Free Rebecca Wentworth's Distraction by Robert J. Begiebing Page B

smiled, showing several missing teeth. “I’d heard you’ve painted the phiz of every man and woman of substance in the port,” he said, and laughed under his breath. “Well, I expected you’d wear them out before you wore out your arm, so there’s no reason I suppose not to extend your trade to the west, as indeed everyone has but the fishermen. As the king’s men complain, we New Englanders are wont to exhaust the forest bounty hardly sooner than we encounter it.” He paused as if for philosophical reflection, yet his face was twisted up almost comically and his cheap wig set slightly askew. “But why not return to Boston to ply your fine trade, Mr. Sanborn? You’re more used to the conveniences of the city, are you not? And there’s plenty of august folks looking to hang their foresides ‘pon a Boston wall, I’ll lay me.”
    Sanborn laughed. “There’s little doubt of that, Mr. Weeks. As a matter of course, I do intend to return to Boston before the onset of next winter, but I expect to travel and consider this other trade as well.”
    â€œGood then; you’ll be looking after your interests better in Boston. But as to the western parts, yes, I think I can put you in touch with one who travels there. He works on occasion for the surveyor’s office, and for the governor, and even the competing merchants as they have need of him. I lay he’ll know everything you require.” He paused and addressed himself to the meal, which Sanborn had ordered and had just been delivered to their table. The two men ate quickly and in silence for a time. The rumble of the afternoon crowd caused enough of a din that neither man took much notice of his companion’s eating in silence.
    â€œMr. Ladd, Joseph Ladd,” Weeks said finally, smacking his lips. “A good man with a horse or an ax, or a woman for that matter. Regular Buck.” He continued eating.
    â€œI’d be in your debt, Mr. Weeks.”
    â€œNot at all. It’s only a matter of introduction. You’ll have to convince him yourself of your plans and projects.” He drank from the second bowl. “But he’s a fellow you can talk to, once he takes your measure.”
    â€œThank you, sir. If there is any service I can do for you, at any time, please feel free to call on me.”
    â€œThink nothing of it, Mr. Sanborn. This is excellent mutton, and tolerable punch. Well charged with spirits.” He finished his meal and stood up, bowing slightly. “Back to my customs labors,” he said with a grin as he wiped his face. “Don’t want to disappoint Squire Solly!”
    In Sanborn’s estimation, he had but one more obstacle to surmount—the precise whereabouts of Rebecca. He felt sure Miss
    Norris knew more than she had told him, either out of some consideration for her former employers or for some fear of his bungling.

Chapter 11
    H E FRETTED FOR SOME TIME over the best approach into Miss Norris’s confidence. He knew she felt they shared a mutual sympathy for the child. He believed he had detected some degree of her interest in him as a young man of the world: a man of travels and significant associations, a man of craft and more than a middling education, a man of some intriguing ambiguity concerning his past, family, and London colleagues. Yet he had not seen her in some months. He had made no effort to cultivate her acquaintance. Nor she his. Perhaps, he told himself, there had been on both sides a mere lack of opportunity to do so. And there were always considerations of propriety.
    The difficulty was just how to induce her to release her knowledge of Rebecca. Nothing occurred to him, the more he considered the problem, so he finally decided that a meeting between them would reveal in the moment his best approach. He sent her a note with his card. A maid-servant brought a note in return; it suggested that he call upon her at