London - Edward Rutherfurd [247]
“Do you know what these are?” he asked.
“Peppercorns,” the astonished apprentice replied.
“Yes. They are peppercorns. And are they precious?”
“Of course. Most expensive item we carry.”
“Ah.” He nodded. Then, slowly but deliberately he opened his hands and let them spill on to the floor. Ducket was horrified. But Fleming only smiled. “Worthless,” he said. “Worthless.” And as Ducket came forward to start picking them up, he took him by the arm with a confidential urgency.
“But,” the grocer now whispered to his apprentice, “what if a man were to discover the secret of the universe? What would peppercorns be then?” Ducket had to confess he did not know. “But I do,” said Fleming softly. And then gazing at him in the faint light: “Is my wife a fine woman?” Ducket agreed that she was. “And isn’t this a fine place?” With a sweep of his thin hand he indicated the whole of his wife’s domain in the surrounding shadows. “It is indeed. And all hers.” He shook his head and gave a strange little laugh. “Nothing,” he said, apparently addressing the sacks around him. Then, suddenly staring at the boy with a wild look: “Soon, Ducket, you shall see such wonders.”
After this, he stood gazing into space with such a vacant expression in his eyes that Ducket hardly liked to interrupt him, and stole back to bed.
The next morning the grocer seemed perfectly normal, and Ducket did not think it was his place to mention the incident to anyone. But he wondered, all the same, what it might mean.
It sometimes puzzled Tiffany, and secretly hurt her, that Ducket so seldom came to see her, despite the promises he had once made. One kiss, she thought, and he almost vanishes. Was it so terrible? Though she was always modest, she had resolved to kiss other men, if only, she thought, to get better at it.
As she neared thirteen, her father had ensured that a succession of men came to the house on London Bridge. Though Whittington, alas, had found a wife, he brought several other young mercers of good family; three aldermen had sons of the right age; there was an Italian vintner, a rich German widower, a Hanseatic merchant, who rolled his eyes and was soon dispatched, and at least a dozen other suitable fellows. There was even a young noble, heir to a huge North Country estate; but though he was handsome, both father and daughter agreed he was too stupid.
Indeed, as the months went by, a new relationship had evolved between Bull and his daughter. Naturally, there were many things she preferred to discuss with her mother; but while she always treated her father with a meek respect, Bull was surprised to find himself sharing confidences with the girl. He had never set much store by the opinion of women before, and certainly not that of a mere girl; yet now, having no other child to dispose of, and having given her so much choice in the matter, he became fascinated by what was passing in her mind. “Do you know what she really thinks of young so-and-so?” he would say to his wife proudly. Each time he brought in a new prospect, he awaited her verdict with curiosity. “When the time finally comes, I’m sure she’ll make a good choice, guided by me,” he said. Meanwhile, he found himself in no particular hurry to give the girl away. “They’re none of them good enough for her,” he sometimes declared.
One suitor, however, he continued to look upon with more favour. This was Silversleeves.
The strategy of the young lawyer had been extremely proper. “I must tell you,” he had said to Bull, “that though my family is ancient, my fortune is only modest.” It was generations since the family had moved from the old Silversleeves house below St Paul’s. His widowed mother, who had died recently, had only inhabited a tenement in Paternoster