Dawn on a Distant Shore
Page 169

"We find it necessary to dispose of some personal items to pay for my husband's treatment and our stay here. Could you direct me to a reputable ... agent?"
"Plate, or jewels?" Her tone all business now, and a new light in her eye.
"The latter," Elizabeth said. Beside her Nathaniel shifted uneasily, but Mrs. Rae focused her smile on Elizabeth.
"Ah." She produced a small smile. "It's fate that's broucht us tegither the-day. Ye mun come alang wi' me, ma dears, and I will introduce ye tae ma neighbor, Mr. Babby-Sang-Way. An Italian gentleman, ye ken, but canny aa the same."
Elizabeth carried the boy with his face peeking out between two open buttons of her cape. He was curious about the world and had not yet learned fear or caution, and he would not be hidden away like an infant. His eyes--so green in this light--missed nothing, and his expression was very serious as they moved along the lanes.
Nathaniel had Curiosity's satchel-- filled now with Giselle's fine things, but his injured arm he kept under his cloak, his hand resting on the butt of the pistol. At first he had liked this masquerade that permitted him to listen without ever talking--he owed Elizabeth a debt for coping with Mrs. Rae all the way from Carryckton without any assistance from him--but now the dressings on his face had begun to itch, and he had had enough of silence. The plain truth was that their options were few and their time was short--the mailcoach that returned to Carryckton would leave in just five hours. He had no choice but to carry on with this game.
They followed Mrs. Rae down a lane lined with small shops--a gunmaker, a saddlemaker, a cobbler, all shuttered. A redcoat passed, scratching his chest and yawning loudly. Nathaniel pulled his hat down tighter over his brow.
"Here we are, ma dears."
They had stopped before a tiny shop with a door painted bright yellow. Above it a shingle moved fitfully in the wind. G. Bevesangue, Importer.
Elizabeth thanked Mrs. Rae for her help, shook her hand, and then the older lady had pointed out her husband's shop down the lane--"the best milliner in aa o' Moffat, and do I say sae masel'"--and left them.
At Elizabeth's firm knock, the door flew open as if he had been waiting for them. The man who stood there was no more than thirty, with wild hair that stood straight up all over his head and a dark complexion. He had a thin, dry twist of a face and the darkest eyes Nathaniel had ever seen in a white man. He did not seem surprised to find two strangers on his doorstep, but he did peer cautiously down the lane in both directions before he stepped back to usher them in with a bow and a sweep of his arm.
"Entrez, si vous plais." He smiled, and a gold tooth flashed beneath the neatly trimmed mustache. "Guido Bevesangue, madame, monsieur."
Elizabeth hesitated, glanced over her shoulder at Nathaniel, and stepped over the threshold.
It was a small room, furnished simply: in the corner a bed, a long table, a cabinet, two chairs, and a lamp. Clothing hung from pegs, and on the table were the remnants of a modest meal of bread and cheese and some kind of green paste. There was nothing here to indicate why this man might be interested in paying hard cash for what they had to sell but the far wall, which was crowded with clocks.
Elizabeth began to speak, but Bevesangue held up a hand to stop her just as all the timepieces came to life at once with a low whirring sound. Daniel's head popped out of Elizabeth's cloak and he let out a caw of pleasure and began to wiggle with excitement, flapping his arms.
When the last of the clocks had finished striking the hour and Elizabeth had quieted Daniel, Bevesangue bowed so that his hair flopped forward and then back again.
"Est-ce que je puis vous aider, madame, monsieur?"
"Sir," Elizabeth began. "Do you speak English?"
"But of course, madame." He put a hand to his heart, as if he were ready to swear to this. "Pardon me, I thought that you must be French. Most of my ... visitors are French gentlepersons in unfortunate circumstances." His eyes trailed over them, taking note of the expensive cut of their cloaks, muddy at the hems. "I myself am Italian, of Genoa."
There was the sound of raised voices in the lane outside the window, and the pleasant expression on the man's face disappeared. It came flickering back very slowly as the voices moved farther away. Nathaniel touched the pistol again, glad of the heft of it against his ribs.
"How may I be of assistance, madame ...?" He paused expectantly.
"Freeman," Elizabeth supplied. And then: "Mrs. Rae suggested that you might be interested in buying some items from us."
"Personal items, madame?"
"Yes. Personal items of some value," she finished firmly.
Bevesangue studied Nathaniel from the corner of his eye.
"Your husband is ill?"
Elizabeth's expression hardened a bit. "My husband is here to take the waters for a throat condition, sir. Nothing else fails him."
"But you have traveled far," he said. "You must be very tired. Please, won't you take a seat?"
Nathaniel put a hand on Elizabeth's arm to stop her. Then he stepped up closer to Bevesangue to look at him hard. Something about this Italian made the balls of his thumbs itch, but whatever it was he hid away cleverly behind those black eyes. After a minute, Bevesangue blinked.
"Your husband is a cautious man," he said, without looking away from Nathaniel. "And a dangerous one, I think."
Elizabeth smiled. "How very observant you are, Mr. Bevesangue," she said. "Perhaps we will be able to do business together after all."