“I wish to speak privately with monsieur,” Miriam said as haughtily as her shabby attire permitted.
“Monsieur speaks only German and Yiddish, mademoiselle. You may tell me...”
“I speak both languages. My business with Herr Rothschild is private,” she insisted.
With a slight bow he departed, returning a moment later to usher them into an elegantly appointed drawing room.
“Monsieur will join you shortly, mademoiselle.”
Glancing round at the elaborately ornate Louis XV furniture, the delightful Fragonard hanging over the rococo mantelpiece, Miriam felt shabbier than ever. Herr Rothschild would laugh at the pittance in her reticule. She must rely on her feminine wiles.
She pinched her cheeks and went to warm her hands at the fire. Hannah stayed by the door.
It opened and in came a short, slim, red-haired youth, clad in the latest Parisian fashion--the English swallow-tail coat as influenced by French military uniforms. He bowed gracefully.
Miriam stared in dismay as she curtsied. He was far too young for her to flirt with, no more than eighteen or nineteen, with a boyish spring to his step and an air of scarce-suppressed energy. Surely this was not the man she had come to beg for passage to England!
But it was. He introduced himself in excellent Hessian German: “Jakob Rothschild, at your service, Fräulein.”
Abandoning her prepared opening, she said bluntly, “I understand that you have connections in London, Herr Rothschild. I am anxious to travel to England, and I hoped you might be able to help me.”
“You are English?” he enquired, suddenly intent. “You speak German well.
Bitte, setzen Sie sich, Fräulein Jacobson.”
She took a seat on a gilt and brocade chair by the fireplace. “I spent the last several years travelling around Europe with my uncle. I speak several languages.”
“French, of course.” He stood opposite her, leaning against the mantel with a natural elegance. “Spanish?”
“A little, and some Italian.”
The latter he brushed aside as of no account. “You know the south of France? The Pyrenees?”
“My uncle and I spent some time among the Jews of that region,” she admitted with some caution, beginning to wonder at his interest. “I have crossed the Pyrenees more than once.” Twice, actually; once in each direction.
He gazed at her consideringly. “But you are an Englishwoman. You would like to help your country?”
“Miss Miriam!” Hannah stepped forward, an urgent warning on her lips.
“It’s all right, Hannah. Mein Herr, at present my only wish is to return to my country.”
To her surprise, the young Rothschild laughed. “So, you have heard that I and my brother Nathan are smuggling gold from England against the wishes of the government. I believe I must trust you with the truth, Fräulein, for you appear to be the very person I need.”
“The truth?” she asked, bewildered. “You need me?”
“The truth is that Nathan, who is a naturalized Englishman, has been commissioned by the British government to convey a very large sum of money to General Wellington in Portugal. I have received the gold here in Paris and now it must be transported through France and across the Pyrenees.”
“I’m delighted to hear that you are working for the British government, but what has it to do with me?”
“You have asked a favour of me, now I shall ask a favour of you. I need a guide to assist in this venture. You speak French and Spanish, you know the country. Help me in this and I shall see that you reach England safely.”
“Surely you can hire someone!”
“For this task, I cannot trust anyone I might hire in France.”
“I suppose not,” Miriam unwillingly agreed.
“You see, Fräulein, your government sent a guardian with the shipment, an English goy to make sure that we Jews do not cheat. But this
gentleman,”
he said the word in English, “Lord Felix Roworth, knows nothing of France. There is also Nathan’s agent, who must accompany the gold so that he can take Wellington’s receipts back to my brother. He too is unfamiliar with the route. What am I to do?”
In the pause that followed this plaintive question, the fall of a log in the grate sounded loud. Her unseeing gaze on the rush of sparks up the chimney, Miriam recalled that one of the reasons she had insisted on accompanying Uncle Amos on his travels was a desire for adventure. The years had been interesting, she felt she had been useful to him, but there had not, really, been any adventure worth mentioning. A bubble of excitement swelled within her.
Hannah read her mind. “Miss Miriam, you wouldn’t...”
“Your patriotic duty,” Jakob Rothschild interrupted. “General Wellington is in desperate need of funds to pay the British Army.”
“You will send us home as soon as we return to Paris?”
“From Bordeaux, if you wish it, Fräulein.” Suddenly he was all business. “You brought your luggage with you?”
“No, but we packed in case we needed to leave quickly.”
“Give me the direction and I shall send for it. You leave today.”
“But I have not take proper leave of my hosts,” Miriam protested, “and I am not dressed for travelling.”
“You may change your clothes when your boxes arrive, and write to your hosts in the meantime. I shall see your letter delivered. There are writing materials in my office. Come this way, please. You must make the acquaintance of your travelling companions while I complete the arrangements.”
He led the way through a connecting door into a large room furnished with a desk, a huge iron safe, a number of straight wooden chairs and three or four plain leather-covered armchairs. Two of the latter were occupied. The occupants rose to their feet and bowed as Miriam entered.
“Lord Felix Roworth.” Jakob Rothschild indicated the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with golden hair and blue eyes. Immaculate in a coat of snuff-brown superfine, elegantly simple cravat, dove-grey waistcoat, skin-tight buckskins and white-topped boots, he appeared to be in his late twenties. “Isaac Cohen,” Herr Rothschild continued the introductions. “Mees Jacobson.”
Miriam glanced at the second man and nodded, but she scarcely saw him. Her gaze swung back at once to Lord Felix. He was the very embodiment of her schoolgirl dreams.
Chapter 3
“Here are pens and ink for your letter, Fräulein.” Herr Rothschild crossed to the desk and took some sheets of paper from a drawer. “Cohen, the lady goes with you.” He spoke in Yiddish now. “I must make final arrangements. I shall return shortly.”
Miriam was distantly aware that Mr. Cohen uttered an unheeded protest. She was all too aware of Lord Felix’s rude appraisal, swiftly followed by sneering dismissal.
“What did he say, Cohen?” his lordship enquired in English in a haughty tone.
“Miss Jacobson goes with us,” said the other curtly. The air between them crackled with animosity.
As she moved to the desk she turned her attention to Isaac Cohen. Nathan Rothschild’s agent, a year or two older than his lordship and a trifle taller, but more slenderly built, was dressed in a fashion less elegant than businesslike. His hair was dark, crisply springing from a broad brow, and his dark eyes stared at her with undisguised hostility.
He looked vaguely familiar. Seating herself at the desk, Miriam wondered momentarily whether she had met him before. Surely she would have remembered him; he was really rather good-looking in his own way, though not to be compared with the arrogant Lord Felix.
Dipping a quill pen, she began to write to the Benjamins, but already she had half a mind to back out of her agreement with Jakob. Neither of her prospective travelling companions had exactly greeted her advent with delight. In fact, while she wrote she listened with mingled amusement and indignation as they grudgingly united in opposition to taking her with them. They appeared to dislike that idea even more than they disliked each other.
Hannah, who had come to stand behind her, bent down and whispered, “God forbid we should stay where we’re not wanted, Miss Miriam.”
“It doesn’t look promising, does it?” She signed the note, blotted and folded it, though far from certain it would be needed. “Only, what if we can’t find anyone else to help us cross the Channel?”
“There’ll be others, God willing, as won’t send you to Spain afore they’ll send you to England.”
“I’d like to help that English general--but you are right. To travel so far with two gentlemen who resent our presence would be foolish. Herr Rothschild will find someone else. I hate to continue to impose upon the Benjamins, though.”
“They’re glad to have us, for your uncle’s sake. Let’s be off.”
“No, I cannot just walk out on Herr Rothschild. We shall wait until he returns.”
An uncomfortable silence enveloped the room’s occupants. Lord Felix stood at the window, looking out, his fingers tapping impatiently on the sill. Mr. Cohen strode up and down the room, frowning. His lithe pacing reminded Miriam of a black panther she had once seen at the Tower of London zoo.
Neither of them so much as glanced at her, and she realized that neither had spoken a word directly to her. The situation was impossible.
Taking another sheet of paper, she drew a swift sketch of a lion and a panther snarling at each other. In one corner two female figures fled shrieking, while in another a troop of French grenadiers took aim at the bellicose cats. She was adding Jakob Rothschild, in the form of a fox, to the drawing, when he himself came in.
“All arrangements are made,” he announced.
Miriam jumped to her feet and sped towards him. She and the two others converged on him, all talking at once though Lord Felix must have known his English would not be understood.
Young Jakob was unruffled. Somehow Miriam found herself being escorted to a chamber where her and Hannah’s belongings were piled. Hannah had stayed behind in the office. In her place, a thin, severe-looking Frenchwoman, all in black, with urgent, irresistible determination helped her to change into a dark blue woollen dress. Her protests were brushed off like an irritating fly, and while she combed out her ringlets and swiftly braided her hair, the boxes were removed.
The secretary took her back to the office. Hannah rushed to her side, but the others took no notice of her reappearance. Lord Felix, a caped greatcoat of drab cloth now concealing his elegance, watched in angry puzzlement as Herr Rothschild showed an impassive Mr. Cohen some papers.
“These are your passports,” he explained in Yiddish. “You are Swiss admirers of Napoleon, travelling for pleasure to see the country. You and the Fräulein are brother and sister, and milord is your cousin.”
With a mocking grin, Mr. Cohen glanced at Lord Felix.
“What is it?” demanded his lordship. “What is the wretched little Yid up to now?”
“According to our passports, you have joined our family.”
“The devil I have! Do I look like a bloody Jew?”
“Jews come in all shapes and sizes.” He shrugged. “You have a different surname--we’ll be Cohens but you’ll be Rauschberg--so perhaps your father was a goy.”
“Rauschberg? Why not my own name?”
“Roworth is too English by half, unpronounceable in any other tongue. I trust you are not going to expect to be addressed as `my lord’?” The last words were a sneer.
“As relatives,” Miriam pointed out, “we ought doubtless to address each other by our first names.”
They both turned to glare at her.
“I can’t see why I must be related at all!” Lord Felix objected furiously.
“To make it plausible that we should be travelling together. If you insist on accompanying our shipment all the way, then you will have to accept Herr Rothschild’s arrangements.”
“
Genug shoin!”
said the red-haired youth adamantly. “No more arguments. Come, the carriage is ready.” With unshaken calm he walked out.
And Miriam followed, her protests once again ignored. She was beginning to see Jakob Rothschild as Fate personified.
“If it’s fated we go,” Hannah muttered behind her, “then it’s no use fighting it.”
Their boxes had already been tied onto the back of the vehicle that awaited them in the courtyard. It was a large berline, its undistinguished black paint somewhat the worse for wear. A boy held the reins of the team of four ill-matched but strong-looking horses.
“I must see the gold,” said Lord Felix abruptly in an undertone.
Jakob obviously caught the word ‘gold’. He knocked on the side of the carriage and Isaac translated his words.
“There are secret compartments in the walls, which are too complicated to show you, but you can inspect what is under the seats and floor.”
Isaac stayed outside with Miriam, ignoring her, while the other two men climbed into the berline. She couldn’t see what they were doing, but apparently his lordship was satisfied for they soon stepped out again.
“Where is our coachman?” Isaac asked, casting an annoyed glance at the empty box. “If he doesn’t come soon, it will scarcely be worth leaving today.”
“The man who drove you from the coast is needed elsewhere,” said Jakob blandly, “and I have no one else available who is trustworthy. It is well known that all English gentlemen can drive coaches.”
“But I am not a gentleman.” Isaac’s laugh was ironic. He turned to Lord Felix and said in English, “It seems we are expected to drive ourselves.”
“Drive this?” A scowl distorted his lordship’s handsome features. “I am accustomed to tooling a four-in-hand sporting curricle, not a shabby travelling carriage weighted down with bullion! I wager it’s as heavy as a fully loaded stage coach.”
“I thought all young bucks made a practice of bribing the stagecoachmen to take a turn at the reins,” said Isaac sarcastically, “but if you can’t do it, there’s no more to be said.”
“Of course I could do it!”
“I see, it’s simply beneath your dignity. Then alas, poor Lord Wellington will have to whistle for his gold.”
“Why don’t you drive?”
“Because I don’t know how.”
To Miriam’s amusement, this confession wiped the scowl from Lord Felix’s face and replaced it with smug superiority. She was beginning to think that, though probably uncomfortable, the journey might prove entertaining.