Miss Jacobson's Journey (2 page)

No one else was taking any notice of him, either. By the time Miriam had been persuaded at least to make his acquaintance, he was long gone.

 One chilly morning towards the end of September, the crimson drawing room was the scene of a subdued farewell. After four weeks, Mrs. Jacobson still had not quite forgiven her errant daughter, but at the last moment she softened and folded Miriam in a warm embrace.

Miriam kissed her rose-perfumed cheek. “Don’t worry, Mama. I shall take care of Uncle Amos and Hannah will take care of me. And this time next year,” she couldn’t resist adding, “when I come home, we shall set about looking for a bridegroom together.”

Her mother sighed and at last reluctantly admitted, “You are very much as I was at your age. God preserve and bless you, my child.”

Her father escorted her out to the luxurious travelling carriage he had provided, which was to go with them on the packet to Calais. Aaron Jacobson had a low opinion of French carriage-builders.

Handing her in, he leaned forward to tuck a fur rug around her knees and a heavy purse into her hand. “For fripperies,” he whispered. “Your uncle has plenty for expenses.”

He withdrew as Hannah climbed in on the opposite side and handed Miriam her huge grey muff of rare chinchilla furs from South America. Uncle Amos joined them, carrying a book, with his gloved finger marking his place. The carriage started moving.

Miriam looked back, waving to her father until they turned the corner of the street. Then she settled back on the bottle-green velvet squabs, straightened her chinchilla-trimmed pelerine, and beamed at her uncle.

“At last,” she said, her brown eyes sparkling, “on the way to adventure!”

“God willing,” said Hannah.

  Chapter 2

France 1811

 The diligence from Lyon lurched and jolted at a snail’s pace through the outskirts of Paris. The younger of two shabbily dressed women turned from the grimy, rattling carriage window and addressed her grey-haired companion in a foreign language. Their weary fellow-passengers took no notice; Napoleon’s empire brought all sorts of strangers to his capital city.

“Do you remember the first time we drove into Paris, in my father’s carriage?” Miriam said in Yiddish. “How comfortable it was!”

“And a nice price it brought when you managed to persuade your uncle to sell it. Ah, all men are fools but Amos Bloom was a sainted fool, may his name be a blessing.”

Hannah spoke Yiddish with a strong English accent, but her French and German were even worse. It was not safe to speak English. The resumption of the French war with England in 1803 had prevented their planned return home, and Napoleon’s subsequent conquest of most of Europe had made their mother-tongue a private luxury.

“I miss him so.” Miriam sniffed unhappily.

Hannah patted her hand in its darned woollen mitten. “As well you may, child, for what we are to do without him only God knows.”

“I want to go home.” She fell silent, her mind ranging back over the memorable years of travel. She had seen most of the continent, and she didn’t regret a moment, but that was over now. Scarce a month had passed since Uncle Amos, always careless of his own health, had succumbed to an inflammation of the lungs. Losing him changed everything. Now Miriam longed to settle down, to marry and bring up a family.

England’s blockade and Napoleon’s Continental System were porous, she knew. Now and then on arriving in a new city they had found money awaiting them, credited to her father for Canadian beaver or South American chinchilla furs smuggled across the Channel. Yet she had no idea how to go about contacting smugglers. Her only hope was that Monsieur Benjamin would be able to advise her.

At last the diligence turned into the rue du Bouloi and thence into the coach yard. The door opened, the step was let down. Miriam descended and turned to help Hannah, who moved stiffly after six days on the road. Their boxes were unloaded, and Miriam, in fluent French, arranged for them to be kept until she sent for them.

Only an hour or two remained of the chilly March day. What she would do if the Benjamins were away from home she didn’t dare to think.

The narrow streets of Paris were as filthy as she remembered them. The central gutters stank, and pedestrians huddled to the walls to avoid being trampled by horses hooves, only to find themselves dodging piles of garbage outside every door. Piles of rubble still showed where the abandoned hôtels of the
ancien régime
had been demolished a dozen years ago, and wide areas of the town had been razed to make room for new splendours. Yet everywhere the new public buildings and monuments stood shrouded in rusting scaffolding, work at a halt as the Emperor’s attention focussed on conquest.

By the time Miriam and her faithful servant reached the rue du Mont-Blanc, their shoes and hems were black with glutinous mud. Here at least some attempt had been made to provide a pavement down each side of the street.

“This is the place, isn’t it? It seems familiar.” Miriam paused outside a milliner’s shop, gazing with envious eyes at the elegant creations in the window. “Yes, ‘Chez Fleury’. Look at that bonnet, Hannah, the one with the striped ribbons.”

“No use pining for what you can’t have. There’s the door, Miss Miriam, squeezed in before the next shop.”

The narrow passage was dark and dingy, shared by the rich on the first floor, the paupers in the garrets, and everyone in between. Two flights of steep stairs brought them to their destination. Miriam knocked and then held her breath, straining to hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

The door swung open, and there was fat Berthe in her black dress and spotless white apron.

“Mam’selle Jacobson! And Hannah!” She bustled them into the spacious vestibule, closing the door firmly on the squalid landing. “But where is the good doctor?
Ah, que madame sera ravie de vous revoir, mademoiselle.“

“Monsieur and madame are at home, Berthe?”

“They are walking in the Luxembourg gardens. Monsieur has felt himself very well since Doctor Bloom adjusted his diet. The uncle follows you closely, mademoiselle?”

Berthe was overcome by the news of Doctor Bloom’s death. Her double chins quivered and she wiped her eyes with her apron. When they came home, the elderly Monsieur and Madame Benjamin were no less distressed. Monsieur promised to recite Kaddish, the mourners’ prayer, at the synagogue next Sabbath.

In her renewed grief, Miriam found comfort in the thought of God’s praises and prayers for peace being said in her uncle’s name. In Milan, too, where he had died, and in Lyon, where she and Hannah had stayed a few days with friends, Kaddish would be spoken for him. Amos Bloom had made himself loved wherever he went.

“
Mais, la vie continue,”
said Madame at last. “What are your plans now,
ma chère?”

Miriam explained that all she wanted was to go home to England. Monsieur promised, doubtfully, to make enquiries. Though retired, he had many contacts with merchants of all sorts, including importers and exporters, but he would have to be careful. By then, Miriam was too tired to worry. After a hot bath--a real luxury in a city without a proper water supply--and a superb meal, she sank into the soft embrace of a feather bed and instantly fell asleep.

The reverberating boom of a cannon woke her next morning. Snuggling beneath the warm covers she counted the reports, hoping they didn’t signify a victory over the English army in the Peninsula: one, two, three... twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two... From the street outside came shouts and cheering. Twenty-three, twenty-four... Miriam lost count.

Berthe came in, beaming, with a tray of hot chocolate and rolls. “I was sure the noise must have wakened mam’selle.” She set the tray on a bedside table and drew the curtains at the window, admitting the sounds of rejoicing as the cannon’s thunder at last came to an end.

“What is it?” Miriam sat up. “What has happened?”

“Twenty-one for a girl, a hundred and one for a boy. The Empress has borne a son. At last we have an heir to the throne, mam’selle. Today there will be
grande fête
in the streets. See, already the shops are closing, the crowds are dancing.”

Slipping out of bed, Miriam went to join the corpulent maid at the window. Apprentices were putting up shutters on the shops on the other side of the rue du Mont-Blanc, while from the upper windows people leaned, shouting and waving. In the street, some enterprising person had produced a banner painted with bees, Bonaparte’s symbol, and the words, “
Vive le roi de Rome!”
Someone else sang:

  
“Et bon, bon, bon,

  C’est un garçon,

  Vive Napoléon!”

In no time the chant was taken up by the swirling crowds and the walls echoed to the sound.

Miriam was torn by conflicting feelings. The Emperor Napoleon had opened ghettos and emancipated the Jews as he marched across Europe, but he had brought death and destruction, too, and he was her country’s bitter enemy. She watched in silence, until Berthe glanced down at her bare feet and exclaimed in horror.

“You will catch a cold, mam’selle. Return to bed this instant!”

To Miriam’s disappointment, Madame advised against an expedition to see the celebrations. Fountains running with wine, she pointed out, were scarcely calculated to lead to decorous behaviour among the lower classes, and even at the best of times the soldiers quartered in Paris were a rowdy lot. Miriam was unpersuaded, but Hannah’s refusal to set foot out of doors settled the matter.

Instead, while Hannah unpacked, cleaned and mended their scanty wardrobes, Miriam opened the scuffed red leather box containing her uncle’s papers.

One day, she had promised him, she would set them in order and do her best to get them published. For the moment, she simply wanted to reduce the quantity as much as possible. Though she had helped Uncle Amos with his work and knew which documents could be spared, she hated to throw anything out, but she and Hannah might have to leave in a hurry and travel light.

She smiled as the little portraits she had drawn in the margins reminded her of old friends and patients. Uncle Amos had a tendency to forget names, but he never forgot a face.

For several days the labour of love kept her from dwelling on their difficult situation. The Benjamins, kind hosts, provided every comfort and showed no impatience to see them gone. Nonetheless, as time passed and Monsieur had no luck with his enquiries, Miriam began to think of seeking employment.

They had been in Paris for a week when Monsieur came home looking smug and announced, “At last, a possibility. There is a young man recently arrived here from Frankfurt, a Monsieur Jakob Rothschild, who, I have heard, is in close touch with his brother in London.”

“In touch?” Miriam asked dubiously. “Do you mean he might be able to transfer some money from my father?”

“Better than that.” He lowered his voice and glanced over his shoulder. “Monsieur Rothschild,
on dit,
occupies himself with bringing gold from London to Paris. Our Minister of Finance has reported to the Emperor that the British government fears being weakened by the outflow of bullion, so Monsieur le Ministre will not attempt to stop it.”

“And you believe that where gold crosses the Channel in one direction, people may cross in the opposite direction?”

“
Précisément.
I have arranged that you will call on Monsieur Rothschild at 5, rue Napoléon, tomorrow morning. I shall send for a fiacre to pick you up at ten o’clock. All I ask, ma chère Miriam, is that you are discreet.”

“I shall not mention your name, monsieur, I assure you.” Miriam went on to express her deep and sincere gratitude for his efforts in her behalf, but secretly she was disturbed. The thought of begging favours from those who were bleeding England of gold repelled her.

Later that evening, she mentioned her disquiet to Hannah.

“Now, Miss Miriam, you’re not going to spoil everything!” said her abigail in alarm. “God forbid you should help England’s enemies, but letting them help you’s nothing to carp at.”

“No, I suppose you are right. Wait, I have it! If they do send us by the same way the gold is coming here, I shall keep my eyes open and when we reach home I’ll report all I see. Papa knows people in the government. Perhaps we’ll be instrumental in stopping the wretches.”

“Just don’t you let on how you feel about them, or it’s us’ll be stopped in our tracks,” groused Hannah, but she knew her mistress too well to try to dissuade her.

On the morrow, Miriam had Hannah arrange her hair in ringlets, instead of the practical coiled braids she usually wore. She dressed in her best morning gown, an aging periwinkle-blue silk she had had made in a small town in Germany that was never less than three years behind the Parisian modes. A grey woollen cloak completed the depressing ensemble. Hannah, in serviceable brown, clomped after her down the stairs to the fiacre.

Stepping into the dirty, dilapidated vehicle, Miriam wrinkled her nose, wishing her old-fashioned host had ordered one of the new, open cabriolets she had seen dashing about the town. However, she had more important matters on her mind. As they rattled through the streets, she rehearsed her carefully prepared appeal.

“If only I knew more about Jakob Rothschild,” she said. “Monsieur Benjamin described him as a young man, but that might mean anything up to forty, I daresay.”

“You’re not thinking of flirting with him to get him to do your bidding!” Hannah scolded.

“Of course I shall, if necessary. We certainly don’t have enough money to tempt him, so I must use the only weapon I have.”

“One of these days you’ll land yourself in trouble, that you will.”

“Come now, you know I never go beyond the line of what would be acceptable in the drawing room of the fiercest dowager. My schooling taught me that, at least. How long ago it seems, and how differently my life has turned out from anything I ever expected.” She laughed. “Much more interesting!”

A few minutes later they reached the rue Napoléon. For a nerve-racking quarter of an hour they waited in a luxurious marble-floored vestibule, until Monsieur Rothschild’s secretary came to ask their business.