Market

"A defect of my gender, madam," he replied, laughing with a shrug, "If it offends you I beg your pardon...and that of your husband's."

He wasn't entirely assured she would not tell tales of what was on sale at the market, he assumed it in the nature of most women to gossip. Yet, so long as she did not speak too loudly of it he would be satisfied. Indeed, he did strain to hear her above the market chatter and so took a step closer to hear her clearer. Her accent, though different from his and offensively English, was gentle and deep. He glanced to the pearls before her.

"I favour the grey, the look like they come from the shadows of the sea...the others too bright, too common - though they may please a few."

“Well are you not?” Gabriel replied with a smile. Indeed, as she looked up to him he noticed the directness of her gaze and was sure she must be married - no maid would look at a man so boldly and she was too demure to be a harlot.

“I’m sure it would be a sight to behold...but I prefer the chink of silver when someone buy the pearls,” he added jokingly.

Gabriel looked at her more directly. Perhaps it was a sore subject for her, husbands often were for women: either the want of them or their absence...or misbehaviours. He had heard of the troubles between husbands and wives through his friends, and while he would not presume to understand he could not help but sympathise with this woman…really a girl. She seemed young, certainly younger than Gabriel, and she was not without charms. Indeed, as he looked at her he believed her to be quite beautiful.

"Whomever your husband is...perhaps he might buy you such a gift - by way of an apology when he returns to you," he offered as tenderly as his gruff voice was able, "A lucky man often takes for granted the gifts he has. I'm sure he must miss you...

Gabriel shrugged - he didn't exactly believe he was certain of himself. Indeed, very often, he doubted himself or his capabilities. Yet, he was a soldier and a man trying to carve a place for himself in the world, beyond the gentry and nobility who seemed to have a great deal of money without much work. He did not have that luxury. To be unsure of himself would be to anticipate his own downfall.

"You do not strike me as one unsure of herself and I do believe I judge characters well," he offered slightly mischievously and then quickly added, realising he had not yet discovered her name, "I am sorry, I don't believe I asked your name?"

“Gabriel…Latimer,” he replied with a slight nod to his head. He didn’t think she was especially talkative although nor was she quiet. There was something in the terseness of her speech. She spoke to him as if she didn’t need to, as if she did not care about him at all and yet the fact she spoke to him in such a delicate tone of voice made her seem gentle and kind.

“I am sure your husband shall miss your children also?” he asked, for some reason wanting to prolong the conversation but not quite knowing what to say.

Gabriel lingered and watched Joan move to the quiet behind the stalls. He glanced to the trader by his side, engaged in a conversation with a young couple - obviously with more money than sense, all too willing to be fooled out of a coin or two. Gabriel smirked quietly to himself, a crooked grin that touched his eyes and made them crease - as if he imagined something as equal in sin as in pleasure.

"Then surely," Gabriel begin, slipping his hands into his pockets, "And forgive me, please...he is a fool. And the only Mrs Latimer is my mother, no greater angel has the world seen," he said honestly, "I'm a naval soldier. I somehow made them overlook my accent and my politics to let me onto their ships. It is a good life, I am often far away for long bouts of time but I would not trade it. I have seen a thousand sunsets at sea, each different and more beautiful than the last...and of course, my profession allows me the opportunity of some quiet enterprise."

Gabriel laughed deeply, raising his eyebrows in shock, “Well, that is why they give us shore leave, Joan,” he finally replied with a grin, winking discreetly at her.

“There are young lads - daft young things - who bring their girls on the ship. Some amount of bother is causes. By the second night they are either fighting or the girl has caught the eye of another or has been taken down with sickness. Both normally leave by the time we find port...it is no life for the gentle... And although we’ve starved - sometimes for weeks - and I was sick like a dog when I began - just a young lad - I'd never trade it. Still, as I say, no life for a family. I’d never wish it on any gentlewoman to be my wife, waiting for me to be home for just month and then away for half the year. Besides, if I had a woman, really had one, I wouldn’t let her out my sight. I'd be home every night to see our child on her hip and not return to find my children half grown and her half old and her looks all but gone,” he joked a little, realising how much he had spoke - how much he felt he could tell her.

Gabriel shrugged, "You only appreciate the sea when you have time on land. I would hate to get sick of it."

He glanced behind him and noticed quite a crowd had gathered around the stall. He looked back to Joan with a polite smile, "Well, Joan, I am glad to have met you...yet business beckons me away. Perhaps we shall meet again," he added, half hoping they would.

Gabriel had already shuffled closer to a couple near the complement of neatly folded laces at the edge of the stall. Taking one piece in hand, he raised it to the light and highlighted the intricacy of the work, “Kenmare lace, a very fine piece,” he said gently, talking more to the woman than the man beside her and beginning his usual speech when about to make a sale, "You won't find the like anywhere else."

Indeed, given the softness of his voice and the directness of his gaze, it might have even seemed like he was describing the woman and not the fabric. It was - of course - a pretence, he had sold enough goods to know most men’s purse strings were held by their women.

Yet Joan’s voice distracted him and he paused, holding the lace mid-air and turning to face her. For some reason, unknown even to him, he called to her, “I intend to visit the chapel at Whitehall this evening.”

It was no lie. His Catholic upbringing ensured he at least felt some guilt for profiting from stolen and black-market goods. Still, the draw of seeing Joan was greater than absolution from a priest, “Perhaps...I might see you there.”