Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [72]
The social life of Jared’s establishment continued much as it had when he was in residence. I was still cautious about entertaining on a large scale, but we held small dinners every night, to which came nobles, chevaliers, and ladies, poor Jacobites in exile, wealthy merchants and their wives.
However, I found that eating and drinking and preparing to eat and drink was not really sufficient occupation. I fidgeted to the point that Jamie at last suggested I come and copy ledger entries for him.
“Better do that than be gnawin’ yourself,” he said, looking critically at my bitten nails. “Beside, ye write a fairer hand than the warehouse clerks.”
So it was that I was in the study, crouched industriously over the enormous ledger books, when Mr. Silas Hawkins came late one afternoon, with an order for two tuns of Flemish brandy. Mr. Hawkins was stout and prosperous; an émigré like Jared, he was an Englishman who specialized in the export of French brandies to his homeland.
I supposed that a merchant who looked like a teetotaler would find it rather difficult to sell people wines and spirits in quantity. Mr. Hawkins was fortunate in this regard, in that he had the permanently flushed cheeks and jolly smile of a reveler, though Jamie had told me that the man never tasted his own wares, and in fact seldom drank anything beyond rough ale, though his appetite for food was a legend in the taverns he visited. An expression of alert calculation lurked at the back of his bright brown eyes, behind the smooth bonhomie that oiled his transactions.
“My best suppliers, I do declare,” he declared, signing a large order with a flourish. “Always dependable, always of the first quality. I shall miss your cousin sorely in his absence,” he said, bowing to Jamie, “but he’s done well in his choice of a substitute. Trust a Scotsman to keep the business in the family.”
The small, bright eyes lingered on Jamie’s kilt, the Fraser red of it bright against the dark wood paneling of the drawing room.
“Just over from Scotland recently?” Mr. Hawkins asked casually, feeling inside his coat.
“Nay, I’ve been in France for a time.” Jamie smiled, turning the question away. He took the quill pen from Mr. Hawkins, but finding it too blunted for his taste, tossed it aside, pulling a fresh one from the bouquet of goose feathers that sprouted from a small glass jug on the sideboard.
“Ah. I see from your dress that you are a Highland Scot; I had thought perhaps you would be able to advise me as to the current sentiments prevailing in that part of the country. One hears such rumors, you know.” Mr. Hawkins subsided into a chair at the wave of Jamie’s hand, his round, rosy face apparently intent on the fat leather purse he had drawn from his pocket.
“As for rumors—well, that’s the normal state of affairs in Scotland, no?” Jamie said, studiously sharpening the fresh quill. “But sentiments? Nay, if ye mean politics, I’m afraid I’ve little attention for such things myself.” The small penknife made a sharp snicking sound as the horny slivers shaved off the thick stem of the quill.
Mr. Hawkins brought out several silver pieces from his purse, stacking them neatly in a tidy column between the two men.
“ ’Strewth?” he said, almost absently. “If so, you’re the first Highlander I’ve met who hadn’t.”
Jamie finished his sharpening and held the point of the quill up, squinting to judge its angle.
“Mm?” he said vaguely. “Aye, well, I’ve other matters that concern me; the running of a business such as this is time-consuming, as you’ll know yourself, I imagine.”
“So it is.” Mr. Hawkins counted over the coins in his column once more and removed one, replacing it with two smaller ones. “I’ve