by David Liss
I could only presume that Miriam had been advised of the guest list, for she showed not the slightest hint of surprise when she saw me from across the dinner table. She did, however, flash me a look of anger. It was fleeting, and no one would have thought anything more than that she might have had a burst of toothache or some similar pain. I understood her meaning well enough, however: I should never have accepted her husband’s invitation.
And I should not have. Would I have respected her comfort and her unstated wishes had not my very life been in the balance? Most likely, for increasingly Miss Dogmill had come to fill the void in my heart that Miriam had left. It still pained me to look at Miriam, I still winced with longing at the way she laughed or held a knife or dusted a piece of lint off her sleeve. All of these little things retained their baffling magic, but they were no longer devastating. I could watch Miriam and not want to seek out the nearest bottle and drink myself senseless. I could endure her charms. I could even think fondly of them, and of her, and of the promise of love between us that had seemed so real that some days I could have been no less surprised at the absence of her love than I would have been by the absence of my arms and legs.
But that promise was gone. I had long understood this, but I now came to believe it. And though I knew I might proceed with other matters—those of the heart and otherwise—there was a sadness in my acceptance, a sadness that was perhaps even more profound than the sadness of loss I had felt every day when I lived in inconsolable longing. I understood now, finally, as I sat at the table, that all hope for me and Miriam was gone. Her husband would not simply disappear, as I had somehow, in my core, believed he might. Instead I saw things as they were: She was married and a Christian, and I sat in her formal dining room pretending to be a man I was not, putting her marriage at risk. She was right to glower at me. She would have been right to knock me in the head with a pot of boiled chicken. I wished I could tell her so, but I knew this desire too came because I sought my own comfort, not hers.
There were perhaps a dozen guests at the table that night, Tories of no small importance and their wives. Dinner was interesting and lively. Much discussion of the election took place, including the role of the mysterious Mr. Weaver, for here was a lively topic, and the wine had been poured with uncommon generosity, so perhaps the less attentive diners neither noticed nor cared of their hosts’ displeasure. No one showed any sign of recalling that Miriam had once belonged to the nation of Hebrews.
“I find the whole thing utterly amazing,” said Mr. Peacock, Melbury’s effusive election agent. “That this rogue Jew—just the sort of person we might have all argued ought to be hanged, even prior to his being found guilty of murder—should emerge as so amiable a spokesman for our cause.”
“He is hardly a spokesman,” said Mr. Gray, a writer for the Tory papers. “He does not do much speaking. It is the rabble who speak for him, which is mightily good since these Jews are famous for being inarticulate, and their accents are most comical.”
“You may be confusing the true accent of the Jews with that portrayed on the stage by comedians,” said the bishop, who appeared to be in better spirits than when we had met earlier. “I have met with my share of Jews over the years, and many of them speak with the accents of Spaniards.”
“Am I to understand that a Spaniard’s accent is not comical?” asked Mr. Gray. “I must tell you this is news indeed.”
“Many Jews have no accent at all,” said Melbury somewhat dourly, for he was in the awkward position of having to defend his wife while ardently hoping no one recollected her origins and became aware that he was now cast in the role of defender.
“It is hardly their accents that need concern us. But this Weaver fellow, Melbury. You cannot love having your name yoked to his.”
“I love that he gets me votes. In truth,” he said pointedly, “he gets me far more votes gratis than those men I pay to get them.”
Mr. Peacock blushed not a little. “It is a fine thing to get votes, but must we get them any way we can? Mr. Dogmill gets votes for his man by sending rioters to the polls.”
“Surely,” said the bishop, “you do not think it harmful that Mr. Melbury merely raises no objection when the rabble idolize him in the same breath with which they idolize Weaver? What would you have him say, Continue your praise of me, but no longer praise that other man you like? We shall see how the mob likes their support being served with that sauce.”
“But if Mr. Melbury is asked to answer for his endorsement later,” Gray pressed on, “it could prove something of an embarrassment. I say, if in the final days of the election you have a clear and decisive victory, it will be time to disavow the Jew. You do not want your enemies in the House using it against you.”
“Mr. Gray may have a point,” the bishop conceded. “When you stand up to speak out against privileges being handed out to Jews and dissenters and atheists while the Church is starved, you do not want to give your enemies ammunition. You do not want to hear it said that you speak pretty words for a man voted in on the coattails of a murdering Jew.”
I cannot claim to have concealed my discomfort perfectly during this exchange, but uneasy though I was, I would not have traded my place for that of Melbury or Miriam. At least I was in disguise. The crowd at this table insulted their true lives freely and cruelly, and almost certainly ignorantly. I could see that his wife’s dubious past was a heavy burden for Mr. Melbury to bear. Each mention of Weaver and Jews made him wince and redden and drink from his glass to hide his discomfort. Miriam, for her part, turned paler with each comment, though I could not say if her ill ease was born of shame, her concern for me, or her observations of her husband’s displeasure.
Soon enough, a new topic of conversation was on the table. Miriam slumped in her chair with visible relief, but not her husband. He remained stiff, holding himself with unnatural erectness. He gripped his knife until his hand turned crimson. He bit his lip and gritted his teeth. I could not think he could stay in this state long, but he did for more than half an hour, until the other guests could not but discern that their host had become angry and sullen, and an uncomfortable silence crept across the table like a plague. We endured this awkward state for ten excruciating minutes, and our discomfort only broke when, during the somber dessert, a servant jostled a bowl full of pears, sending a half dozen or so onto the floor.
Melbury slammed his hand down at the table and turned to his wife. “What the devil is this, Mary?” he shouted. “Did I not order that fellow to be gone two weeks ago? Why is he now scattering pears on my floor? Why is he here? Why? Why?” And with each why? he would slap his palm down, sending our plates and goblets and silver rattling as though there were an earthquake.
Miriam stared at him. She flushed and reddened, but she did not look down or turn away. Her lips quivered, and I knew she longed to give him an answer, but perhaps she had nothing to say that he wanted to hear, and so she remained quiet. She said nothing while he slammed the tabled and shouted out his question. Glasses rattled and silver chinked, and far more than a few pears nearly bounced onto the floor. But still he slammed and shouted until I thought I would go mad with rage.
And then I heard a voice say, “Enough, Melbury.”
I could hardly have been more surprised to see that I was the one who had said the words. I was on my feet with my arms limp by my side. I had spoken clearly and loudly, but not forcefully. It had done its business, however, for Melbury stopped shouting and slamming and looked up at me.
“Enough,” I said again.
The frail bishop reached up with one hand and touched Melbury’s arm. “Sit down, Griffin,” he said gently.
Melbury ignored the bishop. He stared at me, shockingly without a hint of anger. “Yes. Yes, I’ll sit.”
And so we both returned to our seats.
He looked to his guests and made some quip about wives being too easy on servants, and all did their part to make the incident pass as easily as possible. By the time dinner had
finished and the men and women had moved to their separate rooms, I would have sworn from my observations that the incident was utterly forgotten.
I, however, would not so easily forget.
The next morning, I could not have been more astonished to receive the following note:
Mr. Evans:
I cannot easily imagine the difficulties you face in your unique and perilous position, though I find it hard to believe that any dangers you face would have necessitated that you accept my husband’s unfortunate invitation. Nevertheless, you did so, and I fear you have seen him not at his best. I know you are a man compelled by a keen sense of justice, and I have been awake all night with anxiety over the possibility that you will choose some impetuous course as a result of Mr. Melbury’s conduct. In an effort to forestall any such actions, I believe it is necessary that I meet with you to discuss these events. I will be this afternoon at the Monument for the fire at four. If you wish to see me at peace, you will be there to meet with your friend,
Miriam Melbury
At least, I thought, she did not sign her letter Mary. Of course I would be there. I could not but attend. I did not know what it was that she feared I would do: knock her husband down, challenge him to a duel? Or was there something else? Did she fear that in my anger I would learn something of him she did not wish me to know?
I had little to do with my time until the meeting, and I found myself to be in no mood for going out-of-doors, so I was in my rooms when my landlady knocked upon my door to say that there was a man below to see me.
“What sort of man?” I asked.
“Not the best sort,” she assured me. Her analysis proved to be correct, for she showed Mr. Titus Miller into my rooms.
He stepped in and looked around, as though he were inspecting the space for his own use. “You live comfortable,” he said to me, as soon as Mrs. Sears had closed the door. “You live mighty comfortable, I see.”
“Begging your pardon, but is there some reason I ought not to live in comfort?”
“There might be a reason or two that I know about,” he said. He picked up a volume that I had taken from Mrs. Sears’s collection and examined it as though it were a precious stone. “Time for books and all matter of fancy words, I see. Well, your time is your own, I suppose, or it has been so, at any rate. But that is business, and we have not yet got to business, have we? Perhaps a glass of wine might put us all at our ease.” Miller put down the book.
“I am quite at my ease,” I told him, “and I hardly think that because I have agreed to pay a friend’s debts that you are entitled to speak to me in such a voice or to behave with such insolence.”
“You may think as you like, of course. I shan’t be so ill-natured as to prevent you. But I should very much care for a glass of wine, Mr.—well, I won’t call you Evans, since that’s not your name, and I won’t call you by your real name, since it might distress you to hear it spoken aloud.”
And there it was. I suppose I knew it would happen eventually. I could not remain disguised forever without someone discovering the truth. Of course, Miss Dogmill had done so, and so had Johnson, but neither wished to do me immediate harm. I had no confidence that Miller would behave with equal benevolence.
I turned to him. “I am afraid I know nothing of your meaning,” I said helplessly, clinging desperately to some hope that I might deceive my way from this desperate situation.
Miller shook his head at the sadness of my efforts. “Of course you do, sir, and if you pretend otherwise, I might just as well go explain it to a constable instead of you. He’ll understand my meaning plain enough, I expect.”
I poured myself a glass of wine but offered Miller nothing. “If you wished to visit a constable, you would have done so already. But I perceive that you would prefer to deal with me.” I took a seat, leaving him to the awkwardness of standing. I had been reduced to such petty victories. “Perhaps you had better tell me what it is you want, Miller, and I will tell you if it is feasible.”
If he bristled at being made to stand while I sat, he showed none of it. “As to being feasible or no, I should think there would be no question. I mean to ask nothing that you cannot give, and I need not tell you the consequences of refusing to provide it.”
“Let us forget the consequences for the moment and think instead of the request.”
“Oh, you are now all business, I see. No longer putting on airs and wigs. Did you think no one would recognize you, all dandified as you are? I recognized you at once, I did. Maybe you can deceive the common sort of fellow with those trappings, but I am far too perceptive. I’ve seen you about town far too often, always with a sneer for a fellow such as me, only doing his business.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “You make some very pretty speeches, but no one wishes to hear them. You may go home and praise yourself upon your own time, Miller. Do not think to waste my time with glorifying yourself. Now tell me what it is you would request.”
If I had insulted him, he showed no sign of it. “The request, then, is for the two hundred and sixty pounds for Mr. Melbury’s debt, as has already been promised, and another—shall we say—two hundred and forty for my good wishes, which will bring the entire amount to five hundred pounds.”
Only by summoning all of my resolve could I keep from reacting to this sum as it deserved. “Five hundred pounds is a great deal of money, sir. What makes you believe I have it at my disposal?”
“I can only guess what you have, but as you have been willing to provide two hundred and sixty for Mr. Melbury, I am forced to speculate that this sum, large though it may be, must represent only a portion of it. In any case, I see from the papers that Mr. Evans has made a marvelous name for himself in town. I don’t doubt that a gentleman of your stature should have little difficulty raising funds against the earnings of his plantation.”
“You wish for me to borrow money from trusting gentlemen and let them suffer the consequences?”
“I cannot tell you how to raise the money, sir. Only that raise it you must.”
“And if I refuse?”
He shrugged. “I can always return to Mr. Melbury for his debt, sir. He will pay one way or the other, as he cannot afford to sit out the remainder of the election in a debtor’s prison. And as for you, if I cannot get two hundred and forty pounds from you, I know I may at the very least get one hundred and fifty from the king. If you take my meaning.”
I took a drink of wine. “I take your meaning to be very ill-natured,” I said.
“You may take it as you like, sir, but a gentleman must always pursue his business, and that is no more than I have done here. No one can say it’s more that I’ve done, and no one can criticize me either.”
“I will not speak to that point,” I said, “only the other. As to the sum, you may perceive that it is a very large amount, not easily at my disposal. I must have a week.”
“That cannot be. It is not so good-natured of you to ask for it.”
“Then how much time do you think fitting for the raising of this sum?”
“I will come back in three days, sir. Three days, I say. If you do not have the money for me, I fear I must take actions we would both prefer to see avoided.”
Mrs. Sears had seen this villain enter my rooms. Would she notice, I wondered, if she never saw him emerge? But tempting though it might have been, I was not willing to commit that most egregious of crimes to protect an identity that was already doomed. Miller had recognized me. Sooner or later, another would recognize me as well. Perhaps that person would not be so kind as to come to me with this intelligence but would go to the constables instead. I had no choice but to let Miller go and to use the three remaining days as best I could.
I remained uncommonly silent as I considered my options, and Miller must have known what sorts of possibilities occurred to me, for he grew very pale and uneasy. “I must go at once,” he said, hurrying toward the door. “But you will hear from me in three days. Upon that you may depend.”
/> And so he left, and I knew then that my hand was forced. I had not as much time as I would have liked, but I hoped it would be enough.
I arrived at the Monument a quarter of an hour in advance of our appointed time, but Miriam was already there, enveloped in a hooded greatcoat. The hood was pulled down low, to keep her identity a secret, or perhaps to keep mine. Even in that bulky mass, however, I had no problem recognizing her in an instant.
She did not see me approach, so I stood for a moment to watch her as flurries of snow landed about her, melting as they touched the wool of her coat. She might have been my wife, I thought, if . . . but there was no if. I had begun to see that with painful clarity. The only if I could summon was if she had wished to be, but she had not, and this was the most painful if imaginable.
She turned as she heard my muted footsteps in the newly fallen snow. I took her gloved hand. “I hope you are well, madam.”
She let me hold on to her for as long as she could without risking a rudeness, and then withdrew the prize. Here was our entire relationship in miniature. “Thank you for meeting me,” she said.
“How could I not have?”
“I cannot say what you might think best. I only know that I felt the need to speak with you, and you have been so good as to oblige me.”
“And I shall always be thus,” I assured her. “Come, shall we get a dish of chocolate, or a glass of wine?”
“Mr. Weaver, I am not the sort of woman who may freely visit taverns or chocolate houses with a man not my husband,” she said sternly.
I attempted to show no sting. “Then let us stroll and talk,” I said. “With your hood, all the world may think you my illicit lover, but I suppose there is no helping that.”
The hood spared me from the distaste she no doubt registered. “I am sorry you saw Mr. Melbury lose his temper last night.”
“I am sorry it happened,” I said, “but if it must happen, I am not sorry to have been witness to it. Does he lose his temper with you often?”
