Free The Day of Atonement by David Liss Page B

passage of years. So much has happened, and so much time has fled, but it seems but a year or two since you were a child.”
    Settwell hurried across the room and, with jerky movements that suggested a great eagerness, poured Madeira into crystal goblets with chipped stems. We sat in opposing armchairs, faded and tattered.
    Our conversation began as the sort to be expected between people who have not seen each other for ten years. I spoke of the thanks I had been unable to express years before, but I did not belabor the point because Settwell clearly did not wish to dwell upon it. Instead he directed the conversation toward his own particulars.
    Shortly after I had escaped the country, Settwell had married a Portuguese woman named Mariana, and their daughter of the same name was now seven years old. To satisfy his bride, Settwell had converted to the Catholic religion. He was not a devotee to any church, and at the time it had seemed a small enough concession to affect devotion to one religion rather than another. Soon he discovered that his conversion was not viewed so liberally by fellow English merchants, who immediately treated him as a pariah. Trade opportunities vanished and men with whom he’d done business for years found excuses to avoid his company. The English might trade with the Portuguese, but to worship with them was unforgivable.
    After they had been married for five happy years, Mariana died of a sudden fever. She had been well in the morning, delirious by nightfall, and dead two days later without having regained her senses. Settwell had been raising his daughter on his own since.
    When he finished his tale, Settwell refilled our glasses. “We are but a pair of survivors, then, are we not, Mr. Foxx? We have been assaulted by all life has to throw at us, but we are not yet done.”
    I raised my glass. “I should like to think we are far from done.”
    * * *
    Settwell had his servant bring down his daughter to meet me. The girl was a delightful creature with black hair and green eyes, and there could be no doubt that she would grow to be a beauty. I often felt more at ease around children than adults, perhaps because I knew it was less likely they would give me cause to break their bones. Quite charmed, I kneeled before the girl and shook her hand. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, senhorita,” I said in Portuguese.
    “And it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Foxx,” she answered in English. “Your accent is very good.”
    I laughed. “As is yours.” Observing that she held a wooden doll in her hand, I said, “And who is your friend?”
    “This is Senhorita Catarina,” the girl said very earnestly. “She’s only a doll, though. She’s not real, but my mother gave her to me. My mother is dead, you know. Is yours?”
    “Mariana!” Settwell snapped. “Such questions are impolite.”
    I met the girl’s gaze. “My mother is dead, and so is my father. But your father is a great friend to me and very much like family.”
    “Then I am like family too,” the girl said cheerfully. I stood up again and stroked my chin. “You may be right. I suppose I shall have to buy you something on your birthday, then.”
    “You don’t have to buy me anything if you will only visit,” she said.
    “I should like the liberty to do both,” I told her.
    Settwell sighed. “You are very indulgent, sir. I thank you.” He took his daughter’s hand and led her back to the mulatto serving woman. “Mr. Foxx and I must talk business now.”
    “How dull,” the girl said.
    “Terribly dull.” Settwell kissed her head and shooed her from the room. When he turned back, concern was plainly written upon his face. It had something to do with the girl, I was certain, but I would not press the matter. Not yet. Settwell would tell me what he wished me to know in due time.
    We retired to a dining room, which could have used a few more candles in the sconces and upon the low-hanging chandelier. The table was unsteady, and