“And yet,” she said, “here I am. Allow me, please, to continue with my story.”
“Of course.”
“As I said, my father was a tradesman-skilled in the art of stoneworking-who left the city of Vilnius when he was a young man and went out in search of a more prosperous life. Such men often find themselves in this kingdom, for it is surely the most agreeable place in Europe for Jews to live. It was here he met my mother, also an immigrant, who had been born into poverty in a place called Kazimierz.”
“You are a Tudesco?” I said.
“So your kind chooses we should be called,” she said, not without bitterness. “You do not love us.”
“I can assure you, I am without prejudice.”
“And how many of my species of Hebrew do you count among your friends?”
I found this line of questioning most unpleasant, so I suggested she continue with her tale.
“Owing in part to the bigotry of the English race, and in part to the bigotry of your own people, he found it excessively difficult to ply his trade here, but after many years of effort, he managed to earn a comfortable living. Sadly, when I was of only seventeen years, he died in an accident involving his labors. I am told that such accidents among men who work with stone are all too common. My mother had no means to support us, and we had no remaining relatives in the country. We thus came to depend upon the charity of the synagogue, but that institution, unlike your own, is so poor it could little afford to buy us bread or keep a roof over our heads. This shame was far too much for my mother, who had never been of a strong constitution, and she followed my father to the grave within six months. In my grief, I found myself alone in the world.”
“I am very sorry to hear of your troubles.”
“You cannot know my misery. Everything I knew had gone, and I had nothing to which to aspire but penury and illness. In such a state, however, I chose to narrowly examine my father’s records and discovered that a man of some prominence yet owed him three pounds, so I traveled across the metropolis, making the journey on foot and enduring all manner of abuse you can imagine. I ventured out and suffered so, all in search of this debt, knowing the foolishness of the venture, for I had long since come to understand that such men will never pay when they can avoid doing so. I fully anticipated a rude refusal, but I met with something else entire. Despite the rags upon my back and disheveled appearance, the gentleman saw me himself and delivered silver into my hand at once with the most profound apologies and concern for my sorrows. Indeed, he paid double what he owed me out of consideration for my suffering. And he offered me more, Mr. Weaver. He suggested I might continue to associate with him in the form of his companion.”
I struggled to keep my face from betraying emotion. “You must not be ashamed of doing what you must to survive.”
“I have not spoken of shame,” she told me, meeting my eyes boldly. “I had six pounds in my hand. I was in no danger of starving for months, perhaps. And yet I accepted his offer, for why, I thought, should I not have clean clothes, a place to live, and food enough to exist beyond the lofty state of eluding death? I know something of your story, sir, for it has been written of in the papers. In your youth, when you were penniless, you took to the ring. You lived, therefore, upon the merits of your body. I did the same, yet when women do so, they are called all manner of unsavory names. If a man takes it upon himself to care for a woman-attends to her needs, her clothes, her food, her housing, and in return she is obligated only to accept the attentions of no other men-in some lands they would style that arrangement marriage. Here it is called whoring.”
“Madam, I assure you, I offer no judgments.” “You offer none with words, but I observe your eyes.” I could make no answer, for she had correctly observed my expression. I had lived upon the streets long enough to know the foolishness of judging a woman for using what advantages she has to keep from death-or from a state not much more desirable. I knew also that it was only because men wished to hold dominion over the behavior of women that we were so quick to give scurrilous names to their taking liberties with their own bodies. And yet I felt a disappointment, for I suppose I wanted her to be pure and innocent, and I knew this desire on my part was foolishness. It was, after all, her sense of freedom, her wit, her sense of being at ease in the world-nay, of being the mistress of the world-that so drew me to Celia Glade.
“Like you, I am but a product of the world in which I live,” I offered. “I have been trained since my earliest youth to form such judgments upon women who make the choices you have. And if, in my more mature years, I wish to reject those ideas, there nevertheless remains within my mind a contrary voice.”
“Yes,” she said. “I have made decisions, and I knew they were the best decisions available, but I hear the contrary voice too. As I would have you not condemn me, I must not condemn you. Now, to continue with my history. I lived in a very high style while I was his favorite, and he very much enjoyed my natural tendency toward mimicry. At first he would only encourage me to imitate associates, but then he began to purchase disguises and have me assume all sorts of shapes; a gypsy mendicant, an Arabian courtesan, a peasant girl, even an old woman. For this gentleman’s pleasure, I learned the skills you have observed. Then, as so often happens in these circumstances, he met another woman who was younger and newer and therefore more suited to his fancy.”
“He must be the greatest fool in the world to have preferred another woman to you.”
I saw a distant pleasure gleam in her eye, but she chose to ignore my flirtation. “Even though I was no longer his favorite, this gentleman, whom I shall not name, believed he understood his duty-unlike Mr. Ellershaw, as you describe it-and continued to assist me in my needs. And then, after some two years of this kind neglect, he contacted me and told me he wished me to apply my skills in his service. As he had been so kind to me in the past, I could hardly say no, particularly since to do so would be to sacrifice my future comfort. And so I have come to Craven House as his eyes and ears, to discover what I can about the Company’s illicit practices, that the Eastern trade might be more open to all men of business. The night I met you, I thought you were one of my patron’s servants come to collect some papers I had copied for his purposes, and that was why I inadvertently revealed myself.”
I thought to say that I was not alone in telling fabulous tales fit for a novel, but I understood that to do so would be unkind. I merely nodded sympathetically. And then, when a hint of a tear appeared in her eye, I reached out to pat her hand. In so doing, I knocked over her tumbler of gin. It had sat neglected since arriving upon our table, and far from the fire as we were, I had every reason to believe it would grow enormous cold, in the way of such liquors. I could only imagine the startling sensation as it poured onto her lap.
“Oh, it’s cold!” she cried out in her natural voice-not that of an aging whore at all-as she jumped back and began to wipe at the spilled drink. Fortunately, she was not too soaked, and though the other patrons of the tavern enjoyed the spectacle, no one seemed to notice that she cried out like a young lady, not like a used and withered baggage.
“I do beg your pardon,” I said. I dashed at once to the counter, where I convinced the barman to lend me a relatively dry towel. I allowed Miss Glade to return to her seat thereafter.
“I am truly sorry for my clumsiness,” I said, once I had returned the towel. “I must have been so dazzled by your beauty that I forgot to keep my wits about me.”
“Your charming words would be more compelling were I not dressed this way,” she said with a wry smile, but I knew I was forgiven. Indeed, the accident helped to leaven the tension between us.