by David Liss
“It is interesting that you know of my feelings for him, as we have never spoken of it.” My voice was low, steady. I could not say why I took this tack with her except that I so wanted her to be someone I might trust that I could not stanch the urge to thrust all doubt forward.
She bit her lip, caught herself, and closed her eyes briefly. “You must know, Mr. Weaver, that you are something of a public figure, among the Jews and among the English too. Your friends and relations have all been noted by the men of Grub Street. I cannot stop you from assigning sinister meaning to my visit, but I wish that you would not.”
“And why do you wish it?” I asked, somewhat softer.
She reached out once more and put her hand on my upper arm—but only for a moment. She thought better of it, of the circumstances, of where we were. “I wish it because”—she shook her head gently—“because it is what I wish. I can think of no better way to express it.”
“Miss Glade,” I said. “Celia. I know not what you are. I know not what you want of me.”
“Stop,” she said, her voice soft as a mother quieting an infant. She raised two fingers and gently brushed my lips. “I am your friend. You know as much as that. The rest is but details, and they will out in time. Not now, but in time. For this moment, you know what matters—you know the truth in your heart.”
“I want to—” I began, but again she would not have it.
“No,” she said. “We will speak of it later. Your uncle has died, and you must mourn. I did not come here to push you to anything or ask you questions or make you explain your sentiments. I came only out of respect for a man I never knew but of whom I have heard great things. And I came to offer you what I can and to tell you that you are in my heart. That is all I can do. I can only hope it is enough, and not too much, and I will leave you to your family and Portuguese friends. If you find you wish to say more—well, you may seek me in the kitchen.”
Her lips turned into a sardonic smile. She leaned forward and kissed me, soft and fleeting, upon my lips, and then turned to make her way from the alley, and I turned to watch her go.
While we had been in this conversation, the sun had emerged from a small gap in the clouds to shine down upon the very spot where the alley opened to the courtyard. As we turned we both saw a figure there, silhouetted against the sunlight—a woman, tall and finely shaped, garbed in black, her gown rippling in the growing breeze, her hair fluttering against her bonnet.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I saw you enter the alley but did not know you were not alone.”
I could not see the face, but I knew the voice at once. It was my cousin’s widow, my uncle’s erstwhile daughter-in-law, the woman I had sought to marry. It was Miriam.
HERE WAS A WOMAN who had chosen not one other man over me but two. She had rejected my proposals of marriage more times than I could count without making an effort. And yet for a moment I believed I must say something to explain what I was doing with Celia Glade, apologize, offer a false and convincing story. Then I recollected myself. I owed her no explanation.
I owed her something, however, for she had vowed never to speak to me again and yet here she was. Miriam had believed herself unequal to the task of being a thieftaker’s wife and had instead chosen to marry a Parliamentarian named Griffin Melbury and convert to the Church of England. Sadly, Melbury had been not a little involved in the scandalous affairs of the late Westminster election, and though I at first had been grudgingly inclined to accept his worthiness, his true and scurrilous nature ultimately became undeniable—to me if not to his wife. Miriam held me accountable for that man’s ruin and death, and though I had made it a policy not to accept or deny responsibility, she knew well that I did not love him and could feel no sorrow over what had befallen him.
Miss Glade, I soon realized, was ever the most useful person to have around at such awkward moments, for she did not seem to feel or fall prey to their difficulties. She stepped forward and took Miriam’s hand. “Mrs. Melbury,” she said. “I have heard so much about you. I am Celia Glade.”
What, I longed to ask, had she heard about Miriam? Unlike my dealings with my uncle, here was something that had never made the papers. Celia might tell me to trust my heart, but how could I when I could not trust its object? She knew too much of me.
Miriam took the hand briefly and half curtsied. “A pleasure,” she said. She turned to me. “I cannot attend the house. I wished only to say that I am sorry for your loss. For our loss. I did not always agree with your uncle on all things, but I knew his worth and I shall miss him. The world will miss him.”
“You are kind in your sentiments,” I told her.
“’Tis nothing but the truth.”
“And now I expect you will go back to not speaking to me,” I said, attempting some levity in my manner of speech.
“Benjamin, I—” But whatever she had to say, she now thought better of it. Instead she swallowed hard, as if forcing down her words. “That is precisely what I shall do,” she told me, and so turned away.
I remained there, watching her go, watching the space where she had stood, trying, as Celia insisted, to listen to my heart. Did I still love her? Had I ever loved her? In such moments, one begins to wonder about the nature of love, if it is real or an illusion of indulgence, of fancy and self-importance, of assigning a condition or state of being to ghostly and intangible impulses. Such musings can lead to no conclusions but only more confusion.
Celia shook her head, as though contemplating something of the greatest import, measuring the nuance in her mind, taking stock of all before making free to speak. Then she turned to me. “I believe the winter has been hard on her skin. Did you not think so?” Wisely, she departed rather than await an answer.
AT THE HOUSE, the wine poured freely, and the mourners drank freely, as has always been the custom for funerals in our community. I shook more hands than I could count; I accepted more condolences than I can remember. I heard countless stories of my uncle’s kindness, his charity, his cleverness, his resourcefulness, his good humor.
At last Mr. Franco took me aside to a corner where Elias awaited. “Tomorrow you must set aside your grief and return to Craven House.”
“Listen to him,” Elias said. “We discussed this together. Neither of us wishes to appear to act out of self-interest. I, for one, would applaud your defying Cobb and telling him to go to the devil. I’ve been arrested for debt before and one more time shan’t hurt me, but I believe this conflict has escalated. Great and unforgivable harm has now been done, and telling Cobb to go to the devil may bring you satisfaction but it cannot bring you revenge.”
“You can strike back,” Franco said, “only by discovering what he wants, by following the trail he sets out for you, by making him believe his designs are within reach of completion and then taking everything away. Like Mr. Gordon, I should go to prison with a heart full of gladness if I believed it would accomplish some good, but it can only mean the delay of Cobb’s goals, not his destruction.”
I nodded. I wished to defy Cobb, to beat him, to put a blade in his back, but my friends had seen through the murk of my anger and gone to the heart of the matter. I had to destroy him for this, and I could do it only by learning what he wanted.
“I shall make myself available to your aunt,” Franco said. “I live in retirement, and I have no other duties. I will make certain she wants for nothing, Mr. Weaver. And she has a dozen friends and more, people who know nothing of these events, who are willing to do the same out of love. You may wish to be here, but you do not need to be here.”
“I know you are right,” I said, “and I would do what you say, but I fear the sadness it will engender. How must my aunt feel when I abandon her in this dark hour?”
The two men exchanged looks. Then it was Mr. Franco who spoke. “You must know that in this we follow the lady’s instructions. She approached me and bade me tell you as much. Seek revenge, therefore, not for your sake or ours but because the grieving widow asks
you to do it.”
IT WAS NEAR MIDNIGHT when I made to leave the house. Some of my aunt’s friends had agreed to spend the night, even though she told them she did not require it. It was time, she said, to learn to live alone. She must spend the rest of her life in such a state.
Other than these friends, I was the last to remain, and so at last I arose to kiss and hug the lady and take my leave. She walked me to the door, and though her face was drawn and her eyes red from tears, I saw in her a determination I had never before observed.
“For now,” she said, “Joseph will order the operations of the warehouse. For now.”
I feared I understood her meaning only too well. “My dear aunt, I am unequal to the task—”
She shook her head and attempted a sad imitation of a smile. “No, Benjamin. I am not your uncle, to ask you to do what is not in your nature. Out of love he wanted to make you something you are not. Out of love, I will not ask it. Joseph will manage while I mourn. Then I will handle the business myself.”
“You?” I spoke louder, faster than I had intended, but I could not contain my shock.
Again, another pale smile. “You are so like him. When he discussed what would happen after he was gone, he spoke of you, he spoke of Joseph, he spoke of José. Never once did he speak of me. I come from Amsterdam, Benjamin, where there are many women of business.”
“Dutch women,” I observed. “There are no Jewesses of business.”
“No,” she agreed, “but this is a new land, a different time. To Miguel, to the world, to you, Benjamin, I have been all but invisible because I am a woman. But now he is gone, and there is no one to obscure your view of me. Perhaps you will discover me to be something other than what you have supposed all your life.”
I returned her smile. “Perhaps I will.”
“Mr. Franco and Mr. Gordon spoke to you?”
“They did.”
“Good.” She nodded heavily, thoughtfully, as though completing an idea in the privacy of her mind. “You can do what you must? You can go back to this man, this Cobb, and do as he asks long enough to learn of his designs?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know that I can contain my anger.”
“You must,” she said softly. “To hurt him is not enough, you must do more. You must take your anger and separate it from yourself. You must place it in a closet and shut the door.”
“And when the time is right, open it,” I said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But only when the time is right.” Then, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “You’ve been a good nephew today—to me and to Miguel. Tomorrow you must be a good man. This Jerome Cobb destroyed your uncle. I want you to destroy him in return.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WOULD HAVE SPENT ANOTHER RESTLESS NIGHT, BUT FOR THE exhaustion that so encumbered me it felt near a palpable burden. Somehow, as the day progressed, I had moved beyond grief and sadness and anger into a numb dispassion. I would wake up on the morrow, and my life must continue, much as it had been before. I would have to return to Craven House, I would have to speak with Cobb, and I would have to continue to do his bidding and to work against him.
And so, the next morning, I prepared myself to do all of these. Sleep had returned some blood to my sadness, but I thought too of my aunt, of her strength and iron determination to come out from my uncle’s shadow. She would manage the business, she said, and she appeared as willing to manage me and offer me direction as my uncle Miguel had. I could not but honor that fortitude and attempt to emulate it.
I therefore cleaned myself at my washbasin, dressed, and took myself to Cobb’s house, arriving there shortly after the clock had struck seven. I did not know if I should find him awake or not, but I would find his bedroom and wake him myself if necessary. Edgar answered the door, now deferential and distant. He would not meet my eye, and I believe he understood that on this day, on this occasion, he must offer me no resistance.
“Mr. Cobb has anticipated your visit. He is in the parlor.”
So I found him. He rose when I entered and took my hand as though we were old friends. Indeed, from the look upon his face a stranger would think that it had been his family to suffer a loss and I merely paying a consolation visit.
“Mr. Weaver,” he began, in a tremulous voice, “allow me to say how very sorry I am to hear of your uncle’s death. It is a tragic thing, though of course pleurisy is a terrible business, and a physician can do so little.”
He made a few more noises, inchoate words, but ultimately he said no more. I believe I understood his struggle. He wished to articulate the idea that my uncle had died of his illness, rather than from any distress caused by his debts. However, he must know the act of making this observation would almost certainly anger me, and he could not bring himself to speak further.
“You wish to avoid all responsibility,” I said.
“I only mean to say that no one thing …” He stopped there, not knowing how to proceed.
“I shall tell you what I have considered, Mr. Cobb. I’ve considered telling you to go to the devil and allowing the consequences to fall as they might. I have considered killing you, sir, which I believe would release me of any further obligation to you.”
“I have taken measures, you must know, that should anything befall me—”
I held up a silencing hand. “I have not chosen that option. I shall only tell you to release my aunt from the burdens under which my uncle suffered. If you cancel those debts, return to her the goods withheld from my uncle, and do not force that lady, in her grief, to meet the demands of rapacious creditors, we can continue as before.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, at last, he nodded. “I cannot do what you ask,” he said, “but I can stay hands, sir. I can hold back the tide of collection and make certain the creditors do not trouble her until, let us say, after the meeting of the Court of Proprietors. If we are satisfied with your work to that point, we shall release the lady, and only the lady, from those confines. If not, there can be no call for lenience.”
In truth, it was a better arrangement than I anticipated, so I nodded my assent.
“While you are here,” Cobb said, “have you any news to report? Any progress?”
“Do not tempt me, sir,” I said, taking my leave at once.
AT CRAVEN HOUSE, the men with whom I worked, including Mr. Ellershaw, were polite and deferential upon first seeing me, but, as is the way with such places, they soon forgot my grief, and matters had returned much to their usual courses by the end of the day. I had occasion to pass Aadil several times, and he grunted his usual sullen comments at me, and I responded much as I always did. He had cause to believe I did not suspect him in the theft of my notes, and I saw no need to yield the one advantage I might have over him. Indeed, before long, I found myself settling into my usual suspicion of him, thinking of him not too differently than I did before the phaeton race.
Yet there was a difference, for he remained for me a constant reminder of the many difficulties I faced and the burdens under which I labored, and this spurred me from my malaise and toward action. I might lament my uncle’s passing in private moments, but I had much work to do in the service of the living, and the recollection of my aunt’s fortitude and determination drove me onward.
Toward the end of the day, I contrived an excuse to pay a visit to Mr. Blackburn’s office. I was curious as to what, if anything, he would recall of the intelligence he had given me, and if he believed he had cause to resent my usage. To my great surprise, I found him not at work but rather collecting his private effects and ordering his space.
“Mr. Blackburn,” I said, getting his attention, “what happens here?”
“What happens,” he said, in an uneven voice, “is that I have been dismissed. After my many years of faithful service, they have chosen to send me on my way.”
“But whatever for?”
“They claim, sir, that my services are not equal to the payment I have been used
to receiving. That I must leave, for they would not have a man who believes himself worth more than he is earning, nor should they pay him more than he is worth. And with that, I am gone by day’s end.”
“I am full of regret for you,” I said. “I know how much you value your place.”
He approached now, keeping his eyes and his voice low. “You have not said anything of our conversation? You told no one we spoke?”
“I have not. I would not betray you in that way.”
“It is no matter. I believe we were watched. I believe they saw us together at the tavern, so I am to be set upon my way.”
“I am very sorry.”
“I am sorry for it too. I ought not to have been seen with you,” he said, though utterly without resentment. He did not seem to blame me but rather to regard the mistake as his own, as though he had taken a foolish jump upon a horse and hurt himself accordingly.
“I regret being the cause of mischief for you,” I said. It was true enough, though I refrained to add that he ought to count himself lucky that he was only deprived of his place and not his life, like the other unfortunates who had come to harm through my efforts to learn from them.
He shook his head. “Yes, I regret it. I regret that the Company shall come to ruin without me. Where, sir, shall they find a man of my talents? Where?”
I had no answer, and neither did Mr. Blackburn, who had begun to shed tears of grief.
“If there is anything I can do to aid you, sir,” I said, “do not hesitate to call upon me.”
“No one can aid me now,” he lamented. “I am a clerk without a position. I am like a ghost, sir. A living ghost, left to wander the earth without purpose or pleasure.”
