Ian was counting back; six years ago, Jane would have been about the age Fanny was now. Old enough …
After a few accounts of harrowing initial experiences in the trade, he managed to drag the conversation back to Jane and Fanny.
“Ye said a sea captain sold the girls to Mrs. Abbott. Do either of ye by chance recall his name?”
Meg shook her head.
“I wasn’t here,” she said. “Trix …？” She lifted a brow at her friend, who frowned a little and pressed her lips together.
“Has he come back here—since?” Ian asked, watching her closely. She looked startled.
“I—well … yes. I only saw him twice, mind, and it’s been a long while, so I maybe don’t recall his name for sure.”
Ian sighed, gave her a direct look, and handed her a golden guinea.
“Vaskwez,” she said without hesitation. “Sebastian Vaskwez.”
“Vas—was he a Spaniard?” Ian asked, his mind having smoothly transmuted her rendering to “Sebastiàn Vasquez.”
“I don’t know,” Trix said frankly. “I’ve never had a Spaniard—knowin’-like, I mean—wouldn’t know what they sound like.”
“They all sound the same in bed,” Meg said, giving Ian an eye. Trix gave her friend a withering look.
“He sounded foreign-like, no doubt about that. And no talking through his nose or that gwaw-gwaw sort of thing Frenchies do. I’ve had three Frenchmen,” she explained to Ian, with a small showing of pride. “Was a few of ’em in Philadelphia while the British army was here.”
“When was the last time Vasquez came here?” he asked.
“Two … no, maybe close to three years ago.”
“Did he go with Jane then?” Ian asked.
“No,” Trix said unexpectedly. “He went with me.” She made a face. “He stank of gunpowder—like an artilleryman. He wasn’t one, though; they’ve all got it ground into their skin and their hands are black with it, but he was clean, though he smelled like a fired pistol.”
A thought occurred to Ian—though thinking was becoming difficult. He wasn’t bothered by the fact that his body was taking strong notice of the girls, but arousal seldom did much for the mental faculties.
“Could ye tell if he was still a sea captain?” he asked. Both girls looked blank.
“I mean—did he mention his ship, or maybe say he was taking on crew, anything like that? Did he smell of the sea, or—or—fish?”
That made them both laugh.
“No, just gunpowder,” Trix said, recovering.
“Mother Abbott called him ‘Captain,’ though,” Trix added. “And ’twas clear enough he weren’t a soldier.”
A few more questions emptied both bottles, and it was clear that the girls had told him all they knew, little as it was. At least he had a name. There were sounds in the house, opening doors, heavy footsteps, men’s voices and women’s greetings; it was just past teatime and the cullies were beginning to come in.
He rose, arranged himself without shame, and bowed to them, thanking them for their kind assistance.
At the bottom of the stairs, he heard Trix call down to him and looked up to see her leaning over the rail of the landing above.
“Aye?” he said. She glanced round to make sure there was no one near, then scuttled down the stairs and took him by the sleeve.
“I know one thing more,” she said. “When Mother Abbott went to sell Arabella’s maidenhead, she hadn’t one, so they had to use a bladder of chicken blood.”
SILVIA SENT HER girls off with a tray loaded with food, to eat in the bedroom. Then she sat down at the table, where Jenny and Rachel had laid out thick slices of bread on which to serve the bacon and beans, they having no more than the two warped wooden plates that had been provided with their rooms.
Ian thought the smell of food might be enough to knock him over; he couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten—he thought it might have been yesterday sometime, but he’d been too busy to notice. He broke off a corner of bread with a good bit of beans cooked with bacon and onions on it, shoveled it into his mouth, and made an involuntary sound that caused all the women to look at him.
“Ye sound like a starving wolf, lad,” his mother said, raising her brows.
Rachel laughed, and Silvia smiled, very gingerly. She ate the same way, owing to her split lip, and he thought, from the tentative way she chewed, that a couple of her teeth might have been loosened as well. If he’d had any compunction about killing Judge Fredericks—and he hadn’t—it would have vanished on the spot.