Miss Jacobson's Journey (12 page)

With a smile she gave her permission, trying to read the welter of confused emotions on his face. At least Isaac seemed to have shaken his certitude of his own righteousness.

As the door closed behind him, Isaac remarked, “Somehow the English aristocrat is never too purse-pinched to stock his cellar.”

“I hope he has sufficient funds, and sufficient French. It’s a pity he doesn’t enjoy his work, but your arguments made him think.” Impulsively she reached out her hand to him and he took it in a warm clasp. “Thank you for not losing your temper with him.”

His grip tightened. “You are fond of him, are you not?”

“Yes. Right from the moment I first saw him he reminded me of the brother of one of my school friends.” But it was not as a brother she regarded Felix. An association of ideas sent a tingling rush of sensation up her arm from the hand that lay in Isaac’s. Caught by his dark, burning gaze, she knew for a triumphant instant that he was indeed jealous. The tingling penetrated deep within her.

Panicking, she tried to free her hand. He let go without comment.

She picked up her fork and poked at the piece of tart on her plate. Her voice sounded unnatural to her own ears as she asked, “Do you enjoy working for Nathan Rothschild?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I didn’t fully realize it until you started questioning my regret at giving up the scholarly life, but I enjoy being out and about in the world. If I had my choice, I should join the struggle for the full emancipation of English Jews, for the right to vote and to stand for election-- and equally for the rights of Catholics and Dissenters.”

“And women?”

He laughed. “And women. I had never considered it before, but then I never before knew a woman like you.”

Feeling the red tide rising in her cheeks, she concentrated on finishing the apricot tart. “This is delicious,” she muttered. She was annoyed with herself for letting him put her out of countenance.

In all her travels, she had never before known a man like Isaac. Nor one like Felix, who returned at that moment, jubilant, with three bottles of cognac gripped by the necks in each hand.

“A real bargain,” he announced. “The town of Cognac is quite nearby and Angoulême is the centre for the brandy trade. At least, I think that’s what he said. Isaac, you haven’t tried it yet? Miriam, you must taste a drop.”

He put down his half-dozen on the table, picked up the opened bottle, and poured the amber nectar. Hannah shook her head when he offered her a glass. She frowned at her mistress, but Miriam was too delighted by Felix’s good humour to refuse.

He stood at his place and raised his glass in a carefully worded toast. “To France, and may Wellington soon drive out the Corsican usurper.”

“
L’chayim!”
Isaac took a sip of cognac.

“What does that mean?” Felix asked, curious but with a hint of suspicion.

“To Life. L’chayim!” Miriam took a swallow. “Aaargh...gh...gh...” Her throat was on fire. She gasped for breath, choked. Tears started from her eyes and her face flamed.

Isaac put a glass of water into her hand. She gulped from it, spluttering, feeling a fool.

Hannah was at her side, patting and soothing. “Better come upstairs, Miss Miriam. God never meant for females to drink spirits. Distilled sunshine indeed!” She snorted in disgust.

Miriam rose unsteadily to her feet. Blinking the tears away, she saw Isaac and Felix exchange a grin--the wretches were laughing at her! Very much on her dignity, she wished them good night.

As Hannah closed the door behind her, she heard Isaac say, “Like mistress, like maid,” and she remembered Hannah choking over a glass of wine at Blois.

Felix guffawed. Her embarrassment appeared to have sealed the peace between the odious pair.

 Chapter 11

 Nursing a headache, Isaac squinted against the brightness of the warm southern sunshine. Ahead, the road from Angoulême to Bordeaux wound between endless vineyards. Diagonal rows of stumpy plants cross-hatched every hillside, hazed with the tender green of new shoots and leaves and tendrils. Between the rows flocks of grey and white geese with orange bills honked and cackled, fattening on weeds and snails.

Isaac winced as the sound of Miriam’s gay laughter floated from the open windows of the berline behind him. He wondered how Felix contrived to be so entertaining after the quantity of cognac he had consumed last night.

He had been lively company last night, too, after the women had retired. Once his prejudices were set aside, his pomposity abandoned, he was an agreeable fellow. Isaac was glad the feud between them appeared to be over. It had been an uncomfortable situation, disquieting even--since they were forced to rely on each other in enemy territory, as Miriam had pointed out with her usual good sense.

She laughed again, a bubbling wellspring of mirth. Isaac sternly suppressed a surge of jealousy.

She had rejected him once, when he was a wealthy suitor approved by her parents. Now he was a mere bank employee, while she was still heir to Aaron Jacobson’s vast fortune, despite her present shabbiness. He could not help admiring her compassion for the sick, her friendliness, her independent spirit and enquiring mind. To allow himself to dwell on the beauty that shone through the shabbiness must inevitably lead to heartbreak.

Did she know that her touch, her glance, the very sight of her made him burn with desire? He prayed his self-control had hidden his feelings from her. A second rejection would destroy him.

Again the sound of merriment floated to his ears. Felix was amusing, handsome, titled, and she had admitted to being fond of him. Struggling with waves of jealousy, Isaac reminded himself that Felix was also impoverished, and a Gentile. Though he seemed to be overcoming his distrust, he’d never consider marrying a Jewess--but if he did, would Miriam accept? They had only known each other a few days, yet circumstances had brought greater intimacy than weeks of normal social intercourse, time enough to fall in love as Isaac knew all too well.

His mind occupied with gloomy, and futile, speculation, he was taken by surprise when a flock of geese scurried through a gate onto the road a few feet in front of his leaders. He hauled desperately on the reins.

The berline jerked to a halt as the frothy tide engulfed the team’s hooves, swirling about their legs. Horses snorted and side-stepped, geese hissed and pecked and flapped their wings, feathers flew.

Isaac hadn’t the least idea what to do next. He envisioned the road heaped with squashed poultry, the carriage overturned...

“What the devil?” Felix swung open the door and ran to the horses’ heads, kicking aside gabbling geese as he went. He quickly calmed the restive team, then turned a grinning face to Isaac. “I never taught you how to deal with this particular emergency, did I? I once killed a sheep, but all these foul fowl seem to have survived. Well done.”

“But how do we get rid of them? Having rushed onto the road as if pursued by demons, they don’t appear to want to go any farther. Oh, there is their guardian.”

In the gateway, a small, barefoot girl with a dirty face and a shepherd’s crook stood thoughtfully sucking her thumb, probably equally dirty. She watched with interest but made no move to gather her charges.

“
Faites marcher les oies,”
Isaac shouted to her. She turned a blank stare on him.

He was about to jump down and attempt to herd the geese aside, trusting Felix to control the horses, when Miriam and Hannah appeared. Flapping their skirts, they advanced on the flock.

“Shoo! Shoo!”

The horses rolled their eyes, but the geese obediently waddled back towards the gate. Isaac tore his gaze from Miriam’s slender ankles, only to see Felix admiring the same delectable view.

Miriam turned, pink-cheeked, laughing and slightly breathless, and called, “We’ll try to keep them here while you drive past.”

Isaac gathered the reins, which he had let lie slack, then dropped them again. After Felix’s generous congratulations he no longer felt the need to prove his driving ability. “If the `foul fowl’ escape I’ll be in the suds again,” he said. “Felix, will you lead the horses?”

“Give me sheep any day,” said Felix, starting forward. “At least they don’t bite the horses’ knees.”

One goose dashed under the berline as it passed but emerged unscathed on the other side. Isaac took up the reins again and the others returned to their seats. Looking back, he saw the child shepherd her flock across the road without sparing a glance for the carriage. He shrugged and drove on.

The next posting house was not far ahead. Felix took his place on the box and Isaac joined the ladies.

“You made splendid gooseherds,” he told them. “Is it an inborn skill or have you had practice?”

To his delight, Miriam laughed. He hoped Felix heard her. “The only time I’ve been near a goose before is to eat it,” she said. “We thought we’d best take a hand as that little girl made no effort to help.”

“She didn’t seem to understand when I asked her to move them. Did I say it wrong?
Oie
is goose, is it not?”

“Yes, and you would think she must have understood what you wanted even if it’s pronounced differently in the local patois.”

“Patois?”

“The peasants of each region of France have their own dialect, as different from standard French and each other as Cockney is from Yorkshire.
Gascon
is even more different, almost a separate language. Unlike the other dialects even the educated people speak it among themselves.”

“Do you speak Gascon too?” Isaac asked, impressed by her interest as much as by her knowledge.

“Only a few words. Most of the people we met in Gascony spoke French.”

“Where exactly is Gascony?”

“It’s more or less the same as Aquitaine, stretching roughly from Bordeaux to the Pyrenees, overlapping the Basque country in the south. There is a great deal of English influence as well.”

“English! Why?”

“The kings of England were dukes of Aquitaine for three centuries and the inhabitants of the Bordeaux area, at least, were not pleased when the French kings took it over. They had been exporting wine to England in vast quantities since time immemorial.”

“And still do, do they not? Felix was extolling the virtues of claret last night.”

“Both growers and merchants would be ruined if they let a minor matter like war between France and England stop the wine trade.” Miriam smiled and shook her head. “Think how often we have been enemies throughout history!”

“Don’t tell Felix, but for someone who claims to be a true Englishman I know remarkably little about English history,” he confessed wryly, “and less about France. So the Gascons favour England? Even against Napoleon?”

“They are decidedly independent-minded. During the Revolution the Royal standard was raised at Bordeaux. They also supplied many members of one of the losing revolutionary parties, the Girondists, most of whom were guillotined. So, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say they favour England, they are hardly fervent supporters of Napoleon. That doesn’t mean that we can relax our guard. Many people in Bordeaux are Bonapartists and many would recognize English at once if they heard it.”

“You had best warn Felix.”

“Why do not you, since you are now on friendly terms with him?”

“Because I wish to remain on friendly terms with him.”

“And giving him advice would scarce be tactful,” she agreed, laughing. “I shall warn him, then. You cannot imagine how glad I am that you no longer hold him in contempt.”

Isaac did his best to hide his dismay. He was beginning to fear that if Felix asked Miriam to marry him she just might accept.

 Felix was driving again when they reached Bordeaux that evening. Crossing the Garonne, Miriam noted fewer ships than ever anchored in the river or tied up at the docks. Napoleon’s Continental System had virtually destroyed the great port’s trade.

She had given Felix careful directions to the inn she decided they should stay at, for the city was the largest they had entered since leaving Paris. As the carriage rumbled through the narrow, crooked streets of the old section, she peered anxiously through the window. In the dusk, the ancient, wood-framed buildings all looked alike. She couldn’t see the towers of St. André’s Cathedral, by which she had told Felix to steer.

They emerged in the new part of town, built in the last century with imposing stone buildings, wide streets and spacious squares. Here it was easier to get her bearings, and she found that Felix had followed her instructions to the letter. A few minutes later the berline pulled up before the Auberge du Prince de Galles.

The shutter clicked back and Felix said, “There’s a very narrow archway into the yard. We had best be sure they have rooms to spare before I drive in.”

“I’ll go and ask,” Miriam said. Only yesterday, she thought, he would have driven straight in just to show off his skill.

Isaac handed her down. Turning to smile up at Felix she caught him staring at the inn sign which hung above their heads, creaking as it swung in the breeze off the Garonne River. On it was depicted a man in black armour, resting one hand on his sword, the other holding a shield with a device of three ostrich plumes and the motto “Ich dien.”

“Prinny’s insignia.” Felix started laughing. “That must be the Black Prince, and Prince de Galles means Prince of Wales. A fine welcome indeed. Already I like Bordeaux.”

“Remember I warned you,” said Miriam severely, and went into the inn.

The Prince de Galles did in fact extend a warm welcome. An ancient inn rebuilt in the seventeenth-century and now on the border between old town and new, it offered small but comfortable chambers and a cosy private parlour. They dined on local delicacies: oysters from Arcachon, pâté de foie gras de Périgueux, confit of duck, and partridge with truffles.

Felix had by now decided that French cuisine was as much to his taste as their wines, but he eyed the Roquefort cheese askance when he learned it was made from goats’ and ewes’ milk.

“And it’s ripened in a cave in a cliff,” Miriam said with mock solemnity, “not in some nice, clean dairy. That is why it’s mouldy.”