by Carola Dunn
“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.
“I wish to speak privately with monsieur,” Miriam said as haughtily as her shabby attire permitted.
“Monsieur speaks only German and Yiddish, mademoiselle. You may tell me...”
“I speak both languages. My business with Herr Rothschild is private,” she insisted.
With a slight bow he departed, returning a moment later to usher them into an elegantly appointed drawing room.
“Monsieur will join you shortly, mademoiselle.”
Glancing round at the elaborately ornate Louis XV furniture, the delightful Fragonard hanging over the rococo mantelpiece, Miriam felt shabbier than ever. Herr Rothschild would laugh at the pittance in her reticule. She must rely on her feminine wiles.
She pinched her cheeks and went to warm her hands at the fire. Hannah stayed by the door.
It opened and in came a short, slim, red-haired youth, clad in the latest Parisian fashion--the English swallow-tail coat as influenced by French military uniforms. He bowed gracefully.
Miriam stared in dismay as she curtsied. He was far too young for her to flirt with, no more than eighteen or nineteen, with a boyish spring to his step and an air of scarce-suppressed energy. Surely this was not the man she had come to beg for passage to England!
But it was. He introduced himself in excellent Hessian German: “Jakob Rothschild, at your service, Fräulein.”
Abandoning her prepared opening, she said bluntly, “I understand that you have connections in London, Herr Rothschild. I am anxious to travel to England, and I hoped you might be able to help me.”
“You are English?” he enquired, suddenly intent. “You speak German well. Bitte, setzen Sie sich, Fräulein Jacobson.”
She took a seat on a gilt and brocade chair by the fireplace. “I spent the last several years travelling around Europe with my uncle. I speak several languages.”
“French, of course.” He stood opposite her, leaning against the mantel with a natural elegance. “Spanish?”
“A little, and some Italian.”
The latter he brushed aside as of no account. “You know the south of France? The Pyrenees?”
“My uncle and I spent some time among the Jews of that region,” she admitted with some caution, beginning to wonder at his interest. “I have crossed the Pyrenees more than once.” Twice, actually; once in each direction.
He gazed at her consideringly. “But you are an Englishwoman. You would like to help your country?”
“Miss Miriam!” Hannah stepped forward, an urgent warning on her lips.
“It’s all right, Hannah. Mein Herr, at present my only wish is to return to my country.”
To her surprise, the young Rothschild laughed. “So, you have heard that I and my brother Nathan are smuggling gold from England against the wishes of the government. I believe I must trust you with the truth, Fräulein, for you appear to be the very person I need.”
“The truth?” she asked, bewildered. “You need me?”
“The truth is that Nathan, who is a naturalized Englishman, has been commissioned by the British government to convey a very large sum of money to General Wellington in Portugal. I have received the gold here in Paris and now it must be transported through France and across the Pyrenees.”
“I’m delighted to hear that you are working for the British government, but what has it to do with me?”
“You have asked a favour of me, now I shall ask a favour of you. I need a guide to assist in this venture. You speak French and Spanish, you know the country. Help me in this and I shall see that you reach England safely.”
“Surely you can hire someone!”
“For this task, I cannot trust anyone I might hire in France.”
“I suppose not,” Miriam unwillingly agreed.
“You see, Fräulein, your government sent a guardian with the shipment, an English goy to make sure that we Jews do not cheat. But this gentleman,” he said the word in English, “Lord Felix Roworth, knows nothing of France. There is also Nathan’s agent, who must accompany the gold so that he can take Wellington’s receipts back to my brother. He too is unfamiliar with the route. What am I to do?”
In the pause that followed this plaintive question, the fall of a log in the grate sounded loud. Her unseeing gaze on the rush of sparks up the chimney, Miriam recalled that one of the reasons she had insisted on accompanying Uncle Amos on his travels was a desire for adventure. The years had been interesting, she felt she had been useful to him, but there had not, really, been any adventure worth mentioning. A bubble of excitement swelled within her.
Hannah read her mind. “Miss Miriam, you wouldn’t...”
“Your patriotic duty,” Jakob Rothschild interrupted. “General Wellington is in desperate need of funds to pay the British Army.”
“You will send us home as soon as we return to Paris?”
“From Bordeaux, if you wish it, Fräulein.” Suddenly he was all business. “You brought your luggage with you?”
“No, but we packed in case we needed to leave quickly.”
“Give me the direction and I shall send for it. You leave today.”
“But I have not take proper leave of my hosts,” Miriam protested, “and I am not dressed for travelling.”
“You may change your clothes when your boxes arrive, and write to your hosts in the meantime. I shall see your letter delivered. There are writing materials in my office. Come this way, please. You must make the acquaintance of your travelling companions while I complete the arrangements.”
He led the way through a connecting door into a large room furnished with a desk, a huge iron safe, a number of straight wooden chairs and three or four plain leather-covered armchairs. Two of the latter were occupied. The occupants rose to their feet and bowed as Miriam entered.
“Lord Felix Roworth.” Jakob Rothschild indicated the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with golden hair and blue eyes. Immaculate in a coat of snuff-brown superfine, elegantly simple cravat, dove-grey waistcoat, skin-tight buckskins and white-topped boots, he appeared to be in his late twenties. “Isaac Cohen,” Herr Rothschild continued the introductions. “Mees Jacobson.”
Miriam glanced at the second man and nodded, but she scarcely saw him. Her gaze swung back at once to Lord Felix. He was the very embodiment of her schoolgirl dreams.
Chapter 3
“Here are pens and ink for your letter, Fräulein.” Herr Rothschild crossed to the desk and took some sheets of paper from a drawer. “Cohen, the lady goes with you.” He spoke in Yiddish now. “I must make final arrangements. I shall return shortly.”
Miriam was distantly aware that Mr. Cohen uttered an unheeded protest. She was all too aware of Lord Felix’s rude appraisal, swiftly followed by sneering dismissal.
“What did he say, Cohen?” his lordship enquired in English in a haughty tone.
“Miss Jacobson goes with us,”
said the other curtly. The air between them crackled with animosity.
As she moved to the desk she turned her attention to Isaac Cohen. Nathan Rothschild’s agent, a year or two older than his lordship and a trifle taller, but more slenderly built, was dressed in a fashion less elegant than businesslike. His hair was dark, crisply springing from a broad brow, and his dark eyes stared at her with undisguised hostility.
He looked vaguely familiar. Seating herself at the desk, Miriam wondered momentarily whether she had met him before. Surely she would have remembered him; he was really rather good-looking in his own way, though not to be compared with the arrogant Lord Felix.
Dipping a quill pen, she began to write to the Benjamins, but already she had half a mind to back out of her agreement with Jakob. Neither of her prospective travelling companions had exactly greeted her advent with delight. In fact, while she wrote she listened with mingled amusement and indignation as they grudgingly united in opposition to taking her with them. They appeared to dislike that idea even more than they disliked each other.
Hannah, who had come to stand behind her, bent down and whispered, “God forbid we should stay where we’re not wanted, Miss Miriam.”
“It doesn’t look promising, does it?” She signed the note, blotted and folded it, though far from certain it would be needed. “Only, what if we can’t find anyone else to help us cross the Channel?”
“There’ll be others, God willing, as won’t send you to Spain afore they’ll send you to England.”
“I’d like to help that English general--but you are right. To travel so far with two gentlemen who resent our presence would be foolish. Herr Rothschild will find someone else. I hate to continue to impose upon the Benjamins, though.”
“They’re glad to have us, for your uncle’s sake. Let’s be off.”
“No, I cannot just walk out on Herr Rothschild. We shall wait until he returns.”
An uncomfortable silence enveloped the room’s occupants. Lord Felix stood at the window, looking out, his fingers tapping impatiently on the sill. Mr. Cohen strode up and down the room, frowning. His lithe pacing reminded Miriam of a black panther she had once seen at the Tower of London zoo.