The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(18)
“Really?” he said, striving for simple curiosity. “Does that mean something?”
It means I’m a fool, he thought, and wondered whether to snatch the thing back and leave instantly. The goldsmith had carried it away, though, to look at it more closely under the lamp.
“De Lamerie was one of the very best goldsmiths ever to work in London—perhaps in the world,” Rosenwald said, half to himself.
“Indeed,” Rakoczy said politely. He was sweating freely. Nom d’une pipe! Wait, though—Rosenwald had said “was.” De Lamerie was dead, then, thank God. Perhaps the Duke of Sandringham, from whom he’d stolen the salver, was dead, too? He began to breathe more easily.
He never sold anything identifiable within a hundred years of his acquisition of it; that was his principle. He’d taken the other salver from a rich merchant in a game of cards in the Low Countries in 1630; he’d stolen this one in 1745—much too close for comfort. Still …
His thoughts were interrupted by the chime of the silver bell over the door, and he turned to see a young man come in, removing his hat to reveal a startling head of dark-red hair. He was dressed à la mode and addressed the goldsmith in perfect Parisian French, but he didn’t look French. A long-nosed face with faintly slanted eyes. There was a slight sense of familiarity about that face, yet Rakoczy was sure he’d never seen this man before.
“Please, sir, go on with your business,” the young man said with a courteous bow. “I meant no interruption.”
“No, no,” Rakoczy said, stepping forward. He motioned the young man toward the counter. “Please, go ahead. Monsieur Rosenwald and I are merely discussing the value of this object. It will take some thought.” He snaked out an arm and seized the salver, feeling a little better with it clasped to his bosom. He wasn’t sure; if he decided it was too risky to sell, he could slink out quietly while Rosenwald was busy with the redheaded young man.
The Jew looked surprised but, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded and turned to the young man, who introduced himself as one Michael Murray, partner in Fraser et Cie, the wine merchants.
“I believe you are acquainted with my cousin Jared Fraser?”
Rosenwald’s round face lighted at once. “Oh, to be sure, sir! A man of the most exquisite taste and discrimination. I made him a wine cistern with a motif of sunflowers, not a year past!”
“I know.” The young man smiled, a smile that creased his cheeks and narrowed his eyes, and that small bell of recognition rang again. But the name held no familiarity to Rakoczy—only the face, and that only vaguely.
“My uncle has another commission for you, if it’s agreeable?”
“I never say no to honest work, monsieur.” From the pleasure apparent on the goldsmith’s rubicund face, honest work that paid very well was even more welcome.
“Well, then—if I may?” The young man pulled a folded paper from his pocket but half-turned toward Rakoczy, eyebrow cocked in inquiry. Rakoczy motioned him to go on and turned himself to examine a music box that stood on the counter—an enormous thing the size of a cow’s head, crowned with a nearly naked nymph festooned with the airiest of gold draperies and dancing on mushrooms and flowers, in company with a large frog.
“A chalice,” Murray was saying, the paper laid flat on the counter. From the corner of his eye, Rakoczy could see that it held a list of names. “It’s a presentation to the chapel at le Couvent des Anges, to be given in memory of my late father. A young cousin of mine has just entered the convent there as a postulant,” he explained. “So Monsieur Fraser thought that the best place.”
“An excellent choice.” Rosenwald picked up the list. “And you wish all of these names inscribed?”
“Yes, if you can.”
“Monsieur!” Rosenwald waved a hand, professionally insulted. “These are your father’s children?”
“Yes, these at the bottom.” Murray bent over the counter, his finger tracing the lines, speaking the outlandish names carefully. “At the top, these are my parents’ names: Ian Alastair Robert MacLeod Murray, and Janet Flora Arabella Fraser Murray. Now, also, I—we, I mean—we want these two names, as well: James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, and Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser. Those are my uncle and aunt; my uncle was very close to my father,” he explained. “Almost a brother.”
He went on saying something else, but Rakoczy wasn’t listening. He grasped the edge of the counter, vision flickering so that the nymph seemed to leer at him.
Claire Fraser. That had been the woman’s name, and her husband, James, a Highland lord from Scotland. That was who the young man resembled, though he was not so imposing as … But La Dame Blanche! It was her, it had to be.
And in the next instant, the goldsmith confirmed this, straightening up from the list with an abrupt air of wariness, as though one of the names might spring off the paper and bite him.
“That name—your aunt, she’d be? Did she and your uncle live in Paris at one time?”
“Yes,” Murray said, looking mildly surprised. “Maybe thirty years ago—only for a short time, though. Did you know her?”
“Ah. Not to say I was personally acquainted,” Rosenwald said, with a crooked smile. “But she was … known. People called her La Dame Blanche.”