A Conspiracy of Paper

hoped that she might find me fascinating.

“I have heard much of you, sir,” she said, with a smile that showed white and healthy teeth.

“You honor me, madam.”

“We are in England, not France, Benjamin,” my uncle said. “You may omit the formalities.”

That I had no clever response was fortunately hid by a knock at the door. “The sun,” my uncle said, “is too far set for Isaac to answer that.” He and my aunt walked forth to greet his visitors.

“Do we expect others?” I asked Miriam, pleased with the early opportunity for conversation.

“Yes,” she said with a scowl that for a moment I thought directed at me. She circled around the sofa upon which I sat and gracefully lowered herself into a well-cushioned armchair across from me. “Do you know Nathan Adelman?” Her displeasure, I saw, belonged to another.

I nodded. “I know of him, certainly. An impressive dinner guest.” Adelman had come to England from Hamburg to join King George’s court five years earlier, in 1714. He, as my father had been, was one of the handful of Jews allowed to hold the title of licensed broker upon the Exchange; he was also a powerful merchant with ties to the East and West Indies, the Levant, and, surreptitiously, to the South Sea Company and even to Whitehall itself. Rumor held that he was the Prince of Wales’s unofficial adviser in all matters financial. I knew no more of him but that the displeasure so evident upon Miriam’s face suggested she took no delight in his company.

When he walked into the room, the situation unfolded itself. He offered an optimistic, almost exuberant smile at Miriam, who was near thirty years his junior. Adelman looked only slightly younger than my uncle—he was a short, plump, handsomely dressed man, clean-shaven, attired in a full, black bob-wig and looked for all the world as much an English gentleman as anyone in a respectable London coffeehouse. It was only his voice that gave him away. Like my uncle, he had clearly worked hard to eliminate much of his accent—though in his case, having a touch of the German in his speech offered perhaps some advantage in a court with a German king. It was well- known that King George’s first priority was his German principality, Hanover, and Adelman’s first priority was King George’s son. This dedication to the Prince left Adelman in a ticklish situation, for at the time the Prince and the King were feuding, and Adelman therefore lacked the King’s ear, which he was said to have in the past possessed.

Miriam offered him a disaffected nod, while I arose and bowed deeply upon my introduction. By the time I sat again I understood that it did not take a man trained in uncovering secrets to read the relationships before me. Adelman wished to marry Miriam, and Miriam had no desire to marry Adelman. I could not even venture a guess as to how my uncle felt about this courtship.

After a few moments of polite conversation concerning the weather and the political situation in France, a knock at the door produced our final dinner guest. My uncle disappeared briefly and then returned, one hand pressed in a friendly fashion to the back of Noah Sarmento, a clerk who worked within my uncle’s warehouse. This was a very young man with a polite but severe countenance. He was clean-shaven, wore a small, tight wig, and though his clothes were not of poor quality, they were of nondescript grays and browns and of equally bland tailoring.

“Certainly you know Mr. Adelman,” my uncle began.

Sarmento bowed. “I have had the pleasure many times,” he said with a cheer that seemed ill-suited to his features, “though not so many as I should like.” Sarmento’s smile rested as naturally upon his face as an admiral’s uniform upon a monkey. This image is perhaps a false one, however, for to liken Sarmento to a monkey would be to suggest there was something playful and mischievous about him. Nothing could be more false. He was as dour a man as I had ever met, and though I know many philosophers argue against the science of physiognomy, here was one man whose very character could be read in the pinched and unwelcoming shape of his face.

Adelman returned a shallow bow as my uncle introduced me in such a way as to avoid the mention of my assumed name. “This is my nephew Benjamin, son of my late brother.”

Sarmento nodded only briefly before he abandoned contact with me. “Mrs. Lienzo,” he said, bowing in her direction. “It is a pleasure to see you once more.”

Miriam nodded, half-closed her eyes, and looked away.

“Tell me,” Sarmento began to address Adelman, “what news in South Sea House? The coffeehouses are all a-flutter to see what shall happen next.”

Adelman smiled politely. “Come sir. You know that my relationship with the South Sea Company is purely informal.”

“Ha!” Sarmento slapped his thigh. I could not see if he did so with pleasure or to spur himself on. “I hear the Company makes not a move without consulting you.”

“You do me too much honor,” Adelman assured him.

I valued this discourse only because Miriam and I exchanged quick glances to express our mutual lack of interest. We soon moved to the dining room, where I continued to find the conversation awkward and halting. My uncle several times pressured me to say the prayers traditionally uttered with Sabbath dinner, but I pretended forgetfulness of what had been so ingrained upon me as a child. In truth, I felt an odd inclination to participate, but I was unsure that the prayers I remembered were the correct ones, and I did not wish to err before my cousin. I did not say as much, but I suggested that I thought of blessings upon food as so much superstition. When my uncle uttered these prayers, however, I felt the tug of something—memory or loss, perhaps—and I took a strange pleasure in the sound of the Hebrew words. There had been no prayer in my house when I grew up; my father sent my brother and me to study the laws of our people at the Jewish school because that was what men did, and we attended the synagogue because my father had found it easier to go than to explain why he did not.

I looked about the room to see how the others responded to the blessings. I thought it odd that Sarmento, who had demonstrated a clear admiration for Miriam before, could hardly allow his gaze to waver from Adelman. “Tell me, Mr. Adelman,” Sarmento began once my uncle finished with the prayers, “will the recent threats of a Jacobite uprising affect the sale of government issues?”

“I’m sure I have nothing to say that is not said throughout the coffeehouses,” Adelman demurred. “Upheaval always promotes fluctuation in the prices of the funds. But without such fluctuation, there could be no market, so the Jacobites do us some small favor, I suppose. But that, as I say, is but common knowledge.”

“There could be nothing common about your opinions,” Sarmento pressed on. “I should so much like to hear them.”

“Indeed, I believe you,” Adelman said with a laugh, “but I wonder if our friends who do not spend their time in ’Change Alley are as curious as you.” He bowed his head at Miriam.

“Perhaps I might make an appointment to meet with you then at another point.”

“You may call on me at any time,” Adelman responded, although with such little warmth that he should have frightened off all but the most determined of sycophants. “I am often to be found at Jonathan’s Coffeehouse, and you may always send a message there knowing I shall receive it.”

“If we may not talk about the funds, then let us talk of the amusements of the town!” Sarmento cried, with a loudness I suppose he meant as enthusiasm. “What say you, Mrs. Lienzo?”

“I should think that my cousin can speak more to that topic,” Miriam said quietly, carefully avoiding my gaze as she did so. “I am told he knows something of London amusements.”

I knew not how to take her comment, but I could detect no insult. I could only be sure that Sarmento had asked Miriam a question and she had deferred to me. I rose to the challenge, feeling that I now had the opportunity to impress her. I spoke only of what I had heard of the new theatrical season, and I gave my opinion on a variety of players and performances from the previous year. Sarmento proceeded to seize upon each of my points, using them to launch some discourse of his own on ideas about acting or plays and such. This popinjay would never dare to insult me in public, but here, at my uncle’s dinner table, he made no effort to hide his contempt for me; I could hardly embarrass my uncle by challenging his puppy. Instead I pretended not to understand his looks and gestures, and silently hoped I should have the opportunity to meet him elsewhere.

It was a tradition in my uncle’s household that, with the servants dismissed, the resident ladies would serve the meal on the Sabbath. And so it was, and to my delight I observed that Miriam seemed particular about both avoiding Sarmento and Adelman—leaving those gentlemen for my Aunt Sophia—and to seeking me out when delivering her bowls of soup or plates of cardamom-scented lamb. I looked forward to each new course, that I might bask in her proximity: the rustle of her skirts, the scent of her lemony perfume, and such tantalizing hints of her bosoms as her bodice offered. Indeed, the third and final time she served me she caught my eyes indulging in