Mr. Brodie had been entertaining them with choice phrases translated from Italian that he'd gleaned from the guidebook she'd thrown at him last night. Phrases like "Oh, Lordy, my position has been struck by lightning," and "Alas, we are beset upon by wolves; some fine fellow do please dispel the noisy brutes."
"And have you found an appropriate deterrent to highwaymen in your phrase book, Mr. Brodie?" she asked coldly.
"Yes, ma'am. Two, in fact.
Chiami un vigile
, which means—"
"'Call a policeman.' That'll be a big help. Already I feel safer." She hated sarcasm; the man just seemed to drag it out of her. "And the second?"
"
Ecco, questa'sì che è bella
."
She frowned, puzzled.
"Wot's that?" asked Billy.
"That, Bill, is what they call an idiomatic expression."
"Wot's it mean?"
"It means 'Hullo, this is a rum go.'"
Brodie, Billy, and even Aiden chortled with merriment while Anna stared at them crossly. Mr. Brodie's sense of humor was lost on her. "If it's not putting you out in any way, perhaps you might turn your attention for a few minutes to something besides clever Italian sayings."
Brodie closed his guidebook and smiled across at her as she began to rummage around in the corner of her seat. Presently she brought out a flat, heavy-looking, wicker-covered object about sixteen inches square. It proved to be a writing case, a wondrous thing, a portable marvel, with velvet-covered receptacles for paper, pens, a tiny ink bottle, wafers, sealing wax, envelopes, and postage stamps. The neatness, the finicky efficiency of it almost made him laugh: it was so exactly the sort of contraption she would own.
She looked up and sent him a quelling glance, as if reading his mind. "I thought we would begin very simply," she opened, not meaning to sound patronizing but unconsciously adopting the tone of a rather stern schoolmistress, "and sketch the primary buildings and structures of the Liverpool division of Jourdaine Shipbuilding. I like to think we've a model shipyard; once you understand the rudiments of our operation, you should have a rough but sound grasp of shipbuilding in general, for we build everything from clippers to cargo steamers."
"Which do you like better?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Clippers or steamers. Which do you like better?"
She thought for a moment. "I have no actual preference. Each has its use, steam for reliability, sail for economy. As for speed, they're roughly equal now, but that will change as propellor and engine technology improve. There will always be resistance to steam, but that comes from people who possess more nostalgia than practicality."
"Oh, aye, and we couldn't have that."
She smiled minimally. "Ah, I perceive you're one of the die-hards, Mr. Brodie. Let me guess. You talk of 'leaving the sea and going into steam,' and you call coal 'bought wind.' You deplore the end of the sailing era because that's when men were men and ships were ships, and now it's nothing but noisy engines and ship's firemen and great propellors spoiling a good four-master's sailing qualities." He said nothing, and she raised her eyebrows. "Well?" Fleetingly she wondered why she wanted to provoke him.
She'd succeeded, if the bunching of the muscles in his jaw was any indication. But his voice betrayed nothing but friendly disagreement. "Well, now, there's a bit of truth in what you say, Mrs.
Balfour
. A man who signs away for voyage after voyage in sailing ships gets to like the life, if only because he knows no other. But when he quits sail and goes into steam, all he's really trading is one filthy, cramped forecastle for another. Instead of eating the slops from the galley of his undermanned windjammer, he gets to eat the slops that come out of the galley of his undermanned steamer. The voyages are shorter, the pitiful pay's a bit more regular, and there's less shanghaiing. And a steamer has a boiler room where he can dry his clothes every once in a while. But that's about it, Mrs.
Balfour
. He's still got
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