by Jon Clinch
“We have no children.”
“Never mind the facts, Ebenezer. This will be a most memorable affair.”
A sniff from Scrooge. “I don’t care for fancy balls.”
“You’ve never attended one.”
“Because I don’t care for them.”
“Ebenezer.”
Scrooge puts down his pen. “The church choir is to go caroling that night. Belle would have my head.”
“Not if you bring her to the ball.”
“Then Fan would have Belle’s head.”
“Not if I bring Fan.”
Scrooge harrumphs. Not even the notion of the three of them arrayed together against his position is enough to change his mind.
Marley alters his course. “Think of the contacts we shall make,” he says. “Men of business from throughout Europe. Men involved not only in textiles but in shipping and manufacturing and wholesaling of every kind. The most wealthy and elevated in the world—and they will be ours for the acquaintance.”
The idea warms Scrooge’s heart, and he gives in.
* * *
Were the magi abroad upon this Christmas Eve, they would never find the holy child—certainly not in London, where the streets are choked with a fog thick enough to render anything from carriage to cathedral invisible at five paces. Strain as they might, Balthasar, Melchior, and Gaspar would seek illumination in vain.
Dorset Street, however, is a hard-fought exception. Down either side the lanterns burn with a ferocious festivity, lighting the way not for followers of any star but for acolytes of a different kind of gleaming majesty. The pound sterling. The piece of eight. The krone. The Hamburg mark and the mark kopparmynt. The dollar. They arrive, these believers, one by one and two by two in magnificent carriages drawn by magnificent horses, and their finery is in turn magnificence itself. One does not enter the precincts of the Huguenot silk magnates ill-clad. Especially not on Christmas Eve.
Even Scrooge & Marley have hired a carriage, an expense that pleases neither of them. It does not gleam, and the horse that draws it is swaybacked, and the driver seated on its box is hunched and grim, but a carriage it is, and it’s costing them money and they make the most of it. It is definitely superior to walking.
They draw to a stop at the curb and wait for Bernière’s footman, who is occupied with more elevated patrons than they. Belle parts the window curtain and gazes out at the brilliant throng surging in the glow of the lanterns, and a dire thought blooms in her mind. “We shall never fit in,” she says, reaching with her other hand to clutch Ebenezer’s fist.
Of the half dozen encouraging responses he could make, he utters none. He does not so much as offer a denial.
“Fear not,” Marley puts in at last. “You two ladies would be an ornament to any occasion, even one as exotic as this.”
Fan blushes in the shadowy chill of the carriage, but Belle is not encouraged.
“And I do mean ‘exotic,’ ” he adds. “No doubt many of these grandees will speak nary a word of English. That should make fitting in easier.”
“How so?” asks Fan.
“Unhindered by the handicap of words—or even accents, with which we Englishmen measure everything—we shall be on equal footing with all comers. And I put our ability to present a smile and a hand of friendship alongside that of any party on earth.”
“It’s not a competition,” says Fan.
“Everything’s a competition,” says Marley. “And even a stick in the mud like our Ebenezer can manage a smile if he must. As for the rest, leave it to me.” He gives Scrooge’s knee a little shake that’s meant to be encouraging.
Fan looks out the window and gasps. “But look at those gowns.”
“Precisely!” says Marley. “That’s exactly what those ladies will be doing—studying one another’s gowns. They’ll pay no mind to yours.”
“But—”
“Yours has the advantage of being unobtrusive.”
“No woman desires to be unobtrusive.”
“The spotlight is a demanding place, Fan. I have always found the shadows to be much more amenable. You’ll see.”
* * *
Within the palatial home of Antoine Bernière, atop a grand double staircase that unfurls itself on either side of the reception hall, a twelve-piece orchestra is playing. At the sight of them Ebenezer takes Belle’s hand and leans close to whisper in her ear. “Quite a change from that mad fiddler of Mr. Fezziwig’s!” he says. And right on cue the orchestra strikes up a rendition of “Sir Roger de Coverley,” the selfsame piece that Fezziwig’s man played on that fondly remembered Christmas Eve. The tune being that of an old country dance, a certain percentage of the foreigners do not know it and a certain percentage of the highly placed Londoners actively disdain it. The musical performance itself lacks the vigor and spark of the solo fiddler’s rendition, but despite its being overdecorated and undercooked Belle takes Ebenezer’s hand and tugs him toward the dance floor.
“You are full of surprises, Ebenezer,” she says when they’ve found their place and joined in the swirl of movement, for the skeletal Scrooge can still dance after all. He is a bit wooden, and a close observer might detect the calculations going on within his brain as the music ratchets along from one part to the next, but music is just mathematics made audible and he finds himself right at home within it. “We should have done this long ago,” she tells him, and she means it.
The dance proceeds around and around and their cheeks grow ruddy. From time to time Belle catches Fan’s eye, but instead of joining in, she and Marley linger upon the periphery. He is scanning the crowd, making calculations of his own. At one point she gives him a pleading look but he stands firm, offering by way of explanation only a small but wicked smile that suggests he’s planning something far more interesting than a mere country dance. The music concludes to a merry burst of applause and the orchestra slides into a waltz—a much-needed chance for the dancers to catch their breath, perhaps even an opportunity for the whispering of urgent secrets and tender promises—but by now Marley and Fan are off winding their way through the crowd. He travels like a huntsman, sharply vigilant, unseen unless he chooses to be, seeking some prey beyond Fan’s perception.
Just as dancers move according to fixed and long-established symmetries, so those on the periphery behave according to certain principles and patterns. They swirl, gather, separate, and coalesce again and again, following eddies and currents imperceptible to any but the most observant. Marley rapidly develops a sense for it all, detecting by signifiers as small as a woman’s sigh or a man’s wandering look which conversations might be worth joining and which are merely a waste of valuable time. He is not long in finding Bernière himself, master of the ball and founder of the feast, locked in conversation with an individual whose appearance suggests a small but ferocious animal. The fellow is sleekly groomed, his mustache clipped thin as a dueling scar and his jet-black hair greased into submission. The clothing in which he has attired himself for the evening is so understated as to be overwhelming, meticulously though invisibly tailored, with not a thread out of place. To Marley he smells of pomade and money.
Marley draws close but keeps his shoulder angled to Bernière and the elegant little animal, making small talk with Fan but listening in on their conversation. It seems that the gentleman comes from Rome, has made his fortune in the North American fur trade, and believes he knows everything. To Marley’s mind these are all excellent qualities. He adjusts his position relative to Fan and the two men and briefly fastens upon Bernière a gaze sufficiently magnetic to draw his attention.
“Marley!” says Bernière. “I am delighted you could come!”
“Bernière,” says Marley with a little bow. “Permit me to introduce Miss Scrooge.”
Fan’s smile and extended hand work as promised, but it is the little Italian upon whom they have their most profound effect. He beams, bows, awaits his turn.
“May I present Sr. Monteverdi,” says Bernière.
“Charmed,” says Fan.
“Please,” says Monteverdi, displaying his teeth. “You must call me Valentino.”
“Can it be?” says Marley. “Valentino Monteverdi? Of the fur trade?”
Monteverdi beams even more brightly, for although he warms to the subject of a beautiful woman, he warms even more to the subject of himself.
“Monteverdi in the flesh,” says Marley. “I am honored.”
The Italian nearly bursts.
“Mr. Marley is in import and export,” says Bernière.
“Transportation! It is the greatest of my expenses,” says Monteverdi. “The trappers, they ask little. The tanners, they ask less. But the men who own the boats! Such villains they are! Nothing is sufficient to fill their pocketbooks!”
“And so it is with Mr. Marley’s firm,” says Bernière. “They are the veriest predators, I assure you.”
“Now, now,” says Marley, his little smile hinting that Bernière may be correct.
“Yet you invite this, this predator into your home,” says Monteverdi.
“I am a generous man.”
“Ha-ha-ha! Too generous, I think! You must count your silver when he vacates!”
“I’ll have his partner do the counting. Scrooge has a reputation of being incapable of making a mistake, even if it would be to the firm’s advantage.”
“Scrooge?” His eyes go wide. “The lovely Miss Scrooge is this villain’s associate in business?”
“Oh no,” says Marley. “She is my companion this evening. Her brother is my partner.”
It takes Monteverdi a moment, but he catches on.
“Her considerably older brother,” adds Marley, which causes Fan to blush.
“That so lovely a creature should possess a brother of such perfect repute… it seems too marvelous.”
“Mr. Marley acts as his counterweight,” says Bernière. “It’s all we can do to escape his clutches with our skin.”
Monteverdi sweeps his little hands around to indicate the room, the house, all of it. He looks like an imported timepiece. “And yet you seem to squeak by.”
A smile of confession from Bernière.
“So it is determined, Mr. Marley,” says Monteverdi with an impish look. “We must discuss business.”
“I shall be in your office on the day after tomorrow.”
“So be it,” says Monteverdi. “And now, perhaps Miss Scrooge would favor me with a dance.”
How could she possibly refuse?
* * *
The line of carriages stretches down the block and around the corner, so rather than wait for their own to arrive, they resolve to walk to it. “I know this district well,” Marley says. “The footing will be sure and the street void of assailants, for the most part.” It is cold, though, frigid in fact, and the moisture in the air seems to have coalesced in pulsating halos around the lanterns.
Scrooge breathes deeply and coughs. On the corner is a church, its tower invisible in the darkness and fog, and at their approach its gruff old bell awakens and strikes the hour. “Merry Christmas,” says Scrooge.
“Merry Christmas,” says Belle, leaning her head upon his shoulder.
And so the greeting goes from one of them to the next as they round the corner. The new street upon which they find themselves is comparatively dim, and the buildings are closer together, but the presence of the carriages and the drivers and the stamping horses provides a certain civilizing warmth.
As the last stroke of twelve dies in the darkness overhead, Marley takes Fan’s arm and leans in. “I feared that I should never get to dance with you,” he says.
She laughs, the sound of a bell very different from that of the rusted old monstrosity in the tower. “Mr. Monteverdi was insistent.”
“And you were an excellent sport.”
“He was charming, really.”
“We ought to put you on the payroll.”
“Jacob! How dare you suggest…”
“Oh, Fan,” he says. “I don’t mean a word of it.”
Shadows pool in doorways and recesses and the mouths of alleys, and they move from the darkness cast by one carriage to the darkness cast by the next. Fan pulls herself tighter to Marley. “Where is the carriage?” she asks.
“Just ahead,” he says, as if he knows for certain.
From the shadows comes a woman’s voice. “Inspector?”
Marley winces, at least inwardly.
“Inspector Bucket, is that you?”
Marley makes no answer, biding his time.
“Inspector?”
“You’ve the wrong man,” says Scrooge.
“Yer not the one I mean,” comes the voice. “I’m speaking to yer friend.” The shape of the woman resolves from the shadows, one ghastly accusatory hand thrust toward Marley. “I’d know ye anywhere, Inspector.”
“Madam,” says Marley, “if madam you are, and not some evil spirit abroad on Christmas Eve—I assure you that I am not your Inspector… Docket.”
“Bucket,” says Mrs. McCullough.
“Bucket.”
“The girls have the night off, Inspector,” says Mrs. McCullough, stinking of gin, commencing a slow collapse back into her pile of rags and shadows. “Just so ye know.”
“We are reassured, madam.” He steps over her fallen shape and thrusts out an indicative hand of his own, joyous as the whale-spotting inhabitant of some teetering crow’s nest. “Just there, ladies. Our carriage awaits.”
And so it does, just in time.
1806
Seven
Word having arrived on December twenty-sixth that Monteverdi has given his staff their freedom until the new year—how silly of him to have forgotten! how intoxicated by the presence of the lovely Miss Scrooge he must have been!—Marley’s visit to his office has been postponed. Even the alternate date that they set proves impossible as well, since all the furnishings have been moved, and many of them discarded altogether (perhaps, imagines the resourceful Marley, to the dust pile of Mr. Wegg’s employer), so as to permit a top-to-bottom redecoration of the facilities. Everything shall be redone in marble and gold leaf and the most sumptuous of fabrics. Nothing is too elegant or too dear for Sr. Monteverdi.
Marley writes back that perhaps they should meet in a coffee shop known to him, but Monteverdi insists that the only coffee that shall pass his lips comes from a tiny Roman caffetteria just across from the Pantheon, where the water still trickles in via one of the very last functioning aqueducts. Tea, then, suggests Marley, an affront that causes Monteverdi to go silent for nearly a week. Marley stalks about, clenching his teeth the entire time. So easily could a big fish be lost.
In the end they resolve to meet within the modest premises of Scrooge & Marley.
“Welcome to our humble quarters,” says Marley as they pass through the warehouse door.
“Not so humble,” says Monteverdi, with a twist of his lips that indicates he believes the opposite. “Not so humble at all.” He is wearing the very same clothing he wore at Bernière’s Christmas Eve ball, or else an exact duplicate of it. Most likely he owns a dozen, thinks Marley, each one worth a month’s income and more.
Rather than follow his lead around the perimeter of the warehouse and directly into the office, Monteverdi begins prowling the aisles. “Hmm!” he says, and “Most interesting,” and “Just so!” He trails a stubby finger along each shelf, leaving his mark on every single thing. There is a suggestion of claiming about it that troubles Marley’s mind but not enough to ask him to stop—not now that he very nearly has him. By and by the little man comes to a bin containing a dozen magnums of tawny port, not technically the property of Scrooge & Marley but belonging instead to Marley himself, who has appropriated them from the wine merchants located in the basement of his house.
“Any good?” asks Monteverdi.
“Quite.”
Monteverdi stands on his tiptoes and levers a bottle free. He examines its label, pursing his lips and squinting. “We shall
see,” he says at last. “Let us drink to our negotiations! And then let us drink to our agreement! And finally let us drain the bottle to our mutual good health!” Off-balance and weighted down by the cumbersome thing, he scuttles off.
They must pass by Scrooge’s office to enter Marley’s, and he glances up from his ledgers to acknowledge this avid little figure.
“Sr. Monteverdi,” says Marley, “may I present Mr. Scrooge.”
Monteverdi switches the bottle to his left hand so as to greet Scrooge with his right. “I regret that we did not make the acquaintance of one another at the home of Bernière!” he says. “I did, however, discover that sister of yours!”
“Then you’ve already gotten to know the better part of the family,” says Scrooge, with a beseeching look. If Monteverdi would only release his hand, he could get back to work.
But Monteverdi is either oblivious to nuance or above it. “We shall see if you are correct!” he says. “Perhaps you are the lady’s equal! Perhaps even her superior!”
“Well…” says Scrooge.
“Time will tell!”
“I suppose it will.”
Monteverdi waves the bottle with his left hand. “Perhaps you will join us for a toast?”
Marley comes to his partner’s rescue at last. “I’m afraid Mr. Scrooge does not care to imbibe.”
“Additional for us, then!” says Monteverdi, letting go of Scrooge’s hand. And then, recovering himself and fixing a glower upon Marley, “Provided your bottle is of sufficient quality, I mean.”
“You may be the judge of that,” says Marley, ushering his victim through the door.
* * *
Monteverdi can hardly begin to estimate the number of beaver pelts waiting in his Fort Albany warehouse. Their quantity increases by the minute, he says, thanks to his close and friendly relations with trappers and Indians alike. The shipping agents that he has employed, on the other hand, are quite a different story. They have long been deep in the pockets of various French and British and American interests, each of which has been only too happy to siphon off a portion of his profit. Thieves they are, one and all, and he is counting upon Mr. Marley to deliver him from their clutches.
