City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

  “Merci, madame, a new frock would be lovely. You are too kind.” I hope you slip on the way to the market and break both those skinny legs. Then you will not be able to interfere in my life this way, and Papa will not so quickly find a replacement for my skills. And if I hear one more word about this wretched nephew of Monsieur DeFane, I will cut out the tongue of whoever speaks it.

  Adele Tremont paused with her hand on the kitchen door. “The fire, mademoiselle. Do not forget. The marmite will not be as good if it is allowed to cool in the middle of the cooking.”

  “I shall guard it with my life, madame.” Manon waited until the mantua-maker had gone, then took a large handful of salt from the cannister beside the hearth and dumped it into the soup. My petite marmite has never been criticized, mademoiselle. Alors, madame, we shall see about that.

  It was not usual for Papa to close the shop during normal business hours. Manon never remembered such a thing. But he’d looked distracted, truly distraught, when he left on whatever errand had taken him away. He had not even thought to ask her to remain behind the counter to answer customers’ inquiries. Surely they were not going to cut the Great Mogul. No, she could not believe Papa would do such a thing. As for minding the shop, he had made his wishes quite clear on Sunday. She was to remain in her room and bring no more shame upon his name.

  Papa, however, was not here, and for the moment neither was the Widow Tremont. Manon went into the shop and raised the blind that Papa had lowered over the front window to signal that the shop was closed. Plenty of passersby on the street outside, but no sign of Joyful. There was no reason to expect him. At this hour, if he were not detained by urgent business, he would be looking for her at the market.

  What if he had managed to get to the market Monday and Tuesday and again today, and not found her come to meet him even once? Would he think that she had tired of waiting for his fortunes to change and planned to accept Monsieur DeFane’s nephew? Joyful might be at the market this very minute. Dare she go and try and find him? Impossible. The Widow Tremont had the eyes of an eagle, and another quarrel with Papa might bring still more harrowing results. He would send her away, perhaps. There was said to be a great aunt in Providence…She could not slip out once Adele Tremont returned. She had here a golden opportunity and she was wasting it.

  The boy who worked at Devrey’s Pharmacy! Joyful had said she could trust him with messages at any time. It was not far to Hanover Square; she could be there and back in ten minutes. And if the boy wasn’t there? Well, she’d be no worse off than she was right now.

  Manon ran behind Papa’s counter and found the little stub of pencil he had been guarding for weeks now—imported from England, pencils, like so many other things, were in short supply since the war and the blockade—and one of the scraps of paper on which he recorded customer orders. She would write the note on the way.

  Chapter Nineteen

  New York City,

  Mill Street, 1 P.M.

  JOYFUL HAD NO real reason to try the dovecote. Manon had said, This week I will be at the Fly Market every day at noon. Come when you can. But he’d gone to the Fly every day since and there was no sign of her. He’d managed to speak to Elsie Gruning today, and according to her some other woman was shopping for the Vionne household. Had she gone off with that widower from Virginia? Impossible. Even if the man had managed to get here, even if Manon accepted him, nothing would be arranged so quickly. Perhaps he’d somehow misunderstood, or Manon had somehow misremembered. The dovecote was the second most likely rendezvous.

  It was going on one o’clock; he’d been here half an hour and still no sign of her. Joyful was about to leave when he saw three men coming up the hill from Peck’s Slip. They were sufficiently deep in conversation not yet to have spied him, but he recognized the man in the center as Maurice Vionne.

  There was one narrow house between the garden with the dovecote and the entrance to the Jews’ synagogue. He ducked into its shadowy doorway and waited. The three men walked right by him without turning their heads, close enough so he caught a snatch of conversation: “…circumstances, it seemed this was the safest place.” He knew the man speaking. Samson Simson, the lawyer. And the third? He couldn’t be sure, but he’d wager it was Mordecai Frank, the Hebrew goldsmith. So—the trio Manon described as meeting in her father’s shop and poring over the book that described the Great Mogul diamond.

  The men had paused just outside the entrance to the synagogue a few feet from where Joyful had hidden. “I will wait out here,” he heard Vionne say. “You two go.”

  Frank and Simson climbed the steps and disappeared inside. Vionne looked up and down the street. Once or twice he took out his watch and examined it. He walked to the corner and peered down the hill toward the waterfront. He did not, thank God, look in any doorways.

  Joyful thought of approaching him. I love your daughter. I want to marry her. What have you done with her? Is she well? And what would Vionne say? Well, for a start he might ask how Joyful intended to support a wife.

  Mordecai Frank came out of the synagogue and rejoined Vionne five minutes later.

  “You have it?”

  “Right here.” Frank passed over what appeared to be a sheaf of documents.

  “And the other set?”

  “Inside, in a place no one would think to look. You can rely on that.”

  “I’m sure.” Vionne did not examine the papers, only tucked them in the inside pocket of his cutaway. Then: “Mr. Frank, you’re sure we’re doing the right thing?”

  “I’m…Yes, Mr. Vionne, I’m sure.”

  The hesitation made it sound doubtful, but Vionne accepted the statement. “Very well. I am also sure.”

  Frank put his hand on Vionne’s arm. “You are rising to the challenge, sir. Magnificently.”

  “I pray God that is so.” Another glance at his watch. “We must go. We are to meet Blakeman at half two.”

  The men set off together. Joyful watched until they turned the corner and were out of sight. Easy enough to follow them, but what point? He knew they were to meet with Gornt Blakeman. He knew that they were bringing him an authentification of the diamond: the statement of two highly respected New York jewelers that the gem was indeed the legendary Great Mogul and that it would be a remarkable addition to the crown jewels of the Holy Roman emperor, Francis II, king of Bohemia and Hungary, emperor of Austria. The role of Manon’s father and the other smith in Blakeman’s scheme was one reason he’d been so anxious to see her today. At least he could relieve her mind of the worry that the two men meant to try cutting the stone.

  The question then was whether following Maurice Vionne and Mordecai Frank would take him to Manon. Unlikely in the extreme. As far as Vionne knew, his daughter had no part in this business. For Joyful, Maurice Vionne and Mordecai Frank were known quantities. So was Blakeman, for that matter. The person whose role in all this was not clear was Samson Simson.

  Joyful waited until the pair of goldsmiths were out of sight, then he left the doorway and headed for the synagogue. Halfway up the steps he started to remove his hat, then remembered and kept it on.

  “This is a house of worship, sir. If you wish to speak to me on a matter of law, I suggest—”

  “I assure you, I mean no disrespect to your beliefs or your synagogue.” Joyful had found Simson in the sanctuary, sitting on a red velvet bench beside a pair of tall white wooden doors above which a lantern flickered. Sun poured through windows made of yellow glass, the diamond-shaped panes separated by delicate leading. The whole room was flushed gold. “Mr. Simson, you do not know me, but I am—”

  “Your reputation precedes you, Dr. Turner.”

  “Very well. Then you know I am one-quarter Jew, along with whatever else.”

  “We do not claim you, sir.” Simson rose.

  He sounded tired, Joyful thought. “My grandfather—”

  “The notorious Solomon DaSilva,” Simson interrupted. “Yes, I know. But according to halacha, our law, you are a
Jew only if your mother was. Now please, we must step outside.”

  He led the way past a raised central platform draped in red damask with silver fringe, surrounded by a burnished mahogany railing with exquisitely turned spindles painted gleaming white. The dais was flanked by unlit candles in tall brass candlesticks.

  Simson paused with his hand on the door to the vestibule and looked back as if admiring the setting, as if he’d never seen the place before. “That tablet above the hehal.” The lawyer nodded toward the pair of doors.

  “Hehal?”

  “The Ark of the Covenant, Doctor. It contains our holy scrolls. The tablet above it was carved in 1730.”

  “And it says?”

  “Words much older. The ten commandments. You see the brass urns either side? Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  They were placed too high for Joyful to appreciate more than their shape. “Very graceful.”

  “Yes, I think so too. They were made in the thirteenth century. Taken from Iberia by our people when, after over a thousand years, the Inquisition turned them first out of Spain, then Portugal. Your ancestors among them, no doubt, Dr. Turner. Mine, on the other hand, came from Frankfurt and from Holland. But no matter, we Jews have been wandering almost since the Holy One put us on this earth.”

  “Do you wander still, Mr. Simson? Do you not feel rooted here, in New York, in these United States? This synagogue seems to me to be unmolested. ‘Congress shall make no law concerning religion—”

  “—or prohibit the free exercise of it.’ I assure you I applaud the sentiments of the Constitution, doctor. But we were talking about the urns. Pity you can’t see the etching from here. Almond blossoms. The Book of Numbers says, ‘The rod of Aaron for the house of Levi was budded, and put forth buds, and bloomed blossoms and bore ripe almonds.’ Hence the learned rabbis tell us only a freshly budded almond branch might be placed beside the hehal. Not something easy to come by in New York. So the urns are empty. As you see them.”

  “Beautiful and unmolested,” Joyful repeated. “Here in the United States.”

  “For now. Thanks be to the Holy One.”

  Simson opened the door and Joyful followed him out of the sanctuary. “Mr. Simson,” he began.

  “Yes, Dr. Turner?”

  “I was told that something that belonged to my father”—he hesitated—“something he’d hidden for me to find…” No way to say it except directly. “I was told the Jews had it.”

  “I see. May I ask by whom?”

  “You may ask, Mr. Simson, but I may not answer. Anyway, it has no bearing on the issue.”

  The lawyer shrugged. “Perhaps not. People say all kinds of things about us, after all. Look around, Dr. Turner. Do you see whatever it is that belonged to your father? Or any little Christian children for that matter? So we may ritually slaughter them and drink their blood.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, I know you didn’t.”

  “I thought you might have heard the story, and could shed some light on the mystery.”

  “I’m afraid I know nothing of your father, Dr. Turner, other than that he was a great patriot. Like yourself.”

  “And you, Mr. Simson? Are you also a patriot?”

  “I hope so, Doctor. In my fashion.”

  Hanover Street,

  Gornt Blakeman’s Premises, 2:30 P.M.

  He had expected one goldsmith, not two, but Blakeman received them both in the small office to the rear of the countinghouse. “A matter of such weight,” Vionne murmured. “I felt I must have another opinion.”

  “Perfectly understandable. Please, gentlemen, sit down. It’s a warm afternoon; a glass of ale might be welcome.”

  Blakeman lifted the pitcher, realized there were only two glasses on the table, and served his guests. He rang a small handbell that summoned Vinegar Clifford and sent him for a third. As far as Vionne could see, the three of them plus the whipper were the only people in the place.

  “I sent the clerks home early. So much discontent on the street, all this talk of invasion…Naturally, they were concerned for their families.”

  “Very kind of you,” Vionne said. “Very thoughtful.”

  “Besides, our business is no one’s affair but our own, gentlemen. At least not yet.”

  The whipper delivered the extra glass. Blakeman filled and lifted it. “A toast, gentlemen.” He looked from one to the other. “I give you the jewel of the ages.”

  Vionne’s hand trembled when he lifted his glass. This was an entirely different man from the one he’d met on two previous occasions.

  “Now”—Blakeman refilled their glasses as he spoke, emptying the pitcher and ringing his bell to summon another—“you have something for me.”

  Vionne waited until the whipper had come and gone, carrying away the pitcher to be refilled, then withdrew the sheaf of papers from the pocket inside his cutaway and passed them over. Blakeman took them eagerly. His hand was trembling as well, Vionne noted. “Unsealed, as you requested,” he murmured.

  “Exactly. I will affix a seal before…” Blakeman was running his eye down the page as he spoke. Most of what was written was highly specialized. Just so. You go to experts and invariably they spoke in gibberish only other experts understood. The stone is 189.62 metric carats and measures 47.6 mm in height, 31.75 mm in width, and 34.92 mm in length…outstanding clarity…a slight bluish-green tint…half a pigeon’s egg…concentrated rows of triangular facets…corresponding four-sided facets on the lower surface. A slight indentation one side. He turned the last page. “Gentlemen, unless I am mistaken, there is no mention of the diamond’s name.”

  Mordecai Frank spoke for the first time. “One cannot be entirely sure of—”

  “I do not care if Vionne seeks your opinion, sir. But if I thought you had authority to countermand his, I’d have gone to you in the first place.”

  “No, no, Mr. Blakeman.” Vionne leaned forward, tapping the papers that Blakeman had laid down. “I take full responsibility—”

  “Six days ago you showed me the description of the Great Mogul and said the stone in my possession was that diamond. Now you quibble.”

  Vionne damned himself as a fool. He should never have given so much away. “No sir, I do not quibble. I merely tell you that based upon a description in a very old book, and one brief opportunity to examine a stone, which I grant you is truly remarkable, I cannot say with certainty that they are the same.”

  “You were certain enough before.” Blakeman spoke to Vionne, but he looked at Mordecai Frank. “So, are the Jews better at judging the world’s riches then a Huguenot? More practice perhaps?”

  “I do not think it is a matter of religious belief,” Frank said quietly.

  “Is it not?” Blakeman stood up. Part of him wanted to march the Jew upstairs and show him the stone. Though he knew that was both unwise and unnecessary. It was Vionne’s word he’d promised Astor. “Well, my religion tells me I’ve spent enough time breathing Hebrew…” He almost said “stink,” but stopped himself. There weren’t that many Jews in the town, but he would rather have those there were on his side than against him. “I have private business to discuss with Vionne, here,” he said instead. “You’ll excuse us, Mr. Frank.”

  The smiths exchanged a quick glance. Vionne nodded. Frank stood up and followed Blakeman to the door. “One of our guests is leaving, Mr. Clifford. See him out.”

  The flagrant rudeness was as revealing as the brazen character of the meeting. Something had changed since their first encounter. Vionne waited to see what it was.

  Blakeman turned back to him. “The matter of your daughter,” he said.

  Ah, yes, Manon. Vionne’s expression gave nothing away but he could not prevent the perspiration from beading on his forehead. “It is warm today, as you said.” He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face.

  “Your daughter,” Blakeman repeated. “Have you spoken to her?”

  “Not yet. I do not think…To be honest
with you, sir, I do not believe my daughter will agree.” Vionne tried hard not to look to the closed door, beyond which, he knew, waited the man with the bullwhip.

  Blakeman chuckled. “Mr. Clifford unnerves you, does he? Good, that’s what he’s meant to do. Here, have another ale. And stop sweating. I do not mean to have you flogged into compliance. I have asked for your daughter’s hand, sir. I deserve an answer.”

  “I told you, Mr. Blakeman, my Manon is very strong-minded, and it was her mother’s dying wish that I not force her into a marriage against her will.” Forgive me, dearest. Marry her off the minute I’m gone, Maurice, as soon as is decent. She’ll rule you otherwise. You would not have approved this match either.

  “Come, Mr. Vionne. We are men of the world.” The goldsmith’s glass was still full, but Blakeman poured himself more ale. “We know that women, like children, need a firm hand. And all things considered…” He drank, watching Vionne over the rim of the glass, then put it down and wiped his mouth. “All things considered, surely your daughter could do a great deal worse.”

  The papers lay on the table between them. Vionne nodded in their direction. “I will try to persuade Manon. Meanwhile, perhaps you would like me to take those back and see if they can be made more satisfactory for your purposes.”

  Blakeman’s big hand settled on the documents before Vionne could touch them. “Not required, Mr. Vionne. A diamond the size of half a pigeon’s egg. And…what do you say here…just under 190 carats. Not too many of those knocking about, I expect. What you’ve written will do.”

  Vionne was sweating again. He swiped at his face a second time. “I’m delighted to hear it.” He hadn’t really expected to be allowed to stall longer. And what difference could it make when he didn’t know how long was enough?

  Blakeman leaned forward. “I’m sure you would prefer to have your daughter the wife of the most powerful man in a new…in New York.” No point in saying too much. The meeting was set for Hartford in October. Far too distant from his point of view, but the others were more cautious. New Hampshire had argued for the delay; time to bring the citizenry along. “I’m sure you would prefer that. And so would your lovely daughter.”