Storm smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss her husband’s cheek.
Burke was surprised until she whispered in his ear.
“A place of generous gossip is a pub.”
Burke understood. “I think you need a few new garments to impress our friends back in America, so I shall leave you here while I have a pint or two at the local pub.”
She smiled and they entered the shop.
It smelled delightful and there was color everywhere from the bolts of material stacked on shelves and draped over chairs, to the tables covered in lace and bowls of ribbons spilling out of them.
The seamstress was as petite as Storm, though her hair raged red against milk-pale skin and her wide green eyes sparkled with friendly delight. She was only too happy to oblige Burke after he explained that his wife required several garments to be made of her finest material. He hoped she wouldn’t mind advising his wife on the styles of the local aristocrats, since she wanted to impress her friends back home. How unfortunate that his wife could not partake in the conversation.
The seamstress told him not to worry, she would handle everything, and shooed him out of the shop, though not before he gave his wife a peck on the cheek and whispered, “Be good and have fun.”
Storm smiled sweetly and patted her husband’s arm.
Burke was not reassured but took his leave. What trouble could she get into in a seamstress shop?
Plenty.
He ignored his thought and decided to keep his visit to the pub brief.
Burke entered the small pub not that different from the saloons in America, depending of course on location. The larger towns and cities had the more garish saloons, while one would find a saloon much like this in a small town. There was a bar big enough for maybe four men to stand at and three tables occupying space for two. The smell wasn’t too inviting, but then once you got drinking the smell was no longer noticeable.
He went to the bar and ordered a pint, then attempted a conversation with the skinny bartender, commenting on a range of topics including poachers, thieves, and how the Scots dealt with such crimes.
“It’s Thomas Gibbons you need to talk to about such things. He’s worked for some of the landlords.” The bartender grinned and pointed to a lone man sitting at a table. “A pint of ale will buy you all the information you need.”
“Mind if I join you?” Burke asked, placing a pint of ale in front of the man.
“Have a seat,” he offered and grabbed hold of the tankard.
Burke decided to get right to the point for a good reason—the short, round man smelled as if it had been weeks since he last bathed.
“I wondered how the landlords here in Scotland deal with crimes,” Burke said. “The bartender told me you were the man to talk with.”
“Trouble handling your tenants in America?” Thomas asked with a laugh and took a generous swallow of ale.
Burke smiled, letting the man assume what he wished.
“The landlords tolerate no crime on their lands,” Thomas said with a pound of his tankard on the table. “They deal with crimes swift and harshly. It’s the only way to keep control of the tenants.”
Thomas went into great detail, much of which Burke already knew thanks to Storm and his own observations since arriving.
“You should speak with the Earl of Balford,” Thomas suggested. “Only a fool would steal from that man. The consequences are much too harsh.”
“How harsh?”
“Prison, fines…” He lowered his voice. “The man knows how to get what he wants from his prisoners. Believe me, sir, no one wants to find himself in Balford’s prison.”
“And where can I find him?” Burke asked innocently.
“Glencurry, perhaps two days’ ride from here.” He kept his voice low and leaned close to Burke, who tried not to take a breath. “He’s not a man to cross. Be careful dealing with him.”
Burke leaned back and called out to the bartender. “Another pint for Thomas.”
Thomas grinned. “Thank you, sir, you are most kind.”
