Page 37 of Margins of Love
April 10, 1813.
The pillows were lumpy,his bed too soft, and Fave was altogether uncomfortable in his skin. He spent the night awake in his room, worrying about the recent events at the orangerie. He had risked too much, sneaking around under Bustle-Smith’s watchful eye. His conscience did not let him sleep, for he had possibly ruined Rachel’s prospects. Whatever his mother told Bustle-Smith, it could surely not have been the typical wedding post-haste arrangements. He had not truly compromised Rachel, but for Bustle-Smith this would have been enough to force him to marry her under a special license. But that was a solution for gentiles. The usual rules did not apply here. What would become of Rachel now? He must not marry her, this beautiful gentile.
Eve had not come to speak to him the night before, and he suspected that she was not ready to take on a conversation with her son at daybreak. Fencing with Arnold was the only hold he had, but it was not enough to clear his mind today. He dressed in his fencing gear and went to wake up his cousin.
At daybreak,Fave walked alongside a rather sleepy Arnold, his mood as gloomy as the weather. They were going fencing behind the stables—Fave had had enough of the orangerie.
“You have to bed a woman and vent your frustration,” Arnold chastised him, “I need my sleep, Cous.”
“What do you mean?” Fave asked, perplexed.
“Oh, you have no idea, it is unlike anything… the release…”
Even though Arnold spoke on, Fave did not hear him.Release.Is that what he needed? To let go rather than to punch through something?
“Everyone saw you lusting after her last night. As your elder cousin, I consider it my duty—”
Fave broke out in laughter as Arnold assumed a magnanimous pose.
“With all of eight weeks of life experience ahead of me, you have quite a lot of wisdom to impart,” Fave teased him.
That deflated Arnold’s statuesque demeanor, and he gave Fave a boyish smirk. “You like her.” He shrugged.
If he had stabbed Fave in the stomach with the blade, it could not have possibly hurt more, because it was true, he wanted Rachel, but he could not have her. It was not the time for teasing. Fave dropped his gear and looked at Arnold. “Today is her birthday.”
“Do you like her a lot?” Arnold asked.
Fave nodded even though he knew that his feelings were impossible—a Jew and a ton debutante—it would never work.
“First love is precious and very, very fragile, Cous.” Arnold’s tone changed, and Fave saw something in his eyes that he usually only saw when they were discussing business. “You have to show her how you feel.” Arnold’s voice became more mature and resonant. Fave was spared the lecture about the impossibility of this liaison and looming heartbreak.
He did have to tell Rachel, but he must not, because nothing could come of it. And yet, what could have come of it already had. He could not go further, not physically and not with a marriage proposal. Had he compromised her and destroyed her reputation? For that, he would have to do some damage control, whatever this meant in a situation like this. He was a man of honor after all. Surely, he had to stand by Rachel.
His cousin gave a light shrug and pursed his lips. He had no advice. Fave knew that Jews and the ton did not mix. They were like oil and water. Somehow his actions had shaken convention enough to create an emulsion, but soon their worlds would separate again.
Fave turned and ran back to the house. Arnold was right, she had to know. Now that he knew he was in love with her, how could he keep it from her? She had looked so scared the night prior, mortified for having been caught. But all seemed different now, and he had to tell her. He loved her, he wanted her to know, needed her to know his heart. It meant everything, even though the consequences were blurry at best.
By the time he arrived back at Brockton House, he was out of breath and stopped to lean his hands on his knees. He looked up and saw some guests leaving. Footmen were loading their trunks and hat boxes onto the carriage. Fave thought of how to show Rachel how he felt but then a lump of air caught in his chest. Was that Rachel? Four horses were tied to the carriage, readying it for a long journey. He recognized her silhouette and ran toward the carriage.
Minutes later, Fave climbed on the step to look inside the carriage.
“Fave?” Her eyes shot at him. He saw her mother, Stella, and a young boy.
“Milady. And you must be Sammy.” He could not muster a smile for he had barely regained his breath.
Stella’s eyes nearly popped out of her head as she watched the events unfold. Sammy knew to be silent.
“This is Mr. Pearler, from London, Mother,” Rachel said.
“At your service,” Fave said.
Stella’s face had frozen, her expression horrid.
Fave would have been irritated, but he had no time. “Are you travelling today?” He mustered a little composure while the air was returning to his lungs.
“Indeed. We must be off to London, I am afraid.” Rachel’s tone was placid but her eyes affixed on his, telling him that there was a much longer story.
“Today is your birthday, is it not?” Fave felt as if he were grasping at tufts of cattails as he fell down a waterfall.
