In good, undebased silver, now, most definitely not billionil "Ah, magnifico]" the agent had declared, kissing his fingertips and thence, the very air. But, the piastre, the tallero, the scudo, the royal, crown, ecu and peso-the last two the tried-and-true French pre-Revolutionary Ecu, or the ancient Spanish Piece of Eight-they were understandable. Somewhat. And the mention of the sum "Crown" at least penetrated Lewrie's fog. Though they all weighed different amounts of silver, at least he knew what a bloody Crown was worth!
"Let me see if I have this straight, so far," Alan had stated, after what had seemed a full hour of haggling. "The greedy bastard is aware we aren't buyin the damn' place lock, stock, and barrel, isn't he?"
"Oui, Alain," Phoebe had replied, a tad huffy and exasperated. "I s'ink," she had been forced to admit, kitten-shyly.
"Right, then. We're makin' progress, damme if we ain't!" he'd cried, with a huge sigh of relief. "So, just how many good, English shillings make one of his bloody ducats? The ones he keeps rantin' on about?"
"Uhm ze doppia, zat ees deu… two ducat, so…" she told him.
"And the ducat'd be…?" he'd prompted, with a surly purr.
"Een silver?" she'd puzzled, followed by a rapid ticking off on her lace-gloved fingers, and much muttering under her breath.
"That'd be a grand place to start," he'd muttered under his own breath, as she'd done her current exchange rates.
And trust a retired whore to know her sums, to the ha'pence, he'd told himself.
"Mmm, une ducat, zat ees twelve shillings, Alain, mon chou."
"Aha! Now, we're getting somewhere!" He'd beamed. "Let me see one of them."
The fubsy agent had produced a ducat, from a floridly embroidered silk poke. It weighed next to nothing, a wafer-thin, and almost bendable gold coin little larger round than a silver sixpence.
"So, ten ducats… that'd be 120 shillings the month, or six English pounds, hmm." Lewrie had pondered. He'd extracted his purse, weighing it on his other palm, heavy and promising, toying with it to make the gold one and two guinea pieces inside rustle and chink. The agent had swallowed heavily, eyes darting in a fever of greed. Or in fear that his ducat might be conjured away, if he didn't keep his eye glued to it!
"Two two-guinea pieces, in gold, sir," Lewrie had offered, as he lay them out on his palm next to the ducat, which shrank in comparison to the size of a tea saucer next to the dinner-plate appearance of the two-guinea's breadth, and most importantly, its thickness! "I will offer four guineas the month, and not a pence more. That's worth eighty-four shillings, or seven of his damn' ducats. Or, you tell him, Phoebe, that when the troop convoy arrives, with thousands more English soldiers in need of billets, well… we may commandeer any house that isn't already rented, d'ye see? For nothing, tell him?"
It amounted to Ј50/8/0, he'd thought smugly; a bargain. If the damn' fool will just realize it! Markets not a stone's throw off, down to the waterfront, or a short block uphill and one over, to that plaza we saw, and all the market stalls. No need for a carriage, after all, or even the keep of a single horse! Furnished, mostly; a tad tawdry, at present. Two bedchambers above-stairs, both with balconies and ocean views, rather good bedsteads an' such. His price would have been Ј72, and that'd be a trifle steep, even for a decent set of London rooms!
Expostulating that he'd been gored, diddled, raped, the agent had at last acceded, and the place was theirs; if they'd pay the year in advance! Feeling just as gored, Lewrie had been forced to accede on his part, as well. Knowing that as long as the French had a Navy in-being, in Golfe Jouan or Toulon, that could threaten their hold on Corsica, or the sea-lanes across the Ligurian and Tyrrhenian seas to Genoa, Porto Especia, Rome, or Naples, he'd most like be based out of San Fiorenzo far longer than that.
Half that ponderous purse of his disappeared into the agent's poke, with a further stipulation that he'd remove any items of furnishings they didn't need, or wished to replace; thus lowering the rent somewhat, later on. That had required another spitting, hissing catfight to negotiate, but in the end it was done, to the begrudging dissatisfaction of both parties.
Phoebe had received the heavy ring of keys from him, had hugged them to her bosom, and had skipped and danced around her new parlor in great delight, after the agent had taken his leave.
"Alain… eez so…!" She'd sighed at last, coming to him and flinging her arms about him, crooning as he lifted her off her feet to eye level. "Eez non ze appartement no more… eez ze 'ouse grande, si
bellel Eez non ze… shabby? Solid an' secure! An' I mak' eet even nicer, soon! Merci, mon amour. Oh, merci si trиs beaucoup]"
And there had been tears of joy in her eyes, to be so settled, at long last. Her lips had trembled against his as she kissed him so warmly. And her little shoulders had shaken in grateful emotion.
"We mus' 'urry, Alain!" she'd declared finally. "We can 'ave mov-ed een, avant coucher de soleil, uhm… before sundown? Non cook, we 'ave, t'night, mais … we fin' ze cafй, an' zen, een our own bed, I tell you 'ow ver much I love you for…! Non, I show you… 'ow much I am thanking you, mon chou!"
They'd left Phoebe's chests and luggage at a waterfront osteria, a tavern/ lodging house, in the care of an elderly couple, who had made much of Phoebe's arrival in their midst. Lewrie was arranging a burro and cart, and Phoebe was chatting away, gay as a magpie, with her fellow countrymen, and stroking Joliette, who was daintily lapping at some goat milk, when Midshipman Spendlove arrived, with a packet under his arm, sweating heavily.
"Sir!" Spendlove announced, doffing his hat. "Thank God you're here, sir. Else I'd have had nary a clue as to where in the town…"
"Trouble aboard, Mister Spendlove?" Lewrie barked, breaking off his negotiations with the carter.
"No, sir." Spendlove took the time to smile. "Orders, sir! Come aboard not a quarter-hour past."
"Mmm eood." Lewrie sighed in relief. "That was quick work, I must say. I didn't… Mister Spendlove. These have been opened," he rasped, turning stern and surly in an instant.
"Not my doing, sir," Spendlove assured him with some heat. "Nor the first lieutenant's. Uhm… your clerk, Mister Mountjoy, he, ahh…"
"Mountjoy?" Lewrie snapped.
"Said he thought they were normal correspondence, sir, that he… as your assistant, should read first, so…" Spendlove shrugged. Not in defense of the captain's clerk, no. By the tone of his voice, even a lowly midshipman could express a tiny bit of exasperation, or disgust, with a "new-come" who knew so little. Or could not seem to learn.
"Damn fool!" Lewrie growled. Ship's orders were addressed for captains only, for their eyes only. "Not you, Mister Spendlove. Pardon the comment, sir. No one else aboard has read them, yet?"