Read Online Angel's Flight by Juliet Waldron - Free Book Online Page B

Angelica they had to be careful. He didn’t intend to get them robbed and thrown overboard in the middle of the Tappan Zee.
    Angelica racked her brains to remember the names of men who dealt with her uncle. The names with which Jack returned were either unfamiliar or those of notorious Tories.
    She and Jack had agreed to call themselves Livingston. Angelica had chosen the alias knowing that, in this large and widely scattered Hudson River family, there were equal numbers of rebels and Tories.
    Every time they saw the flash of redcoats, they drifted the other way. Once, when three soldiers came close, Angelica squeezed Jack’s hand hard. Over and over she thanked heaven for their plain clothes, and for the modest cap that hid her golden head.
    “And so, mistress, what is your pleasure?” The rag picker’s place, backed against a half-fallen stone wall, was redolent with ancient smells, the essence of loss and poverty, and of being cast off as unworthy or useless. The rag picker herself seemed an extension of her wares piled around her on the cobblestones.
    “What do you seek? Cloths for swaddling a babe? Or just for your monthlies?” This last was said with a leer, one blackened tooth winking from her lower jaw, a coated tongue wiping across cracked lips.
    Angelica, gingerly poking through the top layer in the first pile, looked sideways at the woman, trying to hide her distaste.
    Why am I even looking at this awful stuff?
    Told to wait here by Jack, out of the way, she’d soon experienced an uneasy boredom. After all, loitering invited unwanted attention.
    Looking around at the nearby stalls, she’d been attracted by the rag picker. There was a notion she might find a strip of something suitable for the quilt. Now, just looking at the ratty stuff, she wished she’d never started.
    “Have you nothing quite so—used?” Angelica asked.
    The rag picker looked back with undisguised dislike. “Well, now, mistress, what would it be that you are looking to use it for, this not quite so used rag?” Animosity shone around her like a halo.
    And her mimicry was too accurate for Angelica not to instinctively draw back, the verbal arrow hitting its mark.
    “I collect small patches,” she said, stung. “And although they may be small, they must be fairly clean and not ragged,” she continued.
    “Well, I have this one piece,” the rag picker answered, “but it will be costly, as it is fine as frog hair...” She hesitated, not knowing how far she could go before she had lost the sale.
    “Show me,” Angelica replied curtly.
    The rag picker dug into the bottom of a coarsely woven burlap bag that had probably held feed for some cattle long gone to market. She pulled out a packet of dingy homespun, crushing it in her claw-like hand.
    “Here, m’lady, fit for a queen.”
    Angelica gingerly unwrapped the folds of filthy cloth. As she turned back the last flap, she gasped, astounded. There was a small square of folded brilliant cobalt blue silk, spun through with threads of gold and silver.
    The exact color of the bluebirds—and the gold and silver threads could have been drawn from his head...
    “Well...”
    She had to have it, but she didn’t want to seem too eager. It was all part of the barter, and the rag-picker certainly knew the game—and the rules—far better than she did!
    “Well...I don’t know...”
    “It’s small, but you canna say there’s a finer piece of Chin-ee anywhere,” the woman wheedled. “And so soft and fair!”
    “How much?”
    “Well, mistress, as its such a fine piece and all...”
    Angelica matched the rag picker’s stare, waiting for the next move.
    “And, as you say, you be needin’ the finest cloth...” The rag picker’s gaze held steady.
    “How much?” Suddenly, Angelica’s patience was at an end. The rag picker knew this was her last move. “Tuppence.”
    Angelica turned on her heel in one smooth motion and started away from the stall. There was exactly one shilling and