meant to trample upon me. I hope my reader will think me no coward, but in an instant I was filled with terror, for I believed in my heart that this was the coach, and this the very coachman, who had run down my father. This terror sprang not only from the fear I now felt for my own life, although that was certainly no small part of it, but from the recognition of the enormity of what I faced. I sought to know what had happened to my father, and now his fate might well be my own. There were forces at work that I could not comprehend, and because I could not comprehend, I felt I could not defend myself.
I took another few steps backward, away from the road, where the murderous coachman would never dare to drive his horses but at his own peril. I discovered, however, a difficulty I had not bothered to consider—that the coach and the thief were but of the same party, for the thief had managed to sneak his way behind me, and, taking advantage of his surprise, he gripped me hard upon the shoulders, twisting my body roughly before throwing me to the ground. As I landed, the coach sped by at a frightening pace, the horses screaming with what sounded like sinister pleasure. My assailant lost no time raising up and holding forth his own blade over my dazed and prostrate form.
“I thought to say ‘stand and deliver,’ ” he told me with a grin dully reflected in even the minimal light, “but in your case, delivering will be enough.”
I could not discern his features clearly in the darkness, but he was a stout, gritty-looking creature who, by the width of him, might have acquitted himself reasonably well in an honest fight. Now that he had the advantage, I thought hard for ways I might remove myself of his mercy.
“I have little money about me,” I told him truthfully, hoping to prolong the conflict that I might find a way to reverse his obvious advantage. “If you will let me return to my lodgings, I shall pay you for your consideration.”
Even in the darkness, I could see him grin. “That’s all right,” he said in a thick country accent. “My business is somewhat seriouser’n robbery. I was just hoping to get myself a little something extra.”
He thrust forward with his weapon, which surely would have pierced my heart had I not raised a leg and, with my heavy boot, stomped hard into his manly parts. It is a painful thing to be struck thus; I know so from experience, but a man who fights in the ring must learn to ignore a pain that, while distracting, is rarely harmful. This prig had never learned that lesson. He let out a howl, staggered backward, and dropped his own weapon that he might helplessly support his injured flesh.
I quickly retrieved both my blade and his own, but I was in no haste to run him through. I walked rapidly toward him as he crouched, clutching at his cod. I could discern that he was dressed not so poorly as the average prig, but I could not see the specific details of his attire, or those of his face.
“Tell me who sent you,” I gasped, my breathing having been much disordered by the adventure. I took another step forward.
I heard the clattering of hooves and the grinding of wheels, and I knew the hackney coach was returning. I had little time.
He groaned. He clutched. He said nothing. I thought I should get his attention, and do so quickly, so I kicked him again, this time in the face. He went flying backward into the street, and landed hard upon his posterior. I heard a groan and then a scraping in his throat as he struggled for air.
“Who sent you,” I again demanded. I hoped my voice conveyed the urgency of the question.
I thought that if my blow to his tenderest part had so disabled the thief, my second should have all but mastered him, but such proved not to be the case. “Kiss my arse, Jew,” he said, and then, audibly sucking in his breath as he mustered his strength, he ran after the coach. He ran slowly and awkwardly, but he ran all the same, and he kept himself just out of my reach as he jumped, or I should say threw himself, onto the back of the coach as it barreled toward the Strand. I took a step farther backward, that the coach could not threaten me, though I did not believe it would try to do so again. It sped off, leaving me standing unhurt if confused and weary.
In such moments, one wishes for some sort of dramatic resolution, as though life were but a stage play. I cannot say which I found more disorienting: the attack upon my person or the fact that, once the attack had ended, I simply continued my walk toward the Strand. And in the silence of the night I could almost believe the assault had been but a fantasy of my mind.
But it had not been. Nor had it been a simple attempt upon a man foolish enough to be caught by himself at night. The hackney coach told me that these were not poor and desperate men, for where would thieving knaves have acquired so expensive a piece of equipment? What frightened me more was that these men knew me—knew me to be a Jew. They had been set upon me, and that I had let them escape filled me with a twisting anger that I vowed to unleash upon my assailants, whom I firmly believed to be my father’s killers.
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
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
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
