Page 22 of Margins of Love
“Perhaps. But listen to this!”
Three years ago, it was believed that four Swiss Jews perished in Lake Geneva. The townspeople pushed them into the lake and blocked off their escape route, dooming them to drown. The local butcher owed them money and wanted to cleanse the town of the Jews to erase his debts. Only the corpse of the youngest Jew, a baby, was found.
There have been sightings of the oldest one of them in England recently.
Lizzie looked up to Fave, who was hunched over her, feigning disinterest but hanging on to every word.
“Oh, this is so exciting! A true Jewish mystery!” she shrieked.
“It’s bloody cruel. That’s what it is,” Fave said.
The news has only reached England recently; the event itself happened years ago.
Lizzie clapped. “It’s like in a crime novel. The rabbi’s daughter got wind of the story and put it in the Jewish circular to add some oomph to her gossip.”
“No, look here,” Fave read the last sentence.
Local authorities have no information on the whereabouts of the Swiss family. Must we remind ourselves, fellow Jews of London, that welcoming a guest in our home is a mitzvah, a good deed?
Fave took the paper and watched it burn in the fireplace.
“Just imagine, our hostess considering it amitzvahto welcome us.” Lizzie clutched her hands together and could not finish her sentence before she burst into laughter.
But Fave found nothing funny about the situation.
CHAPTER17
Rachel slouched on the stool by the vanity table. She brushed her hair and her mind wandered to the gorgeous golden boy of the ton. Her infatuation with Fave was ill-advised. If their encounter at the library had been any indication, he had little interest in her. He was a genius, focused on his work. She would surely be an unwelcome distraction. Especially given her boring discourses on legumes and botany. She should write Fave off. There would be other gentlemen to dance and flirt with at the balls in London.
Yet, when she caught her reflection in the mirror in her mulberry silk gown, she was half pleased with what she saw. She’d spotted the dress in a window in Bruges. It was her favorite gown, giving her a sense of regal elegance. She trailed her fingers over the silk, marveling at the softness. Her father had given her the dress, altered to her measurements, as a gift a few weeks before they took the ship across the channel to England. The pale champagne lace accenting the neckline had remained as crisp as the day she first slipped the material over her figure. She could not remember how often it had been washed and pressed, but its quality spoke for itself. She remembered the older women in Bruges, swiftly and regularly knocking the bobbins across the pins that held the lace pattern. It had been fascinating to watch the knocking, to see bits of lace revealed under their deft hands.Plik, plop, plink, kaplock, the bobbins had gone. She had not been able to take her eyes off them.
She remembered her father’s proud look when she had first tried on the dress in their modest rented cottage in the little Bruges ghetto. He saw her transformed into a young lady. This dress had uprooted everything. She had seen it in her father’s eyes. He had closed the curtains and asked her to change before anyone could see her dressed in any fashion that could attract attention. It was not prudent to show any signs of wealth or luxury in the ghetto. She had been coming of age, and the transformation had pushed her father to book their fare to England.
The Newmans had crossed the Channel when Rachel was only fifteen. Besides her name and manners, other aspects of their lives also translated to their new British lifestyles. Unlike anywhere else in Europe, Jews had civil rights in England. It was safer than on the Continent, where few laws prohibited crimes against Jews because they were not considered citizens. But while they were safe from certain crimes in England, Rachel still had to guard her virtue and reputation, for gossip could ruin her like a bullet. In Bruges, she had been given permission to wander the streets on her own for hours at a time, but in London, she had to be chaperoned, or at least accompanied, for her safety and reputation.
She recalled the quaint timber-framework houses in Belgium. The shoemakers, blacksmiths, carpenters, and even the lace manufacturer had specific trusses to differentiate their buildings from other artisans and attract customers. But in London, storefronts were usually rented, and she could only shop alongside her mother. Stella had made her wardrobe fittings for the season a tedious process, but Rachel was pleased with the results of her ladylike transformation. She pushed a few more pins into her hair and teased another strand over her ear. As if her hair knew exactly what she intended, it held in place. She nodded at her reflection, pleased at what she saw, and went to the breakfast room.
It was on the other side of the house, with several large windows flooded with light. A footman drew the drapes to provide shade for one of the guests and then left. She blinked at the broad-shouldered, vaguely scruffy-looking man. His raw, masculine air sent a shiver down her bones, and she could not stop staring at him. His head was turned away, and she noticed how his torso narrowed toward his hips, almost like in Michelangelo’s Vitruvian Man. He had his legs crossed leisurely under the table and held papers and pencils.
Then he turned, and Rachel’s heart flipped before it sank to her knees. It was Fave.
She thanked the footman for the plate he handed her and helped herself to a few dishes. She stayed away from pork and seafood, not only because they were not kosher, but because she had never really craved their forbidden taste. Eggs, a piece of toast, and a few berries were all she needed at this hour. She turned and looked for a place to sit, but the tables were clear except for Fave.
He leaned back and watched her. She gulped. There was no escape from his sultry gaze.
“Good morning, Mr. Pearler.” Rachel attempted a dignified smile. It would have been rude for her not to take the seat beside him. “I meant to thank you for the gift the other day. I love marzipan.” She inclined her head politely. The flavors of the sweet almond treat brought back some of the finer memories from her childhood in Switzerland, before that night…
His dizzying eyes met hers. “I hope it tided you over. You don’t like the food here much, do you?”
How could she tell him that she was starving, that the offerings were all pork, mussels, and—she shook—turtle soup.
He stood and waited for her to take a seat, the picture of a gentleman. A handsome, strong, brimming Hercules. A gentile. A taboo.
She spotted some new colored sketches at his elbow.
“Why are there so many ink stains on your watercolors?” Rachel asked.
Fave sighed. “It’s the stupid quill. The tips splatter when I run them along the rulers to trace the margins.”
