Page 19 of Deception and Desire
“Here is the problem, Mr. MacNaughton.” She pointed to the two statements. “Poor quality ink will run and spread. This numeral should be a nine, and I believe you added it as a two. The curl at the top is weak and could be interpreted as a two, especially with the slight mark at the bottom, as if the writer was too lazy to pick up his nub.”
He leaned over the desk and squinted at the sheet. “Perhaps.”
“And here”—she pointed to another column—“is a misplaced decimal. When you take these errors into consideration, and tally the column again, you’ll find it adds up correctly.”
Mr. MacNaughton smiled indulgently. “That’s verra interesting, Miss Franklin, but ye’ve no’ done the calculations yet.”
“Yes, I did. I added them in my head.”
“In yer head?”
“Aye, that’s what the lass said,” agreed the giant. She swore there was laughter in his voice. “Quite a talent, eh?”
“So, if I give ye a sequence of numbers, ye can tell me the total without using anything but yer brain?” asked Mr. MacNaughton, sending a warning scowl to the giant.
Fenella nodded. “Are you a betting man, Mr. MacNaughton?”
“Depends,” he said warily.
“I’ll make you a wager. Recite the numbers from any column in your ledger, and I will tell you the sum. Just don’t spout them off too quickly. If I’m not correct every time, I’ll bake you the best mince pie you ever ate.” Well, she was sure her grandmother would.
“And if ye are successful?”
“You hire me and I start tomorrow.”
A snort sounded from the giant. “This is getting interesting.”
“I’ll take that wager,” agreed Mr. MacNaughton.
The next fifteen minutes, her prospective employer recited several columns of figures, and she mentally calculated their sum. Then she asked them to give her numbers for subtraction and did the same. The giant stepped forward, picked up the book, and flipped to another page. He called out another string of fifteen numbers, a bit faster this time. Before his eyes had left the page, she had them calculated.
Mr. MacNaughton sat back in his chair, a bewildered expression on his face. “Aye, right,” was all he said.
“Weel, Ian, I think we’ve hired a new accountant. One problem solved before ye leave.” The giant stepped back and resumed his place against the wall. “Lachlan will be happy to hear it.”
“Leave?” asked Fenella. “You’re going somewhere, Mr. MacNaughton?”
He nodded. “Call me Ian, if ye plan on working for us. There’s more than one Mr. MacNaughton here, so it will be less confusing if ye use our Christian names. Meet Colin MacNaughton, my cousin and manager.”
She nodded her head at the huge man. “Colin.”
“Just to be sure, ye say ye want to settle in Glasgow. Does yer mother agree to this?”
Fenella hesitated. “She will.”
Ian gave her a long look before giving a short nod. “I believe ye. We’ll see ye tomorrow morning at eight.”
*
Lachlan was whistlingagain as he headed to the tavern. He was late but smelled better, though he doubted his companions would take notice. The streets were gloomy, and he peered up at the seeping walls of the tenements. Dull yellow light shone through windows covered with paper or canvas to keep out the evening chill. Lines were tied across the narrow passage from window to window for drying laundry or passing supplies back and forth between occupants. Muffled voices, an occasional wail of an infant, or the bellow of an adult escaped the cracks of the dilapidated buildings.
He sidestepped a rat and emerged onto the wet cobblestones of a main street, glistening under the weak light of the moon. The area bordered theless genteelside of town, as his mother put it. There were several shops, moneylender establishments, and taverns along this street. It wasn’t the most dangerous part of town, though any dark alley late at night, without a companion or proper protection, could be hazardous.
His stomach rumbled as he left behind the odor of sewer and refuse and crowded living conditions. Another block and he reached The Pigeon, a place of conversation and camaraderie for merchants and tradesmen to discuss business or escape a nagging wife. It boasted pretty barmaids and good food. The raucous crowd had just finished a song, tin mugs clanking and ale sloshing onto the planked floor as the fiddler took a bow. A haze of peat smoke hung in the air, obscuring the heavy beams of the low ceiling. Lachlan breathed in the aromas of pipe tobacco and roasting meat. Another grumble from under his plaid.
Colin waved to him from across the room. Lachlan shouldered through several groups of men and made his way to the less crowded back corner. Ian handed him a bumper of ale that slopped over the rim as the men settled in their chairs.
“This place never changes.” Lachlan took a long pull from his cup, then waved at a barmaid. When he caught her attention, he pointed at the hearth where several fowl turned on the spit and motioned to the three of them at the table. She nodded in understanding.
