The Day of Atonement by David Liss Read Free Book Online Page A

Hastings, whose red face andintertwining fingers betrayed his discomfort. “You have served the Factory long?”
    “I am not a member, but I have worked for Factory men these five years.” Seeming to find some courage, he added, “I am well known and regarded, and I am fortunate enough to have many powerful friends.”
    “Indeed,” said Mr. Weaver. “A man so experienced and handsomely connected must know that fast riders are sent from Falmouth to London as soon as the packet docks. These riders dispatch their letters many days before a man traveling the same distance by coach could hope to see London. As the same packet that brought you from Lisbon also contained a letter to me from Mr. Charles Settwell, I know precisely how much money the boy ought to have in his purse, and yet quite a bit of it is unaccounted for.”
    “You must speak to the boy, then,” said Mr. Hastings with a forced laugh. “I need not tell you how ill equipped they are to hang on to their coin. An indulgence or sweetmeat here and there—why, they add up quickly.”
    “You suggest it was this grieving boy who spent the money?” Mr. Weaver said.
    “If you think to accuse me—” But he stopped himself. Mr. Weaver’s dark eyes were fixed on him, hard and sure, and Hastings could bring himself to say not another word. I saw nothing in Mr. Weaver’s expression or posture or manner that overtly suggested violence, and yet he held himself like a predator poised to spring, like the jaws of a trap, ready to shut fast and fatally.
    Hastings staggered backwards. Retrieving his own purse from his belt, he counted out some coins with unsteady fingers and handed them to Mr. Weaver.
    Mr. Weaver, however, would not take them. “They’re not mine,” he said.
    Unwilling to humiliate himself by giving money to a foreign child, Hastings set the coins down on the table.
    Now Mr. Weaver glanced at them. “You have overpaid by seven pence, but I’ll warrant the boy shall keep the money as a token of your good wishes. Good afternoon, Mr. Hastings.”
    The Englishman bowed in a clumsy and frightened spasm. “Despite any slight discrepancies in the trivial matter of accounts, I have made every effort to look after the boy. I hope you will speak kindly of me to my friends at the Factory.”
    “I shall speak the truth,” said Mr. Weaver. “I see no reason to do otherwise.”
    Hastings left without another word. Meanwhile, Mr. Weaver slid the coins into the purse and handed it to me. “I know a cheat when I see one, and while you are under my protection, I shall not let a man such as he have the better of you.”
    For all the menace he had projected when speaking to Hastings, he now seemed to me genuinely kind. It was not the false and sugary solicitude I had endured from innkeepers’ wives and servants and Hastings’s whores. This kindness was more subtle, for it was unaffected.
    Mr. Weaver invited me to sit, and I did so.
    Across from me, the older man leaned forward and sighed. “Mr. Settwell has described your circumstances, so I know you have endured much. I shall ask nothing of you until you have had some time to mourn and adjust to the many changes in your circumstances. For the present, you will live here with me and my wife and my daughter. When you are ready, we shall figure out what to do with you. You are a bit old to be put out as an apprentice, but that should not signify. Every Jew of the nation will vie for the opportunity to stand as patron to a young man who has escaped the Inquisition.”
    I did not wish to speak. My loss and my grief and my misery were so raw, so poorly contained, I feared even the most trivial of words might break the fragile dam I had erected, and I did not want to cry before a stranger. Nevertheless, my curiosity overcame my reluctance. “Why should the Jews wish to help me?”
    The man raised his eyebrows as though the question surprised him. “This neighborhood is full of men whose families escaped the