“Are we to understand,” said the London factor, translating for him, “that La France is to receive—in addition to the hundred thousand livres in silver we have already delivered to you—four hundred thousand livres worth of silver as booty in Dunkerque as well as four hundred thousand livres worth of Baltic timber, in exchange for nothing more than five hundred thousand livres in French government obligations in Lyon?”
“I recommend you moderate your tone,” said Eliza. “Voices carry out into the street; and lurking there in ’Change Alley are any number of City men who have heard all the rumors about the insolvency of the Hacklhebers. When I step out that door, I shall be interrogated like a prisoner on the Inquisition’s rack. They will know whether the Hacklhebers have been able to honour their obligations, or not. Through the generous intercession of Monsieur Durand, it will be possible for me to answer in the affirmative.” Eliza half-turned toward the door and rested a gloved hand on the latch. The room grew perceptibly darker as a Mobb of ’Change-men on the street outside noted her gesture, and drew closer to the windows, blocking out the light. Eliza continued: “This talk of yours about four hundred thousand livres here or there is quite lost on me; I am a mere housewife with no head for numbers.” She flexed her wrist and the door-latch made a clicking noise, a bit like the cocking of a flintlock. A volcanic up-welling of German sounded from the rear of the shop; Eliza could not quite follow what was being said, but suddenly the barrister spun to face her and announced: “My client is pleased to accept the proposal, pending resolution of the terms in detail.”
“Then pray resolve them with Monsieur Durand,” said Eliza, “I am going out for a bit of air.”
“And—?”
“And to let the City of London know that the House of Hacklheber is Ditta di Borsa, as ever,” Eliza added.
“WHAT WAS THAT BIT you hollered into the back, just as you were coming out the door?” asked Bob Shaftoe. “I could not make out your French.”
“’Twas nothing,” said Eliza, “only polite leave-taking. I complimented the old fellow on how adroitly he and his colleagues had managed the transaction, and expressed my hope that in future we might work together again thusly.”
“And what said he to that?”
“Naught, but only stared into my eyes—overcome with fond emotions, I should say.”
“You said before, in St.Malo, when we-” Bob began, and got lost in his thoughts as his gaze slipped down toward her belly.
“When we were together.”
“Yes, you said you wanted your boot on Lothar’s neck. And it seems to me you had that, just as you phant’sied. But you let him go?”
“Never,” said Eliza, “never. For do not forget that every transaction has two ends, and this is only one of them.”
“Very well. I shall not forget it. But I do not understand it.”
“Neither does Lothar.”
“Will you return to France?”
“To Dunkerque,” Eliza said, “to pay my compliments to Captain Bart, and to inform the Marquis d’Ozoir that he has got his timber. What of you, Sergeant Bob?”
“I shall remain here for the present time. I’ve been to visit Mr. Churchill a time or two in the Tower, you know. He shan’t be there very much longer, mark my words.”
“The judicial proceedings against him have become a farce, such as appeals to the English sense of humor, but all grow weary of it.”
“And meanwhile King Louis himself is laying siege to Namur, isn’t he? And folks are asking, why does King William keep our best commander locked up on a ridiculous pretext, when a great campaign is under way on the other side of the Narrow Seas? No, my lady, if I were to go back to Normandy, I’d have some explaining to do, and might even be hanged for desertion. That Irish regiment’ll be sent God only knows where—for all I know, they’ll wind up in the South, on the Savoy front, a million miles from where I have been trying to go. But soon enough Churchill shall be at the head of an army, and I shall go with that army to Flanders. We shall face the French across some narrow strip of ground. I’ll scan the colors on the opposing side, until I spy those of Count Sheerness—”
“And then?”
“Why, then, I shall devise some means of ending up with my boot on his throat. And we shall enter into a discussion concerning Abigail.”
“You attempted that with his brother—Abigail’s previous owner. He almost killed you, and you did not get Abigail.”
“I do not claim ’tis a likely plan, but ’tis my plan, and it gives me something to do.”
“Can I not simply buy the girl from Sheerness?”
“It would raise questions. Why should you care about one English slave?”
“That is my business.”
“And Abigail is mine—”
“Would Abigail agree? Or would she prefer that plan that is most likely to lead to her freedom?”