“Plays the pianoforte?” he guessed. “Flute? Tin whistle? Or is he more of a bagpipes-and-lute sort of fellow?”
Thiswas why she could indulge no flights of fancy toward Mr. MacLean. It had nothing to do with her work commitments, or him being a passing tourist. They were too different.
“Ignatius Sancho was born into slavery in the middle of the sea on a crowded slave ship. He learnt to read and later became a butler, a composer, an actor, a shopkeeper… and an important leader and source of knowledge for abolitionists, due to his many writings about the atrocities of slavery. He was the first Black man known to vote in our parliamentary elections. I have a two-volume copy of his collected letters, if you’d like to read them.”
“I think I would like to,” Mr. MacLean said, surprising her. “Thank you.”
“Everyone should read them. You’ve traveled extensively. In how many places have you seen fair and equitable treatment of Black people?”
“I’ve only traveled Scotland and England,” he answered, his eyes serious. “And I can’t say that those are the words I would use to describe what I’ve seen.”
She inclined her head. At least he was honest.
“London is likely both the best and the worst,” he mused. “Outside of aristocratic circles, there’s a fairly large population of free Black people, as well as people from any number of countries and cultures. But beyond London, I’ve not seen many thriving communities, much less many examples of coexisting in a way I’d claim resembled ‘fair and equitable.’ Abolition is the only ethical stance, but of course just the beginning.”
Angelica handed back the books. She respected Mr. MacLean for not only being able to see the truth, but to say it. One did not always like the things the truth exposed.
“My relatives cannot stand that I live so far away,” she confessed. “There are other people of African descent here in Cressmouth, but of course not as many as London. Until they came to visit, my family didn’t believe me when I insisted my fellow villagers generally treat us with the same respect they’d give any other neighbor. We’re not just welcome here. Cressmouth belongs to all of us.”
Mr. MacLean tilted his head in speculation. “What about the tourists?”
“Many of them are wonderful.” They delighted in her creations and lined her pockets with gold. “Some of them treat all of us like quaint menagerie specimens, regardless of color.” But their coins spent just the same as any other. “As for the rest...” She lifted a shoulder. “The bad ones aren’t any worse than the knaves you’d find anywhere else.”
“That seems a low bar to clear,” he murmured. His gaze held hers. “Are you happy here?”
Happy? What was happy? She hadn’t been happy in London, and she was too busy to worry about such things here. She was happy once a year, when her family came up to spend Yuletide in the castle.
She’d be with them now if it weren’t for all this work. An hour or two with her cousins and nieces and nephews in the evenings before falling into bed exhausted wasn’t nearly enough time.
Soon, she promised herself. She’d be finished with her responsibilities by Christmas and could enjoy her family until Twelfth Night.
“Read aloud from whichever one you like.” She picked up her tools, then paused. “What made you choose Ignatius Sancho if you didn’t know who he was?”
“Oh, I didn’t choose him. He was foisted upon me, along with the metamorphic rock and the parables. I was going to bring youThe Venetian SorceressorThe Castle of Wolfenbach. I might be able to quote them by heart, if you like.”
“Foisted upon you?” she repeated. “How does one find oneself the unwilling recipient of guides for geologists?”
“Due to an ill-tempered cat,” he replied earnestly, “and a particular young lady who looks a bit like...” He pulled a notebook and a pencil from an inner waistcoat pocket and sketched a few lines on one of the pages. “…this.”
He faced the notebook in her direction.
Angelica’s friend Virginia gazed back at her as though she’d posed for the portrait.
Something Virginia would never do.
“I cannot believe you drew that so quickly!”
“I don’t know her name,” he explained, “which made this the most expedient way to convey her identity.”
“Expedient?” she sputtered. “Why didn’t you tell me you were an artist?”
He looked at her in surprise. “I’m not an artist. Artists carry arty things about. I have a pencil and a notebook, and sometimes I draw things.” He seemed to think this over. “Iwillhave to paint a few dozen illustrations when my business partner arrives.” He shook his head. “An anomaly. My watercolors won’t be part of the real catalogue. We’ll employ a skilled professional once everything goes through.”
She pursed her lips. “I haven’t seen you paint, but if your efforts are anywhere near as ‘amateur’ as that portrait you just sketched, something smells of false modesty.”
“No, no, no.” His eyes widened earnestly. “I’m unquestionably talented at art. But I’m not anartist. I’m a wanderer. Iwander. It may or may not be what I do best, but it’s who I am.”
Her fingers embossed mistletoe into the adornment. “Is that why you’re here? You wandered into town, and then into my shop?”
