Mr Smith's gun store door opened wide, the bell tinkled as per usual, but the small sinister figure dressed from head to toe in black stood still, silhouetted starkly in the doorway, and looked all around, as if expecting a 10 ton weight to fall from the ceiling or a trapdoor to open in the floor as the first footfall was made into the interior of the arms emporium.

Satisfied at last that no discernable booby traps were present, she entered and her features could be better examined: a small, pinch faced, pale skinned girl of around 16 summers, dressed completely in black: black boots, black dress, black shawl and black bonnet. Only her straw coloured basket, with a blue and white checkered cover which matched the bonny blue of her eyes, seemed to offer any relief from her morbid hues. 

She floated to the counter and pushing her face forward until it nearly popped out of the front of her 'poke' bonnet she surveyed Roland with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Then, quick as a flash, she reached under the cover and into the basket, pulling out - no, not a gun - but a pair of mangled dark spectacles.

"Kin you fix these?!" she barked, her Southern accent all too audible even in these few words. 

"Someone sat on 'em!" She put them down, almost defiantly on the counter. They were truly busted up, the dark glass was cracked in one of the lenses and one arm was bent almost at right angles to its proper position: it was clear that any attempt to bend it back down would lead to it snapping off. Furthermore, the glass in the frames was so very opaque, it seemed unlikely that these were regular 'Sun cheaters."

"Well Mr Smith, if that is your real name, how 'bout it?" the girl demanded, looking ready to bolt if he tried anything 'tricky'. For Arabella really did think that she had entered the lion's den here - the secret headquarters of the suspected British spy!

@[Cuban Writer]

Roland was in the back of his shop, measuring springs so that he could clip them to size.  There was a paper nearby with a set of tables on it.  It showed weight of spring, diameter of spring, length of spring, and intended pull or push force.  By referencing the table, you could approximate the appropriate place to clip any sort of spring for any sort of purpose.  It was one of the great tools of his trade, derived after countless trials and errors over his father's and grandfather's near century at the trade.  As much as the equipment he'd spirited away from London, these references were the jewels of the craft.

His attention was diverted by the tinkling of his doorbell.  A new installation inspired by his observation of the Lickskillet.  The Lancaster shop had no such apparatus.  His father had considered such things to be tasteless.  But his father could afford to have multiple assistants, one of which was always manning the face of the shop.  Roland had no such luxury... yet.

He got up and moved to the front counter in time to see a curious, skittish girl maneuvering as though she was Thomas Young exploring a trapped Egyptian tomb while researching Heiroglyphs.

He arched a brow as she reached into her basket- he was not expecting a girl like her to summon up a pistol from that container.  More likely she was selling something.  But if he'd been paying proper attention to his experiences thus far in this town, he should have expected the former scenario.

Instead, it was... spectacles.  

He took the mangled things.  They were quite beyond repair, and the glass was so dark... 

He held them up and tried to peer through the lenses, to see if they provided any magnification or if they were just there to block the light.

"Smith is my name, Miss" he said as he peered through the glass, "and I have a coat of arms to prove it."  His mother had been disowned, and he had no right to the family crest.  But he did have it among his physical possessions at this shop, and no one from England was likely to hunt him here and demand it back.  

Roland made several deductions.  He deduced that there must not be a spectacle maker in this town.  Or if there was, their work was priced out of reach of this young lady.  Moreover, if she was from a family with any means, she would not be attempting to repair this mangled mess.  Her nervousness suggested some other underlying concern of which he could not guess.

"Would you like some tea?"  He asked the question as he set the spectacles back upon the counter.

Javia

"Smith is my name, Miss" he said as he peered through the glass, "and I have a coat of arms to prove it."  

"Well my name's Mudd, an' my coat's got arms, too: how else d'ya think I put it on?!" she replied, quick as a flash and in a smart Alec tone. She knew what a coat of arms was, of course. She was playing, or trying to play. She just needed to see if Mr Roland Smith wanted to play and knew the rules. Maybe her initial nervousness was just an act, part of the game.

"Would you like some tea?"  He asked the question as he set the spectacles back upon the counter.

"Yeeak, no! 'Tea's fer Traitors'!" she declared loudly and with an air of finality. It sounded like a rule she'd learned by rote at the knee of her mother, or perhaps a grandmother who actually remembered the Tea Party. "Guess you're allowed to drink it cause you're British, though, so go right ahead, don't mind me none." she gave him permission as she leaned over and looked at the tables he had been consulting when she had arrived.

"I suppose they're your secret codes and cyphers." she concluded, before pointing to the Gray Lady "An' what's that contraption? That how you send your signals to Fort Calgary?" After this bit of intriguing deduction, she turned to face him and asked quite boldly "Do you know that there's a rumour going round town that you're a British Spy, sent to pave the way for an invasion next month?" 

She watched him as he replied, gauging him somehow, drinking him in, oddly enjoying him as he examined Frances' broken specs.

@[Cuban_Writer]

"Well my name's Mudd, an' my coat's got arms, too: how else d'ya think I put it on?!"

Roland regarded the young lady for a moment, trying to decide if she was making a reference to John Badcock, who famously wrote the Dictionary of the Turf. 

Probably not. 

Perhaps she referred to the death of poor President Lincoln and the identity of his assassin's physician.  But... no.  She seemed more the type to plant a barb for others than to put a pinch upon herself.  

He smiled softly, "Well, surely no gentleman would dare conceive of how a Lady dresses herself, Miss Mudd."

His offer of tea was rebuffed with surprising force.  Tea is for Traitors?  This young lady was a comedienne, and enjoying a bit of fun at his expense.  Well, it at least livened up his afternoon.  

"I do believe all of those chaps at Boston were tea drinkers," he opined, "hence the upset at the tax.  And once the war was won, I wager even George Washington himself shared some Imperial with his guests at Mount Vernon."

When she indicated his spring charts and suggested they were cyphers, following by asking about the Gray Lady transmitting signals to Fort Calgary, he was most amused.  But.. there was Fort Calgary mentioned again.  He'd have to inquire about it to someone.

"Oh yes.  Those are my code sheets.  And I studied smoke signals with Indians loyal to the crown.  That machine there converts words to puffs of smoke, and sends them up the stack.  Then natives lying in wait outside the town relay the signals to Canada, where they are writ down and bundled up in the mail and sent in ships bound for China.  There, our East India Company relays them to London.  We can't risk using the telegraph, you see.  One of you Yanks in the telegraph offices might report our activities to President Grant."

It did not for a moment occur to Roland that anyone could possibly take his words seriously.  In turn, he did not take her report of the rumors seriously.

"We've brought up General Benedict Arnold, Jr. from his post in the Caribbean so he can lead the invasion.  We supposed that his lineage might add some insult to the injury once we claim this territory in the name of Her Majesty."

He tapped a finger on the counter, "Now, about these spectacles.  Can you tell me what they are for, exactly?  I am not a lensmaker...  But I am not convinced lenses are essential in this case."

Javia

He smiled softly, "Well, surely no gentleman would dare conceive of how a Lady dresses herself, Miss Mudd."

Arabella gave a little soft chuckle. Yep, this feller knew how to play. She missed that about working in the saloon, the slightly flirtatious banter with some of the less bovine customers in there. They weren't interested in her that way - she was too skinny and plain, especially next to the likes of a blonde bombshell like Caroline Mundee for whom she played piano; and she wasn't interested in them that way, either. But she loved the repartee, the slightly risqué wit, the affectionate barbs. Working in the funeral parlour now, most of the conversations with men were pretty one-way. 

"And are you a gentleman, Mr Smith, or do you go round doing a lot of conceiving?" she asked, surprising herself by how clever sounding that one came out! She moseyed over to Mr Roland Smith and threw his offer of tea into the Boston Harbor of her prejudices. 

"I do believe all of those chaps at Boston were tea drinkers," he opined, "hence the upset at the tax. And once the war was won, I wager even George Washington himself shared some Imperial with his guests at Mount Vernon."

"That's a whopper, Mr Smith, and you know it!" Well, best way to deal with a clever counter-argument from a foe: call him a liar.

"'Sides,George Washington never drank tea in his life; it made his wooden false teeth warp."... and if you couldn't come up with a clever counter-counter-argument yourself, tell a lie!

When she indicated his spring charts and suggested they were cyphers, following by asking about the Gray Lady transmitting signals to Fort Calgary, he was most amused. But.. there was Fort Calgary mentioned again. He'd have to inquire about it to someone.

"Oh yes. Those are my code sheets.

Arabella nodded "I thought so." Oh boy, this old boy did know how to play.

"And I studied smoke signals with Indians loyal to the crown."

"Yep, they're all in your pay, everybody knows that." she agreed, then pressed her lips together so she didn't laugh.

"That machine there converts words to puffs of smoke, and sends them up the stack. Then natives lying in wait outside the town relay the signals to Canada, where they are writ down and bundled up in the mail and sent in ships bound for China. There, our East India Company relays them to London. We can't risk using the telegraph, you see."

She nodded away, enjoying his tomfoolery immensely, until the last part, which made her eyes go round with mock indignation. 

"One of you Yanks in the telegraph offices might report our activities to President Grant."

"Hey, Mister Lime-Juice, who you calling a Yankee?! I'm a proud daughter of the South, FFV and God Save the Bonny Blue Flag! An'  as fer that drunken, whiskey-sodden, corrupt son of a broomstick Grant, his days are numbered: there'll be a Democrat in the Whitehouse by the Fall, just you mark my words! Now, any more of that talk and you'll have to borrer me one of your guns and teach me how to shoot it so I can fill your hide full o' lead!"

She gave a little cough and straightened her bonnet. "Ahem, do carry on, Mr Smith."

"We've brought up General Benedict Arnold, Jr. from his post in the Caribbean so he can lead the invasion. We supposed that his lineage might add some insult to the injury once we claim this territory in the name of Her Majesty."

She looked him up and down and shook her head ruefully. "Well, that's just about torn it, Mister So-Called Smith! You got me so mad now I've come right round the other side an ended up likin' yuh! Well how d'ya like that! Guess that's the sneaky way you secret agents operate." 

He tapped a finger on the counter, "Now, about these spectacles. Can you tell me what they are for, exactly? I am not a lensmaker... But I am not convinced lenses are essential in this case."

He was serious now, but she was content, she'd had her fun. She came forward and looked at them with him.

"They belong to my friend Frances... Frances Grimes. She's blind, see, and she's got these real funny googly eyes, like this..." She squeezed her eyes shut, then forcibly opened them with her fingers so that only the whites were visible, it was an unnerving sight "... or sometimes they roll all around like this..." She rolled her eyes around like she was trying to get a good look at her own eyebrows.

"If you ain't used to it, well, it gives folks the willies, so she wears them cheaters to hide 'em from people. But guess what? I sat on them by accident and now look, they're all busted. Mr Craddock said if anyone could fix 'em it was you and how you're a regular genius and how if I give you a receipt from the barber fer a shave and a haircut, you'll knock 50 cents off the fixin' price, and here it is!"

She plonked a receipt bearing the now familiar signature of Z.Matthews on the counter. She leaned in close over the wooden divide and whispered. 

"And don't ask me where I got shaved, cause its somewhere no gentleman would dare conceive."

She suddenly stood up straight and pulled her raven black hair from the nape under her bonnet "Back o' my neck, see?" she grinned

@[CubanWriter]

"And are you a gentleman, Mr Smith, or do you go round doing a lot of conceiving?"

She could not have known how often he asked himself that very same question.  He often thought that being a gentleman rested entirely on one's skill at wearing the mask of civility.  As it was, while this girl was a shade too young for any sort of conceiving, some of her banter would have ignited some unsavory concepts were she just a couple of years senior.

There was a brief outburst about Yankees- Roland had not understood the distinction- but eventually, they got down to the business at hand.

Miss Mudd's graphic display of her friend's wayward eyes did a good job derailing any conceiving that might have occurred to him. 

So.  Blindness. 

He had suspected someone with poor eyes after seeing the extremely dark glass in the frame.  Now he had it confirmed.  Mudd needed a vanity item, not a tool for sight.

And that was a sight more within his realm of expertise.

Well... works of art were within his remit.  No one worked at the Lancaster shop unless there was art in their fingertips.  This was an interesting challenge.

The barber-shop scheme came back to haunt him, but it was just as well.  He didn't think this girl could afford what the job would actually cost.

Then she closed with a risque line that had him doing every manner of conceiving imaginable.  When she turned the screw on the joke, he gave a nervous 'har har.'

"I thought you were going to confess to being French," he said, for every such piece of niche sexuality belonged to the French in his English mind.

"Well, as you don't need lenses, my lack of expertise in that arena shall not be a hindrance.   I propose entirely new spectacles- these are ruined- but I can use them as a template.  I have metalworking tools of every description, and more than suitable for a job like this.  I can build a frame- strong but delicate feeling in the hand- with hinges that might support a mishap.  And I can craft steel imitation lenses for it.  Deep blued and polished so well you can see your face in it.  Only a rare observer will notice it is not blackened glass.  And if they do notice, I wager they will be more impressed than disappointed in the result."

He put a finger on the receipt.  "This will drop the fee from five dollars to four and a half."

Then he waited for her to tell him she didn't have that much.

Only God knew what she'd come here intending to barter in exchange.

Javia

"I thought you were going to confess to being French," he said, for every such piece of niche sexuality belonged to the French in his English mind.

"Better 'n bein' a Yankee!" she beamed, then sotto voce "Why? Do French ladies...?" she pulled a thoughtful face. Fourteen years later, in Paris, she would utter the immortal words 'Oh that Roland Smith was such a liar!'.

Mr Smith then gave her a big long speech about how he couldn't fix the specs, how he'd have to make new ones, blah, blah, blah. Then the bottom line:

He put a finger on the receipt. "This will drop the fee from five dollars to four and a half."

She pulled a face that said 'Ow!'. Then she said "Ow!" She got her little purse out of her basket and looked in it grimly "Really that much, huh?" she asked pointlessly. She looked up at him with those sparkly, but somehow quite hard crystal blue eyes. "I only got one dollar fifty..." she said, biting her lip pensively. 

"How bout I do something in exchange for the other three dollars?" she asked "... I don't suppose you want piana lessons... or a cheap funeral?" She shook her head. Nah. Then she pulled her best 'bright idea face', and leaned in over the counter again, conspiratorially.

"Listen... Mr Smith..." she waved him in "You're a feller livin' all alone, right? No wife, no lady friend or nuthin', right? Well I know a man like you's got certain things you need to do, things you could kinda take care of yourself but, well, it's nicer fer you if a lady helps you take care of it, know what I mean? Well, how 'bout I come round after work, you can have me a couple o' times a week fer a couple of months until I've paid off the debt. If yuh like I'll scoot home now, put on something a little more suitable and come back after you shut up shop, see if you like what I got to offer an' we can take it from there."

She stood back up and smiled "I know I'm only young, but I reckon I'm the best darn scrubber in town. After Jemima Wigfall of course."

Roland did not deign to comment further on the nature of French ladies, whom he assumed to be the fulcrum of everything naughty that ladies might be capable of on this planet.  He just gave her a significant look that confirmed whatever question had been on her mind.

Soon enough, young Miss Mudd was making a proposal that left Roland's mouth agape, and his tongue dry, craving to slake itself on something wet.

"Well I know a man like you's got certain things you need to do, things you could kinda take care of yourself but, well, it's nicer fer you if a lady helps you take care of it, know what I mean? Well, how 'bout I come round after work, you can have me a couple o' times a week fer a couple of months until I've paid off the debt. If yuh like I'll scoot home now, put on something a little more suitable and come back after you shut up shop, see if you like what I got to offer an' we can take it from there."

It spoke ill of Roland, the sorts of things parading through his mind as he listened to this indecent proposal.  She was a child.  Sure, a child of marriageable age according to the law.  But Roland wasn't some stiff-pricked kid.  He was old enough to know better.  

"While I am quite flattered by the notion, Miss Mudd, you are far too young-"

But then she turned the screw on the joke once more.

"I know I'm only young, but I reckon I'm the best darn scrubber in town. After Jemima Wigfall of course."

Roland's face fell into a frown.  "You must have a different vernacular here than the one we use in London, Miss Mudd."

He closed his mouth and silently chastised himself for entertaining that thought for even the brief moments it had lived in his mind.   He needed a woman.  A real woman.  And soon.

"You don't happen to have an older sister, Miss Mudd?   Or an older friend with eyes that can focus on a fixed position?"

He took the spectacles and placed them in a board box behind the counter.  He'd perform detailed measurements and drawings later, making schematics for the replacement.   "I'll take your dollar and fifty.  It'll pay for parts, but not a lick of labor.  And the labor is the substantial part of my trade."

"You will work off the rest.  But not scrubbing my floors or anything else.  You will find me some Yankee or Rebel scum in this town who likes the sensation of danger involved in romancing a British spy.  You will teach me the best way into her... heart.  Until that all unfolds, you will tell anyone who listens that I am the best gunsmith that ever stood on Montana land."

He knocked the countertop with his knuckles, "And I will make you the best spectacles that their new owner never saw.  I'll have them ready in a week."

Javia

"I know I'm only young, but I reckon I'm the best darn scrubber in town. After Jemima Wigfall of course."

Roland's face fell into a frown. "You must have a different vernacular here than the one we use in London, Miss Mudd."

"Well, as long as it gets the floor clean, who cares?" she shrugged, not knowing what a 'vernacular' was but, considering the topic of conversation, assuming it was some kind of mop or cleaning agent.

"You don't happen to have an older sister, Miss Mudd? Or an older friend with eyes that can focus on a fixed position?"

"Uh?" she frowned, then the light of day struck her tiny mind. "Ohhhh, well, I ain't got no brothers or sisters, but I got lots of friends and 'quantances of the female persuasion if that's what you're after." That turned out to be exactly what he was after.

He took the spectacles and placed them in a board box behind the counter. He'd perform detailed measurements and drawings later, making schematics for the replacement. "I'll take your dollar and fifty. It'll pay for parts, but not a lick of labor. And the labor is the substantial part of my trade."

"Oh phew, that's a relief" she sighed "You ever watched a blind person searching for something that ain't even there? It's kinda pathetic."

"You will work off the rest." His voice sounded so aristocratic and masterful that the actress in her couldn't help dropping a little curtsey and a subservient "Yes, Sir." escaped her lips. But then she grinned at him, to show it was all in the game. 

"But not scrubbing my floors or anything else."

Again, the inevitable "Uh!?"

"You will find me some Yankee or Rebel scum in this town who likes the sensation of danger involved in romancing a British spy. You will teach me the best way into her... heart. Until that all unfolds, you will tell anyone who listens that I am the best gunsmith that ever stood on Montana land."

She looked thoughtful "Well, the second parts easy, I'm a great actress. I'll have to think about the first part. Now let me see: Caroline Mundee, she no good, she's just a tease; Sally Adams'll give yer a disease in yer man-parts; Jemima Wigfall'd be keen, but she's so strong she'd do you a mischief, not to mention she's all hairy and smells somethin' terrible; Bridget Monohan's no good, it ain't so much that she's an imbecile with a wooden leg, it's just that she's already got a boyfriend; Zenobia Matthews is ornery; Miriam Kaufman's mine... OOH, I know!"

Why hadn't she thought of her before?

"All righty, I'll bring you the most beautiful girl in Kalispell, pretty, rich, single, and stupid enough to fall for your clumsy ol' romantical blandishments... and then you'll fix the specs?"

He knocked the countertop with his knuckles, "And I will make you the best spectacles that their new owner never saw."

"Ha ha - that was a good 'un!" Arabella laughed. This feller was smarter than paint. 

"I'll have them ready in a week."

She shook her head. "Not quick enough. Get workin' on them now and I'll promise to bring this young lady round tonight: Seven o' clock sharp. I'll have to come, too, o' course, this is a high class filly, Mr Smith, she don't go nowhere without a chaperone, certainly not the parlour of some..." she looked him up and down "... excitable Englishman. I'll bring some vitals and make you both a nice little meal and some wine... oh you better give me the dollar fifty back to buy that stuff..." she said casually, holding out her hand "... then while I'm busy in the kitchen, you kin pitch your woo."

Just in case he wasn't convinced, she upped her sales pitch.

"Oh Mr Smith, I ain't kiddin you none: she is just the prettiest little bit o' skirt you ever seen, blonde curls, alabaster white skin, ruby red lips, eyes as blue as the prairie skies, pretty little bosum, heaving in her virgin white dress..." she stooped down and lifted the hem of her own dress a little by way of illusion, carelessly displaying her own skinny shins and muddy clod hopping boots "... her frilly little petticoats peepin' out from under her smock, showing of her little well turned ankles and tiny little white boots, white lace gloves on her pretty..." Arabella suddenly puffed out her cheeks "... phew, never mind you, Mr Smith, I wan' her m'self!"

She shook her head clear. 

"Seven O'Clock sharp - an' don't be thinkin' too much on it, I don't want your hands shakin' while your making them specs for Frances!" she ordered. 

@[Cuban_Writer]

Roland was very skeptical of this little tart, a skepticism greatly enhanced when she clawed back the little payment she'd offered.   But he'd already surrendered any idea of actual profit in this endeavor.  Hopefully, his reputation would be enhanced by the deeds he invested in the locals.  He was still trying to shed the natural suspicion people tended to feel about newcomers, and become regarded as a liked and trusted arrival.  

It remained to be seen if Miss Mudd could be counted on to step him towards that goal.  But he supposed even if not, making spectacles for a blind girl was its own boon in God's eyes.

"I will start work immediately, but it is a work of several days.   So if you'd hoped to avoid admitting that the original spectacles were broken, you'll need to disabuse yourself of that fantasy.  Perhaps in some fanciful future it will be possible to stamp out spectacles in a day, but in our world it takes skilled hands and the work of thirty or forty hours."  It wasn't as though he had pre-manufactured parts to use for this, after all.  This would need to be a scratch-build.

He nodded to her, "If that alters our agreement, tell me now.  Otherwise, let's both get to it."

He peered then into the vista of beauty she'd painted for him.

"And as to the rest, I promise you... my hands do not shake."

Javia