“I hope I have done so permanently,” she said acidly.
The maid wheeled in the tea things, and Miriam sent her off with a wave of her hand. In that time I chose to speak bluntly to Miriam, for I had nothing to lose by doing so. “Will you tell me about your quarrel with Mr. Sarmento?” I asked, as she poured me a dish of tea.
She smiled. “Among the English, it is considered impolite to be so blunt.”
“I have lived among them, but I do not observe all of their customs.”
“So I see,” she said, handing me my drink. I had not been quick enough to ask Miriam not to put sugar in my dish, so I accepted the sweetened mixture.
“Mr. Sarmento came to request my permission to speak to Mr. Lienzo for my hand,” she continued. “It was a shockingly awkward thing, I can assure you, and I am unaccustomed to being confronted so boldly. Like you, Mr. Sarmento might better learn the English customs.”
“What happened?” I kept my voice quiet, casual, disinterested.
“Mr. Sarmento said that he had a mind to speak to Mr. Lienzo and that he wished to inform me in advance. I told him that I had no knowledge of any business he might have with Mr. Lienzo. He accused me of being overly mannered, and said that I knew well what business he had. Seeing that I grew unacceptably warm, I corrected myself by saying he had no business that could possibly interest me. He became quite angry and said that it was foolish of me not to seek to marry him. Some other words were exchanged along the same topic—some rather loud words, I believe. Then he left, which you saw.”
“Surely my uncle will not condone his behavior. Will you tell him?”
She was silent for a moment. “I do not think so. Sarmento has a promising future in the trade, you know, and my father-in-law quite depends upon him. I think my feelings toward him were made entirely clear, and so long as he bothers me no further, I see no reason to be petty.”
“You are perhaps more generous than I would advise, but I admire your spirit,” I told her. I sipped my sweet tea and wished it were something stronger. “Do you trust Mr. Sarmento? What I mean to say is, he works for my uncle, but he seems to have his own dealings upon the Exchange.”
She set down her cup of tea and stared at me. “What do you know of his dealings?” Her face had grown stiff and inanimate.
“I have been spending a great deal of time in ’Change Alley, and I have seen him there, conducting affairs of which I know nothing.”
Miriam smiled in a way that unnerved me. “Your uncle employs Mr. Sarmento, he does not own him. It is no uncommon thing for a man in Mr. Sarmento’s position to pursue his own affairs as he has the opportunity.”
“Why did Isaac wish to keep this quarrel from my ears?” I asked. I think I had been wondering this in my mind, and I had not meant to speak it.
If the question surprised Miriam, she answered with composure. “Isaac is a good servant. He does not wish to allow family business to become public. A quarrel in a private room between two unmarried people can be interpreted in many ways, especially by malicious tongues.”
“True enough,” I agreed with some embarrassment, stinging a bit from Miriam’s exclusion of her wayward cousin from the family business.
She said nothing, and I shifted uncomfortably in the silence. I believe Miriam took some small pleasure at having me upon the rack, and smiled sweetly at me for some minutes before speaking. “Have you come on a social call, or do you have business with Mr. Lienzo?”
For reasons I cannot explain, this question put me at my ease. I settled comfortably into my chair. “Rather a bit of both, I think.”
“I hope more the former than the latter,” she said, smiling. “And if you have come to be sociable, then perhaps you would like to take a walk with me,” she suggested. “I long to examine some of the goods at the market, and I would welcome your company.”
I could hardly refuse the offer, so I silently determined to postpone my visit to South Sea House until the next morning. Miriam disappeared to ready herself, and after perhaps a quarter of an hour she reentered the room with an unexpected slowness, as though she were a child called forth for punishment. She held in her hand an envelope.
“There is a matter I must discuss, Mr. Weaver. I know not how to account for the generosity you showed in sending me so enormous a sum, and I do not wish to insult you, but considering the accompanying note, I believe there has been some small error. Your letter suggested that I had made a request of you. I cannot say how you made this error. Though I admit I am none the most sufficient in money, I am afraid I cannot accept a gift that is clearly not intended for me.”
She handed me the envelope, which I absently dropped into my pocket. “Do you mean to say,” I began incredulously, “that you sent me no note requesting this amount?”
“I fear I know not of what you speak.” She looked down to conceal the blush that spread along her face and neck. “I sent no note.”
I had been dealing with thieves and felons too long not to know when someone unpracticed in the art ineptly attempted a lie. Miriam now had reasons for not wishing to accept the money of me, and I would not press her to say why, or act as though I misbelieved her.
“I am greatly sorry to have caused such an embarrassment. I fear some prankster must have played a little joke upon us. We shall say no more of it.”
Miriam smiled with gratitude and told me she wished to visit the market at Petticoat Lane, but by the time Miriam and I arrived it was late for the market, and much of the best of the perishables had been taken. Consequently, the market was not bursting with activity—yet it was far from empty. Around us was a busy crowd, principally of Jewish women, who strolled from vendor to vendor, examining the wares. Around us the hawkers shouted at us in Spanish, Portuguese, English, and even the language of the Tudescos—a curious mixture of Hebrew and German.
Miriam had, I was beginning to learn, a sense of purpose about her that ordered the chaos of the marketplace. She took her time, strolling from one stall to the next, examining this piece of linen or that of silk. Many of the merchants—mostly men of middle years who found themselves seduced by Miriam’s beauty—called out to her as she passed. She offered a bow to each, but stopped only where she wished to examine goods.
“Mr. Lienzo prefers that when I make purchases, I buy all I can here,” she explained to me. “He likes that the money should remain among our people.”
“He is a conscientious man,” I observed.
She said nothing at first, but there was a look of mischief in her eyes. “Too conscientious, I sometimes think. It is certainly possible to be overly nice in one’s dedication to his community, don’t you agree? If we are to be accepted in England, surely we must learn to act as the English do.”
“We shall never be accepted here,” I said with a conviction that surprised me. I did not think of myself as having strong feelings on this subject, but when she asked, I found these words flowed freely: “This is not our country. We shall never be English and our children will never be English. If we convert and join the Church of England, then our descendants shall always be known as the Jews who converted. We are what we are.”
Miriam let out a little laugh—as though I had said something witty. “For an apostate, you are certainly very concerned about these matters, Cousin.”
“Perhaps apostasy is but an opportunity to consider what is otherwise impossible to see,” I said with a shrug.
A vendor called to Miriam in Portuguese, wanting her to examine his collection of household trinkets, but she waved him off and shouted a few friendly words in his tongue. “You are probably right,” she said to me. “But even so, I think Mr. Lienzo could be a bit more”—she paused to consider her words—“a bit more English in his ways, I think. There is no need for him to wear that beard. No one else does. It only makes him look backward.”
“I disagree,” I said. “I think it shows he is his own man.”
“You are your own man,” Miriam observed, “and you wear no beard.”
I laughed. “There are many ways to show one’s independence.”
Miriam stopped again and fingered a roll of India cloth. She held it up to the light for a moment and then to her own skin. It was a bright aqua blue—just the sort of color I knew her to admire.
“It look very nice for you,” the stall-keeper told her eagerly.
“Thank you, Mr. Henriques,” she said absently. “But I’m afraid I can ill afford it.”
