A Conspiracy of Paper

TWELVE

WITH THE CLARITY that comes with the light of morning, I realized precisely the gravity of my situation. If my assailants had desired to murder me, they had certainly failed miserably, and if their desire had been to frighten me away, I resolved that they should fail just as thoroughly on that score. I took this assault as incontrovertible proof that my father had been murdered, and that men of violence and power wished to keep the truth of his death a secret. As a man well used to danger, I determined only to exercise more caution and to continue upon my course.

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, who brought me a letter addressed in a feminine hand I did not recognize. I tore it open and found myself astonished by the following communication:

Mr. Weaver,

I trust you can easily imagine the extraordinary discomfort at imposing upon you, particularly as we have met but recently. I call upon you, however, because though you and I are but newly acquainted, I can see that you are a man of both honor and feeling, and that you are as generous as you are discreet. We discussed briefly the limitations with which I find myself in your uncle’s house, but I hoped to spare you the discomfort and myself the mortification of mentioning that these limitations are both urgent and real. I find myself short of ready money and threatened by villainous creditors. I dare not risk Mr. Lienzo’s disapproval by begging his assistance, and with nowhere else to turn I am forced to reveal myself to you in the hopes that you will have both the means and the willingness to advance a small amount that I shall repay in silver upon the earliest possibility, and repay in gratitude immediately and eternally. The sum of £25 will perhaps not be missed by a man of your station, but it will save me from a shame and discomfort I hardly dare imagine. I hope you will give this note all due consideration, and take pity on a most desperate

Miriam Lienzo

My response to this note was a mixture of surprise, perplexity, and delight. Having been reimbursed by Sir Owen for what I had advanced in the service of Kate Cole, I could scarcely have endured myself if had I let Miriam suffer under the threats of her creditors. I had no doubt that my uncle would never allow her to visit the inside of a debtor’s prison over so niggling a sum, but I believed that she had reasons for wishing to keep him ignorant of her troubles.

I immediately collected the sum she required from my hidden store of silver and dispatched Mrs. Garrison’s boy with the coins and the following note.

Madam,

I shall long remember this day as a great one, for on it you have given me the opportunity to perform for you some small service. I ask that you consider this insignificant sum as a present and think no more of it whatsoever. The only consideration I require is that should you again find yourself in need of assistance of any kind, you will think first to call upon

Ben. Weaver

I spent much of the next hour wondering about what sorts of debts Miriam could have accrued and how she might show me her gratitude. Unfortunately, I soon had to turn to other matters. This was the day I had appointed to meet with Sir Owen at his club, so after concluding some routine business about the metropolis, I returned to my home in Mrs. Garrison’s house to wash my face and change into my best suit of clothes. I even briefly considered wearing a wig, that I might endeavor to appear as one of these men, but I quickly laughed at my own foolishness. I was not a fashionable gentleman, and my pretending to be one should only earn their contempt. And it was with a certain amount of pride that I reminded myself that I did not require a wig as most English gentlemen do, for I, being mindful of cleanliness, washed my hair several times each month and thus avoided the plague of lice. I did not neglect to wear a hangar, however, even though most men consider a fashionable sword to be a sign of gentility. Indeed, it was not many generations ago when the laws of the Kingdom would have forbidden a man such as myself from wearing a weapon, but despite the harsh looks my hangar at times brought me, I never thought to leave it behind. Its protection proved far too valuable, and no stranger ever dared to express his disapproval with words uttered above a whisper.

It was nearly nine o’clock, the time I was engaged to meet with Sir Owen at his club, and after my adventures the previous night, I could feel the dull torpor of exhaustion in the core of my muscles. I considered Sir Owen’s invitation a fine opportunity, and I certainly had no wish to insult him by not acknowledging it as such, but as I approached his club, located in a beautiful white town house of Queen Anne’s time, I wondered why precisely he had invited me to join him there. I could not but think that in a club to which Sir Owen belonged I might expect to find no shortage of men to raise their eyebrows at a Jew guest. Did Sir Owen want to do me a good turn, or did he have another motive? I wondered perhaps if he might have enemies within his club, people whom he hoped to intimidate by flaunting his connection with me. Was it possible that he thought there would be some sort of prestige in showing he had a man of my stripe in his orbit? Or was it no more than that an exuberant gentleman like Sir Owen felt that I had done him a good turn and wanted to do me one as well—even if such a good turn were in bad taste? Based on what I knew of him, this explanation was hardly unlikely, so I chose to believe in his goodwill, and I knocked heartily upon the door.

After but a moment I was greeted by a very young footman—perhaps no more than sixteen—who had already learned to affect the snobbish manner of his employers. He peered at me, no doubt noting my darkish skin tone and natural hair, and screwed up his face into a foppish disgust. “Can it be that you have some sort of business here?”

“It can,” I said with a tight sneer. Five years earlier, perhaps, I would have been considering whether or not to provide the spark with a painful lesson in manners, but age had tempered my passions. “My name is Weaver,” I told him wearily. “I am a guest of Sir Owen Nettleton.”

“Oh, yes,” he droned, his face not yet ready to abandon its conviction of superiority. “Sir Owen’s guest. We’ve been told about you.”

The “we” I thought an adventurous touch on his part. I was sure if I mentioned it to Sir Owen the boy would have received a good beating for presuming to number himself with his betters, but reporting the spark’s insolence was a task I would leave for another man. Instead I followed this servant into an exquisite hall paneled with a dark wood the likes of which I had never seen before. On the floor was a rug of Indian origin, and no inexpensive one I guessed from the intricacy of the work. Not knowing much of the arts, I could not offer an opinion of the paintings on the wall, but they were pastoral scenes of fine workmanship—Italian, I guessed, based on the costumes of the figures. It was clear that Sir Owen kept sophisticated company.

I followed the boy through an equally exquisite drawing room, where three men sat drinking wine. Their close conversation broke as I passed, for they took the opportunity to stare hard at me. I smiled and offered them brief bows as I moved to the main room. This was a large area with perhaps four or five tables, several sofas, and countless chairs. Here a good twenty or so men were engaged in a variety of activities—playing card games, conversing gregariously, and reading the papers aloud. One man stood in the corner, making water into a china pot. The furniture was all of the highest quality, and the wood-paneled walls were decorated with the same style of Italian paintings as I had seen outside. Toward one wall stood an enormous fireplace, but only a small fire burned within.

Sir Owen spotted us before we saw him. The baronet had been sitting at one of the card tables, his face invisible as he contemplated a hand. As he saw us he made some brief apologies to the men with whom he had been playing and stood to greet me.

“Weaver, so good of you to show.” Sir Owen’s affable face was bright with portly good cheer. “So very good. A glass of port for Mr. Weaver,” Sir Owen shouted at a liveried servant across the room. The footman who had led me in had already melted away.

I felt the hum of conversation die down to a quiet whisper; all eyes were upon me, but Sir Owen either did not note the suspicion with which I was regarded or he did not care. Instead he clapped his arm about my shoulder and led me over to a group of men seated in a few chairs arranged to face one another. “Look here,” Sir Owen nearly bellowed at these men, “I want you to meet Benjamin Weaver, the Lion of Judah. He’s helped me out of a tight spot, you know.”

The three men rose. “I should think,” one of them said dryly, “you refer to just this moment, for Mr. Weaver’s arrival saved you from your ill luck at play.”

“Quite so, quite so,” Sir Owen agreed jovially. “Weaver, these men are Lord Thornbridge, Sir Robert Leicester, and Mr. Charles Home.” All three men greeted me with rigid politeness as Sir Owen continued to talk. “Weaver here is as brave and stout a man as you’re likely to meet. Here’s a fellow who’s a credit to his people, helping folks rather than tricking them with stock and annuities.”

Sir Owen’s was a sentiment I had certainly heard before. Men who did not know that I was the son of a stock-jobber frequently felt free to compliment me for having nothing to do with finance or Jewish customs, which were often imagined to be one and the same. I wondered if Lord Thornbridge knew of my family connections, for he took what I believed an ironic amusement at Sir Owen’s raillery. He was of about five-and-twenty years, I guessed—a striking-looking man, astonishingly handsome and ugly simultaneously. He had strong cheekbones, a manly chin, and striking blue eyes, but his teeth were rotted black within his mouth, and he had a distracting red and bulbous growth upon his nose.

“Do you feel yourself to be a credit to your people?” asked Lord Thornbridge, as he sat down. The rest of us followed suit.

“I think, my lord,” I said, choosing my words with the utmost care, “that any man of a foreign nation must serve as an ambassador among his hosts.”

“Bravo,” he said, with a slight laugh that appeared to me as much out of boredom as appreciation. Then he turned to his friend. “I should like if your brother Scots felt thus, Home.”

Home smiled with pleasure at the opportunity of contributing. He was approximately Lord Thornbridge’s age, and I sensed the two were companions, if not friends. He was more fashionably dressed than the nobleman, and his handsome appearance was unmitigated by any defect whatsoever. The confidence that Thornbridge derived from his nobility, Home derived from his appearance. Both, I quickly surmised, derived confidence from money. “I think you do not understand the Scots, my lord,” Home droned. “Mr. Weaver perhaps feels that his fellow-Jews must be careful not to disoblige their hosts, for they know their hosts may all too readily feel disobliged. We Scots, however, feel a more fraternal obligation to teach the English in the areas of philosophy, religion, medicine, and manners in general.”

Lord Thornbridge affected amusement at Home’s repartee. “Just as we English teach the Scots how to—”

Home cut him off. “How to learn from French dancing masters, my lord? Really, you must know that any culture England boasts of comes from the north or from across the Channel.”

Lips pursed petulantly, Lord Thornbridge muttered something about Scottish barbarians and rebels, but it was clear who was the wittier man. Thornbridge opened his mouth to begin speaking again, no doubt with the intent of recovering some of his honor, but he was cut off by Sir Robert, a much older man of fifty or more who sat with the stony superiority of someone who had never been in want of anything. “What think you then, Weaver, of the Shylocks of your race?”

“I say, Bobby,” Sir Owen cut in, “let us not roast our friend upon the fire. He is my guest, after all.” His tone bespoke more amusement than censure, and I could not think his words were calculated to have any effect upon his friends.

“I see it not as roasting,” Sir Robert replied. He turned to me. “Surely you must acknowledge that many of your people are schemers who seek to trick Christians of their property.”

“And their daughters?” I asked. I hoped to defuse this topic with a bit of humor.

“Well,” Lord Thornbridge chimed in, “it is no secret that the circumcised among us have a voracious appetite.” He laughed heartily.

Certainly I felt uncomfortable, but I had long understood what such men thought of my race. “I cannot speak for all Jews, as none of you could speak for all Christians. But we have the honest and dishonest among us as you do.”

“Diplomatic but false,” Sir Robert said. “Any man who has lost money in the funds knows he can follow the trail of his loss to the hand of a Jew—or a man in a Jew’s service, to be sure.”

The sophistry of this argument fairly filled me with rage. I knew not how to counter such nonsense. I was therefore shocked to hear Home respond for me. “What rubbish is that, Sir Robert? To say that any transaction might be traced to a Jew is the same as saying that, as you have made it a habit to attend the opera, I can trace you to a buggering Italian, and thus you must be a sodomite.”

“Clever wordplay from a Scot,” Sir Robert said, visibly angered by Home’s analysis. “But I’ve often wondered about you Scots—refusing to eat pork as you do and clinging so tightly to your funds. I have heard it said that you yourselves are one of the Lost Tribes of Israel.”

“Let us not give Mr. Weaver the wrong idea of friendly commerce among Christian gentlemen,” Lord Thornbridge proposed cautiously, in an effort to keep tempers in check.

Sir Robert coughed into his hand and then turned to me. “I do not mean to insult your people. I suppose there are reasons—historical reasons—that explain why you are the way you are. The Popes never permitted members of the Romish faith to engage in usury,” he explained to the others, perhaps believing that I was familiar with all aspects of Christian history that related to Jews. “And thus Jews gladly took the trade for themselves. Now, Weaver, your race seems tainted by that trade. And here your people are, working your stock-jobbery in this country. One wonders if you are not trying to take the very nation itself away from us. Must we say farewell to Britain and greet instead Judea Nova? Shall St. Paul’s be turned to a synagogue? Are we to see public circumcisions in the streets?”

“Gad, Bobby!” Sir Owen exclaimed. “You make me blush with your illiberal words.”

“I heartily hope Mr. Weaver is not insulted,” Sir Robert said, “but we so rarely have an opportunity to address Jews upon these gentlemanly terms. I feel that we have much to learn from one another under these circumstances. If Mr. Weaver can disabuse me of false notions, I shall not only be willing to listen, but grateful to have the scales lifted from my eyes.”

I attempted to smile politely, for there was nothing to be gained from showing this man my anger, and I took a certain comfort in the contempt his opinions earned him from his fellows. “I feel there is little I can say,” I began, “for I cannot claim to be an expert on either Jews or money. But I can assure you the two terms are not synonymous.”

“No one should claim they are,” Sir Robert rejoined. “I think that we only wish to have some points clarified about what Jews want in our country. This is, after all, a Protestant country. If that were not important to us, we would not have imported a German King—we would have been contented with a Popish tyrant. And our Romish citizens understand their precarious situation, but I often feel that you Jews do not—always wanting special dispensations from taking oaths for office and so forth. It’s as though you want to become English yourselves. And despite what our friends in North Britain may think, being English is no simple matter of how one dresses or speaks.”

“I fear I must agree with Sir Robert here,” Lord Thornbridge told me, “for while I do not begrudge any foreigner his manners or ways, I do wonder about your brother Jews, who come to settle here in this nation, who wish to remain separate from us, yet clamor for special treatment. There are any number of men I know whose forebears were French or Dutch or Italian, but, from having lived here for a generation or two, they have become engrafted onto our English stock. I am not sure that is the case with your people, Weaver.”

“Indeed,” Sir Robert chimed in, “suppose stock-jobber Isaac, after earning a plumb in ’Change Alley off the misfortunes of honest Christian gentlemen, decides he wants to take his hundred thousand pounds to the country and become Squire Isaac. He buys an estate and builds up his rent rolls, and lo! he finds himself in charge of appointing a living for a clergyman. Is a Jew to appoint a priest of the Church of England, or are we to expect the good citizens of Somersetshire to follow the teachings of the rabbis? When Squire Isaac, who must serve as the law upon his property, is approached by tenants with a dispute, does he turn to the law of England or the law of Moses?”

“These are questions I cannot answer,” I told him, holding my voice steady. “I cannot speak for your Squire Isaac, for no such creature exists. And it has been my experience that rather than seek to take our host nation for as much as we can, we seek to live in peace and gratitude.”

“There,” Sir Owen said cheerfully, “you have the honorable sentiments of an honorable man. And I can vouch for Mr. Weaver’s honor.”

“Indeed,” Sir Robert said, “Mr. Weaver may not be the perfect specimen of his people. You recall, I believe, the story of Edmund West?” The other men nodded, so Sir Robert turned to me and explained. “West was a successful merchant who took to playing the funds. He became rather set on the idea of retiring worth a plumb, you know, like so many other men. His fortune rose such that he could have easily retired from the business of the Exchange, but he would not quit until he had that hundred thousand pounds in pocket. So, worth perhaps eighty thousand pounds, he made some investments of Jews and watched in horror as his fortune was diminished by a full third. These Jews scented out his panic and took advantage of it. Soon this amount was halved and then halved again until he was worth nothing and less. And if you doubt this story”—Sir Robert looked at me squarely—“you may visit Mr. West among the lunatics at Bedlam itself, his losses having quite undone his mind.”

Though much of my work required that I bear the abuses of gentlemen, I found my patience all but at an end with this lot. I also grew angry at Sir Owen for allowing this calumny to be launched at me with naught but an ineffectual guffaw. For a moment I thought on taking my leave and showing this buffoon that a Jew is as capable as any man of feeling indignation and responding to it as it deserves. And yet something held me back, for I had rarely had a man of Sir Robert’s stature lay open his thoughts to me at length, and I wondered what there was to be learned in this conversation. I therefore chose to choke upon my pride for the moment and to consider how to turn this unpleasant conversation to my best advantage.

“All men risk losing their fortunes in the funds,” I replied at last. “I cannot think that the dishonesty of Jews can be blamed. Because one man sells to another in hopes of gaining advantage does not make the seller a villain,” I said, confidently repeating the words of my uncle.

“I rather agree,” Home said. “To blame Jews for the corruption of ’Change Alley is much the same as blaming a soldier for the violence of a battle. Men buy and sell upon the Exchange. Some men make money and some lose—and some of these men are Jews, but I think you know too well, Sir Robert, that most are not.”

“Many, however,” Lord Thornbridge added, “are foreigners, and there Sir Robert is not wrong to be concerned. I think,” he said, turning to his friend, “you are too much the victim of popular prejudice to blame the sons of Abraham exclusively, but they are certainly there, along with many other men of many other nations, and a host of Englishmen with a loyalty to no nation, who would stock-job away the entire country if they could.”

Sir Robert nodded in solemn agreement. “Now you talk like a man of sense,” he said, waving his hands about excitedly, “but the true villainy of all of this is what it does to our nation. When men begin to trade things of real value for all of this paper, it turns them into frenzied, fanciful women. The rugged and manful values of the ancients are set aside in favor of frivolousness. These loans and lotteries and annuities run our nation into a debt that can never be paid, because we care not to give a fig for the future. I tell you, all this Jewish stock-jobbery shall destroy the Kingdom.”

“In my mind,” Lord Thornbridge noted, “far more pernicious is the effect of paper money upon the lower elements. Why should a man labor hard for his daily bread if he owns a lottery ticket that may transport him to sudden wealth? In the end I fear that stock-jobbers”—he turned to Sir Robert—“and I mean stock-jobbers named John and Richard as much as those named Abraham and Isaac-threaten to replace birth and gentility with money as the measure of quality.”

Here I saw my opportunity. “I wonder, my lord, if Jews or anyone else need to plot the demise of those who are so effective at undoing themselves. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but I need only point out Mr. Michael Balfour, who was ruined not by schemers but by his own greed.”

Sir Robert stared hard at me. Sir Owen, Home, and Lord Thornbridge exchanged glances. Had I gone too far? Had Balfour perhaps been a member of this club? I felt a flicker of remorse, as though I had been guilty of some faux pas, but I soon recollected the indignities these men had laid upon me, asking me to smile like an ape as I received their insults.

Finally, as I might have anticipated, it was Sir Robert who spoke. “It is certain that Balfour was killed by Jews, Weaver. I say, you astonish me by mentioning his name at all.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but Sir Owen, not suffering from the shock and excitement I felt, spoke first. “In what capacity, sir? All of London knows that Balfour died of his own hand.”

“True,” Sir Robert agreed, “but can we doubt that there was a rabbinical influence behind it all? Balfour had a connection with a Jew—that stock-jobber who was killed the next day.”

“I believe you misrepresent matters,” Home said. “I heard that Balfour’s son had the Jew run down to avenge his father’s death.”

“Nonsense.” Sir Robert shook his head. “Balfour’s son would have helped the Jews to kick the stool from under his dangling father, but there can be no question that this Jew was involved.”

I looked about me carefully to see if anyone stared at me. I felt reasonably sure that no one knew the identity of my father, but I also felt that I was perhaps being tested in some way. I speculated that it would be best if I said nothing, but it then occurred to me that I had nothing to fear of failing the test. “Why,” I asked, “is there no question that there were Jews involved?”

Other than Sir Robert, who stared at me with mute amazement, the others simply looked embarrassed and inspected their shoes. I felt embarrassed and awkward, and their embarrassment did nothing to put me at my ease, but I had no choice but to press the inquiry. Sir Robert did not shrink from my gaze. “Really, Weaver, if you wish not to be insulted, then you should not ask such questions. The matter does not concern you.”

“But I am curious,” I said. “How is Mr. Balfour’s death related to Jews?”

“Well,” Sir Robert said slowly, “he was friends with that Jew broker, as I told you. And it is said that they were plotting something.”

“I have heard this as well,” Home chimed in. “Secret meetings and such. This Jew and Balfour surely involved themselves in something to which they proved unequal.”

“Are you saying,” I said, almost whispering, “that you believe these men were murdered because of some financial scheme?”

“Balfour involved himself with these”—Sir Robert waved his hand in the air—“these fiends, sir, these stock-jobbers, and he paid the price. I can only hope others will learn from him. Now, if you will excuse me.”

Sir Robert rose abruptly and Thornbridge, Home, Sir Owen, and I instinctively followed. He walked halfway across the room with his friends, leaving me to stand, by myself, with all eyes upon me, for an excruciating minute or two. Then, with a broad smile upon his face, Sir Owen strolled over to me. “I must apologize for Bobby. I thought he would be more welcoming. He really meant nothing, you know. Perhaps he was a bit warm from too much drink.”

I admit I was not as profuse in my expressions of unconcern as I might have been had I been truer to the dictates of fashion rather than those of feeling. I only thanked Sir Owen for inviting me, and took my leave.

I found myself overcome with relief when I finally stepped out of the building. Wishing to avoid even the potential unpleasantness of attacks upon my person, I asked the footman to procure me a hackney, and I rode home in a foul disposition.