He waited, searched her face, then looked down. “What very pretty shoes.”
“Thank you. They’re from Turner’s.” She shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t believe he was interested in her shoes, but neither did she imagine he was trying to spare her feelings by not staring at the bruises that ran up the side of her head. These were almost hidden with an artfully draped shawl, but her lip was still visibly puffy. It was too easy to trace the line from that to the black and blue marks. One mark led to the next like a constellation.
One thing always led to another.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Seaver?” she said at last. Not knowing was too much.
“I may be in a way to do something for you.”
Anna couldn’t help it: she sighed. She heard the offer five times a night.
“Nothing like that,” he said, showing that rank of teeth. “It’s your husband.”
“What about him?” Gambling debts, whores, petty theft? Another harebrained investment gone west? Her mind raced over the many ways Thomas could have offended Mr. Seaver.
“I saw him at Clark ’s law office this morning. I had business with Clark…on behalf of my employer…”
Anna barely stifled a shudder. Best to know nothing of Seaver or his employer’s business, which had brought a fortune so quickly that it could only have come from some brutal trade in West Indian contraband. Thick Thomas Hoyt was well beneath the notice of Seaver’s boss, praise God.
“…and your husband was still talking to Clark.”
“Yes?” Anna refused to reveal surprise at Thomas visiting a lawyer. He had no use or regard for the law.
“He was asking how he could sell your establishment.”
“He can’t. It’s mine,” she said before thinking.
Seaver showed no surprise at her vehemence. “Much as I thought, and exactly what Clark told him. Apparently, Hook Miller wants the place.”
“So he said last night. I thanked him, but I’m not selling. He was more than understanding.”
Seaver tilted his head. “Because he thinks the way to acquire your tavern is through your husband.”
The words went through Anna like a knife, and she understood. Her hand rose to her cheek. The beating had come only hours after Miller’s offer and her refusal. Thomas had been blind drunk, and she could barely make out what had driven him this time.
“If I sell it, how will we live? The man’s an idiot.” She was shocked to realize that she’d actually said this, that she was having a conversation, this conversation, with Seaver.
“Perhaps Thomas thinks he can weasel a big enough price from Miller.”
“The place is mine. No one can take it, not even my husband. My father said so. He showed me the papers.” Feme sole merchant were what the lawyers called her, with their fancy Latin. The documents allowed her to conduct business almost as if she was a man. At first, it was only with her father’s consent, but as she prospered-and he sickened-it was accepted that she was responsible, allowed to trade on her own. Very nearly independent, almost as good as a man, in the year of Our Lord 1745. And, though she could never say so aloud, better than most.
“I think Clark will be bound by the document,” Seaver said. “At least until someone more persuasive than Thomas comes along.”
The list of people more persuasive and smarter than her husband was lengthy.
“It’s only a piece of paper.” Seaver shrugged. “A fragile thing.”
Anna nodded, trying not to shift from one foot to another. Eventually, Hook Miller would find a way. As long as she’d known him, he always had.
Anna swallowed. “Why are you telling me this?”
He shrugged. “I like to drink at your place.”
She almost believed him. “And?”
She knew what was coming, was nearly willing to pay the price that Seaver would ask. Whatever would save her property and livelihood, the modicum of security and independence she’d struggled to achieve. What were her alternatives? Sew until she was blind, or follow behind some rich bitch and carry her purse, run her errands? Turn a sailor’s whore?
“And?” she repeated.
“And.” He leered. “I want to see what you will do.”
The bad times were hard for everyone, but it was the good times that brought real trouble, she thought. A pretty young lass with no family and a thriving business on the waterfront. She might as well have hung out a sign.
Anna hurried back to the Queen’s Arms, shopping forgotten. No one had ever paid the property any attention when her father ran the place. It was only after she’d taken over the tavern, within sight of the wharves that cut into Boston Harbor, that business grew and drew attention.
The Queen was a neighborhood place on Fleet Street. “The burying ground up behind you, and the deep, dark sea ahead,” her father used to say, but in between was a place for a man to drink his beer after work-or before, as may be the case-the occasional whiskey, if he was feeling full and fat. Or three or five, if he was broke and buggered.
She stumbled over the cobbles in the street, but recovered and hurried along, needing to reassure herself the place was still there, that it hadn’t vanished, hadn’t been whisked away by magic from the crowd of buildings that lined the narrow streets above the harbor. Or been burned to the ground, more likely. She never doubted that her husband, stupid as he was, would find a way to rob her for Miller, if that’s what Thomas imagined he wanted.
Had Thomas Hoyt been content with hot meals twice a day, too much to drink and ten minutes sweating over his wife on Saturday night, church and repentance Sunday morning, Anna could have managed him well enough. She wanted a more ambitious man, but Thomas had come with his mother’s shop next door. When that allowed Anna to expand her tavern, she thought it a fair enough trade.
Until she discovered Thomas was ambitious, in his own way. While she poured ale, rum, and whiskey, he sat in the corner. Ready to change the barrels or quell the occasional rowdiness, he more often read his paper and smoked, playing the host. His eyes followed his pretty wife’s movements and those of all the men around her.
There were two men he had watched with peculiar interest, and Anna now understood why. One was Hook, named Robert Miller by his mother, a ruffian with a finger in every pie and a hand in every pocket. Hook’s gang were first to take advantage of all the trade on the waterfront, from loading and unloading ships to smuggling. But he did more for the local men than he took from them and was a kind of hero for it. Of course Hook appealed to Thomas: he was everything Thomas imagined he himself could be.
The other man he watched was Seaver, but even Thomas was smart enough to be circumspect when he did it. When one of Miller’s men drunkenly pulled Seaver from his chair one night, claiming his looks were souring the beer, Seaver left without a word. But he came back the next night, and Miller’s man never did. That man now drank at another house, where no one knew him. Three fingers from his right hand were broken and his nose bitten off.
The other men left Seaver alone after that. Anna smiled as she served his rum, but it stopped at her eyes. He was content to sit quietly, alone with who knew what thoughts.
Thomas was scrubbing the bar when she arrived. He looked up, smiled as though he remembered nothing of what had happened the night before. Maybe he didn’t.
“There’s my girl. Shopping done?”
“I forgot something.”
“Well, find it and I’ll walk you to the dressmaker’s myself. It’s getting dark.”
He said it as though the dark brought devils instead of the tradesmen who came regularly to her place. Who worshipped her. She had married him a year before, after her father died, for protection. She ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek, felt the swelling there, felt a tooth wiggle, her lip tear a fraction.