"Aha," he said noncommittally. It sounded hellish close to hopes of "familial," domestic bliss; last year's wren hatchling making a first nest of her own.
'Least I'm fortunate, he thought, taking a cool sip of his hock: don't know why, but all my girls have been the economical sort. Never a spendthrift in the lot! Knock wood!
Phoebe shrugged, turning pensive.
"D'avant, w'en I am leetle girl…" She sighed. "Papa an' Maman are trиs pauvre … ver' poor. 'E ees ze soap-maker? Maman 'elp eem… or wash ze laundry for ozzers. Sometime ze domestique … for ze rich? Ver' poor. 'Ave nozzing. I go wiz 'er, sometime… I see what ozzers 'ave, an' I wan' zat pour moi. For Papa an' Maman, aussi."
She put out a hand to him, to draw him to sit by her side more closely on the sofa, as she tried to explain her life.
"Papa, 'e nous a quittes, w'en I am seize, uhm… sixteen? An' Maman ees weak, ver' sick sometime, so I tak' 'er place, an' work as ze domestique. At firs', in Bastнa, w'ere we live. Zen I go Toulon," Phoebe told him, almost sadly, slipping an arm through his, turning to face him. "Oui, I become putain … ze petite whore. Domestiques wiz pretty
.. 'oo are pretty, hmm… eet 'appens, n'est-ce pas? C'est dommage, mais …? 'Ave ze belle vкtements, ze beautiful gowns, go to ze dances… ride een ze fine coach? Mais, come 'ome to ze rooms zat I on'y rent. Ver' impersonnel, wiz nozzing of mine? Oh, Alain, 'ow ver' much I wan' ze 'ome of my own, someday! Furniture I prefer, non w'ot come wiz rent. Forgeev, plais, mais …"
She ducked her head.
"I take ze smaller rooms to save monnaie, oui. Non jus' for you' sake. For moi. Zo I 'ave monnaie for to buy preety s'ings for… for zat someday, comprendre? Zo someday, I weel be somebody."
"If you needed more, Phoebe…" He chuckled.
"Non," she insisted, with a somber cast to her features, perhaps for the first time in his experience of her. "You, I adore, Alain, mon coeur. Anozzer man, per'aps e ave more monnai, can mak' me to be ze somebody at once, mais … j'm'en fous! Wiz you, I am 'appy! Eef eet tak' time for to be ze grande lady, c'est dommage. I be mistress to one man, on'y. Vousl Non more putain. We mak' each ozzer appy, an' I wait for you to sail 'ome to me. W'ere I mak' you ze domicile, uhm… intimй et agrйable … 'ow you say?"
"Pleasant and cozy." He grinned.
"Oui, pleasan' an'… cozy!" Phoebe giggled, rewarding his abbreviated English lesson with a chaste little kiss, and settling down on his side, her head on his shoulder, cooing with delight. "Mon Dieu, I am so beaucoup appy you 'ave return-ed, Alain! I mees you so much, I ache for to be 'appy an' content, again. To be wiz ze on'y man 'oo… care for me. 'Oo tak' si… such good care of me! I weel non be expensive, you weel see! Parce que. .. be-cause, I love you so much."
"A quiet, little place, then," he inquired hopefully. Though coin did "chink" about in his head. How much might that "quiet, little place " cost? There'd be furniture, paintings, servants' wages… And quiet, secure lodgings meant good neighborhoods, far removed from the commercial quarter; a coach-and-four might be necessary! The need for china, silver plate, cutlery, lanthorns, and candle stands, beeswax candles by the gross. Drapers and paperers in and out with even more costly…! He took a fortifying sip of wine.
"Nozzing grande, mon chou," she reassured him, though, half lost in fantasies of domestic perfection. "I non need ze palace, hein? Une leerle appartement, wiz balcony. We go to San Fiorenzo? Bon. So ver' steep ze hills, mais … non ze rent, Alain! Balcony wiz view of ocean. Zo I watch fo' you' navire … you' ship. Une domestique, on'y, '00 eez live zere wiz me… une 'oo come for day, to cook an' clean. Corsica… ees ver' poor. Une peu monnaie go ze long way, zere, you will see, I promesse. An' zo many йmigrйs royalistes go zere. You remember, w'en we leave Toulon, zey tak' away zere good sings? 'Ave non monnaie, now. Zey will be sell zose preety s'ings, bon marchй. Zat ees ze 'cheap'!"
Alan turned to peer at her. For such a sweet, seemingly guileless young fairy girl, Phoebe had suddenly sounded as calculating and pinch-penny, as grasping as a Haymarket horse trader!
"Be grow up poor as moi, Alain, mon chou." She chuckled, in answer to his puzzled expression, with a wry tip of her glass in salute to her past. "You fin' ow to shop for bargain!"
The thought did cross his mind (it must be said), even as he was placing a supportive and comforting arm about her shoulders, that there was still time to cry off their cozy arrangement. He could give her fifty pounds in coin-the Devil with his note-of-hand! Fifty pounds would be more than enough to support her for months, if Corsican living was as cheap as she described it. Certainly, it would be cheaper than establishing an entire new household, with all the requisite furnishings.
Damme, he thought wryly, I know sailors're said to have a wife in every port. But nobody said a bloody thing 'bout whole houses!
"Trus' moi, Alain," she whispered, her soft breath close, and promising, near his ear. "As I trus' you, wiz my 'hole 'eart."
Well, that did it!
I do have a fair lot o' prize money, he relented, anew. Maybe it won't be as cheap as it was in Toulon, or aboard Radical after the evacuation. God, that didn't cost tuppence, really. And the Navy'd paid most of it, didn't they?
They looked into each other's eyes, fond smiles threatening to break out on each other's lips. Eyes crinkling in remembered delights.
That, too, did it!
Right, so she'd had a hard life, he told himself. She was so lost and alone, in a harsh world. Should he spurn her, she'd find a new patron, of course… that was the lot of penniless but beautiful young girls, with no family connections, or power to resist. That was the way of the world! If needs must, Phoebe might return to being a courtesan for a dozen, a hundred other men, to make her way. What was it his brother-in-law Burgess Chiswick had said, when they were besieged at Yorktown? A North Carolina folk colloquialism? "Hard times'd make a rat eat red onions!"
She'd hate doing so, of course. Phoebe had abandoned that life to take up with poor Lieutenant Scott, as her only lover-she his only-not because Barnaby had been any sort of decent toward her, really, or kept her in any sort of style, but because she didn't want to tumble any farther down that maelstrom spiral to ruin and oblivion that was the lot of most whores, no matter how pretty or clever.