The Day of Atonement (17 page)

Abraham Castres put his arm around my shoulders. “This is what I love best,” the consul said, his voice lively and expansive. The incident with Settwell, now more than a full minute in the past, was long forgotten, as significant as an awkward moment of public flatulence. “A new man, a new face, and new prospects. Lisbon is the very place for a man of business. We have not the possibility of unimagined wealth that a man can earn in the Indies, but not the risks either. You may live in comfort and ease, enjoy the pleasures offered by one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and still quietly and efficiently increase your fortune. How do you like the sound of that?”

“I like it very much.” I looked about, straining my neck, making confusion evident. In truth, I was delighted. All my senses tingled. Settwell and I had concocted a scheme, and thus far it had worked perfectly. Such moments were as close as I came to happiness.

“Mr. Sebastian Foxx,” announced the consul, as he led me to another table of Englishmen, “allow me to present to you Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford Carver, among the brightest lights in our Factory constellation.”

Both of the Carvers rose. Mr. Carver shook my hand, and Mrs.
Carver curtsied. The husband was an unimposing man of some forty years, short and perhaps a bit inclined to be plump, with a slightly jowly face and eyes of a very pale gray that looked, even when he smiled, on the verge of tears. He wore a suit of dark blue velvet and an expertly tailored short periwig. While they were both fine-looking items, I could not help but feel that they were meant for an entirely different sort of man. Mr. Carver was not ugly, nor even unattractive, but he was certainly unimpressive.

Mrs. Carver, however, was a stunning woman of seven or eight and twenty, with a beautiful round face, sapphire-blue eyes, an unblemished pale complexion, and a charming nimbus of bright orange hair that fell in ringlets from under a prim little hat and about her lovely shoulders. And red lips that parted just so as she locked her gaze upon mine. Settwell had told me that Mrs. Carver was a flirt, and I intuited at once that she was a well-practiced one. It was no surprise that many a man had fallen under her spell. I felt some small sympathy for the consul. If he must make a fool of himself over a woman, it should be one such as this.

I joined them at the table, but Castres excused himself. “I fear I have pressing matters of state that call me, but Rutherford and Roberta will make very good hosts, I assure you.”

Rutherford Carver called for wine—Burgundy, certainly as an expression of how little he was bound to his host country—and proceeded to pour a large glass for me. While Mrs. Carver watched, apparently hanging upon every word, her husband made inquiries as to what brought me to Portugal, how I knew Settwell, and a variety of other questions meant to measure how much I understood about how business was done in Lisbon. My answers evinced an easy manner, an affect of pretended confidence, and, ultimately, a complete misunderstanding of the situation into which I had thrust myself.

“I hope you will forgive an indiscreet question,” said Mr. Carver, refilling my glass, “but to what degree are you prepared to invest in Portuguese trade? Men come here sometimes with a few hundred
pounds, and that is all very well for them, but it is not enough to engage with the Factory.”

“Are you willing to fully commit yourself?” asked Mrs. Carver, meeting my eyes, and I thought there was hidden meaning in the question.

I blushed and turned away from the lady. “I have very little in ready money,” I answered. I was a man made uneasy by the attentions of a beautiful woman, I reminded myself, and would reveal what I did not mean to. “You see, I was forced to settle a great deal of debt when I came into my estate. However, the lands provide me with near a thousand pounds per annum, and though the income of the next few years may already be spoken for, I have been told the surety of my property will be enough to begin my career in this country.”

“If you want ready money, you’ll need the Jews,” Mr. Carver said. “They have the deepest pockets in the city.”

“I was told there were no Jews in Portugal,” I answered.

Mr. Carver waved his hand about in amusement. “The New Christians.
Convertos
, I believe they are called. It matters not. They love a landed man, and your thousand pounds a year will serve you well. They have a nose for money, those people.”

“So I but present myself to one of these New Christian merchants?”

“It is not quite so easy as that,” said Mr. Carver with much gravity. “To make these Jews comfortable, I suggest you attach yourself to an English merchant who already has a thriving trade. You will find no shortage of clever men who have a steady business exporting cork and fish and wine and importing woolens. Even the best of us may find an occasional shortfall in funds, and willingness to lend is a fine way to ingratiate yourself.”

“I think I understand you,” I said, as though I were just able to put the pieces together. “I use my land as surety with the New Christians to borrow money, which I then lend to a dependable merchant for a return for a portion of his profits. But can this be worth the trouble?
Such money as I make from the trade cannot be much more than what I owe for the borrowed funds.”

“It is not very profitable,” agreed Mr. Carver.

“Then how does pursuing such a course help me?” I asked.

Mrs. Carver leaned forward slightly. “It helps you because in following this course, you make friends. It is an elaborate dance, and we have all learned the steps.”

Mr. Carver pulled out his pocket watch. “Gad, look at the deuced time!” he cried out. “I have kept one of my best olive oil factors waiting a quarter hour. What a jackanapes I am! I presume to tell you how to conduct your business, Mr. Foxx, but I make a poor show of it. Will you excuse me, sir? My wife will continue this conversation, and any questions you have, you may address to me at your convenience.”

Without waiting for a reply, he shook my hand and left me alone with his wife. She met my eyes with her own, which were wide and slightly moist and almost shockingly blue. She did not turn away, and so, after a brief pause, I did.

“It is a hard thing to come to Lisbon alone, I imagine,” said Mrs. Carver. She tossed her head, allowing her ringlets to flow with enchanting effect. “I arrived with my husband, and that was some comfort, but it was nevertheless difficult to adjust to life here.”

“It is an odd city,” I said, “but not without its own peculiar charm and strange beauty.”

“Peculiar charm and strange beauty,” she repeated. She pressed her lips together in something between a smile and a scowl. “Yes. I like that. It is a place where many men fail, but it is also a place for new beginnings.”

“I hope it may be so for me,” I assured her.

“And if you don’t mind my inquiring, I noticed you come in with Mr. Charles Settwell. Are you long acquainted with him?”

I blushed and looked away. “Mr. Settwell struck up a conversation with me at my inn, but I don’t know him beyond his company and
that he appeared very willing to introduce me to the Portuguese trade. Yet after coming here with him, I must wonder if he is the best guide.”

“I shall be honest with you, Mr. Foxx,” Mrs. Carver said. “Settwell was once a great man, but he has made many mistakes of late. There are some who will say he ought not to have married a Catholic woman and then converted, though his Catholicism is of a very lax variety. His own daughter was baptized into that faith, but he does not take her to church now, and so has irritated both the local authorities and his countrymen. I trust you will be more careful than he.”

“I shall make it my business to be so,” I said.

Mrs. Carver raised her glass in the air and grinned like a coquette and a predator. “Let us hope you succeed,” she said. She tapped her glass against my own, and there was something in that touch that seemed very much like a promise.

Most Englishmen who came to Lisbon stayed for years. They had time to establish connections, develop a feel for how things worked, and spot their own prey in the herd. I had not the luxury of so leisurely an approach. To advance my connection with the Carvers, I needed a New Christian who would be willing to lend me money sooner rather than later, and that meant someone who would take risks. I needed to find a man with his back against the wall. My connections in Lisbon might be limited, but I believed I knew one man who could help.

Once more, I found myself knocking on the door to Inácio’s boathouse in the Alfama. The same young man answered the door this time, but now he grinned. “Englishman!” he cried. “Inácio said if you came I must show you in right away.” He opened the door wider.

Almost nothing of the original interior remained. A walkway circled around a great basin of water, which contained two square-sailed fishing boats. In one corner, a pair
of men sat on barrels, playing cards and smoking pipes, but otherwise the place was empty.

The young man led me along a walkway toward a door that opened up into an actual house, and I followed the man up a set of stairs to a door on which he knocked. “Inácio,” he cried.
“Inglês.”

Inácio appeared in a moment, and waved me inside. He had been sitting at a table, drinking wine and eating salt cod stew and bread. “You want?” he asked.

I held up a hand. “I need your help.”

Inácio scowled. “I told you that it would not be easy to aid you. Besides, how hard can it be to find an Inquisitor? In my experience, they find you soon enough.”

“That they do,” I agreed. “I don’t need help on that score. It is another matter.”

Inácio leaned forward. “I shall aid you if I can. You know that. But sit. You make me nervous, standing there.”

I sat at the table. The onion smell made my eyes water.

“So,” he said, swirling a piece of bread through his stew. “This is now what stands in for friendship among adults. You need things, and so you come to me.”

I was no fool. Whatever affection Inácio might yet feel for me was tinged with resentment, and it seemed as likely as not he would be looking out for his own interests as well as mine. If he were going to be of use to me, and not a danger, I would need him to understand that my good fortune would be his own.

“It is a matter of business,” I said. “Any profit it incurs will, of course, be worth a finder’s fee.”

He waved the wet bread in a gesture of dismissal, as though this were the last thing upon his mind.

“I need to find a New Christian willing to lend money. Someone who is desperate enough to take a risk on an unknown man.”

Inácio barked out a laugh. “You come to me to learn about New Christians. The tables have turned, eh!”

“It is your city now,” I said. “I am but an Englishman.”

“Englishmen have no difficulty making friends with New Christians. Why do you need my help with this? First you tell me you care only for revenge and justice, and now you are looking to make money?”

“I’ve agreed to help out an old friend. You recall Charles Settwell, I think.”

Inácio nodded. “The English merchant, yes. My father did some business with him as well.”

“I owe the man much, and I wish to help him, and time is of the essence. I’d like to know precisely which New Christian is most likely to give me what I want in the shortest period of time.”

Inácio pulled on his mustaches and studied me. “Let me think about that. How much money did you say you would give me for this information?”

“I have nothing to give you now,” I said. “If it should prove profitable, then, shall we say, fifty pounds English?”

He widened his eyes. “That is a great deal of money for a name. A mere name. And yet you will give me this gift?”

“Should things go as I wish, then it will be no gift, but a payment for services rendered.”

He let go of his mustaches, and leaned forward. “Someone, it seems, stands to make a great fortune, and you offer me a good sum, but no more, so another can become rich.”

I rose from my chair. “I wished for your help, and I am pleased to compensate you for that help, but I do not care to be put to the question. If you cannot help me, I will find another who can.”

“Sit, sit, sit.” He patted his hand down. “You have become agitated. I meant no offense.”

I sat once more.

“I will show you my friendship by giving you what you ask,” he said, “for I have just the name for you. Do you remember Eusebio Nobreza?”

I felt myself scowling. “He was something of a fool, wasn’t he? I recall his father was a good man, but the son was a puffed-up popinjay.”

“The father is retired,” said Inácio. “The son has taken control of the business, and yes, he is a fool. He has made some mistakes, and the debts are mounting. He may take a little coaxing, but I have heard he is eager to make new connections. I think he may be your man. If he resists, you must stick with him, for you will find yourself rewarded.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And I promise you shall be paid if this goes as I hope.”

Inácio grinned. “If my advice is of use, that is all the payment I need. And, of course, the fifty pounds.”