A Spectacle Of Corruption

CHAPTER 24

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, a Friday, I made ready to answer Mr. Melbury’s invitation to dinner. I thought with some irony that if I were not a wanted criminal, I should very likely be attending my uncle and aunt’s house this evening in celebration of the Hebrew Sabbath. Instead, I would be dining with a woman who was once their daughter-in-law and now a member of the Church of England.

I dressed myself in the best of the suits Mr. Swan had labored over, and I took myself to Mr. Melbury’s home, where I arrived at precisely the time called for in the invitation. Nevertheless, I found Melbury occupied, and I was asked to cool my heels, as the saying goes, in his parlor. I was there only a few minutes before Melbury uncloseted himself, emerging with an older gentleman dressed in clerical colors. This man walked with a cane, and then only with a great deal of difficulty, and appeared to be in the most fragile of health.

Mr. Melbury smiled at me and introduced me at once to his guest, none other than so famous a personage as Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester. Even I, who followed events of the English Church no more closely than I did events of the Italian buggery, had heard of this luminary, well known to be one of the most eloquent proponents of restoring ancient Church privilege and power. But having heard of him, I felt myself ill at ease, knowing little of the forms belonging to such a lofty personage. I merely bowed and murmured something of what an honor it was to meet his grace. The bishop forced a smile and returned my kind words with some skepticism before hobbling from the room.

“I’m glad to see you once more,” Melbury said. He handed me a glass of claret without asking if I should like one. “Forgive his Grace’s taciturnity. He is in great pain from the gout, and you know his wife has died of late.”

“I did not know, and I am sorry to hear it. He is a great man,” I added, knowing that Tories, in general, thought so.

“Yes, I hope he will be in a better mood for dinner, for he makes most entertaining conversation when he is feeling lively. Now, you and I have some things to discuss before we greet our other guests. I read with interest some time ago of your adventure. That incident at the polling place has won us no small share of votes, sir. You are now famed as the Tory Tobacco Man, and you serve as a living idol to the differences between our two parties. Your rescue of Dogmill’s sister has become very well known and celebrated, and though you stood up for a Whig canvasser, you have much gratified your own party.” He paused for a breath. “Nevertheless, I have given the matter some thought, and it is unclear what you were doing canvassing for Hertcomb in the first place.”

“I did not engage in any actual canvassing,” I explained, feeling like a schoolboy who had been caught at some silly infraction. “I merely attended the canvass. I am, after all, friends with Miss Dogmill.”

“There can be no friends in politics,” Melbury said to me. “Not outside of one’s party, and certainly not during an election year.”

I ought not to have shown my teeth, but I’d begun to grow weary of Melbury and his belief that I lived to serve him. His forcing my hand with that bill collector, Miller, had soured me not a little. And, I assured myself, no man but a toadeater would fail to let forth his indignation at this usage. “Perhaps there can be no friends in politics,” I said softly. “But I remind you that I am myself not running for the House and might be friends with whom I please.”

“Just so,” Melbury agreed affably, perhaps now fearing he had been too critical. “I just do not like to see you succumbing to the enemies’ wiles, even if the enemy uses a handsome sister to do his bidding.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “Do you say that Miss Dogmill’s interest in my company is only to serve her brother?”

Melbury laughed again. “Why, of course. What did you think? Is there some other reason why she should suddenly attach herself to a Tory enemy of her brother’s at the very moment of the election? Come, sir. You must know that Miss Dogmill is a fine-looking woman with a handsome fortune. There are countless men in the metropolis who should like to have achieved what you have achieved so easily. Do you think there is no reason for your success?”

“I think there is a reason,” I said, somewhat heatedly, though I could not fully account for the rise in my passions. I only knew that, absurd though it might be, I took some umbrage that Matthew Evans had been insulted. “The reason is that the lady likes me.”

I think Melbury felt that he had pushed the matter too far, for he put a hand on my shoulder and laughed warmly. “And why should she not? I only say you must be careful, sir, that Mr. Dogmill does not try to use your fondness for his sister to his advantage.”

This was not what he had been saying, but I saw no point in pressing the matter and let him retreat comfortably. “I understand what Dogmill is,” I said. “I shall most certainly be careful of him.”

“Very good.” He refilled his goblet and drank down half of it at once. “I asked you here tonight, Mr. Evans, because, in speaking with some of the more important party men, it has come to my understanding that no one has much familiarity with you. I know that you are new to London, so I wondered if you might not relish the chance to make some valuable acquaintance in the party.”

“You are very kind,” I assured him.

“No one would deny it. However, there is something I would ask in return. When we first met, you made certain allegations to me regarding the men down on the docks and their connection to Mr. Dogmill. I may not have been wise to dismiss what you had to say, for these porters I understand have become instrumental in the riots against our cause. But you will find that I am willing to listen to you now.”

It was generous that he should choose to listen, but I had not any idea what I would say. One of the liabilities of this false persona was that I was often asked to fabricate information at a moment’s notice, and I found it difficult to keep all my lies clear in my head. “I don’t know what more I can tell you,” I began, as I tried to recall what I had told him in the first place- something to do with Dogmill paying out the customs men, I believe. “You told me that what I had to say is known to all.”

“I don’t doubt, I don’t doubt. However, I should point out to you that this election season is nearly a third gone. With the riots dispersed, I should be able to salvage my lead, but I should like to have some more ammunition at my disposal if I can. So if you have something to say, I beg you say it now.”

I was about to make another denial or repeat what I had already told him of Dogmill, but then another idea came into my head. I had, up until now, been nothing but the most ardent of Melbury’s supporters, and I could not but see that he recognized my loyalty. But in the same way that a man begins to despise a woman who offers him no resistance, I wondered if Melbury began to think the less of me for the ease with which he had used me. I therefore decided to apply to the situation some feminine wiles.

I shook my head. “I wish I could tell you more,” I said, “but it would be premature to speak. I can only promise you this, sir. I am at this moment in possession of information that would destroy Mr. Hertcomb, but I fear it might harm your side as well. I must seek out more details in order to reveal that Hertcomb is the villain here and no one else.”

Melbury drained his glass and refilled it without looking to see if I required more (which, I recall with some pain, I did). “What do you mean by this? It could destroy Hertcomb and harm me? I have no idea of what you speak.”

“I have hardly any more idea myself. That is why you must be content for me to wait until I have the information I require.”

He squinted at me. “You speak like a Gypsy fortune-teller, Mr. Evans, with your cryptic promises.”

“I shall speak more when I can.”

He darkened. “Damn it, Evans, speak now or you’ll know what it means to defy me.”

I faced him and would not avert my eye. “Then I suppose I shall know what it means to defy you. For you see, Mr. Melbury, I honor you and the Tory party too much to deliver unto you something that might do you more harm than good. And I would rather you hate me than see me as the source of difficulty.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, bother it! I suppose I ought to let you do as you see best. You have already served my campaign marvelous good, and all that by only being yourself. But I hope you will not hesitate to let me know if I may assist you in your labors.”

“I am most grateful,” I said.

All seemed, once more, easy between us, but I did not entirely believe the performance. Melbury was uncommonly agitated. Though the riots at the polling place appeared to have quieted, and had done so with the Tory lead still intact, there was still adequate reason for concern.

He placed his hand on the doorknob but then halted and turned to me. “One more thing,” he said. “I know it is a delicate matter, so I will have my say and it will be finished. You do not like that I suggest alternative motives for Miss Dogmill, and there is no reason why you should like it if you are fond of the lady. I will only say that even if her heart is pure and her morals are beyond reproach, you must recall that she is subject to her brother’s poison and perhaps even her brother’s subtle directions. She might harm you in a thousand ways without even knowing she does so. I ask you to be cautious.”

I had already swallowed enough of his suggestions about Miss Dogmill, and wished to hear no more. I attempted to hide my resentment, but I could feel my face reddening. “I will keep your caution in mind.”

“And if you will not keep that in mind, keep this: I knew her when she was but a child, and I will swear upon any Bible you might choose that she used to be enormous fat.”

I could only presume that Miriam had been advised of the guest list, for she showed not the slightest hint of surprise when she saw me from across the dinner table. She did, however, flash me a look of anger. It was fleeting, and no one would have thought anything more than that she might have had a burst of toothache or some similar pain. I understood her meaning well enough, however: I should never have accepted her husband’s invitation.

And I should not have. Would I have respected her comfort and her unstated wishes had not my very life been in the balance? Most likely, for increasingly Miss Dogmill had come to fill the void in my heart that Miriam had left. It still pained me to look at Miriam, I still winced with longing at the way she laughed or held a knife or dusted a piece of lint off her sleeve. All of these little things retained their baffling magic, but they were no longer devastating. I could watch Miriam and not want to seek out the nearest bottle and drink myself senseless. I could endure her charms. I could even think fondly of them, and of her, and of the promise of love between us that had seemed so real that some days I could have been no less surprised at the absence of her love than I would have been by the absence of my arms and legs.

But that promise was gone. I had long understood this, but I now came to believe it. And though I knew I might proceed with other matters- those of the heart and otherwise- there was a sadness in my acceptance, a sadness that was perhaps even more profound than the sadness of loss I had felt every day when I lived in inconsolable longing. I understood now, finally, as I sat at the table, that all hope for me and Miriam was gone. Her husband would not simply disappear, as I had somehow, in my core, believed he might. Instead I saw things as they were: She was married and a Christian, and I sat in her formal dining room pretending to be a man I was not, putting her marriage at risk. She was right to glower at me. She would have been right to knock me in the head with a pot of boiled chicken. I wished I could tell her so, but I knew this desire too came because I sought my own comfort, not hers.

There were perhaps a dozen guests at the table that night, Tories of no small importance and their wives. Dinner was interesting and lively. Much discussion of the election took place, including the role of the mysterious Mr. Weaver, for here was a lively topic, and the wine had been poured with uncommon generosity, so perhaps the less attentive diners neither noticed nor cared of their hosts’ displeasure. No one showed any sign of recalling that Miriam had once belonged to the nation of Hebrews.

“I find the whole thing utterly amazing,” said Mr. Peacock, Melbury’s effusive election agent. “That this rogue Jew- just the sort of person we might have all argued ought to be hanged, even prior to his being found guilty of murder- should emerge as so amiable a spokesman for our cause.”

“He is hardly a spokesman,” said Mr. Gray, a writer for the Tory papers. “He does not do much speaking. It is the rabble who speak for him, which is mightily good since these Jews are famous for being inarticulate, and their accents are most comical.”

“You may be confusing the true accent of the Jews with that portrayed on the stage by comedians,” said the bishop, who appeared to be in better spirits than when we had met earlier. “I have met with my share of Jews over the years, and many of them speak with the accents of Spaniards.”

“Am I to understand that a Spaniard’s accent is not comical?” asked Mr. Gray. “I must tell you this is news indeed.”

“Many Jews have no accent at all,” said Melbury somewhat dourly, for he was in the awkward position of having to defend his wife while ardently hoping no one recollected her origins and became aware that he was now cast in the role of defender.

“It is hardly their accents that need concern us. But this Weaver fellow, Melbury. You cannot love having your name yoked to his.”

“I love that he gets me votes. In truth,” he said pointedly, “he gets me far more votes gratis than those men I pay to get them.”

Mr. Peacock blushed not a little. “It is a fine thing to get votes, but must we get them any way we can? Mr. Dogmill gets votes for his man by sending rioters to the polls.”

“Surely,” said the bishop, “you do not think it harmful that Mr. Melbury merely raises no objection when the rabble idolize him in the same breath with which they idolize Weaver? What would you have him say, Continue your praise of me, but no longer praise that other man you like? We shall see how the mob likes their support being served with that sauce.”

“But if Mr. Melbury is asked to answer for his endorsement later,” Gray pressed on, “it could prove something of an embarrassment. I say, if in the final days of the election you have a clear and decisive victory, it will be time to disavow the Jew. You do not want your enemies in the House using it against you.”

“Mr. Gray may have a point,” the bishop conceded. “When you stand up to speak out against privileges being handed out to Jews and dissenters and atheists while the Church is starved, you do not want to give your enemies ammunition. You do not want to hear it said that you speak pretty words for a man voted in on the coattails of a murdering Jew.”

I cannot claim to have concealed my discomfort perfectly during this exchange, but uneasy though I was, I would not have traded my place for that of Melbury or Miriam. At least I was in disguise. The crowd at this table insulted their true lives freely and cruelly, and almost certainly ignorantly. I could see that his wife’s dubious past was a heavy burden for Mr. Melbury to bear. Each mention of Weaver and Jews made him wince and redden and drink from his glass to hide his discomfort. Miriam, for her part, turned paler with each comment, though I could not say if her ill ease was born of shame, her concern for me, or her observations of her husband’s displeasure.

Soon enough, a new topic of conversation was on the table. Miriam slumped in her chair with visible relief, but not her husband. He remained stiff, holding himself with unnatural erectness. He gripped his knife until his hand turned crimson. He bit his lip and gritted his teeth. I could not think he could stay in this state long, but he did for more than half an hour, until the other guests could not but discern that their host had become angry and sullen, and an uncomfortable silence crept across the table like a plague. We endured this awkward state for ten excruciating minutes, and our discomfort only broke when, during the somber dessert, a servant jostled a bowl full of pears, sending a half dozen or so onto the floor.

Melbury slammed his hand down at the table and turned to his wife. “What the devil is this, Mary?” he shouted. “Did I not order that fellow to be gone two weeks ago? Why is he now scattering pears on my floor? Why is he here? Why? Why?” And with each why? he would slap his palm down, sending our plates and goblets and silver rattling as though there were an earthquake.

Miriam stared at him. She flushed and reddened, but she did not look down or turn away. Her lips quivered, and I knew she longed to give him an answer, but perhaps she had nothing to say that he wanted to hear, and so she remained quiet. She said nothing while he slammed the tabled and shouted out his question. Glasses rattled and silver chinked, and far more than a few pears nearly bounced onto the floor. But still he slammed and shouted until I thought I would go mad with rage.

And then I heard a voice say, “Enough, Melbury.”

I could hardly have been more surprised to see that I was the one who had said the words. I was on my feet with my arms limp by my side. I had spoken clearly and loudly, but not forcefully. It had done its business, however, for Melbury stopped shouting and slamming and looked up at me.

“Enough,” I said again.

The frail bishop reached up with one hand and touched Melbury’s arm. “Sit down, Griffin,” he said gently.

Melbury ignored the bishop. He stared at me, shockingly without a hint of anger. “Yes. Yes, I’ll sit.”

And so we both returned to our seats.

He looked to his guests and made some quip about wives being too easy on servants, and all did their part to make the incident pass as easily as possible. By the time dinner had finished and the men and women had moved to their separate rooms, I would have sworn from my observations that the incident was utterly forgotten.

I, however, would not so easily forget.

The next morning, I could not have been more astonished to receive the following note:

Mr. Evans:

I cannot easily imagine the difficulties you face in your unique and perilous position, though I find it hard to believe that any dangers you face would have necessitated that you accept my husband’s unfortunate invitation. Nevertheless, you did so, and I fear you have seen him not at his best. I know you are a man compelled by a keen sense of justice, and I have been awake all night with anxiety over the possibility that you will choose some impetuous course as a result of Mr. Melbury’s conduct. In an effort to forestall any such actions, I believe it is necessary that I meet with you to discuss these events. I will be this afternoon at the Monument for the fire at four. If you wish to see me at peace, you will be there to meet with your friend, Miriam Melbury

At least, I thought, she did not sign her letter Mary. Of course I would be there. I could not but attend. I did not know what it was that she feared I would do: knock her husband down, challenge him to a duel? Or was there something else? Did she fear that in my anger I would learn something of him she did not wish me to know?

I had little to do with my time until the meeting, and I found myself to be in no mood for going out-of-doors, so I was in my rooms when my landlady knocked upon my door to say that there was a man below to see me.

“What sort of man?” I asked.

“Not the best sort,” she assured me. Her analysis proved to be correct, for she showed Mr. Titus Miller into my rooms.

He stepped in and looked around, as though he were inspecting the space for his own use. “You live comfortable,” he said to me, as soon as Mrs. Sears had closed the door. “You live mighty comfortable, I see.”

“Begging your pardon, but is there some reason I ought not to live in comfort?”

“There might be a reason or two that I know about,” he said. He picked up a volume that I had taken from Mrs. Sears’s collection and examined it as though it were a precious stone. “Time for books and all matter of fancy words, I see. Well, your time is your own, I suppose, or it has been so, at any rate. But that is business, and we have not yet got to business, have we? Perhaps a glass of wine might put us all at our ease.” Miller put down the book.

“I am quite at my ease,” I told him, “and I hardly think that because I have agreed to pay a friend’s debts that you are entitled to speak to me in such a voice or to behave with such insolence.”

“You may think as you like, of course. I shan’t be so ill-natured as to prevent you. But I should very much care for a glass of wine, Mr.- well, I won’t call you Evans, since that’s not your name, and I won’t call you by your real name, since it might distress you to hear it spoken aloud.”

And there it was. I suppose I knew it would happen eventually. I could not remain disguised forever without someone discovering the truth. Of course, Miss Dogmill had done so, and so had Johnson, but neither wished to do me immediate harm. I had no confidence that Miller would behave with equal benevolence.

I turned to him. “I am afraid I know nothing of your meaning,” I said helplessly, clinging desperately to some hope that I might deceive my way from this desperate situation.

Miller shook his head at the sadness of my efforts. “Of course you do, sir, and if you pretend otherwise, I might just as well go explain it to a constable instead of you. He’ll understand my meaning plain enough, I expect.”

I poured myself a glass of wine but offered Miller nothing. “If you wished to visit a constable, you would have done so already. But I perceive that you would prefer to deal with me.” I took a seat, leaving him to the awkwardness of standing. I had been reduced to such petty victories. “Perhaps you had better tell me what it is you want, Miller, and I will tell you if it is feasible.”

If he bristled at being made to stand while I sat, he showed none of it. “As to being feasible or no, I should think there would be no question. I mean to ask nothing that you cannot give, and I need not tell you the consequences of refusing to provide it.”

“Let us forget the consequences for the moment and think instead of the request.”

“Oh, you are now all business, I see. No longer putting on airs and wigs. Did you think no one would recognize you, all dandified as you are? I recognized you at once, I did. Maybe you can deceive the common sort of fellow with those trappings, but I am far too perceptive. I’ve seen you about town far too often, always with a sneer for a fellow such as me, only doing his business.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “You make some very pretty speeches, but no one wishes to hear them. You may go home and praise yourself upon your own time, Miller. Do not think to waste my time with glorifying yourself. Now tell me what it is you would request.”

If I had insulted him, he showed no sign of it. “The request, then, is for the two hundred and sixty pounds for Mr. Melbury’s debt, as has already been promised, and another- shall we say- two hundred and forty for my good wishes, which will bring the entire amount to five hundred pounds.”

Only by summoning all of my resolve could I keep from reacting to this sum as it deserved. “Five hundred pounds is a great deal of money, sir. What makes you believe I have it at my disposal?”

“I can only guess what you have, but as you have been willing to provide two hundred and sixty for Mr. Melbury, I am forced to speculate that this sum, large though it may be, must represent only a portion of it. In any case, I see from the papers that Mr. Evans has made a marvelous name for himself in town. I don’t doubt that a gentleman of your stature should have little difficulty raising funds against the earnings of his plantation.”

“You wish for me to borrow money from trusting gentlemen and let them suffer the consequences?”

“I cannot tell you how to raise the money, sir. Only that raise it you must.”

“And if I refuse?”

He shrugged. “I can always return to Mr. Melbury for his debt, sir. He will pay one way or the other, as he cannot afford to sit out the remainder of the election in a debtor’s prison. And as for you, if I cannot get two hundred and forty pounds from you, I know I may at the very least get one hundred and fifty from the king. If you take my meaning.”

I took a drink of wine. “I take your meaning to be very ill-natured,” I said.

“You may take it as you like, sir, but a gentleman must always pursue his business, and that is no more than I have done here. No one can say it’s more that I’ve done, and no one can criticize me either.”

“I will not speak to that point,” I said, “only the other. As to the sum, you may perceive that it is a very large amount, not easily at my disposal. I must have a week.”

“That cannot be. It is not so good-natured of you to ask for it.”

“Then how much time do you think fitting for the raising of this sum?”

“I will come back in three days, sir. Three days, I say. If you do not have the money for me, I fear I must take actions we would both prefer to see avoided.”

Mrs. Sears had seen this villain enter my rooms. Would she notice, I wondered, if she never saw him emerge? But tempting though it might have been, I was not willing to commit that most egregious of crimes to protect an identity that was already doomed. Miller had recognized me. Sooner or later, another would recognize me as well. Perhaps that person would not be so kind as to come to me with this intelligence but would go to the constables instead. I had no choice but to let Miller go and to use the three remaining days as best I could.

I remained uncommonly silent as I considered my options, and Miller must have known what sorts of possibilities occurred to me, for he grew very pale and uneasy. “I must go at once,” he said, hurrying toward the door. “But you will hear from me in three days. Upon that you may depend.”

And so he left, and I knew then that my hand was forced. I had not as much time as I would have liked, but I hoped it would be enough.

I arrived at the Monument a quarter of an hour in advance of our appointed time, but Miriam was already there, enveloped in a hooded greatcoat. The hood was pulled down low, to keep her identity a secret, or perhaps to keep mine. Even in that bulky mass, however, I had no problem recognizing her in an instant.

She did not see me approach, so I stood for a moment to watch her as flurries of snow landed about her, melting as they touched the wool of her coat. She might have been my wife, I thought, if… but there was no if. I had begun to see that with painful clarity. The only if I could summon was if she had wished to be, but she had not, and this was the most painful if imaginable.

She turned as she heard my muted footsteps in the newly fallen snow. I took her gloved hand. “I hope you are well, madam.”

She let me hold on to her for as long as she could without risking a rudeness, and then withdrew the prize. Here was our entire relationship in miniature. “Thank you for meeting me,” she said.

“How could I not have?”

“I cannot say what you might think best. I only know that I felt the need to speak with you, and you have been so good as to oblige me.”

“And I shall always be thus,” I assured her. “Come, shall we get a dish of chocolate, or a glass of wine?”

“Mr. Weaver, I am not the sort of woman who may freely visit taverns or chocolate houses with a man not my husband,” she said sternly.

I attempted to show no sting. “Then let us stroll and talk,” I said. “With your hood, all the world may think you my illicit lover, but I suppose there is no helping that.”

The hood spared me from the distaste she no doubt registered. “I am sorry you saw Mr. Melbury lose his temper last night.”

“I am sorry it happened,” I said, “but if it must happen, I am not sorry to have been witness to it. Does he lose his temper with you often?”

“Not often,” she said quietly.

“But it has happened before?”

She nodded under her hood, and I knew from the way she moved her head that she was crying.

Oh, how I hated Melbury at that moment! I could have torn the arms from his body. Had not this lady suffered all her life, shuttled from family to family, from one keeper to another, until the most fortuitous of events had left her financially independent? I could not have been more astonished when she had sacrificed that independence to a man like Melbury, but she had taken a risk, such as we must all take in life. It was a terrible tragedy that she was to suffer for her venture.

“Is he violent with you?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No, not with me.”

There was something she would not yet say, yet I knew I could draw it out. “Tell me,” I said.

“He breaks things,” she said. “He smashes them. Mirrors, vases, plates, and goblets. Sometimes he throws them in my direction. Not quite at me, you understand, but in my direction. It is unpleasant enough.”

I drew both hands into fists. “I cannot endure this,” I said.

“But you must. You see, this is why I wanted to meet with you. I knew you would not rest until you found the truth, so I came to tell you the truth, but you must bother us no more. Griffin is not a perfect man, but he is a good one. He means to do important things for this country and to unmake this knot of corruption that binds our government.”

“I don’t give a fig for the knot of corruption,” I said, “only for you, Miriam.”

“Please don’t address me so familiarly, Mr. Weaver. It is not right.”

“Is it right that you should be under the torments of a tyrant?”

“He is no tyrant. He is but a man with weaknesses, such as you all have. It is only that some of his are more pronounced.”

“Such as gaming,” I said. “And debts.”

She nodded. “He does have those weaknesses, yes.”

“It is well, then, that you settled separate property upon yourself, lest his debts destroy your fortune.”

She said nothing, so I knew then what I had already suspected. “He has destroyed your fortune, hasn’t he?”

“He needed money to obtain the seat in the House,” she said. “He lost so much at play that he could not afford to stand for Parliament as he had long meant to do, as others in the party had expected him to do. But there were debts. He assured me that once he was elected there would be opportunities to make the money back. So you see it is vital that he get his seat, for if not we shall be quite ruined.”

“This is the good and virtuous man who will unmake the knot of corruption?”

“He is not the only man in this city to succumb to the evils of gaming.”

“True enough, but if he picked pockets he would hardly be the only man in this city to be guilty of that crime, either. That would not mean he was the more virtuous for it.”

“You are a fine man to talk about virtue,” she said.

I turned to her, but she looked away.

“Forgive me, Benjamin. Mr. Weaver. That was both cruel and false. Whatever else may be said of you, I know you are a man who loves what is right above all else. But though you strive to do what is best, you sometimes do what you know may be wrong. I don’t believe that makes you a bad man any more than it makes Mr. Melbury one.”

“The difference is that these things I do that you frown upon are in the service of what I think my duty. I can hardly believe that Mr. Melbury thought it his duty to destroy his wealth and that of his wife at playing whist.”

“You are unkind.”

“Am I? You talk of being ruined. What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I say. We shall have no money, no credit. Should he not win the seat in the House and receive the protection members enjoy, and if creditors press their case, we shall have nowhere to live. Mr. Melbury’s parents are long since dead. He has no siblings, and he has pressed those of his extended family as far as they will go. He must be in Parliament. He will do such good there. And-” She paused. “And only Parliament can save us now. I don’t know what you need or expect from him, or what you hope to gain by making Mr. Evans his fabulous friend, but you must know that you are playing with my life as well as his. He must win that seat. He must have it.”

“And do you think I wish to keep it from him? You must know, Miriam, that I have invested everything in your husband’s election. I am Dogmill’s enemy, not his. I cannot say I am delighted to be in such a position, but the truth is that I also wish for him to obtain the seat in the House.”

“Why should you want that?”

“Because when he is elected, it is my hope that he will use his influence to help me.”

Miriam turned away from me. “He will not,” she said quietly.

“What? How do you know? He has no idea who I am. He cannot know that I am not Matthew Evans, can he?”

She shook her head. “No, you can be sure he does not. But he will not help you, all the more when he discovers you have deceived him with your masquerade.”

“But surely he will understand the necessity-”

“He will understand nothing,” she hissed. “Can you not see that he hates you? Not Matthew Evans, but Benjamin Weaver. He hates Benjamin Weaver.”

I could not understand it. “Why should he hate me?”

“Because he knows- he knows we once meant something to each other, and he is jealous. It is because we are of the same race. He fears I will revert. Every time your name is raised, he seethes with anger. He cannot forgive that you have brought him votes, that you, no matter how unwillingly, have aided his campaign, for in doing so you have worked your way into our lives and our home.”

“There is no need to be so ungenerous with your lives and your home.”

“There is for Mr. Melbury. He has an idea that I will sneak off in the night to run away with you.”

“I have the same idea,” I said.

“Can you please pretend to gravity?”

“I’m sorry. But why should you have told him about us?”

“He wanted to know if I had entertained any lovers between my first husband’s death and my marriage to him. I did not want to tell him, but I did not want to lie either, and so he learned who you were to me. I never had any intention of telling him such things, but he has a way of making people say what they do not wish to.”

“Yes, that way most likely involves throwing things at you. Can you not see he is a cruel master, Miriam? Can you not see he has a black heart? He may not be inclined to villainy, but there can be no greater encouragement to baseness than debt. You speak of the good he will do in the House, but if you think that a man who faces ruin will vote his conscience rather than his purse, you are sadly deceived.”

“How can you say so?” she cried.

“How can I not? Melbury speaks of Parliament as saving him from debt, but you know full well a member makes nothing for his service. The only money to be made in the House is through the sale of favors and by making great friends among the powerful and cruel.”

“You may speak of destroying Mr. Melbury on principle, but would you sacrifice me for your principles as well?”

“Never,” I said. “I would give you the bread from my mouth. But you must know that, because of what I have seen, I would not hesitate to see Melbury destroyed. I will not go out of my way to harm him- I will swallow my anger and do what you wish- but I will not protect him either, and I will not serve him.”

“Then we have nothing more to say to each other,” she told me.

“How can you tell me so?”

“Are you mad?” she asked me. “He is my husband. I owe him all the loyalty in the world. You speak to me as though he were but a rival to you. But you must understand that you can be nothing to me now but a friend, and you decline that role. You would do what you wish in order to satisfy your own sense of right and wrong, but it is not only Mr. Melbury who will be trampled, it is me as well.”

“What do you ask of me, then?”

“You must promise me to do nothing that will harm him.”

“I cannot. I have told you that I will not seek to harm him, but I will not protect him, and if I have the opportunity to sacrifice him to serve my aims- knowing what I know of him now- I must take it.”

“Then you are no friend to me at all. I will thank you to stay away from me and my husband. I understand that you must encounter him now and again in your guise, but if you come into my house again, I will tell him who you are.”

“You would do that to me?”

“I do not want to have to make a choice between you, but if you force my hand I will choose my husband.”