CHAPTER SIX — A BUYER’S TABLE

Gabriel knew Reuben Shaw by reputation.
He was a middleman who bought cheap household goods from struggling estates and resold them wherever customers did not know the makers.
He had a small warehouse in Macon and a habit of sending his clerks into towns ahead of his wagons.
A merchant like Shaw had little loyalty to Ambrose if he believed another buyer could expose him to a costly dispute.
That, Elijah argued, gave them a narrow opening.
They went to a boardinghouse owned by an older woman named Mrs. Ames, who agreed to rent Catherine a room without asking questions about her traveling companions.
Catherine paid for separate rooms and learned that Elijah could not safely register under his own name.
Mrs. Ames accepted a quiet explanation from Gabriel and assigned the back room to Odessa and Esther,

while Elijah slept in the shed with the mule.
Catherine objected to the arrangement.
Elijah told her not to make a show of concern that would bring attention to the people she claimed to protect.
She fell silent because the correction was deserved.
The following morning, Gabriel entered Shaw’s warehouse carrying a basket of ordinary clay cups and asked whether the merchant wanted a new supplier.
Shaw, a stout man with red suspenders, inspected his work with bored impatience.
“I’m expecting a large consignment from Whitmore,” he said.
“I can sell you twice as many vessels for half that price.”
Gabriel kept his voice light.
“Does Whitmore still use its yellow glaze?”
Shaw paused.
“That is none of your concern.”
“Then I hope your customers do not complain about the taste.”


Shaw set the cup down.
“Who has been talking?”
“Men in my trade talk whenever a buyer offers dangerous bargains.”
Shaw glanced at his assistant.
The assistant looked away.
“Get out,” Shaw said.
Gabriel did not argue.
He left the warehouse carrying his cups and found Elijah waiting near the grain store.
“Shaw knows there is a problem,” Gabriel whispered.
“How do you know?”
“He asked who had been talking before I said there was anything wrong.”
Catherine had been waiting in a hired carriage around the corner.
She listened, then asked whether a complaint to the magistrate would stop the sale.
Gabriel shook his head.
“A magistrate might care if a buyer refused the goods or if someone could testify to the mixture used.”
“Odessa can testify.”
“Odessa has no safe claim to a hearing under the rules these men follow.”
Odessa, standing beside the carriage, heard him clearly.
“That does not mean I will stay silent,” she said.
“I’m telling you what danger to expect, not what to do,” Gabriel replied.
Elijah studied the warehouse doors.
“If Shaw refuses the first wagon, Ambrose may send it somewhere else.”
“What else can we do?” Catherine asked.
“Find the foreman’s kiln marks on the crates and make Shaw examine them before he signs the receipt.”
Gabriel nodded.
“Once he signs, he owns the burden of the bargain.”
“Then we should be there when the wagon arrives,” Catherine said.
Elijah looked at Odessa.
“She decides whether her own work is shown.”
Odessa touched the scar on her hand.
“I made those bowls because refusing orders would have punished my children.”
“I will not let the foreman say we invented the trouble afterward.”
The wagon reached the warehouse in late afternoon.
Two men rolled open the doors, and a driver in a broad hat backed the team toward the loading platform.
The first crate carried a fresh label identifying the contents as decorative garden vessels.
Gabriel frowned.
“These are table bowls.”
The driver shrugged.
“That is what the label says.”
Catherine stepped forward and identified herself as the owner of Whitmore Plantation.
Shaw emerged from the office, his cheeks reddening.
“Miss Whitmore, I have a contract with your uncle.”
“I have not authorized the sale of household dishes as garden ware.”
Shaw glanced toward the driver.
“Your uncle assured me the property was settled.”
“It is not settled.”
The driver began unloading anyway.
Then Odessa reached into the nearest crate and lifted a bowl whose yellow rim bore a dark flaw.
“This one came from the batch we rejected,” she said.
“Put it down,” the driver ordered.
Odessa held it where Shaw could see.
Gabriel took the bowl and showed him the underside.
“The glaze is unsuitable for food contact, and the label does not describe the vessel’s use.”
Shaw looked toward the open warehouse, where several customers were waiting to inspect merchandise.
He understood what a public argument could cost him.
“Take the wagon around the back,” he snapped.
Catherine said he would not do that until the shipment was counted in front of witnesses.
Shaw stared at her as though she had become a stranger.
“Elijah Carter,” someone said behind them.
The voice belonged to the Whitmore overseer.
He stood beside the loading ramp with two hired men and a whip looped over his wrist.
“Your uncle said you might be here.”
Elijah did not move.
The overseer smiled at Catherine.
“Miss Whitmore, your uncle requests your immediate return.”
Then he looked at Elijah.
“And I have orders to bring this man back in chains.”