Easton's Gold Read Online Free PDF Page B

She wanders over to the shelves again and looks at the wizened, upside-down crow hanging from a nail on the upper shelf. “What’s that for?” she asks.
    Fleet, who is scooping the powder into the cloth, seems to hesitate for a second. “For sores,” he says, frowning, his eyes still on his work. “Feathers plucked from the bird are arranged on the affected area. It usually heals very well.”
    His discomfort makes him seem mysterious again. Gabrielle thinks about the man ducking out of sight in the punt; she imagines she was at closer quarters and gives the boatman Fleet’s features.
Could it have been him
?
    She saunters up to the counter. “Why would I need an apothecary for bird’s feathers?” she ventures. “I could collect them myself, couldn’t I?”
    â€œBut you wouldn’t know to, would you?” he replies. Smiling slightly, he bunches up the corners of the bag and begins to tie it. “It’s the knowledge people come to me for, not the ingredients. Nature wouldn’t hide its cures in obscure cocktails anyway. It’s all around. You just have to know what works.”
    She watches the veins on the back in his hands as he ties the bag. He has nice hands, she thinks, nimble and sensitive and, like his face, very pale.
    â€œYou are not orthodox, Mr. Fleet. Is that not dangerous?” She leans with her elbow on the counter and her chin in her palm. Fleet finishes tying the bag and leaves it on the counter for the moment.
    â€œWho’s to say what’s dangerous?” he says. “Tomorrow danger and safety may change places. The world may be tipped upside down.”
    â€œYou’re talking of religion and war. I am still quite new to England, but I have heard of such things.”
    â€œThere may be dangerous years ahead,” he says softly. He picks up the bag and hands it to Gabrielle.
    Gabrielle takes her elbow from the counter and stands up straight. She takes the bag in her open palm.
    â€œHow much?” she asks.
    â€œA shilling.”
    â€œIt was a shilling last time, but this is more.”
    â€œBut you’re a repeat customer now,” he replies softly. “I can rely on you.”
    Gabrielle stares at Fleet’s brown eyes, and she feels a curious sensation radiate from her belly to her fingers and toes. For some reason this man seems closer to her than he logically should.
    â€œGive it all to him and come back tomorrow.”
    Gabrielle holds onto Fleet’s gaze for a moment longer. Then she turns, smiles at him hesitantly and hurries away.
    When Gabrielle enters the room, the Marquis is propped up on the pillow.
    â€œMy lord!” Gabrielle exclaims, running up to the bed. “You are getting better!”
    But already her voice trails off a little. His face is full of anxiety, not joy, and his eyes are red as though he has been in pain.
    â€œBut what is it?” she asks, leaning over him.
    â€œI have to go to Newfoundland.”
    â€œWhat!” Gabrielle exclaims, laughing. Then, seeing the pain and worry in the old man’s eyes, she stops. “But, my lord,” she says, turning now and sitting on the corner of the bed, “you cannot travel again, and not so far!”
    The Marquis gasps for breath as though just holding himself together. “I must,” he stutters, his face reddening. “I must find my son!” His lips quiver alarmingly, and Gabrielle eases closer. “I lost him,” he splutters. “A half-caste boy without money or protection.”
    Gabrielle has never laid her hands on the Marquis before except to move him, but now her arms gently enfold his head. She feels its weight drop like a cannonball into her breast. She strokes his thin white hair and pink scalp. The sobs are stifled at first, but gradually, as the Marquis’s pink, swollen hands grope for her shoulders and take hold, he starts to let himself go. A loud wail rises like a