This is my mother’s cookery book, purchased when she was first married.” Then she opened the second one to the same page. “This is the new edition I received on my eighteenth birthday. If you scan the two side by side, they are much the same—but not identical. Can you find the difference?”
At a glance? Hell, no. And Rafe did not have the patience to go through both lists to find it, either.
“Curry.” She jabbed her finger in the center of the page. “And over here, arrack punch. See?”
He drummed his fingers, expecting that there must be some explanation forthcoming.
“There wasn’t a single Indian dish in my mother’s cookery book. Today, you wouldn’t find a collection of recipes without them.”
He looked blankly at her.
“Hold that thought. There’s more.” Next, she pulled out a length of fabric and thrust it at him. “Here.”
He turned it over in his hands. A piece of light, patterned cloth. “What am I to do with this?”
“Just look at it. Think about it.” She bounced on her toes a little bit.
Rafe looked at the fabric. He thought about it. He had no idea what sort of thoughts he was supposed to have about a few flowers and springs printed on cheap cotton.
“It’s chintz,” she said. “When we were children, it was all the rage to have imported Indian cotton. For curtains, shawls, quilts. Pillows. But now the factories use domestic cotton and print chintz here. None of it is imported anymore.”
He frowned. “I’m not right to play Piers in this scenario. He’s the world traveler.”
“No, no. This is about England. And you’re the perfect person.” Her eyes sparked with excitement. “Trust me.”
Rafe shifted in the armchair, feeling ill at ease. “Can we come to the point?”
“The point is this.” She flattened both hands on the top of the desk. “What happens in India doesn’t stay in India. It comes home to England and becomes the latest fashion here. This was true for curry, and it was true for chintz, and it’s going to be true for beer.”
She opened a folio, bringing out her last bit of evidence. A newspaper clipping. Wonderful. More reading.
He stared at the small, printed notice. “So there was a shipwreck.”
“It’s not the shipwreck that we’re concerned with. It’s the cargo.” She pointed to a specific line. “The ship’s bill of lading notes that it was transporting a new kind of pale ale. The manufacturers up north have been brewing it for a few years now, specifically for export to India. The climate there isn’t suited for beer-making, and the extra hops in the brew help this ale survive the sea voyage. It’s all the rage among Englishmen living there. Piers even mentioned it me in one of his letters.”
“But they’re already manufacturing it up north.”
“Yes. For export.” She leaned her hip on the desk. “That means this is the ideal time to stake out a share of the home market. As men like Piers return from their travels, they’ll be looking for the ale they enjoyed abroad. Then the taste for it will spread. Just as it happened with curry, or chintz. Within a generation, no one will be drinking porter anymore. Pale ale in the India style is going to be the beer of choice. I’m certain of it. This is the brewery’s chance.”
She ceased talking and took a slow, deep breath.
“Well?” she prodded, after a few moments had passed. “Are you convinced?”
He sat back in the chair and regarded her, admiring. “I think I might be. You should have been a lawyer.”
“Oh, I have other, better plans.” She smiled. “I’m going to open a brewery. And I hope you’ll be my partner.”
“You’re going to ask Piers to be your business partner?”