‘Where did you get this, monsieur, if I may ask?’ Rosenwald looked up at him, but there was no accusation in the goldsmith’s aged face – only a wary excitement.
‘It was an inheritance,’ Rakoczy said, glowing with earnest innocence. ‘An elderly aunt left it – and a few other pieces – to me. Is it worth anything more than the value of the silver?’
The goldsmith opened his mouth, then shut it, glancing at Rakoczy. Was he honest? Rakoczy wondered with interest. He’s already told me it’s something special. Will he tell me why, in hopes of getting other pieces? Or lie, to get this one cheap? Rosenwald had a good reputation, but he was a Jew.
‘Paul de Lamerie,’ Rosenwald said reverently, his index finger tracing the hallmark. ‘This was made by Paul de Lamerie.’
A shock ran up Rakoczy’s backbone. Merde! He’d brought the wrong one!
‘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’un chameau! 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 red-headed 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 butterflies and carnations, 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 nak*d 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 of 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, you say? 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.’
Murray blinked, clearly surprised to hear this.
‘Really?’ He looked rather appalled.
‘Yes, but it was all a long time ago,’ Rosenwald said hastily, clearly thinking he’d said too much. He waved a hand toward his back room. ‘If you’ll give me a moment, monsieur, I have a chalice actually here, if you would care to see it – and a paten, too; we might make some accommodation of price, if you take both. They were made for a patron who died suddenly, before the chalice was finished, so there is almost no decoration – plenty of room for the names to be applied, and perhaps we might put the, um, aunt and uncle on the paten?’
Murray nodded, interested, and at Rosenwald’s gesture, went round the counter and followed the old man into his back room. Rakoczy put the octafoil salver under his arm and left, as quietly as possible, head buzzing with questions.
Jared eyed Michael over the dinner table, shook his head and bent to his plate.
‘I’m not drunk!’ Michael blurted, then bent his own head, face flaming. He could feel Jared’s eyes boring into the top of his head.
‘Not now, ye’re not.’ Jared’s voice wasn’t accusing. In fact, it was quiet, almost kindly. ‘But ye have been. Ye’ve not touched your dinner, and ye’re the colour of rotten wax.’
‘I—’ The words caught in his throat, just as the food had. Eels in garlic sauce. The smell wafted up from the dish, and he stood up suddenly, lest he either vomit or burst into tears.
‘I’ve nay appetite, cousin,’ he managed to say, before turning away. ‘Excuse me.’
He would have left, but he hesitated that moment too long, not wanting to go up to the room where Lillie no longer was, but not wanting to look petulant by rushing out into the street. Jared rose and came round to him with a decided step.
‘I’m nay verra hungry myself, a charaid,’ Jared said, taking him by the arm. ‘Come sit wi’ me for a bit and take a dram. It’ll settle your wame.’
He didn’t much want to, but there was nothing else he could think of doing, and within a few moments, he found himself in front of a fragrant applewood fire, with a glass of his father’s whisky in hand, the warmth of both easing the tightness of chest and throat. It wouldn’t cure his grief, he knew, but it made it possible to breathe.
‘Good stuff,’ Jared said, sniffing cautiously, but approvingly. ‘Even raw as it is. It’ll be wonderful, aged a few years.’
‘Aye. Uncle Jamie kens what he’s about; he said he’d made whisky a good many times, in America.’
Jared chuckled.
‘Your uncle Jamie usually kens what he’s about,’ he said. ‘Not that knowing it keeps him out o’ trouble.’ He shifted, making himself more comfortable in his worn leather chair. ‘Had it not been for the Rising, he’d likely have stayed here wi’ me. Aye, well . . .’ The old man sighed with regret and lifted his glass, examining the spirit. It was still nearly as pale as water – it hadn’t been casked above a few months – but had the slightly viscous look of a fine strong spirit, like it might climb out of the glass if you took your eye off it.
‘And if he had, I suppose I’d not be here myself,’ Michael said dryly.
Jared glanced at him, surprised.
‘Och! I didna mean to say ye were but a poor substitute for Jamie, lad.’ He smiled crookedly, and his hooded eyes grew moist. ‘Not at all. Ye’ve been the best thing ever to come to me. You and dear wee Lillie, and . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘I . . . well, I canna say anything that will help, I ken that. But . . . it won’t always be like this.’
‘Won’t it?’ Michael said bleakly. ‘Aye, I’ll take your word for it.’ A silence fell between them, broken only by the hissing and snap of the fire. The mention of Lillie was like an awl digging into his breastbone, and he took a deeper sip of the whisky to quell the ache. Maybe Jared was right to mention the drink to him. It helped, but not enough. And the help didn’t last. He was tired of waking to grief and headache both.
Shying away from thoughts of Lillie, his mind fastened on Uncle Jamie instead. He’d lost his wife, too, and from what Michael had seen of the aftermath, it had torn his soul in two. Then she’d come back to him by some miracle, and he was a man transformed. But in between . . . he’d managed. He’d found a way to be.
Thinking of Auntie Claire gave him a slight feeling of comfort – as long as he didn’t think too much about what she’d told the family . . . Who – or what – she was, and where she’d been while she was gone those twenty years. The brothers and sisters had talked among themselves about it afterward; Young Jamie and Kitty didn’t believe a word of it, Maggie and Janet weren’t sure – but Young Ian believed it, and that counted for a lot with Michael. And she’d looked at him – right at him – when she said what was going to happen in Paris.