Miss Jacobson's Journey (7 page)

“A little larger! Did you see the cathedral?”

“I’d not have thought you would be interested in a Christian cathedral.”

“We worship the same God,” she said gently, “and I imagine even a free-thinker might value beauty created in His service. You are not so partial, I’m sure, that you would refuse to admire a magnificent building because it belongs to the Roman church and you are an Anglican.”

Felix looked decidedly taken aback. “True,” he conceded. “Yes, I saw the cathedral and to my mind it does not compare with, say, Winchester or Wells.”

Miriam chuckled. “A pardonable prejudice.”

As the berline rolled out of the inn yard, she lowered the misted window a little to look out. Leaving the town behind, they drove along the green, fertile Loire valley, the grey, rain-dimpled river now close, now a distant prospect or hidden by trees. A gust of wind drove a shower of drops into her face. She laughed and shook her head, struggling with the strap to raise the window again.

Felix came to her aid. Sitting back, she turned to him. “I trust you are not so set against all things French that you will refuse to--er--improve your grasp of the spoken language?”

“Considering our situation, I should be a veritable mooncalf to do so.”

“Then suppose you tell me something you wish to be able to say, and I shall tell you how to say it in French.”

“I’ll pay well for four good horses,” he said promptly.

She translated, and he repeated the words several times after her, with an earnest determination she found endearing. They moved on to other phrases related to hiring horses, until Miriam was floundering among a tangle of harness parts.

“I’ve not the least notion what you are talking about, let alone what the French equivalents are,” she expostulated.

“I don’t suppose you have,” he admitted, grinning. His face was transformed. If he had been handsome before, he was irresistible now, and Miriam found herself smiling idiotically in response. “Not one female in a thousand would know what a curb chain is,” he went on. “How does one say, `What’s that called?’“

“
Comment est-ce qu’on appelle ça?“

“Commong tess con a pell sah?”

“Not bad. Try again.”

“You say it again first.”

“
Comment appelle-t-on cela?“

“That’s not the same.”

“Oh no, sorry. There are several ways of saying the same thing, just as in English you might say `What’s that called’ or `What do you call that’ or `What is the word for that’
.
”

“I thought `what’ was `coy’
.
”

“Coy? Oh,
quoi!”
She chuckled.

Felix looked affronted by her mirth, but then, reluctantly, he laughed. “Coy--kwah. No wonder that ostler decided I was speaking German. But ‘four’ is also spelled q-u-, yet you said it is pronounced ‘katra’, did you not?”

“Yes, sort of.” Miriam frowned in thought. “Of course, the `w’ sound doesn’t come from the q-u- but from -o-i, like
toi et moi.”

“I’m not ready yet for twah ay mwah,” he said in haste. “Where did you learn French?”

“Où est-ce que vous avez appris le français?“

“No, I mean where did you learn it?”

“At school. At the Cheltenham Seminary for Young Ladies.”

“They accept Jews?” His evident incredulity made her look at him askance, and he added stiffly, “I beg your pardon, Miss... Miriam. I don’t doubt your word.”

She nodded acceptance of his apology and continued, her tone dry, “I emerged from that less than exclusive establishment speaking not much better than you, but I’ve spent a year and more in France since then. My uncle spoke Yiddish, and good German, and some Polish and Russian, but he’d had no occasion for French before I joined him. As I already had a foundation in the language he relied on me to interpret for him. I may not know about harnesses, but I have a superior vocabulary of medical terms.”

“Your uncle was a doctor?”

Whether his interest was genuine or by way of a peace offering, Miriam was not sure. Either motive was acceptable, she decided, and regaled him with a history of her travels.

By the time they reached the next inn he was definitely interested, even somewhat admiring. If he was also somewhat disapproving, it only went to show that he was beginning to think of her as a gently-bred lady, not merely a Jewess, or so she hoped. Admittedly her life with Uncle Amos had not conformed to the highest standards of propriety.

Tact--and the continuing drizzle--dictated that she stay in the berline while the horses were changed. She watched, though, and heard Felix say grandly, “
Je paierai bien quatre bons chevaux.”

Once again Miriam winced at his accent, which seemed to her appallingly English, but the ostler simply gave him an odd look and moved to obey.

 Felix grinned in triumph at Isaac, descending from the box. Isaac said something, inaudible to Miriam, that wiped the grin from his lordship’s face, replacing it with a scowl. Sighing, she sat back against the cushions.

“I wonder why those two are at daggers drawn.”

“Jew and Gentile’s like oil and water,” said Hannah philosophically.

“There’s more to it than that, I vow. Now that they are both on speaking terms with me, perhaps I’ll be able to find out why they loathe each other so.”

“Let sleeping dogs lie, Miss Miriam.”

“But they’re not sleeping. They snap and growl at each other constantly.”

“Like that picture you drew at Mr. Rothschild’s house.”

“Did you see it? The lion and the panther?”

“I’ve got it right here in my reticule.” She patted the capacious drawstring bag of faded tapestry-work. “God forbid I should have left it lying there for anyone else to see.”

“You’re right, it was careless of me. What should I do without you, Hannah?”

“I’m sure I can’t imagine,” snapped her faithful servant, “for all we’d not be on the road to Spain if you ever heeded a word of my advice.”

“It’s fated,” Miriam reminded her, depositing a fond kiss on her lined cheek before turning to peer out of the rain-spotted window. “Where has our panther got to? I haven’t had a chance yet to tell him about seeing Jakob Rothschild last night.”

“That fox was meant for Mr. Rothschild, wasn’t it? He’s a cunning one, sure enough.”

At that moment the carriage door opened and Isaac stuck his head in. “May I join you, ladies?”

“Of course. Are you very wet?”

“Not too bad.” Shrugging off his top-coat of dark brown drab with its modest single cape, he spread it over half the unoccupied seat, perched his hat on top of it, and sat down. “How did you persuade his lordship to let you teach him French?” he enquired, pushing back a damp lock of black hair from his broad brow.

“It was no more difficult than persuading you to let him teach you to drive. You both have sufficient sense to see the need.”

“Enough, at least, to accept the need once you had suggested it. I begin to think Jakob was right to send you with us.”

“Is that intended for a compliment? I thank you, kind sir.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him and he smiled, his sensitive, rather serious face lightening. He really was almost as handsome as Felix when he smiled. Miriam’s heart gave a strange little quiver and she hurried on: “Did you know Jakob was at the inn last night?”

“Yes. I didn’t realize you had seen him.” Isaac frowned now, but in puzzlement, she thought, not annoyance. “Kalmann was there, too.”

“Kalmann?”

“The next youngest brother. He’s to meet us in Spain.”

“Next youngest? I was surprised at Jakob’s youth.”

“Kalmann is three or four and twenty, I suppose. The Rothschilds begin young. Nathan was scarce twenty years of age when he arrived in England in 1797.”

“Who are they? My parents used to entertain all the leading Jews in London but I don’t recall ever hearing mention of the name Rothschild.”

“There are five brothers. Old Mayer, the father, rose from curio dealer in the Frankfurt ghetto to banker for the Prince of Hesse and virtual director of the finances of Denmark. Nathan was sent to Manchester to buy cotton, before the family decided to trade only in money. He didn’t move to London until 1805.”

“We left England in 1802,” Hannah put in.

“And now Nathan is shipping gold by the hundredweight for the British Government,” Miriam marvelled. “I suppose it really is bound for General Wellington? You seemed surprised that Jakob and Kalmann appeared at the Grand Cerf, and I don’t see how they knew we were there.”

“I’m not sure what they are up to, but you can depend upon it that Wellington will receive the gold as promised. Nathan believes that dishonesty defeats its own purpose. A bank is built on trust; lose that and you’re in the suds.”

“That makes sense. But why smuggle the gold through France?”

“Even with the English blockade the sea lanes are precarious, and the Rothschilds already have many lines of communication all over Europe. They persuaded the French Minister of Finance to support this venture by convincing him that the British Government opposes it. Besides, they are taking advantage of Napoleon’s current preoccupation with his new Austrian wife, and now his heir. By the time the Emperor turns around to look, the flow will be well established, the necessary officials bribed.”

“This is the first shipment, then?”

“It is, and thus the most dangerous. It was unconscionable of Jakob to involve you.”

“I daresay I could have refused if I had tried,” Miriam admitted, “but he was very persuasive and he promised to get us to England afterwards.”

“So you wish to return to England? Surely you could have done so years ago.”

“If it had been easy, I daresay I might have. But Napoleon was preparing to invade England, Uncle Amos had no desire to go, and I enjoyed seeing the world.”

Miriam found herself once again recounting the story of her travels and Uncle Amos’s death. Isaac was a more sympathetic, less disapproving audience than Felix. Nonetheless, by the time they reached the Coq d’Or at Blois she decided it was ridiculous that she had now told her life history twice while she still knew next to nothing about the others.

“It will be their turn to talk this afternoon,” she said to Hannah as they tidied themselves before rejoining the gentlemen for refreshments. “I’m beginning to like both of them, and I’m determined to see them on better terms with each other.”

“Tread carefully, Miss Miriam,” advised the maid. “God forbid you should offend them when you’ve just got them half way tamed.”

“I shall have the lion and the panther eating out of my hand yet,” Miriam vowed.

When they went down to the dining room, she discovered that whatever Felix ate out of her hand it wouldn’t be
saucisson à l’ail.
That the Coq d’Or’s sausage was exceptionally garlicky she had to admit. Its rich aroma met her as she entered the room. It made her mouth water and a number of other patrons were downing their shares with evident gusto, but Felix stared at the delicacy with glum disgust, his nostrils quivering.

She sat down beside him.

“I cannot,” he said, raising his napkin to his nose. He even looked a trifle green about the gills.

“And I ought not,” said Isaac. He looked relieved to have an excuse for not tasting the pungent sausage.

Miriam hesitated. She had acquired a taste for garlic on her travels, and she refused to let considerations of kosher and non-kosher rule her. But on the other hand garlic had a nasty way of lingering on the breath. Shut up in the berline with non-garlic-eaters, she’d be afraid to open her mouth.

“And I shall not,” she said, sighing. “I asked for cold meat.” She signalled to a waiter who removed the offending dish, returning shortly with a plate of cold chicken and a cheese board.

Oddly enough, neither Felix nor Isaac wrinkled their noses at the emanations from a ripe Camembert. A pair of crisp-crusted loaves rapidly disappeared, and the level in the carafe of vin rouge du pays had sunk to a bare half inch when Miriam saw two men in scarlet uniforms and white-plumed shakos enter the dining room.

Two others stood outside, blocking the door.

She felt the blood drain from her face. Felix dropped his napkin and began to rise.

“Soldiers!” he hissed.

“May God preserve us,” gasped Hannah, as Isaac reached across to lay a hand on Felix’s arm.

“Sit down. You’ll only draw attention to us. Perhaps they have come for a meal.”

Miriam shook her head. A swift glance had shown a glimpse of scarlet at every window and at the swinging door to the kitchen. “They’re searching for something...”

The gold-braided, black-moustached officer rapped on the nearest table with his cane. Abruptly the hum of conversation ceased.

“
Vos papiers, citoyens!”

Her voice trembling, Miriam completed her sentence in a whisper. “...Or someone.”

    Chapter 7

  With outward calm, Isaac took the package of papers from the inside pocket of his coat and laid it on the table. Seeing the sheen of sweat on Felix’s forehead, he was proud of the steadiness of his hands, his self-control in not swinging round to look at the soldiers. Or would it be more natural to look? Miriam, an artificial expression of mild interest on her face, was watching their every move.

He ventured to turn his head. The scarlet coats were startlingly bright against a background of smoke-stained walls and the sober apparel of travellers and citizens of Blois.

The officer made his way slowly from table to table. He waved away the papers of women and elderly men and checked the rest against a list carried by his subaltern. A short, round-faced young man, he seemed to take a malicious delight in lingering over names as dissimilar as Dutoit and Dufours while his victims squirmed.

At the tables he had passed, a subdued murmur of conversation arose again, but even their sidelong looks followed the soldiers’ progress. Isaac felt his nerves stretching towards breaking point. If only the officer had chosen to circle the room in the opposite direction, by now they would know the worst. If only there was something he could do other than sit and wait like a rabbit mesmerized by the stare of a snake.