Page 12 of Margins of Love
Rachel’s skin crawled at the memory of that night. Drawing her covers as if to warm her from the trauma’s chill, she blinked a few times and saw Sammy, much taller and older now but still a child. As if waking up to the present, Rachel looked at her room, the flowery wallpaper, the matching fringes on her curtains and bedspread, the light coming in through the window. Then she saw her little brother’s teal eyes, just like hers. They had a knowing sadness and softness. Her tutor from Salzburg had once told her that Jewish eyes were akin to those of a young fawn. Rachel had been too naïve at the time to take offense at the analogy, of the antisemitic propaganda informing the cliché about heavy-lidded dark eyes, expressive and threatening—Jewish traits of which her tutor had spoken with disgust. To Rachel, a fawn was a sweet young creature, innocent and shy, just like Sammy. But to the people around them, their Jewish eyes were a mark that labeled them as despicable creatures. If there was one thing Rachel had learned from her gentile German and French tutors, it was to play down her telltale Jewish traits. But her broad education tended to do her a disservice, especially when she was nervously spluttering trivia about all kinds of topics, from botany to physiology. Her knowledge was unladylike. Here in England, she pinned up her hair and made a point to look down at people, never upward giving away her fawny eyes. She thought she had seen a glimmer of the same piercing beauty and intensity in Fave’s eyes but it could not be. Not here at a ton house party.
No, she had to keep her head down and follow her father’s orders. Maya would have died in vain if Rachel risked exposing the family in their new London home. And Sammy could not go to Eton in the fall to get a gentleman’s education if news spread that he was Jewish. Her father had told her that Jews were relatively safe in England under George III’s rule. Yet, it was unlikely that the aristocracy would welcome Jews into higher education under Robert Banks Jenkinson, the second Earl of Liverpool and current Prime Minister. It was true that Jews had legal protections in England unlike anywhere on the Continent, but they were distinguished and unassimilated. The only way forward for Sammy would be a deception by omission, hiding his faith.
“We are not like them,” her mother had told Rachel on the way here, implying that their assimilation was superficial. And Rachel did, indeed, mark her words.
“We all have our roles in life. And I would never do anything to hurt your prospects. I love you far too much.” Rachel placed her hand on Sammy’s golden hair and brushed it aside to clean up his side part. She was the older sibling. She understood a bit more of the world than he did, albeit not remotely enough to calm her apprehension at hershadchan.
Sammy kissed her on the cheek and handed her the cup of chocolate with a wry smile, taking the biscuit for himself on his way out the door.
“There is still the whole season ahead of me,” she murmured. She would make the most of her time and enjoy a brief dream-come-true as a debutante of the ton. Rachel set out the peacock blue silk gown for dinner. With her mint-colored ribbons in hand, she rang for her maid to draw a bath. The season’s end loomed above her like the drums before a battle. She had to be ready.
Later that night,Rachel thought she had outdone herself dressing for dinner. When she came downstairs in Brockton House and saw the assembly through the double doors to the great room, a low rumble of whispers let her know her suspicions were correct: she was the beauty of the evening. Her dress was made of the finest silk with crinkled chiffon accents over her shoulders. Most of her hair was piled neatly on top of her head like a flattering crown, but her maid had teased a few strands to hang around her face. She glowed as only the young could. Knowing her fate emboldened her to enjoy herself as a butterfly might on its last flight through the rain, when even a single droplet would be its downfall. And here was the rainstorm.
“Ms. Newman. Darling girl, I need to speak to you.” Lady Bustle-Smith intercepted Rachel in the foyer.
Rachel curtsied and smiled just as she had been taught in preparation for her season.
“I trust that you are enjoying your time as my guest?”
“Very much, Lady Bustle-Smith. Thank you for the gracious invitation.” Rachel kept her gaze low, proof of her humility despite her affluence.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Lady Bustle-Smith’s sausage-like finger trailed along her hairy chin, her tight lips pursed.
“As it happens, we’ve lost a pair of guests, and I find myself required to change the dinner seating.”
Rachel made eye contact to feign surprise and concern. She could imagine just what had happened, how Lady Bustle-Smith had orchestrated a ruse to compromise another debutante. Last season, when an earl’s daughter made eyes at a suitor on whom Allison had set her cap, Lady Bustle-Smith invited him for dinner. Nobody knew the details of the evening, only that he had failed to propose. By Saturday of the same week, he found himself married to the girl’s older sister and moved to Bristol. If any girl posed a threat for Allison, her conniving mother would rid Almack’s marriage mart of her by thrusting her onto one of the eligible bachelors that she deemed unsuitable for her own daughter. It was like felling trees to smooth Allison’s path toward a rich and titled nobleman. Rachel almost pitied the fellow who would be saddled with Allison Bustle-Smith, but she did not dare grimace while under the dowager’s full-frontal gaze.
“You will sit next to Mr. Pearler. I am afraid his sister, Elizabeth, will be reassigned to a different seat.”
Rachel’s heart flipped, and she worked hard to suppress her glee as she surveyed the room for Fave. “Of course, my lady.”
No sooner had Rachel curtsied than Lady Bustle-Smith left her to greet other guests.
“What was that all about?” Her mother said as she came to stand beside her and wrapped her arm around Rachel’s, leading her toward the dining table.
“I am to sit next to Mr. Pearler.” Rachel tried not to seem happy about the prospect but was uncertain that she could mask her glee.
“Oh.” Her mother looked disappointed. “The jeweler?”
Rachel was intrigued. A jeweler of the haute couture, surely, with expressive dark eyes and an interest in Greek mythology.
“You will find someone else soon. Not to worry, when we are back in London—”
Her mother’s dismissal left Rachel utterly befuddled. Rachel could sniff out terrible news like a truffle pig in France. Her parents had too often presented their plans to move asfait accomplit, but it was in Rachel’s nature to need to know before it was too late. Her mother was hiding something.
“A terrible rake, so I was told. But his mother is very close to our hostess, dear.” Her mother inclined her head and held Rachel’s gaze. Rachel understood the warning instantly.
“Oh, there’s Lady Branson. I must greet her.” Her mother fled.
Something had happened. Or Rachel had done something wrong. Or there was something wrong with Fave. Of that, she was sure. She had to be careful. The season had not even started, and she was already enmeshed in the politics of society.
And then she saw Fave—his bold stature accentuated by fitted evening attire, the fabric stretching over his bulging muscles. When he strutted through the room, the crowd parted to step out of his way. His hair was unruly, and Rachel wondered what his sun-kissed highlights would feel like against her skin. Banishing all caution, she decided to take the risk of savoring her seating assignment, locking her mother’s implicit warning away in a far corner of her mind. She had to enjoy herself as much as she could while she was still single and unattached. Marriage would not afford her such luxuries.
CHAPTER10
Across the long dinner table, Lady Bustle-Smith’s eyes latched onto Fave like a hungry owl about to descend on her prey. He was used to being the center of attention; it was a necessary evil of his family’s perceived importance among the ton. Tonight, he was not only the main attraction but also the chosen victim of the dowager countess’ piercing glare.
His mother and Lady Bustle-Smith were clucking along merrily, gossiping. Yet, Fave knew his mother’s watchful eye permeated beyond mere gossip, she was scouting out new clients and surveying his and Lizzie’s manners. Eve had been far more astute than anyone suspected. She brought in business. Moreover, she knew which members of the ton had light pockets and would not pay. She always alerted his father when to have engagement rings or reconciliation bracelets ready. It was less her nature than a learned understanding of good business, Fave knew. The ton was blind to her true aptitude and merely adored his mother or at the very least admired her as the other half of Lady Bustle-Smith’s reign. The ton suspected that Eve had risen to stardom as Bustle-Smith’s closest confidente. She was Almack’s uncrowned patroness of the hearts.
