mobs.
It was a well-lit establishment. Oil lamps over the two great windows brightened one side of the room and candle chandeliers hung down the length of the bar, leaving thick wax drippings over the wood. Inside the air was thick with tobacco, lamp oil, and something acrid. Jac took off her hat and coat, wondering what on earth had made Daniel and Aspen both suspect she would enjoy herself here.
“Aspen!” Multiple men called out, lifting their small porcelain cups the way Jac would expect ruffians to do with mugs of ale. Aspen grinned, his shoulders relaxing, his stride becoming sure and steady as he led her forward.
“What is new in Sweden?” a young man with large spectacles demanded, gripping the duke’s sleeve to halt his stride like a beggar child.
“Surely something has changed there, but I would not know it,” Aspen replied, grinning easily. The man released him, looking befuddled. “For I was in Norway,” Aspen explained and the man’s face cleared.
“What news of Norway, then. What difference is there?” a man down the table shouted and the whole room roared and lifted their cups, but one thin, bearded man who stood up from his chair.
“See, now!” he started, but his companions pulled him back to his seat.
“What news, then?” a black man asked, his voice deep and steady. Jac stared at the man, taking him in. He was wearing a fine coat and breeches and a delicate pair of spectacles hung from a silver chain around his neck. His calm question seemed to settle the room, most of whom quieted to hear the answer. Aspen turned back to her and gestured to the open seats at the closest table before he glanced back at the curious man.
“Mr. Hastings, buy my friend Jack Holcombe and me a coffee, and for your two pennies, I will answer,” he replied, clasping the black gentleman’s hand in greeting.
“Two cups!” the man called toward the back of the room, nodding when he saw a bartender already making his way through the crowd, the cups in hand. A serving girl carrying a blue pitcher followed behind him. Jac glanced back to see the whole table standing and looking at her, as if only having just noticed her behind the duke. They bowed to her in turn, listing their names. Jac bowed in return, feeling remarkably overwhelmed.
“Why were you in Norway?” Jac asked but the question was lost in the noise.
“Mr. Holcombe, good to see you again,” Lord Monson said, bowing shallowly and Jac blinked, only then recognizing the gentleman beside her. She bowed formally, pleased to see at least one familiar face, even if he had been a bit sour at Blancard’s political soiree.
“Quit your loitering, our conversation has long since gone stale. Tell us something we’ve yet to discuss, Your Grace,” a man down the table pleaded. A ‘Mr. Williams’ if Jac remembered correctly. The ‘Your Grace’ seemed tacked on, a gesture at formality that neither the man nor Aspen apparently cared about in this strange setting.
Aspen sat down at the head of the table, facing his audience and the barkeep supplied them both with cups of dark, steaming coffee. Aspen started recounting news of the remarkable speed of his ship and Jac sipped at her cup of the nasty liquid. She’d never been a fan of its taste, which ranged from something animal-like to something bitter and vaguely earthy. Still, that had never been the draw of the coffee-house. Not for anyone, as far as she understood it.
“Regardless, before I departed for London, I heard some striking news, which I have not heard a whisper of here. Norway proclaimed independence,” Aspen stated, sitting back as if he’d just released his dice and was waiting to see how they fell. From the way the table silenced and ogled at him, Jac knew she was not alone in being utterly uninformed. So this was how men always seemed better appraised of the latest happenings, she thought, oddly annoyed by the idea.
“My word, will the entire continent be crumbled
It was a well-lit establishment. Oil lamps over the two great windows brightened one side of the room and candle chandeliers hung down the length of the bar, leaving thick wax drippings over the wood. Inside the air was thick with tobacco, lamp oil, and something acrid. Jac took off her hat and coat, wondering what on earth had made Daniel and Aspen both suspect she would enjoy herself here.
“Aspen!” Multiple men called out, lifting their small porcelain cups the way Jac would expect ruffians to do with mugs of ale. Aspen grinned, his shoulders relaxing, his stride becoming sure and steady as he led her forward.
“What is new in Sweden?” a young man with large spectacles demanded, gripping the duke’s sleeve to halt his stride like a beggar child.
“Surely something has changed there, but I would not know it,” Aspen replied, grinning easily. The man released him, looking befuddled. “For I was in Norway,” Aspen explained and the man’s face cleared.
“What news of Norway, then. What difference is there?” a man down the table shouted and the whole room roared and lifted their cups, but one thin, bearded man who stood up from his chair.
“See, now!” he started, but his companions pulled him back to his seat.
“What news, then?” a black man asked, his voice deep and steady. Jac stared at the man, taking him in. He was wearing a fine coat and breeches and a delicate pair of spectacles hung from a silver chain around his neck. His calm question seemed to settle the room, most of whom quieted to hear the answer. Aspen turned back to her and gestured to the open seats at the closest table before he glanced back at the curious man.
“Mr. Hastings, buy my friend Jack Holcombe and me a coffee, and for your two pennies, I will answer,” he replied, clasping the black gentleman’s hand in greeting.
“Two cups!” the man called toward the back of the room, nodding when he saw a bartender already making his way through the crowd, the cups in hand. A serving girl carrying a blue pitcher followed behind him. Jac glanced back to see the whole table standing and looking at her, as if only having just noticed her behind the duke. They bowed to her in turn, listing their names. Jac bowed in return, feeling remarkably overwhelmed.
“Why were you in Norway?” Jac asked but the question was lost in the noise.
“Mr. Holcombe, good to see you again,” Lord Monson said, bowing shallowly and Jac blinked, only then recognizing the gentleman beside her. She bowed formally, pleased to see at least one familiar face, even if he had been a bit sour at Blancard’s political soiree.
“Quit your loitering, our conversation has long since gone stale. Tell us something we’ve yet to discuss, Your Grace,” a man down the table pleaded. A ‘Mr. Williams’ if Jac remembered correctly. The ‘Your Grace’ seemed tacked on, a gesture at formality that neither the man nor Aspen apparently cared about in this strange setting.
Aspen sat down at the head of the table, facing his audience and the barkeep supplied them both with cups of dark, steaming coffee. Aspen started recounting news of the remarkable speed of his ship and Jac sipped at her cup of the nasty liquid. She’d never been a fan of its taste, which ranged from something animal-like to something bitter and vaguely earthy. Still, that had never been the draw of the coffee-house. Not for anyone, as far as she understood it.
“Regardless, before I departed for London, I heard some striking news, which I have not heard a whisper of here. Norway proclaimed independence,” Aspen stated, sitting back as if he’d just released his dice and was waiting to see how they fell. From the way the table silenced and ogled at him, Jac knew she was not alone in being utterly uninformed. So this was how men always seemed better appraised of the latest happenings, she thought, oddly annoyed by the idea.
“My word, will the entire continent be crumbled
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