“You can strike back,” Franco said, “only by discovering what he wants, by following the trail he sets out for you, by making him believe his designs are within reach of completion and then taking everything away. Like Mr. Gordon, I should go to prison with a heart full of gladness if I believed it would accomplish some good, but it can only mean the delay of Cobb’s goals, not his destruction.”
I nodded. I wished to defy Cobb, to beat him, to put a blade in his back, but my friends had seen through the murk of my anger and gone to the heart of the matter. I had to destroy him for this, and I could do it only by learning what he wanted.
“I shall make myself available to your aunt,” Franco said. “I live in retirement, and I have no other duties. I will make certain she wants for nothing, Mr. Weaver. And she has a dozen friends and more, people who know nothing of these events, who are willing to do the same out of love. You may wish to be here, but you do not need to be here.”
“I know you are right,” I said, “and I would do what you say, but I fear the sadness it will engender. How must my aunt feel when I abandon her in this dark hour?”
The two men exchanged looks. Then it was Mr. Franco who spoke. “You must know that in this we follow the lady’s instructions. She approached me and bade me tell you as much. Seek revenge, therefore, not for your sake or ours but because the grieving widow asks you to do it.”
IT WAS NEAR MIDNIGHT when I made to leave the house. Some of my aunt’s friends had agreed to spend the night, even though she told them she did not require it. It was time, she said, to learn to live alone. She must spend the rest of her life in such a state.
Other than these friends, I was the last to remain, and so at last I arose to kiss and hug the lady and take my leave. She walked me to the door, and though her face was drawn and her eyes red from tears, I saw in her a determination I had never before observed.
“For now,” she said, “Joseph will order the operations of the warehouse. For now.”
I feared I understood her meaning only too well. “My dear aunt, I am unequal to the task—”
She shook her head and attempted a sad imitation of a smile. “No, Benjamin. I am not your uncle, to ask you to do what is not in your nature. Out of love he wanted to make you something you are not. Out of love, I will not ask it. Joseph will manage while I mourn. Then I will handle the business myself.”
“You?” I spoke louder, faster than I had intended, but I could not contain my shock.
Again, another pale smile. “You are so like him. When he discussed what would happen after he was gone, he spoke of you, he spoke of Joseph, he spoke of José. Never once did he speak of me. I come from Amsterdam, Benjamin, where there are many women of business.”
“Dutch women,” I observed. “There are no Jewesses of business.”
“No,” she agreed, “but this is a new land, a different time. To Miguel, to the world, to you, Benjamin, I have been all but invisible because I am a woman. But now he is gone, and there is no one to obscure your view of me. Perhaps you will discover me to be something other than what you have supposed all your life.”
I returned her smile. “Perhaps I will.”
“Mr. Franco and Mr. Gordon spoke to you?”
“They did.”
“Good.” She nodded heavily, thoughtfully, as though completing an idea in the privacy of her mind. “You can do what you must? You can go back to this man, this Cobb, and do as he asks long enough to learn of his designs?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know that I can contain my anger.”
“You must,” she said softly. “To hurt him is not enough, you must do more. You must take your anger and separate it from yourself. You must place it in a closet and shut the door.”
“And when the time is right, open it,” I said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But only when the time is right.” Then, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “You’ve been a good nephew today—to me and to Miguel. Tomorrow you must be a good man. This Jerome Cobb destroyed your uncle. I want you to destroy him in return.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WOULD HAVE SPENT ANOTHER RESTLESS NIGHT, BUT FOR THE exhaustion that so encumbered me it felt near a palpable burden. Somehow, as the day progressed, I had moved beyond grief and sadness and anger into a numb dispassion. I would wake up on the morrow, and my life must continue, much as it had been before. I would have to return to Craven House, I would have to speak with Cobb, and I would have to continue to do his bidding and to work against him.
And so, the next morning, I prepared myself to do all of these. Sleep had returned some blood to my sadness, but I thought too of my aunt, of her strength and iron determination to come out from my uncle’s shadow. She would manage the business, she said, and she appeared as willing to manage me and offer me direction as my uncle Miguel had. I could not but honor that fortitude and attempt to emulate it.
I therefore cleaned myself at my washbasin, dressed, and took myself to Cobb’s house, arriving there shortly after the clock had struck seven. I did not know if I should find him awake or not, but I would find his bedroom and wake him myself if necessary. Edgar answered the door, now deferential and distant. He would not meet my eye, and I believe he understood that on this day, on this occasion, he must offer me no resistance.
“Mr. Cobb has anticipated your visit. He is in the parlor.”
So I found him. He rose when I entered and took my hand as though we were old friends. Indeed, from the look upon his face a stranger would think that it had been his family to suffer a loss and I merely paying a consolation visit.
“Mr. Weaver,” he began, in a tremulous voice, “allow me to say how very sorry I am to hear of your uncle’s death. It is a tragic thing, though of course pleurisy is a terrible business, and a physician can do so little.”
He made a few more noises, inchoate words, but ultimately he said no more. I believe I understood his struggle. He wished to articulate the idea that my uncle had died of his illness, rather than from any distress caused by his debts. However, he must know the act of making this observation would almost certainly anger me, and he could not bring himself to speak further.
“You wish to avoid all responsibility,” I said.
“I only mean to say that no one thing …” He stopped there, not knowing how to proceed.
“I shall tell you what I have considered, Mr. Cobb. I’ve considered telling you to go to the devil and allowing the consequences to fall as they might. I have considered killing you, sir, which I believe would release me of any further obligation to you.”
“I have taken measures, you must know, that should anything befall me—”
I held up a silencing hand. “I have not chosen that option. I shall only tell you to release my aunt from the burdens under which my uncle suffered. If you cancel those debts, return to her the goods withheld from my uncle, and do not force that lady, in her grief, to meet the demands of rapacious creditors, we can continue as before.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, at last, he nodded. “I cannot do what you ask,” he said, “but I can stay hands, sir. I can hold back the tide of collection and make certain the creditors do not trouble her until, let us say, after the meeting of the Court of Proprietors. If we are satisfied with your work to that point, we shall release the lady, and only the lady, from those confines. If not, there can be no call for lenience.”
In truth, it was a better arrangement than I anticipated, so I nodded my assent.