The day was cold and crisp, full of dark clouds but surprisingly free of wind, rain, or snow, and so when we retired to the nearby grave site, the weather seemed to me fitting-hard and cruel without being punishing. It accented our sorrow without distracting us from it.
After the conclusion of prayers, we took turns tossing a shovelful of earth upon the plain wooden casket. Indeed, here was one area in which I believed absolutely that Jews have the right of it over Christians. I do not understand why members of their churches insist on dressing their dead in finery and burying them in ornate coffins, as though they subscribed to the superstitions of the Egyptian kings of old. The body, it seems to me, is a thing without life. The commemoration should be of the ineffable thing that has passed, not the material thing that remains, and such showy ostentation is a product of earthly vanity, not the hope of heavenly reward.
The service concluded, we made our way slowly back to my aunt’s house, where we would begin the traditional ten-day period of mourning. It is the custom of my nation that in this time the mourner is not be left alone but rather visited throughout the day and given gifts of food and other provisions so that the necessities of life need not trouble her. Here I felt great consternation, for I believed it my responsibility to tend to my aunt’s needs, yet I could not stay away from Craven House and Cobb for ten days. There would be too much to do during those days of mourning, and if I was to aid Ellershaw, as was indeed my task, I could not retire from my duties now without endangering Elias and Mr. Franco. Cobb might grant me a day or two, but more than that, I knew, would push the limits of his humanity.
As I walked among the swirling crowd of friends and mourners, I felt a hand upon my arm and turned to see Celia Glade walking beside me. I confess I felt my heart leap, and for a wondrous fleeting moment I forgot the depths of my sorrow and felt joy, unambiguous joy, at her presence. And though the recollection of grief soon returned to fill my heart, there was another moment, a more deliberate moment, in which I allowed myself not to dwell on the disturbing truths of this lady-that I knew not who or what she truly was, if she was a Jewess as she claimed, if she was in the service of the French Crown, and what she wished of me. In that moment I allowed myself to think of those questions as mere trivialities. I allowed myself to believe she cared for me.
I stepped aside, under an awning, and she came with me, her hand no longer upon my arm. Several of the funeral procession studied us with interest, so I entered an alley that led to an open courtyard, a place I knew to be clean and safe and where she followed me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked her.
She had come dressed in black, and these colors showed off the dark of her hair and eyes and the light of her skin to advantage. A slight wind had picked up since the burial, and it blew strands of hair about her dark bonnet. “I heard the news of your uncle. There are no secrets among Jews, you know. I came only to tell you of my sorrow for you. I know you and your uncle were very much attached, and I feel for your loss.”
“It is interesting that you know of my feelings for him, as we have never spoken of it.” My voice was low, steady. I could not say why I took this tack with her except that I so wanted her to be someone I might trust that I could not stanch the urge to thrust all doubt forward.
She bit her lip, caught herself, and closed her eyes briefly. “You must know, Mr. Weaver, that you are something of a public figure, among the Jews and among the English too. Your friends and relations have all been noted by the men of Grub Street. I cannot stop you from assigning sinister meaning to my visit, but I wish that you would not.”
“And why do you wish it?” I asked, somewhat softer.
She reached out once more and put her hand on my upper arm-but only for a moment. She thought better of it, of the circumstances, of where we were. “I wish it because”-she shook her head gently-“because it is what I wish. I can think of no better way to express it.”
“Miss Glade,” I said. “Celia. I know not what you are. I know not what you want of me.”
“Stop,” she said, her voice soft as a mother quieting an infant. She raised two fingers and gently brushed my lips. “I am your friend. You know as much as that. The rest is but details, and they will out in time. Not now, but in time. For this moment, you know what matters-you know the truth in your heart.”
“I want to-” I began, but again she would not have it.
“No,” she said. “We will speak of it later. Your uncle has died, and you must mourn. I did not come here to push you to anything or ask you questions or make you explain your sentiments. I came only out of respect for a man I never knew but of whom I have heard great things. And I came to offer you what I can and to tell you that you are in my heart. That is all I can do. I can only hope it is enough, and not too much, and I will leave you to your family and Portuguese friends. If you find you wish to say more-well, you may seek me in the kitchen.”
Her lips turned into a sardonic smile. She leaned forward and kissed me, soft and fleeting, upon my lips, and then turned to make her way from the alley, and I turned to watch her go.
While we had been in this conversation, the sun had emerged from a small gap in the clouds to shine down upon the very spot where the alley opened to the courtyard. As we turned we both saw a figure there, silhouetted against the sunlight-a woman, tall and finely shaped, garbed in black, her gown rippling in the growing breeze, her hair fluttering against her bonnet.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I saw you enter the alley but did not know you were not alone.”
I could not see the face, but I knew the voice at once. It was my cousin’s widow, my uncle’s erstwhile daughter-in-law, the woman I had sought to marry. It was Miriam.
HERE WAS A WOMAN who had chosen not one other man over me but two. She had rejected my proposals of marriage more times than I could count without making an effort. And yet for a moment I believed I must say something to explain what I was doing with Celia Glade, apologize, offer a false and convincing story. Then I recollected myself. I owed her no explanation.
I owed her something, however, for she had vowed never to speak to me again and yet here she was. Miriam had believed herself unequal to the task of being a thieftaker’s wife and had instead chosen to marry a Parliamentarian named Griffin Melbury and convert to the Church of England. Sadly, Melbury had been not a little involved in the scandalous affairs of the late Westminster election, and though I at first had been grudgingly inclined to accept his worthiness, his true and scurrilous nature ultimately became undeniable-to me if not to his wife. Miriam held me accountable for that man’s ruin and death, and though I had made it a policy not to accept or deny responsibility, she knew well that I did not love him and could feel no sorrow over what had befallen him.
Miss Glade, I soon realized, was ever the most useful person to have around at such awkward moments, for she did not seem to feel or fall prey to their difficulties. She stepped forward and took Miriam’s hand. “Mrs. Melbury,” she said. “I have heard so much about you. I am Celia Glade.”
What, I longed to ask, had she heard about Miriam? Unlike my dealings with my uncle, here was something that had never made the papers. Celia might tell me to trust my heart, but how could I when I could not trust its object? She knew too much of me.
Miriam took the hand briefly and half curtsied. “A pleasure,” she said. She turned to me. “I cannot attend the house. I wished only to say that I am sorry for your loss. For our loss. I did not always agree with your uncle on all things, but I knew his worth and I shall miss him. The world will miss him.”
“You are kind in your sentiments,” I told her.