Page 3 of Margins of Love
“He put what in where?” Rachel asked with a glance at her mother, who was quite obviously dreading the news of her son’s latest prank. She peeled off her lilac shrug and handed it to her maid.
“Dah vish!” the cook answered in her heavy accent, making a swimming motion with her hand.
Rachel hid her chuckles behind her hand and faced her maid with a graciousadank—thank you in Yiddish. The staff was indebted to her father, Ilan, so they’d always had a good relationship. The servants were all Jews except for one orphaned Christian boy, who was being trained by the butler to become his successor. Ilan had a soft spot for Jews from the Continent, and every hired servant spoke with a different, heavy accent, if they spoke English at all. The servants had arrived in London with Rachel’s family, seeking anonymity and safety. Her parents, Ilan and Stella Newman, saw their mentorship of their servants as a matter of humanity. And yet, there was a sense of loss of their small family’s privacy in this great household.
It had not always been like this. Until Rachel’s fifteenth birthday, they had lived in a small house in Lausanne, Switzerland, on the edge of Lake Geneva. Their name had beenNeumannthen, not Newman, and their lives had been more straightforward. Or maybe Rachel had only thought so because she had been a child then.
Rachel remembered the cold feeling of the jagged wrought iron railings under her hands the first time she stepped up to their new home in London. The building was inconspicuous from the outside, a trait her father adored. More than anything, he had wanted to blend in as soon as they had set foot in England. They dressed the part and spoke as true English nobility did. They lived among gentiles, and Rachel’s father made a point not to compete with other Jewish businesses to safeguard his family and servants’ livelihoods. He adopted the ways of the British and embraced the freedoms and sense of equality Jews had in England, unlike on the Continent. Nonetheless, Ilan was under no illusion that Jews were any more in favor here, and he made every effort to keep his head down, warning his children to do the same.
A tug on her dress pulled Rachel back to the present. Her little brother Sammy ran around and hid behind her legs. She put a warm hand on him but frowned.
“Samuel! Samuel! Come along!” Stella called sternly. He stayed behind Rachel as she followed her mother.
The cook led the way. They descended to the kitchens of the elegant London townhouse, located on the corner of York Street, and boasting a yard at the back. Although Rachel’s father claimed he needed the space for their stables, the family knew he valued the proximity to Ormond Yard and Charles Street. It gave them access to Pall Mall and the bustling anonymity of the greater city of London if they were to keep walking, in case they ever needed to flee. Never in their lives would they be cornered again. Their elegant home was an island of Jews in St. James, providing status, as well as a direct escape route, should the need arise. And in Rachel’s experience, such need always arose sooner or later.
The cook opened the squeaking doors to the servant’s quarters and Rachel smelled the Cook’s scrumptious rugelach, the pastries that—according to her mother, were the cause of her luscious curves. Cook was a dear woman, almost like a grandmother to Rachel and her brother, always devoted to their family since Ilan had paid her bail. She had been arrested for causing a public uproar when her husband, an impoverished street trader, was beaten to death in the streets of Tiflis. It occurred around 1802, just after Russia annexed Georgia under Alexander I, who continued his father’s absolutist policies. Ilan had brought the cook back with him to Switzerland until they were forced to leave and travel to England, searching for a new home. Rachel had practically grown up with the cook’s delicious rugelach. Sadly, the delicious pastries had become a rarity since they came to London, as the cook’s other household duties distracted her from baking.
“What happened?” Stella asked as they entered the kitchen.
“I bring carp from market. Carp wrapped in newspaper.” Cook had tried to teach Rachel to roll her “r” the Russian way, like a wagon wheel. However, Rachel usually had her mouth too full of food when Cook was near. Rachel loved her like a grandmother. When Cook opened the thick wooden door to the kitchen, it screeched. Rachel flinched.
“I put carp on counter, here.” She hit both hands on the counter, which had so many scratches and chips it resembled an enormous cutting board.
“I go fetch water. I come back, carp gone!”
Rachel stifled her giggle with both hands. Stella shot her a glance, which set Rachel off even more. She snorted, and then Rachel’s fit of laughter was too far gone to hide.
“I hear boy laughing, and rugelach gone! Gone, I say. Where dah vish? Where rugelach?”
Rachel scanned the kitchen for that delicious rugelach. She had tried to help Cook roll the buttery crescents of dough once. Cook had scolded her and chased her out of the kitchen when she ate a spoonful of the decadent chocolate and nut filling instead of spreading it on the pastries. As far as Rachel was concerned, it was entirely understandable that Sammy had stolen a few rugelach when Cook was busy with the fish.
The culprit in question was still hiding behind Rachel’s broad day dress. She tightened her grip on him and placed her hand back on him for comfort. They both knew he would be in trouble as soon as Stella ascertained exactly what he’d done.
Stella looked at Sammy, demanding an explanation, which he eagerly gave.
“When Cook left, the fish moved! It moved, Mama! It was alive, and it needed water!” Sammy’s account transformed the act from a prank into a fish rescue.
Stella rolled her eyes as Sammy told his version of events.
“I saved him!” Sammy said, his wide eyes brimming with tears.
Rachel lost the last bit of her self-control, her chest and head shaking with laughter as she burst with uninhibited mirth.
“And where is he now?” Stella looked around the kitchen.
“In the trough, Mama,” Rachel said, looking through the window into the back alley of their home. The windows were high above the counters in the basement-level kitchen, but Rachel heard an unusual splashing that came from the general direction of the trough. She stepped out to investigate the sound and, sure enough, heard the butler’s young apprentice was tearing bits of rugelach that Sammy must have dropped. He was feeding them to a large shiny fish in the trough. It would have been the most bizarre picture if Rachel did not know how it had come about. “It seems to me we can still have it forShabbesdinner, can’t we?” Rachel’s mother was ever-concerned with the decorum of the Friday Sabbath dinner that marked the end of a tiring week.
“Who kills dah vish?” Cook asked, with both hands on her wide hips. “Not I!” She shook her head fervently.
The cook flapped about like the little red hen, but nobody volunteered to kill the fish for her.
Rachel wanted no part of the fish’s demise either, so she gave Sammy a parting kiss on his flushed cheek. “Try not to cause any more mischief,” she said with all the sisterly love she could muster before walking upstairs. Her mother would know how to deal with Cook.
Rachel knew she had lived as sheltered a life as a Jewish girl could. She cherished the privileges and luxuries her parents gave her. But this year was going to be different. Rachel had felt it just moments ago in the bustling street outside her carriage. She could smell it in the air and hear it in the morning songs of the birds outside her window. She had traveled across the continent during the seasons since they'd come to London a few years ago. Her attendance did not matter—she was Jewish and destined to marry a Jew, while Almack's was reserved for gentiles. But this year was different. She wanted a season, not to search for a husband, but for the fun of it. She longed to dance at the balls like a gentile debutante.
But she harbored reservations about her Swiss mannerisms. And though she looked like a debutante with her slim waist, graceful posture and long brunette hair perfect for wrapping in complicated styles, her hips were lush and her conversation veered toward Greek mythology rather than gossip. Her inclinations and wit were more suitable for an agent of the Crown, her father often joked. Her mother, in turn, usually resorted to brushing her daughter’s wavy mane, saying, “I shall tame your hair if I cannot tame your personality.” And, of course, Rachel kept a secret, the reveal of which could cause her family and their staff to lose their comfortable footing in London.
CHAPTER3
