Page 16 of Echo in the Wind

The babe smiled up at him and latched on to his finger. “He seems an easy-going contented child.”

Jean looked up to see Claire returning him a look of mild reproach. “You have yet to witness his black temper, Papa. Whenever his feeding is late or his favorite plaything is moved out of reach, he quickly makes his displeasure known to all.”

“You sound surprised,” Jean said. “Did you doubt the Donet temper would emerge at some point?”

His daughter frowned. “Humph!”

Powell laughed behind his hand and, putting down his copy of the Morning Chronicle, reached for his son.

Jean placed the babe in his father’s welcoming arms and glanced at his daughter. “Jean Nicholas will be all the stronger for it, Claire. You will see. A sea captain must not appear weak, as your husband can tell you. A temper applied in proper measure can tell the crew the captain is serious.”

Claire’s response was to lift her eyes to the ceiling.

Her husband, who had likely observed Claire’s temper even after their marriage, merely smiled. The babe must have thought the smile was for him. He let out a squeal of delight.

To Jean, the scene over brioche and coffee had been highly amusing and assured him his daughter fared well with her English husband. It was clear the love the two shared made up for their many differences.

When the nurse reclaimed the baby, Jean stood and wished his daughter and her husband a fine morning. “I am for Oxford Street to buy my grandson, who is also to be my godson, a worthy christening gift.”

“We will look for you at dinner,” Claire replied. “I am going with my friend the Countess of Huntingdon to hear the Methodist, John Wesley. He is eighty, you know, but has not slowed down.”

Jean raised a brow to his son-in-law. The Anglican clergyman who drew large audiences to his preaching was not unknown to Jean, but Claire was Catholic.

Powell shrugged. “My wife and the countess have met with Mr. Wesley before. They admire him greatly. While Claire is with the countess, I will be seeing to my ships, but I will return for dinner.”

By the time Jean arrived on Oxford Street, it was already bustling with shoppers, most of them ladies with their parasols lifted to shade their faces from the sun. For London, such weather in April was unusually fine.

He left the hackney at one end of the street and strolled along, tipping his tricorne to the women who offered him their smiles. In his years as a privateer, he had gained an aura of danger and knew it to be a strong lure for many women. But the memory of the blue-eyed woman he had loved long ago kept him from meaningless assignations.

Much negative could be said of London’s streets, ever dirty and plagued with foul smelling mud puddles. However, Oxford Street was entirely removed from such prosaic environments.

Though the street itself was packed earth, next to the shops was pavement inlaid with flagstones, allowing shoppers to stop and gaze into shop windows without muddying their shoes. He walked with determination, thankful for the dry pavement beneath his feet, for Gabe had shined Jean’s leather boots just before he left the ship.

In the middle of the street, a long row of lacquered coaches awaited their owners.

He passed a watchmaker’s shop, then a fabric store and a china shop before he spotted a confectioner’s establishment. He could not pass by without purchasing some sweets for Claire. It had been long since he’d indulged her childhood sweet tooth and it cheered him to be able to do so again. Stuffing the packet of sweetmeats into his pocket, he returned to his mission.

For his godson, he wanted something unusual, something that would remind the boy of his destiny, which naturellement, must be the sea. A sextant, the essential tool of every sailor, was far too precise an instrument for a child. A silver cup was the traditional gift, but the lad would likely receive many of those from the well wishers invited to the christening. Jean wanted to give his namesake a unique memento of the occasion.

He paused in front of the silversmith’s window. The glass projected into the street so that the goods displayed could be seen from three sides. Many well-crafted items were shown to advantage, including an array of silver cups, small boxes and eating utensils. He was about to pass on when his gaze fixed on an item in the center of the window: an extraordinary table clock set upon a small pedestal draped in dark blue velvet.

He had come across a similar planetarium clock in Paris the year before. A work of art, the gilded Pendulette de table avec planétarium rested on a base of white marble balanced on three golden hooves. It kept time on its round watch face, white with black hands. Above the watch, inside a crystal globe, a small earth rotated around a larger, golden sun in perfect real time. The other five planets, shown as smaller balls, some silver, some gold, rotated on arms—up, down and around—in relation to the constellations that were precisely etched on the crystal globe.

C’est magnifique!

In Paris, he had stared at the clock for an hour, fascinated by its movement. Now, as if an omen had presented itself, the same clock appeared once again. This time he meant to have it and bestow it upon Jean Nicholas.

A very special gift indeed.

The shop bell jingled as he entered and strode to where the silversmith stood over his counter polishing some silver object.

“Sir?” The gray-haired man looked up as Jean arrived at the counter. “May I show you something?”

“Oui, the celestial globe clock in the window.”

“Ah, a Frenchman who knows what he wants! Then you must recognize what a rare item the clock is. In England, we call them Orrery chronometers after the Earl of Orrery to whom one was given. I only recently acquired this exquisite specimen from a dealer in Paris.”

Jean followed the thin man to the window where he lifted the clock from its pedestal and held it up. Again, the planetarium’s movement and the solar system contained in the crystal ball drew his gaze. He did not ask the price for cost mattered not. “Superbe. I will take it.”