Page 45 of Margins of Love
Ilan could not suppress a laugh.
“I will buy a jewel and wear it at all times. As my fallback,” she declared.
Ilan inclined his head in assent.
Her desire for Fave was not enough to build a future. Every flavor in her life so far had been categorized. Sometimes, by a language, as she spoke Yiddish only within her closest circle and English in public. She spoke French and Italian in her life before she came to England, and German with her friends in Lausanne. She ate rugelach with her brother, marzipan with Fave. She had wine at Shabbat dinner and tea… well, the tea with Fave at the picnic had been… it had onlybeen. It was in the past.
She walked up to Fave’s book on the side table, but instead of picking it up as she had over the past days since her return to London, she walked past it. He had used her. He did not want her, he had been Bustle-Smith’s decoy. And he was so good in his role of the heartthrob, the seducer of the ton. Mother had been right. And Rachel had been a fool to fall in love with a rake.
Oh, how she had dreamed of a big sweeping romance like in her stories. Of the heroism of goddesses and sacrifices for their hearts’ desires. But they all died in the end, did they not? Athena’s temple was all but a ruin somewhere in Greece now.
But then, what was it Lizzie had told her? Dogs that bark do not bite? If Fave did not usually act so overtly, why with her? Could he have beenearnest? Whatever it was, his motives had not been pure.
CHAPTER31
That morning, at the Pearlers’ house.
Fave sat on the brocade bench in the Foyer. He bent down to buckle up his black fencing boots, a stark contrast to his white athletic attire. The hall clock struck twice, marking the half hour. It was a tall mahogany Chippendale case clock with tides. Unlike him, the clock was thoroughly British. It belonged. He was neither here nor there, too Jewish for the ton, too something else to pick his own Jewish wife.
He was in a foul mood again. Since he returned to London, he had been looking forward to slaying his cousin in a fencing match at their club. Their half-hearted practice at Brockton House had been just that, half effective. But here at the club, he could expend his energy until his thighs burned. He craved a chance to exhaust himself physically. Maybe his mind could come to rest then. And perhaps, he could even sleep and stop thinking about Rachel.
Eve had told him that the wedding was moved up to preempt Bustle-Smith’s scheming gossip. In less than twenty-four hours, Fave’s fate would be sealed with a stranger, some bride he did not know and did not want. He flexed his muscles, ready for some exercise. He was in a fighting mode. Prepared to go to battle but nobody to fight with.
Arnold stormed through the door in full fencing gear. “I tell you, dear cousin, Marvin Thompson struck gold!”
“I was just on my way to the club,” Fave said, his gloves and mask in hand.
“That’s where I was!” Arnold was out of breath.
Fave had been looking forward to resuming their fencing. The heartbreak of the past days had drained his energy. He had hoped for some innocent swordplay—competitive brute force to restore his spirits, at least somewhat.
Slumping on the bench, disappointed and annoyed that fencing was delayed, Fave turned to Arnold. “What did Mr. Thompson tell you?” he asked, half-interested.
“His father has been keeping Bustle-Smith’s accounts for years.”
“So?” Fave shrugged apathetically.
“So?” Arnold paced in front of him. “So?” He waved his arms in the air like in a bad Shakespeare performance. “Think!” He poked at Fave’s head like a woodpecker at a tree.
This irked Fave to no end, and he sprang up to stand. “What is your problem? What did Thompson say?”
“Fave, there are records. She has been keeping accounts!”
Fave locked eyes with him. His breathing changed, his eyes then darting from Arnold’s left to his right, trying to read his thoughts. “What is in these records?”
“Let us find out.”
They dashed up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, just as they did when they were boys.
Forty minutes later,they reached Middle Temple Lane. The filthy smell of the Thames clashed with the hopeful green chestnut buds over their heads. They walked past the courtyard’s fountain, incessantly sputtering foamy water into the gloomy London day. Pedestrians ignored the display, and Fave thought it a waste of space and ornamental engineering.
“Not a prime location for an office.” Fave scowled at Arnold after they had walked all the way down Fleet Street. More prestigious chambers were at the Inner Temple, half a mile behind them.
“He’s thrifty,” Arnold said brightly. He opened the door and showed Fave into the dark narrow hallway.
Holcourt, Creston, and Thompson
Barristers
