Page 53 of Margins of Love
Arnold stormed into the study. “Pardon me, Uncle Gustav, ah, Fave.”
“Can it wait?” Gustav asked, rubbing his head with his palm.
“I am afraid not,” Arnold said, folding his hands in front of his belt.
“Out with it then,” Gustav snarled.
Arnold gave Fave a look, grasping the tension in the air. “Pavel has something for us. He sent me a note. We can take it or leave it. This is our trump card for the competition. He will hold it until five o’clock.”
Fave looked at the mantel clock. It was 3:48 already.
“Go then. The King’s competition is our chance.” Gustav resigned to business over drama. “But be ready at eight; I will have a carriage waiting to take us to the ball.”
He shook his head, “Dreadful, really dreadful.”
CHAPTER35
An hour earlier at St. James’s Square, Rachel felt spent after the day’s ordeal. She joined Ilan in his cozy study, as she did not want to be alone but needed silence. With a book in hand, she pulled her feet onto the settee and leaned back. But she could not muster the focus to even look at the pages. He had seen her. He hadfoundher.
His face came to mind as he stood on the street in his dark green velvet coat and beige pantaloons. He looked mossy, manly, and… she wished she could be a hesperide, one of the guardians of the golden apple dryads, the fruit tree nymphs in Ancient Greek mythology. She would be the protector of the Fave golden hair fruit and revel in the strength of his body as if he were a strong tree trunk.
She was a fool. A stupid, stupid fool. Her imagination had again taken over her sensibility. She was angry with herself. How could she long for Fave if he had used her so? No, how was it possible that she had to be mad at him but could not manage it in her heart? Had she seen a purity that was not there? It must have been her imagination again. Her father was right; she had to stay grounded.
Fave had made her feel like she could truly dance with all the lovely debutantes this season. She had longed to sway in the arms of beautiful gentlemen and feel pretty in her silk dresses. But now all she longed for was Fave, and she knew she could not have him. Rachel wanted her season and she wanted the security of her community, which were at odds with each other. She could not betray the secret of her religion, for Jews were not part of the ton. Jews, even the rich and learned ones, only existed at the margin of it. Being one of many Jewish merchant families meant ensuring clientele that guaranteed their livelihood. She could not break out for practical and ideological reasons. But most of all, she wanted to make sure her parents were not disappointed by her. She had an obligation to carry on the torch, to become a mother who would nourish the Jewish identity and faith of her children. This was her place in the world and she was more than prepared for it. Her ancestors would have sacrificed everything in vain if she threw it away for a few balls of the ton. Rachel was part of a long history of deprivation and had to honor it, head high.
“Mr. Thompson for Mr. Newman,” the butler announced. “He is in the anteroom.”
“What is this about, Papa?” Rachel asked.
“I am not certain.”
“Ah, g’d evenin’.” In came a chubby old man with a worn hat and a cane clipped under his fat arm. He had not cleaned his shoes from the rain outside and was soiling the Persian rugs with mud.
Rachel frowned.
“And this must be your oldest daughter,” he said, ogling her from her head to her feet.
Rachel felt instantly dirty and took a few steps closer to her father.
“What brought you here, Mr. Thompson?” Ilan asked
“Ah, ever eager to get to the money, Mr. Newman.” He strutted around the room, touching trinkets and eyeing the decanter on the escritoire. “Don’t mind if I do?” He poured himself a glass and plopped down on Ilan’s settee. He took a wide imposing stance and occupied the two-seater fully.
Rachel recognized this situation was out of the ordinary course of business. They had been blackmailed all too often, albeit, this was their first time in the British understated style. Rachel felt wary but, at the same time, scientifically curious about how this would be handled in England.
“Where’s your lovely wife?” Thompson asked with a greasy smile.
Ah, a segway. Rachel recognized Thompson as a master in the art of blackmail.
“She’s indisposed, I’m afraid,” Ilan said.
“Ah. And that boy of yours? What’s his name?” Thompson probed.
Her father eyed her with a knowing sadness. Rachel knew this kind of extortion like the steps to a dance. She blinked with a hint of a nod and said, “He is taking his lessons. Greek mythology.”
“Ah, preparing for the entrance exams to Eton, the lad?”
“Indeed. He is scheduled to begin in autumn,” Ilan said.
