by Carola Dunn
“It’s fated,” Miriam reminded her, depositing a fond kiss on her lined cheek before turning to peer out of the rain-spotted window. “Where has our panther got to? I haven’t had a chance yet to tell him about seeing Jakob Rothschild last night.”
“That fox was meant for Mr. Rothschild, wasn’t it? He’s a cunning one, sure enough.”
At that moment the carriage door opened and Isaac stuck his head in. “May I join you, ladies?”
“Of course. Are you very wet?”
“Not too bad.” Shrugging off his top-coat of dark brown drab with its modest single cape, he spread it over half the unoccupied seat, perched his hat on top of it, and sat down. “How did you persuade his lordship to let you teach him French?” he enquired, pushing back a damp lock of black hair from his broad brow.
“It was no more difficult than persuading you to let him teach you to drive. You both have sufficient sense to see the need.”
“Enough, at least, to accept the need once you had suggested it. I begin to think Jakob was right to send you with us.”
“Is that intended for a compliment? I thank you, kind sir.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him and he smiled, his sensitive, rather serious face lightening. He really was almost as handsome as Felix when he smiled. Miriam’s heart gave a strange little quiver and she hurried on: “Did you know Jakob was at the inn last night?”
“Yes. I didn’t realize you had seen him.” Isaac frowned now, but in puzzlement, she thought, not annoyance. “Kalmann was there, too.”
“Kalmann?”
“The next youngest brother. He’s to meet us in Spain.”
“Next youngest? I was surprised at Jakob’s youth.”
“Kalmann is three or four and twenty, I suppose. The Rothschilds begin young. Nathan was scarce twenty years of age when he arrived in England in 1797.”
“Who are they? My parents used to entertain all the leading Jews in London but I don’t recall ever hearing mention of the name Rothschild.”
“There are five brothers. Old Mayer, the father, rose from curio dealer in the Frankfurt ghetto to banker for the Prince of Hesse and virtual director of the finances of Denmark. Nathan was sent to Manchester to buy cotton, before the family decided to trade only in money. He didn’t move to London until 1805.”
“We left England in 1802,” Hannah put in.
“And now Nathan is shipping gold by the hundredweight for the British Government,” Miriam marvelled. “I suppose it really is bound for General Wellington? You seemed surprised that Jakob and Kalmann appeared at the Grand Cerf, and I don’t see how they knew we were there.”
“I’m not sure what they are up to, but you can depend upon it that Wellington will receive the gold as promised. Nathan believes that dishonesty defeats its own purpose. A bank is built on trust; lose that and you’re in the suds.”
“That makes sense. But why smuggle the gold through France?”
“Even with the English blockade the sea lanes are precarious, and the Rothschilds already have many lines of communication all over Europe. They persuaded the French Minister of Finance to support this venture by convincing him that the British Government opposes it. Besides, they are taking advantage of Napoleon’s current preoccupation with his new Austrian wife, and now his heir. By the time the Emperor turns around to look, the flow will be well established, the necessary officials bribed.”
“This is the first shipment, then?”
“It is, and thus the most dangerous. It was unconscionable of Jakob to involve you.”
“I daresay I could have refused if I had tried,” Miriam admitted, “but he was very persuasive and he promised to get us to England afterwards.”
“So you wish to return to England? Surely you could have done so years ago.”
“If it had been easy, I daresay I might have. But Napoleon was preparing to invade England, Uncle Amos had no desire to go, and I enjoyed seeing the world.”
Miriam found herself once again recounting the story of her travels and Uncle Amos’s death. Isaac was a more sympathetic, less disapproving audience than Felix. Nonetheless, by the time they reached the Coq d’Or at Blois she decided it was ridiculous that she had now told her life history twice while she still knew next to nothing about the others.
“It will be their turn to talk this afternoon,” she said to Hannah as they tidied themselves before rejoining the gentlemen for refreshments. “I’m beginning to like both of them, and I’m determined to see them on better terms with each other.”
“Tread carefully, Miss Miriam,” advised the maid. “God forbid you should offend them when you’ve just got them half way tamed.”
“I shall have the lion and the panther eating out of my hand yet,” Miriam vowed.
When they went down to the dining room, she discovered that whatever Felix ate out of her hand it wouldn’t be saucisson à l’ail. That the Coq d’Or’s sausage was exceptionally garlicky she had to admit. Its rich aroma met her as she entered the room. It made her mouth water and a number of other patrons were downing their shares with evident gusto, but Felix stared at the delicacy with glum disgust, his nostrils quivering.
She sat down beside him.
“I cannot,” he said, raising his napkin to his nose. He even looked a trifle green about the gills.
“And I ought not,” said Isaac. He looked relieved to have an excuse for not tasting the pungent sausage.
Miriam hesitated. She had acquired a taste for garlic on her travels, and she refused to let considerations of kosher and non-kosher rule her. But on the other hand garlic had a nasty way of lingering on the breath. Shut up in the berline with non-garlic-eaters, she’d be afraid to open her mouth.
“And I shall not,” she said, sighing. “I asked for cold meat.” She signalled to a waiter who removed the offending dish, returning shortly with a plate of cold chicken and a cheese board.
Oddly enough, neither Felix nor Isaac wrinkled their noses at the emanations from a ripe Camembert. A pair of crisp-crusted loaves rapidly disappeared, and the level in the carafe of vin rouge du pays had sunk to a bare half inch when Miriam saw two men in scarlet uniforms and white-plumed shakos enter the dining room.
Two others stood outside, blocking the door.
She felt the blood drain from her face. Felix dropped his napkin and began to rise.
“Soldiers!” he hissed.
“May God preserve us,” gasped Hannah, as Isaac reached across to lay a hand on Felix’s arm.
“Sit down. You’ll only draw attention to us. Perhaps they have come for a meal.”
Miriam shook her head. A swift glance had shown a glimpse of scarlet at every window and at the swinging door to the kitchen. “They’re searching for something...”
The gold-braided, black-moustached officer rapped on the nearest table with his cane. Abruptly the hum of conversation ceased.
“Vos papiers, citoyens!”
Her voice trembling, Miriam completed her sentence in a whisper. “...Or someone.”
Chapter 7
With outward calm, Isaac took the package of papers from the inside pocket of his coat and laid it on the table. Seeing the sheen of sweat on Felix’s forehead, he was proud of the steadiness of his hands, his self-control in not swinging round to look at the soldiers. Or would it be more natural to look? Miriam, an artificial expression of mild interest on her face, was watching their every move.
He ventured to turn his head. The scarlet coats were startlingly bright against a background of smoke-stained walls and the sober apparel of travellers and citizens of Blois.
The officer made his way slowly from table to table. He waved away the papers of women and elderly men and checked the rest against a list carried by his subaltern. A short, round-faced young man, he seemed to take a malicious delight in lingering over names as dissimilar as Dutoit and Dufours while his victims squirmed.
At the tables he had passed, a subdued murmur of conversation arose again, but even their sidelong looks followed the soldier
s’ progress. Isaac felt his nerves stretching towards breaking point. If only the officer had chosen to circle the room in the opposite direction, by now they would know the worst. If only there was something he could do other than sit and wait like a rabbit mesmerized by the stare of a snake.
He glanced at his companions. Miriam gave him a pale, strained smile; the only other sign of her tension was her clenched fist on the table top. Catching his eye she lowered her hand to her lap. His admiration for her composure redoubled his anger at Jakob for embroiling her in this adventure.
Felix reached for the carafe and poured the last drop of dark red wine into his glass. His taut posture, the very woodenness of his motions in one accustomed to move with vigour, bespoke his uneasiness. He raised the glass to his lips, then suddenly set it down and pushed it across the table towards Miriam’s maidservant.
Isaac saw that Hannah was shaking with fright, her terrified eyes fixed on her beloved mistress as she muttered over and over in English, “May God spare her, my dove, may God spare her.”
He put his arm round her shoulders and picked up Felix’s glass. “Drink,” he commanded in Yiddish, authoritative yet gentle.
She gulped convulsively, spluttered and coughed as the wine caught the back of her throat. Tears rose to her eyes and her colorless cheeks turned crimson. Miriam jumped up and sped round the table to dab at her face with a napkin, while Isaac patted her on the back.
His expression sardonic, Felix watched them fuss over the abigail. He appeared relaxed, and Isaac realized that the incident spurred by his unexpectedly kind gesture had lessened the tension.
It had also drawn the officer’s notice. The little man strutted towards them, his bearing so expressive of pomposity that Isaac would have laughed had he not held their fate in his pudgy hands. Twirling the waxed end of his moustache, he bowed to Miriam, who stood straight and tall with one warning, comforting hand on Hannah’s shoulder.
“Vos papiers, s’il vous plaît, messieurs.”
Isaac handed him the package. He leafed through the passports with agonizing slowness, paused to peruse every word of the letter signed by the Minister of Police. Then he folded them and dropped them on the table with a nod to Isaac. Isaac began to breathe again.
“Continuez,” the officer ordered his heavyset sergeant with a wave. Taking off his shako and smoothing his thinning black hair, he turned to Miriam with a gleam of admiration in his sharp little eyes. “So mademoiselle is Swiss. A beautiful country, and a people of independent spirit.”
She smiled at him. “Under the protection of the Emperor, monsieur. May one enquire as to what a captain of the Emperor’s army is searching for here?”
“For deserters, mademoiselle. Alas, not all Frenchmen are willing to put their duty to the Emperor and to France above their personal concerns.”
“I am shocked to hear such a thing. The more honour to those who serve willingly.” Miriam batted her eyelashes in a coquettish way that made Isaac fume, but he didn’t dare intervene.
Leering, the repellent little man preened his moustache. “I thank mademoiselle for her good opinion.”
“No doubt your vigilance deters many deserters, monsieur?”
“Would that it were so! You know, perhaps, that conscripts are chosen by means of a lottery? You will not credit it, mademoiselle, but as many as three quarters of the eligible young men do not put in an appearance on lottery days. Then there are those who pay another to take their place, those who riot when the names are called, even those who cut off a finger or blind themselves to evade service.”
“Disgraceful!” Despite the censure in her tone, Miriam looked a trifle sick at this last revelation, Isaac thought.
“And of those who join the army, fully one in ten later deserts. Last year alone sixteen thousand runaways were caught, convicted, and fined.”
“You must be proud to be entrusted with work of such importance to the Empire, monsieur.”
His chest swelled, but he said modestly, “I do my duty, mademoiselle.” Swinging round, he addressed Felix and Isaac. “And you, messieurs--the Grand Army has no prejudice against foreigners, not even against Jews. Do you not yearn to fight for our glorious Emperor?”
“Oh, monsieur!” Her eyes wide with unfeigned distress, Miriam neatly recaptured his attention. “Pray do not tempt my brother and my cousin to abandon me unprotected.”
“I should count it a pleasure to offer mademoiselle my protection,” he assured her, gallantly lascivious.
She produced a convincing simper. “You are kind, but our families await us at home. Besides, there is a great deal of your magnificent country we have yet to see.”
“You are travelling to admire the glories of France? I trust you are enjoying your stay in Blois, my home town.”
“We have only just arrived, monsieur.”
“Ah, then there is much pleasure in store for you. You are aware, I am sure, that it was here Jeanne d’Arc raised her standard against the accursed English pigs.”
Felix’s face darkened, nostrils flared, chin rising aggressively. He must have understood the captain’s words. Isaac glared at him and after a moment fraught with danger he subsided, his shoulders slumping. Oblivious, the captain continued to expound upon the splendours of Blois until the stolid sergeant appeared at his elbow to announce that everyone present had been checked.
With a low bow, the captain pronounced himself delighted to have made mademoiselle’s acquaintance, desolated to have no excuse for lingering. He kissed her hand with unnecessary fervour, saluted Isaac and Felix, and departed.
Miriam sank into her chair, her smile wry. “How fortunate that it has stopped raining,” she said softly in English. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to tour Blois.”
The gentlemen groaned in unison.
“Why did you let him draw you into conversation?” Felix snapped.
“A female cannot have too many admirers,” she teased. “No, actually I thought it would serve to divert any suspicion he might have felt. Surely he would not expect fugitives to chat with him.”
“Let alone to flirt,” muttered Isaac, too low for her to hear.
He paid the reckoning and they went out. Despite Felix’s disparaging comparisons with English towns, castles, and cathedrals, Isaac enjoyed strolling about the steep streets of Blois. The Loire sparkled in the sun and the air, though fresh and clean after the rain, yet bore tantalizing traces of foreign odours.
When they returned to the Coq d’Or, it was his turn to drive. A new team was hitched. Taking the reins from the ostler, who rushed off to serve another patron, he mounted to the box whistling.
Felix, about to hand Miriam into the carriage, turned and scowled at him. “Not ‘Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill,’ you numskull,” he hissed. “You’re lucky the ostler did not hear you.”
Isaac scowled back. Admittedly he had not realized what he was whistling, but he considered it most unlikely that a French ostler would recognize the tune as English.
“Try ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow,’“ Miriam suggested. “It is the same tune as ‘Malbrouk s’en va-t-en guerre,’ a most patriotic, if inaccurate, French song.”
But Isaac had lost the urge to whistle. Damn the man for an arrogant, condescending bigot! At least, prejudiced as he was against Jews, Felix would not take advantage of his proximity to Miriam in the berline, even if she had not Hannah to guard her. Isaac grinned sourly.
Inside the carriage, Felix requested an explanation of “patriotic, if inaccurate.”
“‘Malbrouk’ is a French version of Marlborough,” Miriam said. “The song is about the Duke of Marlborough going off to the wars, and it boasts that he will never return.”
“But of course he did. In fact he was created duke as a reward for defeating the French!”
“I daresay they prefer to forget that.”
“I daresay.” He laughed. “Teach me the verse.”
So Miriam found herself once more embroiled in a French lesson. Whe
never she tried to steer the conversation to more personal matters, Felix determinedly ignored her hints. Hannah gave her an anxious look that said as clearly as words, “Don’t set his back up.”
So she abandoned--temporarily--her attempt to delve into his past and concentrated on teaching pronunciation.
A couple of hours later, the berline pulled up in a village street, in front of a building with an indecipherable inn sign hanging over the door. Felix reached for his hat.
“Thank you, Miriam.”
It was the first time he had addressed her by name. She felt an infuriating flush of pleasure rising in her cheeks.
“You are a rewarding pupil, Felix.”
“I doubt anyone will take me for a born Frenchman.”
“Perhaps not, but how you would dislike it if they did! You try hard, and what more can a teacher ask?”
“I never imagined a lesson could be so enjoyable. You are an excellent teacher. I find it difficult to believe that you are Jewish.”
“I am, I assure you,” she said firmly, not sure whether to be annoyed, amused, or pleased. At least he was beginning to exempt her from his deplorable prejudices, to see her as a person, not just as a Jewess.
“Of course, there are exceptions to every rule,” he added, and stepped down from the carriage before she could voice an exasperated protest.
“Drat the man!” she exclaimed.
“He’s not a bad-hearted lad,” Hannah said unexpectedly. “God willing, given a chance he’ll learn not to judge people he doesn’t know.”
“Why, never say you have fallen for his pretty blue eyes, Hannah. He is a handsome fellow, is he not?”
“Handsome is as handsome does, Miss Miriam. You’ll do well to remember he’s a goy, and too young for you into the bargain.”
“Too young? I put him at just about my age.”
“And it’s an older man you need, as can control your starts. But if I’m not mistaken his lordship’s no more than four or five and twenty, though he looks older when he’s on his high ropes.”
“I bow to your judgment. His lordship is a mere stripling, young enough to learn the error of his ways.”
