A Conspiracy of Paper (44 page)

That Deloney did not disagree told me I had guessed correctly.

“You knew the stock was false when you sold it to Miriam, did you not?” I announced, testing my theory by speaking it aloud. “You knew it was as false as those foolish projects that you concocted at your own escritoire. Miriam gave you six hundred pounds, even though you were aware that she needed this money in order to establish her own household.”

Deloney tried to move backward, but there was nowhere to go. “She could have sold the stocks herself. The fact that they were false did not undo their value.”

I leaned closer to him. “Martin Rochester killed my father, and he killed a woman I had sought to protect. If you know something of who he is or where I might find him, you had better tell me now. If you hold back any information, I swear to you that I shall seek my vengeance upon you as ruthlessly as I do upon him.”

“I tell you I don’t know,” he almost squealed. “If I knew how to find him, would I have been chasing after messenger boys at Jonathan’s?”

It was true that Deloney had been desperate to find Rochester and had no more idea how to do so than I did. There was nothing more to be gained from this man. It was only my desire to assert my manhood before Miriam that made me humiliate him once more. I took a step back, drew my hangar, and pointed the blade to his throat. “Return to me the two guineas I lent you in good faith.”

I saw at once that he opened his mouth to utter a lie, but he checked it. With trembling hands he reached into his purse and procured the coins, which, with great difficulty, he set upon the table.

I sheathed my weapon. “Go. And do not let me, or anyone of my family, see you no more.”

Deloney dared not even look at Miriam, but as though his legs had turned into puddings, he walked toward the door, opened it, and was gone.

I closed the door and turned to Miriam. She had seated herself, and she had buried her face in her hands. At first I thought she wept, but I suppose she sensed my gaze upon her and she looked up at me. Her face showed confusion, anger, perhaps even shame, but she shed no tears.

I pulled a chair over to her. “Why did you come here tonight?” I asked as gently as I could.

“What business have you to demand that of me?” she snapped, but she soon decided her anger was misplaced. She took a breath and straightened her posture. “I wanted to know the truth. I wanted to learn what you wished to learn—if he had deceived me knowingly, if he had been in league with this Rochester. I suppose I should not have learned the truth had you not arrived.”

“It is the nature of a man like Deloney to lie. He is naught but deception and foolish greed.”

Miriam, to my dismay, understood the insult I had intended, but she did not bristle at it. “Please understand, Benjamin, that when you are trapped, when a person is trapped, any escape seems so much like a good one. I know it was foolish of me to trust him, but our association gave me pleasure, made me feel free. I had command over something in my life.”

“Would you have felt free had he lodged his child in your belly?” I asked pointedly.

Miriam gasped. Her head snapped back. “How dare you make such an accusation?”

“I accuse you of nothing, but I am not unfamiliar with the ways of such men as Deloney.”

“Or of widows such as myself?” she demanded.

“I apologize,” I said, though my words dropped from my mouth with leaden thickness. “It is no place of mine to dictate your behavior. Soon you will be your own mistress, and you will be able to make any decisions you see fit.” The thought sat with me rather ill, however, for I had little faith, based on the decision I had seen, that Miriam would prove skillful at managing her affairs.

Miriam raised her eyebrows slightly. She appeared to sense my thoughts. “You need not worry about me selling my little fortune to the first gentleman who comes along. I am not interested in marrying any such grasping fools. I do not suppose the man I should like to marry exists.”

I took a deep breath. “Perhaps the man you seek is one who knows both the ways of our people and the ways of the English. Someone who can help guide you into English society while protecting you from its evils and excesses.” My heart raced in the silence that followed my speech.

Miriam looked nervously at her hands. “I cannot imagine where I might find such a man,” she said quickly, “and I cannot believe you can tell me.”

“I can,” I said softly, “for he sits before you.” I own that my voice trembled as I spoke.

She stared at me as though it had never occurred to her that I would say such a thing, though I had flattered myself that I had only said as much as she expected. She rose to her feet, attempting to order her thoughts. At last she stood and offered me a nervous smile. “I think it best that we both pretend this conversation never took place. We should return to your uncle’s house.”

I stood and faced her manfully. “Miriam, if I have offended you—”

She met my gaze with more boldness and assurance than I would have expected. “Offense is not important,” she told me, her voice hardly more than a whisper. I listened to her words, but my eye fixed upon the sweet smile of her lips. “You must know that I like you prodigiously. I admire you, and I think you a very worthy man, but you cannot imagine for an instant that I could learn to endure what you offer. At South Sea House, they spoke of a man you had killed, and here tonight you spoke of a woman who died under your protection. You removed your blade and held it to Philip’s throat as though you had done so a thousand times, and as though you could kill him and think nothing of it.” She could not meet my gaze. “I am not the woman for you, Benjamin.”

I could say nothing. There were no words with which I could counter this too-just complaint. We had been born of the same station, but my decisions had placed me far below this woman. I had made my own way, and because I could not undo what I had done, I could only act in accordance with the life I had chosen.

I leaned toward Miriam and kissed her gently upon the lips.

The moment dazzled me. She did not move—either away from me or toward me—but she closed her eyes and kissed me back. I smelled nothing but the dizzy mingling of her sweet breath and her floral perfume. I had never kissed a woman such as she—a woman of wealth and station and intelligence and wit. It was a kiss that made me hungry for more.

I pressed forward, and in doing so broke the spell. Miriam opened her eyes and pulled away from me, backing up only a few small steps, but enough to impose a wall of awkward space between us. I know not how long we stood there, saying nothing, I looking upon her, she upon me. I heard only the sound of footsteps in the hall and my own deep breathing.

“My uncle has offered me a position,” I said. “I could trade in the Levant. I could be something other than a man you fear. If I made a mistake when I left my father’s house, I can right that error.”

Miriam let out a slight gasp—almost inaudible, and sounding as though she had choked upon the air. Her eyes moistened; they clouded over like windows in a rainstorm. She blinked and blinked, trying to make her tears disappear, but the tears betrayed her and trickled down her face. “It cannot be.” She shook her head only slightly. “I do not wish to marry Aaron once more. I could not bear to see you try to become him for my sake. I should only hate myself.” She wiped at the tears with her fingers. “I should come to hate you too.” She attempted a smile, but it failed her, and instead she turned from me and opened the door.

I could not call after her. I could not move to hold her back. I had no argument with which to refute what she said. I had only the passions of my heart, and I knew that for the world, and for Miriam, these were not enough. I watched her descend the stairs and hand the tapman a coin to procure her a hackney.

With nothing else to do, I rang the bell and called for a bottle of wine, which I used to wash away the taste of Miriam’s lips.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
my head and heart ached with equal urgency, but such pain only made me wish for distractions.

I made my way once more to Bloathwait’s town house, determined this time I would speak with him whether he would or no. I waited at the door for several minutes before his scruffy servant appeared. He glanced at me, by now familiar with a face he had denied a half-dozen times. “Mr. Bloathwait is not in,” he said.

“Did not Mr. Bloathwait inform you that he was always to be in for me?” I inquired, as I pushed past him. “I think you will find yourself to be glad I did not take your denial to heart.”

I moved forward at a steady and only slightly hurried pace, but this servant rushed to move before me and block my path. I would have none of it, and shoved him aside, this time with a small measure of violence, knocking him slightly against the wall. I suffered no more interference and made my way to Bloathwait’s study. I knocked once and then opened the door to find the man at his desk with his shaved head exposed. His wig hung on a hook behind him, and his pale and beveined head bobbed up and down as he wrote furiously upon a piece of paper.

“Weaver.” He looked up, and then returned to his writing. “Forced your way in, did you?”

“Yes,” I said. I reached his desk and stood there, not taking a seat.

Bloathwait looked up once more, and this time he set aside his quill. “You’ll not get far if you allow servants and little men to block your path. I hope you didn’t hurt poor Andrew too much, but if you had to, do not trouble yourself about it.”

“Do you mean to say,” I nearly stammered, “that you had your servant deny me in the expectation that I would force my way in to see you?”

“Not the expectation, but certainly the hope. I make it my business to know what sort of men I’m dealing with. Now, please stop standing before me. You look as eager as a hunting dog. Sit down and tell me what you have to say for yourself.”

A little stunned, I sat down. “You have not been entirely honest with me, Mr. Bloathwait,” I began.

He shrugged.

I took that as permission to continue. “It has come to my attention that before he died, my father sent some sort of message to you. I wish to know the content of that message. I also wish to know why you withheld this contact from me.”

Bloathwait’s tiny mouth pouted. I could not say if he smiled or frowned. “How did you learn of the message?”

“From the messenger.”

He nodded. “The note contained some information that he believed could do a great injury to the South Sea Company. He proposed we set aside our differences in order to bring this information to light.”

“The information being the existence of forged South Sea issues?”

“Of course.”

I dug my fingernails into my palms. “You knew of the forged stock from the beginning, but you said nothing to me. You offered to share with me any knowledge you might have, and yet you kept this from me. Why?”

Bloathwait merely smiled. “I thought it in my best interest to do so.”

“Mr. Bloathwait, I have only recently had a very distressing encounter at South Sea House, where their agents sought to convince me that any suspicions I might have of that Company are fabricated by their enemies: the Bank of England, and no doubt you in particular. I find their claims very disturbing, sir, and your reluctance to share information with me makes their claims even more disturbing. So, again, I must ask you about your reluctance to share information with me.”

“I admit I was not entirely forthright with you, Mr. Weaver. I told you that I would give you any information to aid in your inquiry. Such was clearly not the case. You have found me out. I have given you what information I have wanted you to have and no more.”

“But why?” I demanded. “Do you want the South Sea Company exposed or no?”

“Oh, I do. I do indeed. But in my own way, sir. On my own schedule.”

I was silent for a moment as I considered the consequences of using violence against a man of Bloathwait’s stature. “I wish to see the message you received of my father.”

“I am afraid that is not possible. I have destroyed it.”

“Then I wish for you to tell me, as nearly as you can recall, what it said.”

He showed me a tight-lipped smile. “Your question suggests that you have your own suspicions of what it said. Perhaps you should tell me.”

I sucked in a breath of air. “I believe,” I said, attempting to keep my voice from wavering, “that there is only one reason why my father would have contacted you after so many years—after all the unpleasantness that passed between you. He believed himself to be in some danger, and he sought your help because those who threatened him were the enemies of the Bank of England. Thus by helping you he might have secured his own protection.”

“Very clever. You have guessed the nature of the message precisely.”

“And what assistance did you offer?” I breathed.

“Alas,” Bloathwait said, his face a mockery of contrition, “I had scarcely time to contemplate the import of your father’s message before his horrific fate befell him.”

I rose to my feet. I understood that I had as much information as I would receive of Bloathwait, and I believed I understood why he told me what he did and told me no more. I turned then to exit the room, but I briefly stopped myself and looked back. “I am most curious,” I said, “about the nature of your relationship with Mr. Sarmento.”

Bloathwait let out another laugh. “Sarmento.” He said the name as though it were the first word of a poem. He then picked up his pen. “My relationship with Sarmento is much like my relationship with you, sir.” He stared at me for a moment before continuing. “That is to say, he does what I wish of him. Good day to you.”

Bloathwait returned to writing, and I walked from his study knowing that I would need to do so immediately if I was to escape without harming him.

THIRTY

I
T WAS FRIDAY AFTERNOON
, and my uncle had returned from his warehouse early. I met him in the parlor and joined him in a glass of Madeira. The wine helped calm me after my meeting with Bloathwait, and it also gave me courage to ask my uncle uncomfortable questions. He had been kind to me, given me a home, offered me funds, and aided my inquiry. But I still did not know that I could trust him, nor understand why he kept information from me, or even what his motives were.

“Before he died,” I began, “my father contacted Bloathwait. Did you know that, sir?”

I looked him straight in his eye, for if he wished to lie to me, I would make that lie as difficult as I might. I watched his face, and I saw his discomfort. He shifted his eyes, as though to move them away, but I kept my gaze clenched. I would not free him from my scrutiny.

He said nothing.

“You knew,” I said.

He nodded.

“You knew what Bloathwait had been to him, to my family. You saw this notorious villain at my father’s funeral. And yet you said nothing to me. I must know why.”

My uncle took a long time to respond. “Benjamin,” he began, “you are used to saying what you wish, to being afraid of no one. In the world in which you live, you have no one to fear. That is not true for me. My home, my business, everything I have—it can all be taken away if I anger the wrong men. Were you to come into business with me, you would find yourself a rich man, but you would also understand the dangers of being a rich Jew in this country. We cannot own property, we cannot engage in certain kinds of business. For centuries they have herded us into dealing with their money for them, and they have hated us for doing what they permitted.”

“But what have you to fear?”

“Everything. I am no more dishonest than any other English merchant. I bring in a few contraband cloths from France, I sometimes sell them through sullied channels. It is what a man must do, but any public exposure of my dealings would prove a danger to this family and to our community here.” He let out a sigh. “I said nothing about Bloathwait because I feared his anger.”

He could not quite look at me. I hardly knew how to respond. “But,” I said at last, “you told me you wished me to learn the truth about my father’s death.”

“I did,” he said anxiously. “I do. Benjamin, Mr. Bloathwait did not have your father killed, but I know what kind of a man he is—vengeful, single-minded. I wanted nothing so much as that you should stay away from him, to find out who did this without crossing his path.”

“And what about Adelman? Do you not speak ill of him because you fear him as well?”

“I must be careful of these men. Surely you see that. Yet I must do justice for Samuel, too. I know you must think me a coward, but I must balance myself like a ropedancer. I want only what is right, and I shall do what I can to see that Samuel’s killers are punished. If I must appear to you and all the world a coward to do so, then so be it. I know no other way.”

There was a strange dignity in his cowardice that I could not deny. My uncle was not someone I could strive to be like, but I believed I understood him.

“Between us, then,” I said, “for I believe you know you can trust me. What do you think of Adelman? Of the South Sea Company?”

He shook his head. “I no longer know. Once I thought Adelman was a man of honor, but these schemes of his seem to preclude all honor. Tell me what you think.”

“What I think? I think that Adelman wishes me to believe that all of this villainy is a hoax perpetrated by Bloathwait. I believe that Bloathwait tells me only what he wishes me to know so that I shall investigate the South Sea further.”

“Because the inquiry itself, not necessarily the truth, injures the Company?”

“Precisely. Bloathwait has been arranging that I obtain just enough information to keep me interested. I would not be surprised if the pamphlet you gave me was a forgery.”

“It was no forgery,” my uncle assured me. “I know Samuel’s hand.”

“Let me ask you something else,” I pressed on, hoping that by involving him I might make him feel more at ease. “Sarmento—did you know that he has dealings with Bloathwait?”

My uncle laughed. “Of course. The world knows that. Bloathwait has hired him to keep an eye on Adelman, but Sarmento is so very poor at subtlety, one would need to be a fool not to see it.”

“Then why does Bloathwait continue to employ his services?”

“Because,” he said with a grin, “if Adelman is watching Sarmento watching him, then perhaps he is not watching someone else. Even if Bloathwait has no one else, Sarmento, for all his ineptitude, is a reminder of Bloathwait’s presence.”

We both sipped at our wine and said nothing for some long minutes. I could not guess what my uncle felt. I suppose I could hardly guess what I felt.

“How will you feel if this inquiry comes to nothing?” he asked. “If you never discover who did these things, or even if they were done?”

“A man must fail sometimes,” I said. “And my enemies here are formidable. I would not choose to fail, but if I do, I must not despair.”

“Have you given any more thought to my offer?” he asked quietly.

I considered how to respond for some time. My uncle, as near as I could tell, had acquitted himself of all villainy in the matter of the conspiracy surrounding my father’s death. He had not sufficiently acquitted himself in the matter of Miriam’s fortune, so I pressed him.

“Let us say that I took you up on your offer, Uncle, and that I married Miriam. What if something were to happen to me? What should become of Miriam?”

My uncle braced himself. It had simply been a question, but it made him think of the loss of his son. Perhaps I had been in error even to suggest such a thing.

“I understand why you might have such a concern. It is only right of you to think of such things, but Miriam has always been welcome in my home.”

“But should she not be sufficient in herself? And what of you? If you were to lose a ship full of goods, surely that would prove disastrous to your finances.”

“It would prove disastrous in many ways, but not to my finances. I always insure my shipments against such damages that in the event of tragedy, as much as one suffers, one does not suffer ruin.” He set down his wine. “You wish to know what happened to Miriam’s fortune.” There was a coolness in his voice I had not heard since he and I had set upon this inquiry. “You wish to know how many coins shall land in your pocket should you marry her.”

“No,” I said quickly. “You misunderstand me. I am sorry I did not pay you the courtesy of being plain. I wish to know what happened to Miriam’s money for her sake, not for mine.”

“For her sake?” he asked. “Why, I have it. It shall be hers again should she remarry.”

“And should she not?”

He laughed. “Then, I shall hold it for her for as long as she resides in my house. Should she remain unmarried at the time of my death, I have arranged that it should be held in trust.”

“But why do you not give it to her?” I asked.

He shook his head. “The money is no longer truly hers, except in spirit. Aaron invested in the trade, and when his ship was lost, I received the payment of the insurance. It becomes so hard to tell whose money belongs to whom. But Miriam shall never want for anything as long as she stays in my protection or marries a man of whom I approve.”

“And what if she does not wish your protection,” I continued, “or wishes to marry a man of whom you do not approve?”

“Do you think I have been sinister, Benjamin? That I have robbed the wife of my own son for the benefit of a few thousand pounds?” To my relief there was no indignation in his voice. He believed himself so free of ill motives that he could not take such suspicions seriously.

I took it seriously, however. For he was guilty, but not of malice. “I do not believe you have taken anything with ill intent,” I said. “I believe you have presumed to speak for Miriam.”

“And now you do?” Now his voice grew hot again. I had touched upon something.

“I would never do so,” I said, “but I feared you would not listen to her words. I thought perhaps you might listen to mine.”

“It is foolish for her to want such a thing,” my uncle told me. “Miriam has lived in my home for a very long time,” he said. “If I have done anything she has not liked, I have done it in the name of her greater good.”

“How can you decide such a thing for Miriam?” I asked. “Have you never consulted with her?”

“It is foolishness to consult with women in these matters,” he replied. “You saw that I withheld Miriam’s money and you thought I did so out of greed? I am shocked, Benjamin. Perhaps now you will accuse me of being illiberal, but I have seen women bring estates to ruin many a time, and I only wish to preserve for Miriam a fortune that should be hers and her children’s. Left to her own devices, she would squander her money upon gowns and equipages and expensive entertainments. Women cannot be entrusted with these matters.”

I shook my head. I felt as though he had surely never met his daughter-in-law to say such things about her. “Some women may be thus, but surely not Miriam.”

He laughed softly. “When you have your own wife, your own children, we may again have this conversation.” He rose and left the room. I could hardly tell if he had dismissed me or yielded.

M
Y UNCLE ASKED NOTHING
of me, for he had promised he would ask nothing, but I understood that he would have preferred for me to suspend my inquiry for the Sabbath. I did so in order to show respect for his house and also because I needed some time to consider all that had happened. He said nothing to me of our conversation about Miriam, and I said nothing to him. I had not the heart to bring up a matter of conflict with him. Not yet, at least. It was strange for me to think that I had come into my uncle’s house in the hopes that he would be the man that my father had never been. I suppose I had expected too much of him—that is to say, I had expected he would think like me on all accounts. I took some comfort, however, in the knowledge that he withheld money from Miriam not out of villainy but out of a prejudice against her sex.

For our Friday-night meal, my uncle wisely chose to invite neither Adelman or Sarmento, but he did invite a neighboring family—a married couple of about my uncle and aunt’s age and their son and his wife. I was pleased for the company, for it was a much-needed distraction and the presence of the women relieved me of the uncomfortable burden of attempting conversation with Miriam.

After prayer at the synagogue the next day, I once again found myself in conversation with Abraham Mendes. It was so strange to me that this man who appeared nothing but a mindless ruffian when with his master, Jonathan Wild, could prove himself socially competent in other circumstances. To my surprise, I felt something like pleasure when I saw him approach.

Mendes and I exchanged the traditional Sabbath greeting. He inquired after the health of my family, and then turned his attention to me. “How does your inquiry progress, if I may ask?”

“Does it not violate the law of God to discuss such matters on the Sabbath?” I inquired.

“It does,” he agreed, “but so does theft, so I think it best not to pick over our sins.”

“The inquiry goes badly,” I muttered. “And even if you care not about disturbing the Lord, you might care about disturbing me. I am in no mood to discuss the matter.”

“Very well.” He smiled. “But if you like, I might mention your difficulties to Mr. Wild. Perhaps he might offer some assistance.”

“You will do nothing of the kind. Mendes, I am not entirely convinced of the scope of your villainy, but I have no uncertainty about your master. You will please not mention my name to him.”

Mendes bowed and departed.

Once back at my uncle’s house, I again found myself avoiding Miriam. She and I had gone to great lengths to elude one another since our unfortunate conversation. On Saturday, after synagogue, Miriam announced she had a headache and spent the rest of the day in her room. I cannot claim I was anything but relieved.

That night, as I climbed the stairs, I found her hovering in the hall, just outside her door. She was waiting for me.

“Benjamin,” she said softly. My uncle and aunt were asleep one flight upward. Our voices would carry if we were not careful.

I could not think if I should take a step toward her or away. It seemed foolish to remain still, but for the moment it was easier than making a decision.

“There’s something I want to say to you,” she whispered, almost inaudibly.

I moved forward, hand outstretched. She backed up a step. “It’s about your father.”

This pronouncement stopped me in my tracks. My limbs tingled. I had been through too much not to be terrified by that pronouncement. “What is it?”

“There is something I want to say—something I think you should hear. Your father—” She paused, pressed her lips together, and sucked in air through her nose like a sailor filling his lungs before diving into the sea. “Your father was not a nice man.”

I almost laughed—indeed I should have cackled if I had not been so confused. “I believe I knew that.”

She bit her lip. “You don’t understand. You told me once that you feel guilt, you feel remorse, you feel as though you have made mistakes. Maybe you should feel those things; maybe you did err horribly when you ran away and even more so when you didn’t return. But that does not mean you were in the wrong—at least not entirely. You may blame yourself if you wish, but you must blame him, too.”

I shook my head over and over again, only partially aware that I was doing so.

“Your father knew where you were. He had only to read the papers to see where you fought. He could have gone to you, and he didn’t. He didn’t because he knew not how to be kind. I have seen him with your brother, and he was no warmer to José than he was with you—only more satisfied. Your memories of him are not a fabrication—they are the truth. Perhaps the qualities that made him a good businessman made him a poor father. But I think . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “You have too many regrets,” she said. “More than you ought.”