A Conspiracy of Paper

NINE

IT WAS WITH ambivalent feelings that I met my uncle the next morning and proceeded to the Bevis Marks synagogue. Perhaps I should mention that not all Jews are so nice in their observation of the Sabbath as my uncle. Some are far more observant, of course, but an even greater number care little for this day of the week or that. Even my uncle’s short beard was thought by many Jews to be of ill fashion, for it was something of a truism that any Jew with a beard upon his face was either a rabbi or a recent immigrant.

Many of the Jews of Iberian origin had long ago been robbed of the knowledge of their rituals, forced, during the time of the Inquisition, to convert to the Catholic faith. These so-called New Christians were sometimes sincere in their conversions, while others had continued to practice their religion in secret, but after a generation or two they often forgot why they secretly observed these now-obscure rituals. When these secret Jews fled Iberia for the Dutch states, as they began to do in the sixteenth century, many sought to regain Jewish knowledge. My father’s grandfather had been such a man, and he schooled himself in the Jewish traditions—even studying with the great Rabbi Manasseh ben Israel—and he raised his children to honor the Jewish traditions.

I, too, had been raised with those traditions, but I had long since found them easier to ignore than to honor. For that reason I was not sure what I expected upon my return to the synagogue. Perhaps I had been making a point of expecting nothing, but I found myself somewhat comforted by the morning service. As when I was a boy, the presiding rabbi was David Nieto, grown much older than I remembered and looking fragile and thin, but still a venerable man who cut a striking presence with his enormous black wig and his wisp of a beard that covered but the tip of his chin.

In Jewish worship, men and women seat themselves in different areas to shield the men from the distracting allure of female flesh. I always believed this custom a wise one, for I have never known Elias to attend church and not return with tales of fashionable ladies and their finery. In the Bevis Marks synagogue, the men sit downstairs in a series of pews that rest perpendicular to the rabbi’s pulpit. The women sit upstairs, where they are meant to be shielded from men’s sight by a latticed wooden partition. The latticing is such, however, that one can see, if not perfectly, glimpses of fair femininity through the gaps.

The synagogue was crowded that morning—more crowded than I had remembered ever seeing it as a boy. There were perhaps three hundred men downstairs and close to a hundred women in the upper section. In addition to the worshipers, there was a pair of young English bucks who came in to observe the Jews at worship. These visits were not uncommon; I recalled having seen curiosity-seekers many times as a boy, and they generally behaved themselves reasonably well, though it was not uncommon for these men to find themselves restless when confronted with hours of Hebrew liturgy. Indeed, visitors rarely hid their perplexity with a service conducted almost entirely in a foreign language and in which men appear to engage in private contemplation as much as group worship. For my own part, I found myself struggling very little with the Hebrew of the prayer book, for I had read these prayers so often when I was a boy that they remained still firmly etched within my memory, and speaking them again made me happy in a way I would not have anticipated. I felt a kind of comfortable pleasure at having a prayer shawl, borrowed from my uncle, cast about me, and I saw him offer numerous approving glances in my direction throughout the long service. I could only hope that he was less observant of the frequent glances I cast upward toward the ladies’ section, where I could discern the beautiful if obstructed face of Miriam through the latticing. Indeed, there was something compelling about catching this anatomized view of her—now her eye, now her mouth, now her hand. The eye was in particular gratifying, for I could not but be pleased that it was cast in my direction as often as it was cast upon her prayer book.

After the conclusion of the service, Miriam and my aunt returned directly to the house, while I remained in the synagogue’s courtyard with my uncle. He engaged in chatter with men throughout the community, while I looked on, pretending to take an interest in discussions about who had moved into and out of the neighborhood. As I stood there, I heard my name called out, and I spun around to face a handsomely dressed man whose face, disfigured from far too many beatings and blade wounds, I instantly recognized. It was Abraham Mendes, Jonathan Wild’s man.

I have rarely been more astonished to see anyone in my life, and I only stared.

Mendes took some small delight in my confusion. He grinned at me like an impish child. “It is a pleasure to see you once more, Mr. Weaver,” he said, with an exaggerated bow.

“What are you doing here, Mendes?” I sputtered. “How dare you follow me here.”

He laughed. Not contemptuously, but out of genuine amusement. Indeed, there was something unaccountably charming about his ugly face. “I follow you, sir? You must think your business most interesting to suspect such a thing. I am here only to attend services for the Sabbath, and upon seeing an old acquaintance, I thought it incumbent upon me to greet you.”

“Am I to believe you are here only to attend the service?” I asked. “I find that incredible.”

“I might say the same of you.” He grinned. “But you may ask around if you misbelieve me. I once again reside in Dukes Place, and have done so for several years now. And though I may not come here every Sabbath, I come often enough. It is your presence that is something of an anomaly.” He leaned forward. “Do you follow me?” he asked in a stage whisper.

I could not help but laugh. “I am astonished, Mendes. You have utterly surprised me.”

He bowed, just as my uncle turned to me. “Shall we return home, Benjamin.” He bowed briefly to my companion. “Shabbat shalom, Mr. Mendes,” he said, offering the traditional Sabbath greeting to this villain.

“And to you, Mr. Lienzo.” Mendes grinned at me again. “Shabbat shalom, Mr. Weaver,” he said before making his way out of the crowd.

My uncle and I took a few steps before I spoke. “How is it you know Mendes?” I asked.

“There are not so many Jews in Dukes Place that one cannot know them all. I often see him about the synagogue. Not a devout man, I suppose, but fairly regular in his attendance—and in London that is something in itself.”

“But do you know what he is?” I pressed on.

My uncle had to speak more loudly than he liked, for a man selling pork pies had wandered toward the crowd exiting the synagogue to amuse himself by crying out his wares to the Jews. “Of course. Not everyone does. Ask most men, and they will tell you he works as a butler for some great man or other. But in my trade, you know, sometimes I may get a shipment of something or other that is not precisely legal to own, and if I have no buyer, Mr. Mendes can frequently offer me a fair price on behalf of his employer.”

I could not believe what I heard. “Do you mean to say, Uncle, that you do business with Jonathan Wild?” I all but hissed the name and spoke it so quietly that it took my uncle a moment to understood what I said.

He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. “This is London, Benjamin. If I wish to sell a certain kind of goods, I do not always have a choice of buyers, and Mr. Mendes has offered me assistance more than once. I have had no dealings personally with this Wild, and I am anxious to keep my distance from him, but Mendes has shown himself a capable factor.”

“Surely you are not unaware of the risks of having even indirect dealings with Wild,” I nearly whispered.

“Mr. Mendes likes to say that in certain kinds of trade, one cannot but deal with Wild. I have found that to be true enough. Certainly I have heard that Wild is a dangerous man,” he said, “but I trust Wild knows that I too, in my own way, can be dangerous.”

My uncle smiled not at all when he said these words.

WE RETURNED TO THE house for a luncheon of bread, cold meat, and ginger cakes, all of which had been prepared the day before. Miriam and my aunt served the food themselves, and when we were finished they placed the dishes in the kitchen for the servants to tend to after sunset.

I retired to the sitting room with Miriam, and I was somewhat surprised not to find myself followed by either uncle or aunt. Miriam looked radiant that day, wearing a striking indigo gown, offset with an ivory petticoat.

I asked Miriam if she would join me in a glass of wine. She politely declined and instead sat in an armchair, turning to a volume of Mr. Pope’s Iliad, of which I had often heard but had never inquired into. I poured myself a glass of Madeira from a handsome crystal decanter and, feigning a meditative mood, I sat across from her to watch the expression on her face as she made her way through the work. It was not my intention to stare, for I am a man not entirely unschooled in the social graces, but I found myself entranced as I watched her dark eyes follow the words across the page, her red lips pursed in appreciation.

Perhaps seeing that I regarded nothing but her at the moment, Miriam set her book aside, carefully marking her place with a small strip of cloth. She picked up a newspaper lying about and began leafing through it with an affectedly breezy air. “You have made your uncle very happy by coming here today,” she said, without looking at me. “It was all he could speak of at breakfast.”

“I am astonished,” I said. “Frankly, I suspected he cared for me not at all.”

“Oh, he values family loyalty tremendously, you know. I rather think he has taken a fancy to the idea of reforming you. By that he means, I suppose, having you move to Dukes Place, attend the synagogue with some regularity, and setting you up with responsibilities in his trade.” She was silent for a moment. She turned the page. At last she looked up at me, her face an inscrutably stoic mask. “He told me that you remind him of Aaron.”

I dared show neither contempt nor disagreement to Aaron’s widow. “He told me the same thing.”

“I can see perhaps some family resemblance in the physiognomy, but you strike me as men of different character.”

“I believe I would agree with you.”

There was another pause, one of the many moments of awkward silence that punctuated our conversation. Neither of us knew what to say. At last she had a new topic. “Do you ever attend dances and balls and such?” It was a casual question, or, perhaps, a question aiming to be casual. She spoke slowly and without looking up.

“I am afraid I tend to feel uncomfortable at such gatherings,” I told her.

Her smile suggested that we shared a secret. “Your uncle believes London society is not for refined Jewish ladies.”

I could not understand what she wished to tell me. “My uncle’s opinion may be a very just one,” I said, “but if you do not wish to adhere to it, I do not see what hold he has on you. You are of age and I presume of independent means.”

“But I have chosen to remain under the protection of his household,” she said quietly.

I wished to understand her meaning. For a widow of her standing, accustomed as she was to fine clothes and food and furnishings, to set herself up in her own household would prove an expensive endeavor. I knew not what money Aaron had settled upon Miriam; her fortune had become his at the time of their marriage, and I could not guess how much he might have left to my uncle or gambled away or wasted on a failed business dealing, or lost in any of the other countless ways that men of London see their fortunes shrivel. Perhaps independence was not an option. If that was Miriam’s case, then she merely waited for the right suitor so she might pass out of the hands of her father-in-law and into those of a new husband.

The idea of Miriam’s bind, the suggestion that she felt herself a prisoner in my uncle’s house, made me uneasy. “I am certain my uncle only has your best wishes in his heart,” I attempted. “Did you enjoy the amusements of town with your late husband?”

“His trade with the East made it necessary that he be abroad for long periods of time,” she responded without emotion. “We spent only a few months in mutual company before he embarked for that voyage on which he was lost. But in that time, he showed himself, upon the issue of diversions, to be much of his father’s spirit.”

In my discomfort I found myself digging my thumbnail into my index finger. Miriam had placed me in a difficult position, and I wagered that she was too clever not to know it. I sympathized with her for her confinement, and yet I could hardly disagree with the rules set forth by my uncle.

“I can say from my own experience that London society is not always the most welcoming to members of our race. Can you imagine how you might feel were you to attend a tea garden, strike up a conversation with an amiable young lady, one you might wish for a friend, and then discover that she had nothing but the most contemptuous things to say on the topic of Jews?”

“I should seek out a less illiberal friend,” she said with a dismissive wave of the hand, but I saw by the diminished sprightliness of her eyes that my question had not left her unaffected. “Do you know, Cousin, that I have changed my mind, and desire a glass of that wine.”

“If I pour it for you,” I asked, “would that not be labor, thus breaking the Sabbath law?”

“Do you then think of pouring wine for me as labor?” she inquired.

“Madam, you have convinced me.” I stood and filled a glass, which I handed to her slowly, that I might watch her delicate fingers carefully avoiding all contact with my hand.

“Tell me,” she said after taking a measured sip, “how does it feel to return to your family?”

“Oh,” I said with an evasive laugh, “I do not feel myself to be returning so much as visiting.”

“Your uncle said that you prayed with enthusiasm this morning.”

I thought on how I had seen her watching me through the latticed gate. “Did you find my praying enthusiastic?” I inquired.

Miriam did not understand me or pretended not to. “It should have been very enthusiastic indeed if I could have heard you in the ladies’ gallery.”

“As I was feeling enthusiastic, I saw no reason the synagogue should not benefit from my mood.”

“I find you flippant, Cousin,” she said with amusement rather than annoyance.

“I hope you take it not amiss.”

“May I ask you a question of a rather private nature?” she asked.

“You may ask me what you like,” I told her, “so long as I may do the same.”

My comment was perhaps a bit ungentlemanly, for she paused for a moment and appeared uncertain of how to continue. Finally she offered an expression that was not so much a smile as a thoughtful pressing together of her lips. “I shall call that a fair bargain. Your uncle, as you know, is a very traditional man. He seeks to shelter me from the world. I do not enjoy being cloistered, however, and so I try to learn as best I can.” She was silent for a moment, contemplating either my words or the wine. “I was never told of the reason for your break with your father.”

I had rarely spoken of the details of my rupture with my family to anyone. Part of my desire to speak of it with Miriam had to do with a wish to form a bond of trust with her, but part of it was simply the need to speak about these matters. “My father had hopes that I would follow him into business, become a licensed broker like himself. Unlike my older brother, I was born here in England, which meant that I was a citizen and would be exempt from the alien taxes, and I would be able to own land. It made sense to my father that José should return to Amsterdam to manage family affairs there, and I should remain here. But I was not very skillful at doing what was expected of me as a child. I often found myself embroiled in street fights, as often as not with Gentile boys who had tormented us only because they misliked Jews. I cannot say why I was so inclined. Perhaps because I grew up without a mother’s affection. My father hated that I fought, for he feared notice. I always told him that I felt honor-bound to defend our race, but I felt an even greater thrill from striking the other boys.”

I saw that I had Miriam’s full attention, and I basked in her gaze. Even now it is so very difficult for me to express why this woman captivated me instantly. She was beautiful, yes, but so are many women. She had a quick wit, but women of intelligence are not so rare as some unkind authors tell us. I sometimes believe that I thought she and I had so much in common, moving as we did, each in our own way, along the borders of what it meant to be both a Hebrew and a Briton. Perhaps that was why my story had arrested her attention so fully.

“I always somehow felt that it was his fault I had no mother—you know how a child’s thoughts are so nonsensical,” I continued. “She died, as I am certain you know, of a wasting disease when I was still but an infant. From an early age, I sensed that my father made but a scurvy kind of parent, and I found myself almost seeking to incur his displeasure. He was a stern disciplinarian and anything other than perfection made him angry.”

I paused briefly to sip from my glass, flattering myself that Miriam did not see the confusion telling my tale engendered in me.

“One day, when I was fourteen, he had entrusted me to bring payment to a merchant to whom he owed a debt. I was at the age when he was just beginning to teach me the rudiments of the family concerns. He wished to see me a trader upon the Exchange, as he was, but I fear I had little aptitude for mathematics, and I had even less interest in business. Perhaps my father ought to have begun teaching me of these things earlier, but I think he had been hoping I would mature and grow interested of my own will. But I was only interested in running about on the streets making trouble and haunting the gaming houses.”

“Yet he thought you mature enough then,” Miriam observed cautiously.

“So it would seem,” I told her, though I had often wondered if he had only wanted to give me the opportunity to fail. “My father was determined to make me useful, and he often had me run errands. Such an errand was this payment he wished me to deliver. It was a five-hundred-pound negotiable note. I had never had so large a sum in my own hands before, and I thought it a golden opportunity. I believed that with so much money to stake, I might go to a gaming house and be sure to win—as though my luck would increase proportionate to the amount I wagered. My plan was that I should win an enormous amount of money, bring the merchant the principal and I would keep the interest. I had visited gaming houses before, and had generally come away fleeced, so I had no excuse for my optimism. I was merely young and enamored of the power of the money I had upon me. So I went to the house and cashed the note with the intention of exchanging the coin back for it on my way out. This story is predictable, I suppose; I piled loss upon loss until I had less than one hundred pounds left, and I could no longer trick myself into believing I might recover the original sum. I dared not think of returning to my father and telling him what had happened. He had many times disciplined me severely for returning late from errands—I could not even speculate how he would respond to this crime.”

“You must have been terrified,” she said quietly.

“Terrified, yes. But strangely liberated. I felt as though I had been waiting for that moment all my life—the moment when I would not return to that house. And suddenly it was upon me. I resolved to take the remaining money and set out on my own. To conceal my whereabouts from him, I took upon me the name of Weaver. It was not many months later that I discovered I could earn my bread—sometimes barely that and sometimes far more than that—by doing what I loved most: fighting. I sometimes fancied I might save my money and return to him with the amount I had taken, but I always postponed this project. I had become attached to my newfound freedom, and I feared that this freedom had tainted me forever. In my mind I had already returned and been cast off, so I felt in my breast as though I had been wronged and was morally obliged to stay away. I imagine that some part of me always knew this idea to be a false one—a mere excuse, for I had never liked being beholden to the laws of our people.”

She said nothing, but her eyes suddenly locked on mine. I had uttered the words she had never dared to say aloud.

“On my own, I could eat what I liked, work when I liked, wear what I liked, spend my time with whom I liked. I let a youthful error grow, and my mistake became in my mind the appropriate response to the harsh and unforgiving treatment of an unjust father. And so I convinced myself until I received the news of his death.”

Miriam stared into her glass of wine, perhaps afraid to look at me. “Yet you stayed away even then.”

I had tried to remain detached as I told the tale; it was one I had told myself so many times that I should have been able to recount it without giving it a single thought. And yet I found myself profoundly saddened—a condition I attempted to rectify by finishing the wine in my glass. “Yes. Even then I stayed away. It is hard to change more than a decade of habit. I always believed, Miriam, that my father was an unnaturally unkind man. But it is strange. Now that I have not seen him in ten years, now that I shall never see him, I begin to wonder if it was I who was not a good son.”

“I envy you that freedom,” she said, eager to change the subject to one that would make me less pensive. “To come and go as you please. You can eat anything—speak with anyone—go anywhere. Did you eat pork? And shellfish?” She sounded at once like an excited child.

“They are but foods,” I said, curious at my desire to diminish the thrill I had felt from the freedom to eat those victuals forbidden by our law. “What signifies one kind of meat or fish over another? What signifies its method of preparation? These things only appeal because they are forbidden, only delight because of the enticement of sin.”

“Englishmen therefore do not enjoy oysters because of their flavor?” she asked skeptically.

I laughed, for I was fond of oysters. “I am not sure I mean that,” I said. “But now it is your turn to answer my questions. Let us begin with your suitor, Mr. Adelman. What think you of him?”

“He is not so much my suitor as a suitor of your uncle’s money,” she said, “And rather old besides. What is your interest in my opinion of Mr. Adelman?”

My pride would not allow me to express the depth of my interest, though I was certainly delighted to learn that Adelman was no rival. “I shared his coach with him last night, and let us say I found his conversation a bit unsettling. He struck me as a devious man.”

Miriam nodded. “He is deeply involved with politics, and many of the papers think very ill of him,” she explained to me, her cheeks ruddy with pride that she knew of these things—usually the province of men. I wondered how my uncle, who cared so little for her knowing of social amusements, felt about her reading the political papers. “Much of the hatred directed against our people,” she continued, “that you find to be so present in fashionable circles, stems in no small amount from a distrust of his influence over the Prince and the ministry. That is reason enough, to my mind, to have nothing to do with him. I should hardly relish being tied for life to a public villain, guilty or no.”

The boldness of her way of expression utterly charmed me. She understood what it would mean to marry a man like Adelman, and I could not but applaud her wish to have no part of it. “And yet my uncle appears to permit this courtship. Does he wish to see you married to Adelman?”

“That is a topic upon which he has remained unclear. I can only imagine that the idea of his son’s widow marrying another man—any man at all, I should think—must sit ill with him. Nevertheless, so near a connection to a man of Mr. Adelman’s status must prove itself a powerful motivation, but Mr. Lienzo has yet to make a case to me on Adelman’s behalf.”

“ ‘Has yet to.’ ” I repeated her words. “You think he may yet?”

“I believe that your uncle’s sentiments about his son must eventually yield to his desire to form a closer bond with Mr. Adelman.”

“And what shall you do,” I asked slowly, “should he attempt to force your hand?”

“I shall seek protection elsewhere,” she said, affecting a lightness I sensed she did not feel.

I thought it odd that Miriam said nothing of setting up her own household; that she believed her only options were the protection of some man or another. But I could find no way to press this point without offending her, so I moved on in another direction. “You say he wishes my uncle’s money, yet he is surely an enormously wealthy man.”

“True, but that is not to say he does not covet more wealth. The belief that one cannot have too much money is, I am told, one of the prerequisites of a successful man of business. And he grows older and wishes for a wife. A wife to him must bring him money, but, I suspect, she must also be a Jewess.”

“Why? Surely a man of his power could marry any of a number of Christian women if he so chose. Such things are not unheard of, and what little conversation I’ve had with Adelman suggests to me that he has no love of his own race.”

“I believe you are right.” Miriam pursed her lips and shrugged. “I suppose he could marry a Christian lady, but it would be unwise for a man in his position.”

I nodded. “Of course. His enemies fear him as a force of consuming Jewish power. Were he to marry a Christian, his inability to . . . contain himself, perhaps, would be perceived as threatening.”

“I also believe he would like to convert and become a member of the Church of England. Not that he has any religious inclinations toward that faith, but because it would be easier for him to do his business. But Adelman also recognizes, I suppose, the enmity this move would produce in both communities. And so he casts his eye upon me, a Jewess who comes with a marriage settlement and who is not tied to the ancient traditions.”

I thought about Miriam’s analysis for a moment. “If I may ask an indelicate question, may I inquire more about Adelman’s desire to acquire my uncle’s wealth? Would it not be your wealth that he would acquire upon marriage?”

She set down her glass of wine, nearly toppling it as she did so. I was sorry to have asked so awkward a question, but she had raised the point after all, and it was important to understand Adelman’s motivations.

“I have brought this question upon myself, so I should answer it with good cheer, I suppose.”

I held up my hand. “If you wish to defer, I shall in no way press you.”

“You are too good, but I shall answer. Aaron, as you know, was a factor for, not with, your uncle. When he died, he owned very little himself, really only what had been settled upon him by my parents’ estate at the time of our marriage. And much of that money had been invested in the venture that Aaron had been upon, a venture that ended disastrously, as you know. I am, myself, mistress of a very small fortune, and I owe much to your uncle’s generosity.”

I sensed something caustic in her last comment, but I did not believe this to be a topic that I might delve into any deeper than I had already. “So, my uncle has offered a settlement on your behalf to Adelman if he should marry you?” I inquired.

“He has not said so,” Miriam explained, “but I can only speculate that is the case. Your uncle should see it as an investment to purchase such influence of Adelman. Is it true,” she asked quite suddenly, now in a less dire tone of voice, as though she had changed the topic to music or stage plays, “that your father failed to consider you in his will?”

My first instinct was to wave my hand and show my lack of concern, but I knew such a gesture to be a mere façade, and one that I did not wish to erect before this woman. Instead I nodded. “I feel no resentment. Indeed, I consider it a kindness, for had he left me any sizable estate, the guilt at my neglect would surely have been more than I could endure.” Miriam remained silent—not because she judged me harshly, but because, I believe, she did not know what to say. I attempted to turn the conversation to a topic less awkward. “And what of Mr. Sarmento?”

Her face betrayed what I took to be astonishment. “You are a very clever man, Cousin, to have noticed Mr. Sarmento’s attentions. Yes, he too is my suitor.”

“It is sometimes hard to tell if he is not, perhaps, Mr. Adelman’s suitor.”

She nodded grimly. “Yes, that is why I was surprised you noticed him in that capacity. Mr. Sarmento has expressed some interest to my uncle, but he is far more concerned with pursuing matters of business than matters of a domestic nature. Frankly, Mr. Sarmento is more puzzling and repulsive than Mr. Adelman. He is a self-interested and I think deceitful creature. So is Adelman, but at least he is involved in Court politics, and deceitfulness is, I should think, required. What excuse can Mr. Sarmento offer for scurrying about like a rodent? Frankly, I imagine he wishes to replace Aaron in Mr. Lienzo’s heart, so in that sense he is your rival as much as Mr. Adelman’s.”

I chose to ignore that jibe. “He has property enough to make his match?”

“His family is not unsuccessful. They would offer to settle him, I believe, once marriage negotiations are under way. But his family would benefit far more than yours.”

“And what does my uncle think of this rodent?”

“That he is an able man about the warehouse, that he keeps my father’s business ordered, and that, should Sarmento decide to strike off on his own, he should be difficult to replace. I do not believe this sentiment is the same as wishing to stare across a table at him at breakfast each morning for the rest of his life.”

“It is a tricky business, placing a son’s widow upon the marriage market, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” Miriam said dryly.

“And to whom do you cast your eye, may I ask?”

“To you, of course, Cousin,” she said, the words flying instantly off her tongue. I suspect she regretted her flippancy the minute she spoke, and there was a period of profoundly confusing silence in which I neither spoke nor breathed. Miriam let out a nervous laugh, perhaps suspecting she had taken too great a liberty. “Do I presume too much? We should perhaps spend two or three such afternoons thus before I may be flippant with you with impunity. I shall be serious, then. I cast my eye on no one. I am sure I am not ready to become another man’s property. I have few freedoms right now, and I do not know that I want to surrender those I have. Perhaps I desire more freedoms, and I think they should be more readily attained here than in some other man’s house.”

I said nothing for a moment, for I felt myself still hot in the face over the unexpected exposure of the pleasure I took in her company. It took some time before I finally opened my mouth to speak, but I was cut short by the arrival of my aunt and uncle, who cheerily breezed into the room, poured themselves some wine, and told us stories of their youth in Amsterdam.