She already knew that she’d like Mr. Bell, for the captain had told her she would, and she trusted the captain. She still worried, though, whether Mr. Bell would like her.
On waking that morning she’d scrubbed her face shiny and taken great pains with her clothing and hair, and she’d wished that her sleeves weren’t so plain and her skirts weren’t so limp, until Jean with a kiss and a smile had said, “That is my favorite of all of your aprons. The stitching’s the very same blue as your eyes.” And then, suddenly, she had felt something like confidence.
She felt it stir for a second time now as they entered the swordslipper’s shop and a middle-aged man in a fine-looking suit, having come forward to greet the captain, then smiled at her warmly and said, “And I see you have brought us our Lily.”
The captain was holding her hand still. He gave it a small, reassuring squeeze. “Our Lily, actually, but we will give ye the loan of her for a wee while.”
Mr. Bell had a long face and prominent cheekbones and brown eyes edged with deep-set lines that let her know he often smiled. He wore a long wig, like a gentleman—dark, like the king’s—and his coat had long rows of brass buttons that gleamed just like gold.
“You couldn’t keep her now anyway,” he told the captain. “I’ve heard you’re headed to London.”
“Aye. Though I’ll be back afore ye’ve had a chance to miss me, if I have my way. My business should not take that long.”
“I wonder that the Privy Council lords would let you go, with all the trouble we have had in town of late.”
The captain admitted there’d been some debate. “They granted me a furlough only yesterday. I mean to be away afore they reconsider.”
“How is the edge of your sword?”
“Sharp enough.” But the captain unbuckled his sword belt and passed it, with scabbard and all, to the swordslipper, who, after expertly judging the blade, found it wanting, and handed it to his apprentice. “It will not take long. Now, Jamie, has anything caught your eye?” He asked the question as if Jamie were a true customer.
Jamie drew up to his full height and pointed. “May I please see that one?”
“Of course.”
He had chosen a broadsword, the shield of its handle inlaid with bright floral work picked out in silver against a black finish. Mr. Bell patiently answered his questions, explaining the blade had been partly blued to resist rust, and that bluing was done by applying heat in the right way, and that he’d made its handle—its hilt—in his shop, but the blade had been made on the Continent. His job was fitting them all into one, and then making the scabbard and mounting, and—
“Is this who made the blade?” Jamie asked, reading aloud the etched letters: “Andrea Ferara?”
Mr. Bell smiled. “Yes, and no. Andrew Ferara was a gifted bladesmith from Italy, born to a family of armorers. He knew the secret to tempering blades so they were of the very first quality. But he’s been dead more than a hundred years now, so his name marked on a sword blade does not mean he forged it personally, only that it was made by his method and, one hopes, by someone approaching his skill. The maker will leave other marks. You see here, this small figure of a running wolf? That shows this is a German blade, from Solingen.”
Jamie leaned in close to look. “It doesn’t look like a wolf.”
Captain Graeme said, “Aye, well, that’s the thing about wolves, lad. They don’t always look the way ye would expect them to.”
Mr. Bell turned his attention to Lily, who through this discussion had stood back and held her tongue shyly.
“And what about you?” he asked. “Is there a sword you would wish to see?”
Uncertainly, she glanced around the shop, not wanting to disappoint him. And then she saw it.
He followed her gaze. “Ah, yes. This one.” He fetched it, and laid it in front of her, with understanding. “It looks like your daddie’s.”
It wasn’t, of course. There were differences in the design of the hilt. But the sure way he’d said those words made Lily look at him. “You knew my father?”
“I did. I took care of his sword for him.” Mr. Bell touched the blade lightly, and coughed, and looked sharply down, but in a moment he lifted his gaze to meet Lily’s again, and his eyes held a warm promise. “And I will take the same care of his daughter.”
*
The kitchen was familiar ground.
Larger than the one in Kinloch’s Close, it was not yet so large as the great kitchen up at Inchbrakie, and any nervous feelings Lily had were calmed by the reminder she’d been taught well by her grandmother.