I know no other way.”
There was a strange dignity in his cowardice that I could not deny. My uncle was not someone I could strive to be like, but I believed I understood him.
“Between us, then,” I said, “for I believe you know you can trust me. What do you think of Adelman? Of the South Sea Company?”
He shook his head. “I no longer know. Once I thought Adelman was a man of honor, but these schemes of his seem to preclude all honor. Tell me what you think.”
“What I think? I think that Adelman wishes me to believe that all of this villainy is a hoax perpetrated by Bloathwait. I believe that Bloathwait tells me only what he wishes me to know so that I shall investigate the South Sea further.”
“Because the inquiry itself, not necessarily the truth, injures the Company?”
“Precisely. Bloathwait has been arranging that I obtain just enough information to keep me interested. I would not be surprised if the pamphlet you gave me was a forgery.”
“It was no forgery,” my uncle assured me. “I know Samuel’s hand.”
“Let me ask you something else,” I pressed on, hoping that by involving him I might make him feel more at ease. “Sarmento—did you know that he has dealings with Bloathwait?”
My uncle laughed. “Of course. The world knows that. Bloathwait has hired him to keep an eye on Adelman, but Sarmento is so very poor at subtlety, one would need to be a fool not to see it.”
“Then why does Bloathwait continue to employ his services?”
“Because,” he said with a grin, “if Adelman is watching Sarmento watching him, then perhaps he is not watching someone else. Even if Bloathwait has no one else, Sarmento, for all his ineptitude, is a reminder of Bloathwait’s presence.”
We both sipped at our wine and said nothing for some long minutes. I could not guess what my uncle felt. I suppose I could hardly guess what I felt.
“How will you feel if this inquiry comes to nothing?” he asked. “If you never discover who did these things, or even if they were done?”
“A man must fail sometimes,” I said. “And my enemies here are formidable. I would not choose to fail, but if I do, I must not despair.”
“Have you given any more thought to my offer?” he asked quietly.
I considered how to respond for some time. My uncle, as near as I could tell, had acquitted himself of all villainy in the matter of the conspiracy surrounding my father’s death. He had not sufficiently acquitted himself in the matter of Miriam’s fortune, so I pressed him.
“Let us say that I took you up on your offer, Uncle, and that I married Miriam. What if something were to happen to me? What should become of Miriam?”
My uncle braced himself. It had simply been a question, but it made him think of the loss of his son. Perhaps I had been in error even to suggest such a thing.
“I understand why you might have such a concern. It is only right of you to think of such things, but Miriam has always been welcome in my home.”
“But should she not be sufficient in herself? And what of you? If you were to lose a ship full of goods, surely that would prove disastrous to your finances.”
“It would prove disastrous in many ways, but not to my finances. I always insure my shipments against such damages that in the event of tragedy, as much as one suffers, one does not suffer ruin.” He set down his wine. “You wish to know what happened to Miriam’s fortune.” There was a coolness in his voice I had not heard since he and I had set upon this inquiry. “You wish to know how many coins shall land in your pocket should you marry her.”
“No,” I said quickly. “You misunderstand me. I am sorry I did not pay you the courtesy of being plain. I wish to know what happened to Miriam’s money for her sake, not for mine.”
“For her sake?” he asked. “Why, I have it. It shall be hers again should she remarry.”
“And should she not?”
He laughed. “Then, I shall hold it for her for as long as she resides in my house. Should she remain unmarried at the time of my death, I have arranged that it should be held in trust.”
“But why do you not give it to her?” I asked.
He shook his head. “The money is no longer truly hers, except in spirit. Aaron invested in the trade, and when his ship was lost, I received the payment of the insurance. It becomes so hard to tell whose money belongs to whom. But Miriam shall never want for anything as long as she stays in my protection or marries a man of whom I approve.”
“And what if she does not wish your protection,” I continued, “or wishes to marry a man of whom you do not approve?”
“Do you think I have been sinister, Benjamin? That I have robbed the wife of my own son for the benefit of a few thousand pounds?” To my relief there was no indignation in his voice. He believed himself so free of ill motives that he could not take such suspicions seriously.
I took it seriously, however. For he was guilty, but not of malice. “I do not believe you have taken anything with ill intent,” I said. “I believe you have presumed to speak for Miriam.”
“And now you do?” Now his voice grew hot again. I had touched upon something.
“I would never do so,” I said, “but I feared you would not listen to her words. I thought perhaps you might listen to mine.”
“It is foolish for her to want such a thing,” my uncle told me. “Miriam has lived in my home for a very long time,” he said. “If I have done anything she has not liked, I have done it in the name of her greater good.”
“How can you decide such a thing for Miriam?” I asked. “Have you never consulted with her?”
“It is foolishness to consult with women in these matters,” he replied. “You saw that I withheld Miriam’s money and you thought I did so out of greed? I am shocked, Benjamin. Perhaps now you will accuse me of being illiberal, but I have seen women bring estates to ruin many a time, and I only wish to preserve for Miriam a fortune that should be hers and her children’s. Left to her own devices, she would squander her money upon gowns and equipages and expensive entertainments. Women cannot be entrusted with these matters.”
I shook my head. I felt as though he had surely never met his daughter-in-law to say such things about her. “Some women may be thus, but surely not Miriam.”
He laughed softly. “When you have your own wife, your own children, we may again have this conversation.” He rose and left the room. I could hardly tell if he had dismissed me or yielded.
MY UNCLE ASKED NOTHING of me, for he had promised he would ask nothing, but I understood that he would have preferred for me to suspend my inquiry for the Sabbath. I did so in order to show respect for his house and also because I needed some time to consider all that had happened. He said nothing to me of our conversation about Miriam, and I said nothing to him. I had not the heart to bring up a matter of conflict with him. Not yet, at least. It was strange for me to think that I had come into my uncle’s house in the hopes that he would be the man that my father had never been. I suppose I had expected too much of him—that is to say, I had expected he would think like me on all accounts. I took some comfort, however, in the knowledge that he withheld money from Miriam not out of villainy but out of a prejudice against her sex.
For our Friday-night meal, my uncle wisely chose to invite neither Adelman or Sarmento, but he did invite a neighboring family—a married couple of about my uncle and aunt’s age and their son and his wife. I was pleased for the company, for it was a much-needed distraction and the presence of the women relieved me of the uncomfortable burden of attempting conversation with Miriam.
After prayer at the synagogue the next day, I once again found myself in conversation with Abraham Mendes. It was so strange to me that this man who appeared nothing but a mindless ruffian when with his master, Jonathan Wild, could prove himself socially competent in other circumstances. To my surprise, I felt something like pleasure when I saw him approach.
Mendes and I exchanged the traditional Sabbath greeting. He inquired after the health of my family, and then turned his attention to me. “How does your inquiry progress, if I may ask?”
“Does it not violate the law of God to discuss such matters on the Sabbath?” I inquired.
“It does,” he agreed, “but so does theft, so I think it best not to pick over our sins.”
“The inquiry goes badly,” I muttered. “And even if you care not about disturbing the Lord, you might care
