by David Liss
“Now run along,” Settwell said. “Mr. Foxx and I have tedious business to discuss.”
The girl pouted, but she did as she was told. Once she was gone, Settwell poured two glasses of port and handed one to me, though I had the very distinct impression he would rather have kept both for himself. We tapped glasses and drank.
“From nothing to fifteen thousand. I would never have believed it. I can never sufficiently thank you for what you have done.”
“No more thanks. Wrongs have been righted, and that is all that matters. But now we must discuss how you will leave the country. Were you on your own, it would be no difficulty, but I cannot think the Inquisition will simply allow you to leave with a Catholic child.”
“She is my daughter,” Settwell said, his voice very hard.
“That little matters, and you know it. She is the seven-year-old Catholic child of an Englishman. The Inquisition will regard her as a prize.”
“The Factory will protect us. The consul will never allow my child to be taken.”
“The Inquisition has taken English children before. You yourself have said so. And I need not remind you that you cannot expect help from the consul and the Factory.”
Settwell laughed. “Well, then I was a penniless merchant, down on his luck. Now I possess a fortune of fifteen thousand pounds. They will forget any past disagreements.”
“You cannot reveal that you have the money, not so soon after it is stolen from the goldsmith’s vault. I propose circumventing the Factory entirely. We shall hire a coach and a few soldiers as protection from bandits. I will come with you to make certain the soldiers do not turn coat. We will then go to Oporto, and hire a berth there to France or Italy. You will not be known, and so you will be seen as simply another Englishman. Mariana will be invisible. Once you come ashore, you will easily find transport to England.”
“Yes, yes, that sounds fine,” Settwell said as he paced about the room with a kind of frantic energy, “but I’m not entirely certain I’m ready to leave Lisbon—not now. Maybe I shall remain a little longer, see what bargains I can strike. It never hurts to add a few pounds to one’s holdings. I should think in less than a year, I could double this money.”
I could not credit what I heard. “Are you mad? The goal was to get you free of this country. I did not steal that money so you could wager it upon trade.”
“It’s no wager, and I shan’t squander the money. In any event, it isn’t your money, is it? It’s mine, and what I choose to do with it is my own business.”
“I risked my life to buy you your freedom. Enéas gave his life to do so. He was murdered during the robbery.”
“What? The little Gypsy boy? You can get another, surely.”
I set down the wine with great care. “I valued him for who he was, not how quickly he could deliver a message. I did not put him in harm’s way so that you might have one more opportunity to rise in the Factory.”
Settwell stared at me, and his gaze was now stony and cold. “It doesn’t particularly matter what your intentions were. You did what I asked because it was your obligation, and what I do next is none of your concern. Now, if you are going to snap at me thus, I shall not like it, so I bid you a good day.”
I felt blood pounding in my throat, in my temples. Could it be I had misjudged yet another person in my life? His indifference and foolishness struck me with near physical force. I closed my eyes for a moment and look a long, deep breath. “If anything happens to that child because of you, you will answer to me.”
“It is very good of you to care for her, but I am Mariana’s protector, and she shall be well.” Without further commentary, Settwell strode out of the room, leaving me to find my way out. I waited until I believed I could step out upon the street without knocking down the first person whose looks I misliked.
* * *
When I returned to the Duke’s Arms, Roberta was waiting for me once again. She had hired a private room, and left a message for me to find her there. I prepared myself, making certain I felt nothing when I walked through the door. She sat with her fingers wrapped around a cup of wine. Her eyes were red and her face haggard. Her green dress was rumpled, and I saw mud strewn along the hem.
“Roberta, what has happened?” I asked, doing a tolerably good imitation of someone who did not know.
“I am ruined,” she answered. She rose to her feet and threw her arms around me, pressing me tight, her hands clutching my back desperately. She smelled of sweat. After a moment, she pushed herself away, and began to pace. “Our vault at the goldsmith’s was robbed. Fifteen thousand pounds’ worth of gold taken. We have nothing, now. We have worse than nothing. Much of that money was debt that we owed others.”
“But surely the goldsmith will compensate you,” I said, forcing my face into an expression of concern. “He must have purchased insurance for his holdings.”
She shook her head. “He swore he did when we agreed to use his services, but it was a lie. His insurance was long unpaid, and there will be no consequences to him for his lie. I can no longer help you make your fortune. I am so sorry, Sebastian. Forgive me. Pity me, too. It will be all we can do to get ourselves back to England.”
I led her to sit down. “You must have other options. You are well established in this city. You have friends. The consul worships you. Surely someone will lend you money. You need only have a loan for a few months to make enough to reestablish yourself, I should think.”
She shook her head, almost violently. “No one will lend money to people who lose what they have. We are tainted. Even the consul will scorn me now.”
I expected her to ask me for a loan, but soon realized I was mistaken. Roberta was broken, and I had broken her. I wished I had not done this to her—if only she had left Charles Settwell alone, none of this would have come to pass.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, and not only because I wished to play my role. I did want to help her. I wanted to erase her anguish—and to ease my own. I had done what needed doing, but here was yet one more woman I had brought low.
She looked down at the scratched and beer-logged wood of the table. “You can do nothing. I only wanted to tell you before you heard from someone else. Perhaps the money was the only thing you cared for, and I wished to see for myself if that was true.”
“It is not true,” I said, taking her hand. “I don’t give a damn about the money.” It was among the few honest things I had ever said to her.
“I think you have truly loved me,” she said.
I said, “I have. I have loved you, and I love you yet.” Did I really care for this predator and thief, who destroyed without remorse? At that moment, I believed I did. Perhaps it was merely her vulnerability that made me think so; perhaps it was my own.
“If there had been money,” she said, “if there had been wealth enough for us to rise above gossip and rumor, then who can say what might have eventually happened? Now I have no choice. My lot is to be a good wife to a ruined man.”
I did not wish to speak the words, but I could not quite prevent myself. “Is there no way to find this thief and reclaim what was lost?”
“The money is gone—either converted or driven out of town or sailing upon the waters. No one would dare leave stolen gold lying about for long. Even though I believe I know who took it, there is nothing I can do without proof.”
“Who do you think took it?” I asked. I attempted to keep my voice even, but after I spoke I realized that it had been a mistake. Surely I should have been emotional upon hearing such news. The layers of dishonesty were becoming a bit too complex even for me.
She laughed bitterly. “I did not think he had the wile to do it, but I am sure it was that villain, Charles Settwell. You recall I told you to keep your distance from him.”
“I do,” I said, trying to sound no more than concerned and curious. “Why would he steal your money?”
“He tells the world that Rutherford and I tricked him into losing his fortune. I have no
doubt he told you that as well. I recall how cautious you were when you first met us, though we hoped honest dealing would erase your doubts. He has repeated this lie so many times, I think he may even half believe it, though he is far too canny to lose himself entirely in a fabrication.”
“If he did not lose his money through trickery, then how did he become what he is now?” I managed to ask.
“Bad business. Isn’t that what always happens? He lost the last of his fortune when he brought in a wool shipment two weeks after we had flooded the market. We hadn’t done it out of malice, you must understand—we managed to buy a great deal of surplus, and we delivered what we bought. Had Settwell but asked us to stock our goods in the warehouse for two weeks that he might bring his goods to market at the same time, we would have accommodated him. English merchants do such things for one another. But he did not, and he was forced to sell at a loss. We never set out to compete with him. We simply were better at commerce than he was. That is why he does not forgive us.”
Forgetting myself, I asked, “Is there proof of this?”
“All Factory transactions are recorded,” Roberta answered, looking at me askew. “That is why no one believes him when he speaks ill of us. The Factory has been convinced of his dishonesty. The records show why he was ruined and how little we had to do with it.”
I would have to review the records myself to be truly satisfied, but the story could be true. Assuming it was, then I had ruined an innocent couple, in order to steal money for a man who had lied to me. Had I done wrong? Was the debt I owed Settwell—for my father’s sake as well as my own—so great that it rendered this kind of deception meaningless? If Settwell had approached me and said that he wished to rob an innocent couple of their hard-earned wealth, would I have done it? Was the debt vast enough that I would have set aside my own objections? Perhaps. But Settwell had not given me the choice. That was a violation of trust and an abuse of the bond that existed between us.
And what of Roberta? This story undid everything I believed about her. If knowing her to be cruel and selfish had been a barrier before, what now? What was this woman sitting before me other than strong, and clever, and utterly betrayed by me?
I had come to Lisbon looking for atonement, and had found only more transgression. No matter what it took, I would fix what I had done. I would make peace with Roberta Carver, and to do so, I would find a way to replace the fortune I had stolen. I would break open the treasury of the Palace of the Inquisition if need be to set this right. “I will help you. I will find you the money you need.”
“It is too late for that,” she said. “You cannot simply hand me fifteen thousand pounds. Our reputation in Lisbon is destroyed, and no amount you might reasonably lend us would have any effect on that.”
I stood up so rapidly that Roberta gasped. My chair nearly toppled. The table rattled. “Go nowhere and do nothing,” I told her. “I will find your money. I will do whatever it takes. I will not let this stand.”
She permitted herself a sad smile. “The way you say it, I can almost believe it is so. I have seen you when you are determined. I know you think nothing can stop you, but I don’t believe even you can save me from this.”
“You must believe it,” I said. This woman had seen me at my worst. She had seen the monster that lived in my heart as I beat the Gypsy almost to death, and it had frightened her, but she had not turned away. Almost everything I had ever said to Roberta Carver was a lie. Even now, I could not tell her who and what I was, and yet in some ways she knew me better than anyone and loved me still.
“You do not know what I am, but I swear I will make things right.” I could not deceive her about what I had done—not forever. For now, I would begin to earn her forgiveness by recovering the money she had lost.
After Roberta left, I sat alone in the private room for a quarter hour and then walked into the common room, where Franklin was waiting for me. The usual easy grin was gone from his face. His eyebrows were knit together and his mouth set in a tight frown.
“Mr. Foxx, sir. A moment of your time.”
I pushed past him. “I am busy now.”
“You are always busy, and I think I know why, but I cannot be put off any longer. A moment.” He gestured with his head back toward the private room.
The last thing I wanted was a meeting with a man whom I might, perhaps, be killing in just a few days. I had been avoiding Franklin precisely because I did not want to listen to his light banter and foolish jokes. There was no point knowing him better. I wanted to keep him an abstraction, but Franklin was clearly determined to make doing so difficult. I sighed and followed the large man back inside.
“Whatever you have to say, I do not wish to hear it,” I told him. “Particularly not now.”
Franklin closed the door behind him and looked at me. “You don’t wish to hear it. That much is true. But you need to. For some time now, I’ve been taking gold from an Inquisitor named Pedro Azinheiro, who asked that I report on your comings and goings.”
That Franklin would admit this surprised me.
“I suspect you have found out,” Franklin said, “which is why you’ve been so disinclined to speak to me.”
I did not answer. I wasn’t prepared to tell him the truth, that I knew he had betrayed my father, so what else was there to say?
Franklin sighed. “You know how few choices I have. You know better than most. If an Inquisitor asks, you say yes. Someone else will do it, so it is better to take the gold and stay out of their dungeons. But I want you to know I’ve told him nothing—not about who you are or why you are here. I’ve reported to him about your comings and goings, such as anyone might see, and nothing more than that.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked. “What do you expect from me?”
“I tell you so that you’ll be careful. I expect nothing, except, perhaps, your understanding. I’ve wanted to warn you sooner, but you would not listen. In the meantime, I’ve said nothing about anything you might not wish to speak of—the Englishwoman, the Portuguese tough. But sooner or later, nothing I have to say will matter. If he wants you, he’ll have you.”
I stared at Franklin, his wide eyes and red cheeks. Perhaps he had betrayed my father years before, but now he was trying to find some way to do the right thing. He was trying to make peace with the son of the man he had wronged.
Could I make peace in return? If I had truly come to this city to remake myself, was I not obligated to accept Franklin’s efforts to atone?
It was ultimately a matter for another time. Now I had other and more pressing matters to tend to. “Thank you,” I managed. “I appreciate your candor.”
“It is no more than my duty to the son of a man I admired,” Franklin said. “I have done what I could, and I will do all I can. If I can serve you, Mr. Foxx, you need only ask.”
Before I acted, it was important that I confirm Roberta’s story. I owed that much, and more, to Settwell. But there was nothing to be gained from asking permission to review the Factory records. I was not a member and, as a new merchant, it would be assumed I was looking to gain some kind of advantage over the established men in the city. Therefore, rather than request something that would be denied, I took the initiative to find out the facts on my own, in the most logical and expedient fashion. That is to say, I broke into the consul’s house.
Men not actively on guard against deception have little defense against it, but even so, obtaining the information I desired proved easier than I would have expected. The mansion in the upper reaches of the Bario Alto was the consul’s private residence, but also a semipublic building and the center of activity for the Factory. Meetings among merchants and with Portuguese officials were held there, and Anglican Sunday church services were conducted in the spacious ballroom. So I entered the building through the back, walking through the kitchens with the scowl of a busy man who resented the lesser beings around him. None of these would dare to question a prosperous-looking Englishman. I climbed th
e massive stairway, and, under the scrutiny of portraits of past consuls and Factory men, barked orders at a succession of servants until I found the room that held the records. It was a large, sunlit space full of overwrought furnishings and overstuffed bookshelves. The room was empty but for a pair of clerks. I stabbed a finger at one and told him what I wished to look at. He never thought to question the order, and I was soon sitting before a thick folio of handwritten accounts.
There, in the ledgers, was precisely the transaction Roberta Carver had described. I could find no evidence of anything like what Settwell had told me. Settwell had lost his money through impetuous mismanagement. I had, without doubt, been deceived.
I departed the house back through the kitchens. I did not wish to see anyone who might recognize me.
What would I do? What could I do? I could not pauperize the man once more. Even if I wished to, Mariana remained in danger, and I could not endure that the child’s future be sacrificed because of the foolishness of the father. I did consider all obligation to Settwell to be discharged, however. Indeed, Settwell was now in my debt.
I would demand ten thousand pounds’ worth of the notes. Five thousand pounds was fortune enough, and considering how ill-gotten it was, Settwell could not complain. I would insist upon—indeed, oversee—Settwell’s return to England, where he would live very comfortably upon his stolen money, if not quite so comfortably as he had hoped.
I would then return the ten thousand pounds to Roberta. She would initially refuse them, of course, but I would make certain she took them all the same. The money had been stolen, and their names had been tainted, but the notes would enable the Carvers to discharge their debts and return to England in good standing. Their dreams of mercantile conquest would be, at least temporarily, at an end, but they would be independent and have a sizable fortune. As for the five thousand pounds I would still owe them, I had some ideas about how I might make that up, and perhaps a surplus as well, though I could not guarantee I would survive the effort.
