investors, and your failed efforts no doubt injured Rochester’s plans—for men would begin to talk about the discounted stock as one more of your petty projects. Once Rochester learned of your reputation for false projects, he knew an association with you could only injure his schemes, and he severed all connections with you.”
That Deloney did not disagree told me I had guessed correctly.
“You knew the stock was false when you sold it to Miriam, did you not?” I announced, testing my theory by speaking it aloud. “You knew it was as false as those foolish projects that you concocted at your own escritoire. Miriam gave you six hundred pounds, even though you were aware that she needed this money in order to establish her own household.”
Deloney tried to move backward, but there was nowhere to go. “She could have sold the stocks herself. The fact that they were false did not undo their value.”
I leaned closer to him. “Martin Rochester killed my father, and he killed a woman I had sought to protect. If you know something of who he is or where I might find him, you had better tell me now. If you hold back any information, I swear to you that I shall seek my vengeance upon you as ruthlessly as I do upon him.”
“I tell you I don’t know,” he almost squealed. “If I knew how to find him, would I have been chasing after messenger boys at Jonathan’s?”
It was true that Deloney had been desperate to find Rochester and had no more idea how to do so than I did. There was nothing more to be gained from this man. It was only my desire to assert my manhood before Miriam that made me humiliate him once more. I took a step back, drew my hangar, and pointed the blade to his throat. “Return to me the two guineas I lent you in good faith.”
I saw at once that he opened his mouth to utter a lie, but he checked it. With trembling hands he reached into his purse and procured the coins, which, with great difficulty, he set upon the table.
I sheathed my weapon. “Go. And do not let me, or anyone of my family, see you no more.”
Deloney dared not even look at Miriam, but as though his legs had turned into puddings, he walked toward the door, opened it, and was gone.
I closed the door and turned to Miriam. She had seated herself, and she had buried her face in her hands. At first I thought she wept, but I suppose she sensed my gaze upon her and she looked up at me. Her face showed confusion, anger, perhaps even shame, but she shed no tears.
I pulled a chair over to her. “Why did you come here tonight?” I asked as gently as I could.
“What business have you to demand that of me?” she snapped, but she soon decided her anger was misplaced. She took a breath and straightened her posture. “I wanted to know the truth. I wanted to learn what you wished to learn—if he had deceived me knowingly, if he had been in league with this Rochester. I suppose I should not have learned the truth had you not arrived.”
“It is the nature of a man like Deloney to lie. He is naught but deception and foolish greed.”
Miriam, to my dismay, understood the insult I had intended, but she did not bristle at it. “Please understand, Benjamin, that when you are trapped, when a person is trapped, any escape seems so much like a good one. I know it was foolish of me to trust him, but our association gave me pleasure, made me feel free. I had command over something in my life.”
“Would you have felt free had he lodged his child in your belly?” I asked pointedly.
Miriam gasped. Her head snapped back. “How dare you make such an accusation?”
“I accuse you of nothing, but I am not unfamiliar with the ways of such men as Deloney.”
“Or of widows such as myself?” she demanded.
“I apologize,” I said, though my words dropped from my mouth with leaden thickness. “It is no place of mine to dictate your behavior. Soon you will be your own mistress, and you will be able to make any decisions you see fit.” The thought sat with me rather ill, however, for I had little faith, based on the decision I had seen, that Miriam would prove skillful at managing her affairs.
Miriam raised her eyebrows slightly. She appeared to sense my thoughts. “You need not worry about me selling my little fortune to the first gentleman who comes along. I am not interested in marrying any such grasping fools. I do not suppose the man I should like to marry exists.”
I took a deep breath. “Perhaps the man you seek is one who knows both the ways of our people and the ways of the English. Someone who can help guide you into English society while protecting you from its evils and excesses.” My heart raced in the silence that followed my speech.
Miriam looked nervously at her hands. “I cannot imagine where I might find such a man,” she said quickly, “and I cannot believe you can tell me.”
“I can,” I said softly, “for he sits before you.” I own that my voice trembled as I spoke.
She stared at me as though it had never occurred to her that I would say such a thing, though I had flattered myself that I had only said as much as she expected. She rose to her feet, attempting to order her thoughts. At last she stood and offered me a nervous smile. “I think it best that we both pretend this conversation never took place. We should return to your uncle’s house.”
I stood and faced her manfully. “Miriam, if I have offended you—”
She met my gaze with more boldness and assurance than I would have expected. “Offense is not important,” she told me, her voice hardly more than a whisper. I listened to her words, but my eye fixed upon the sweet smile of her lips. “You must know that I like you prodigiously. I admire you, and I think you a very worthy man, but you cannot imagine for an instant that I could learn to endure what you offer. At South Sea House, they spoke of a man you had killed, and here tonight you spoke of a woman who died under your protection. You removed your blade and held it to Philip’s throat as though you had done so a thousand times, and as though you could kill him and think nothing of it.” She could not meet my gaze. “I am not the woman for you, Benjamin.”
I could say nothing. There were no words with which I could counter this too-just complaint. We had been born of the same station, but my decisions had placed me far below this woman. I had made my own way, and because I could not undo what I had done, I could only act in accordance with the life I had chosen.
I leaned toward Miriam and kissed her gently upon the lips.
The moment dazzled me. She did not move—either away from me or toward me—but she closed her eyes and kissed me back. I smelled nothing but the dizzy mingling of her sweet breath and her floral perfume. I had never kissed a woman such as she—a woman of wealth and station and intelligence and wit. It was a kiss that made me hungry for more.
I pressed forward, and in doing so broke the spell. Miriam opened her eyes and pulled away from me, backing up only a few small steps, but enough to impose a wall of awkward space between us. I know not how long we stood there, saying nothing, I looking upon her, she upon me. I heard only the sound of footsteps in the hall and my own deep breathing.
“My uncle has offered me a position,” I said. “I could trade in the Levant. I could be something other than a man you fear. If I made a mistake when I left my father’s house, I can right that error.”
Miriam let out a slight gasp—almost inaudible, and sounding as though she had choked upon the air. Her eyes moistened; they clouded over like windows in a rainstorm. She blinked and blinked, trying to make her tears disappear, but the tears betrayed her and trickled down her face. “It cannot be.” She shook her head only slightly. “I do not wish to marry Aaron once more. I could not bear to see you try to become him for my sake. I should only hate myself.” She wiped at the tears with her fingers. “I should come to hate you too.” She attempted a smile, but it failed her, and instead she turned from me and opened the door.
I could not call after her. I could not move to hold her back. I had no argument with which to refute what she said. I had only the passions of my heart, and I knew that for the world, and for Miriam, these were not enough. I watched her descend the stairs and hand the tapman a coin to procure her a hackney.
With nothing else to do, I rang the bell and called for a bottle of wine, which I used to wash away the taste of Miriam’s lips.
THE NEXT MORNING my head and heart ached with equal urgency, but such pain only made me wish for distractions.
I made my way once more to Bloathwait’s town house, determined this time I would speak with him whether he would or no. I waited at the door for several minutes before his scruffy servant appeared. He glanced at me, by now familiar with a face he had denied a half-dozen times. “Mr. Bloathwait is not in,” he said.
“Did not Mr. Bloathwait inform you that he was always to be in for me?” I inquired, as I pushed past him. “I think you will find yourself to be glad I did not take your denial to heart.”
I moved forward at a steady and only slightly hurried pace, but this servant rushed to move before me and
