Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"Ees jus'…" Phoebe hiccuped, snuggling closer even as she dashed away her tears with the back of her hand. "You' Prize Court… zey tak' so long, an' eef I mak' monnaies zen you non worry 'bout eef you can afford me, Alain! Merde alors, eef I lose you, what is zere for me to do? Become ze putain, again? Non. Never again, mon amourl"

"Phoebe…" he gentled, stroking her back. Touched, though, to his heart by her concern for him. He plucked a dainty, gauzy silk handkerchief from the bosom of her elegant gown and began to dry her tears.

"Someday, oui …" she whispered, turning her face up to his to be gentled. "You go 'way to sea, return to Englan'. Or, we grow tired of each ozzer? I pray zat do non 'appen for trиs beaucoup anй, mon amour] All zese I do, so you 'ave nossing to s'ink about but 'ow much you love me, ow much I love you! An' 'ow 'appy we are. Zose zat come 'ere…" She sniffed, taking the handkerchief for a vigorous swipe at her nose, "Zey non shame you, Alain… or moi. Zey do non come to trade wiz ze leetle 'hore 'oo 'ave e'spensive s'ings," she swore, all but making the sign of the cross over her heart.

"Non, zey s'ink zey deal wiz йmigrй royaliste from Toulon. Our 'ouse ees non ze salon, or ze maison public. Ze courtyard, on'y, ees market. Non 'ere, in 'ouse. Oh, la, I store gowns an' jewelry, in ze ozzer bedchamber, for sйcuritй, mais … I do non entertain! An' I am non for sale, ever again, Alain! Eef I mak' monnaies, honestly… zen I am 'ave sйcuritй so I never 'ave to sell myself to men, ever. Give to a man I love, wiz all my 'eart, oui … but, never sell."

"Dear God," he whispered, in awe of her. "Forgive me for rowing you, Phoebe. Forgive everything I said, or thought. You really are a wonder. A bloody knock-down wonder!"

"Oh, Alain!" she relented, flinging herself upon him once more, this time shuddering with relief, her tears turning to ones of restored joy.

And a poser, and a puzzle, and God knows what else, Alan thought, damned well relieved, himself; but above all, girl… a sweet, cunning little… entrancing dear'un!

"Contessa!" the street vendor greeted her from his flower cart. Followed by some liquid Italian, and the offer of a nosegay of local blooms.

"Contessa?" Lewrie frowned anew. It had been the sixth time in their short evening stroll that he'd heard the word, but the first that he'd associated it directly with her.

"Zey call me zat, Alain." Phoebe shrugged, a bit too artlessly, and with too much nonchalance, though she could not hide her blushing.

"Why is that, exactly?" he inquired, striving for an equally offhand air.

"I do ze bus'nees wiz zem, loan ze une peu monnaies, so..," She blushed again. "A lady cannot be padrone, hein? Zat ees for men. I 'elp eem buy donkey for 'ees cart, an' now 'e pay me back, wiz 'ees profits, oui? Like ze padrone does, mais .,."

Several gentlemen and their ladies, out for a stroll of their own, bowed or curtsied to them-to her, specifically-in the next half block, doffing their hats. Fawning over her, chatting away mostly in Italian, making raving sounds over the miniature portrait of Pascal Paoli that hung on a gold chain about her neck.

"Zey are patriotes, Alain," Phoebe said, blushing even more prettily. "I tell zem where I fin' eet, an' zey wish to purchase, aussi."

'Don't tell me you paint 'em in your spare time," he teased with a droll expression. "Assumin' you have any, that is."

"Non, non moi, Alain." She grinned impishly. "Une of my cousin, 'e ees artiste, in Bastнa. 'E do ze portraits, 'ave ees own shop. 'E 'ave now three ozzers work for eem. 'E sen' zem to me, I sell for 'eem, place orders for more. For on'y ze une peu, petite commission, n'est-ce pas? Mon Dieu merde alors … 'e ees kin!"

She'd already explained to him, long before, on the intricacies of Cor-sican kinships. Which were pretty much on a par with a Scottish clan, with commerce of the most cutthroat kind thrown in. Immediate family, down to distant cousins, came first; second was clan loyalty; then God and Church, with Self coming in a poor fourth, usually. One obeyed the family padrone, then the feudal lords of one's extended clan, who, it seemed, were forever feuding with each other as bad as Capulets and Montagues in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Blood was always answerable in blood, and they had longer memories, and grudges, than an entire pack of abused hounds. The vendetta, they called it.

Paoli, everywhere he looked, it seemed, too. Portraits, names of children, names of shops and favorite horses. Troop a large painting or effigy of Pascal Paoli through the streets, and one might imagine the Second Coming-or a Saturnalia, with one and all kneeling in tears or hosannahs like Roosian serfs did to their icons, or their masters. Hero, Saint, Liberator, Caesar-all of them, was Paoli, in the Corsican mind.

"Hmmf!" Phoebe sniffed suddenly, turning her head, and turning up her nose in remarkable imitation of a grand dowager who'd just delivered the "Cut Sublime" to some mountebank on The Strand back home.

"What?"

" 'Eem!" She sneered, inclining her head toward a party farther down the street. "Zat Messieur Jheel-ber' Elliot of you's."

"He's viceroy of the island, Phoebe, representing our good King George," Lewrie told her patiently. "What's he done to you?"

"Alain," she rejoined, scandalized and reproving, " 'e ees tyrant! Mon Dieu merde alors, Corsica fight ze Genoese hun'erd year, to be independent. Genoa give Corsica to France, an' zen Signore Paoli lead us in fight zem for year an' year."

"And back in King George the Second's reign, Corsica offered to become English, as I remember. Sign the whole island over to us," he countered.

"Oui, to rid us of Genoese, so we non become part of France, be free!" she argued.

"Wait a moment." He scowled, perplexed again. "You're French!"

"Papa was Franзais, Maman was Italian, mais … Alain, I am Corsican, you see? An' now, you' Messieur Elliot, 'e will mak' us British, wiz monarch. Like you' Scotland… poor relation? When what we wish ees to be Corsica independent. Papa come from France, so long ago, 'e was Corsican. Maman be born 'ere, in Italian clan, but she was Corsican firs', hein? Say Corsican, non Franзais or Italiana. You' Elliot, 'e say we mus' 'ave king an' parliament, but mus' be Corsican king an' parliament, we say. An' zat ees quel dangereux … 'oo ees king, what clan. Ooh la, you s'ink you see vendetta now …! So," she summed up with another snooty heave of her bosom, "ze man 'oo open zat box belong to Pandora, zat man ees ze fool grande]"

"But not Republicans," Alan hoped. "Mean t'say, if you don't have a king, you might as well be like those anarchist Americans. Or the French, these days."

"Mon Dieu, Alain, non!" Phoebe chuckled. "Oo ees say ev'ryone ees йgal, zat ees stupeed! People are non born e… equal, ever. 'Ow you 'ave padrones an' clan lords, eef paissans conardes be jus' as good as ze noblesse? Zat ees seelly idea!"

Add perplexing to the list, Alan thought of his earlier appraisal of Phoebe Aretino; paradoxical…

"I 'ope you 'ave ze appetite grande, Alain, ze cuisine 'ere ees so ver' good!" she urged, changing subjects, and moods, as quick as the mercurial little minx she was. "Non Franзais, but Corsican!"