Page 8 of Margins of Love
Fave turned and snarled. Arnold should have known better than to tease him. It was impossible for him to bed a woman before marriage and still maintain his status as aCohanim, an ancient ancestral privilege that dated back to Moses’ brother Aaron, the first member of this distinguished Jewish priesthood. Fave was essentially Jewish royalty and had to preserve his lineage. The privilege was passed from father to son. Fave’s destiny as a Cohen consisted of sacrifice for Judaism through prayer and worship. Tradition dictated that he must pass the traits on to his sons. The rules for his marriage were equally strict, a custom-made ivory tower for a clandestine Jew in the ton like him. His wife had to be pure both sexually and ancestrally. How ironic that he would never find such a woman in London. His family had to be guarded so closely that he would probably never find a wife on his own, while his lovely sister could marry but was prohibited from procreating with a gentile—better to stop the bloodline with her than to muddle Cohen blood.
Arnold could not understand because he was not a Cohen. His mother was Fave’s paternal aunt, who had married an Israelite, a “normal Jew” of no particular heritage. After Arnold’s father died of lung fever, Fave’s father, took in Arnold and his mother, who died of a broken heart shortly thereafter. Fave and Arnold were cousins, but they had grown up like brothers, with a fraternal rivalry. Gustav had built a remarkable fortune as the ton’s Jeweler and groomed both boys to take over the business.
Fitting in, looking the part, mingling but not mixing, had been the cardinal rules of his upbringing. “Gentlemen among gentiles, not always gentle men” was his father’s favorite phrase. The play on words and situational cynicism were not lost to Fave. His father had started as a gem dealer and quickly ascended to an haute-couture jeweler of the rich and noble in London. His mother brokered him clients from best of the ton. And Gustav only accepted if his customers agreed to pay in full, and in cash. But sometimes conflict arose, so he had ensured that Fave and Arnold could defend themselves.
“Clear your head, Cous, and turn your mind to more masculine things.”
“And what are those?”
Arnold rubbed his fingers to indicate money.
Fave rolled his eyes and shook his head. Money. Wealth. Business relations to make more money. Amass more wealth. More business. Arnold was beginning to sound like Fave’s father. He was always on the quest for the next more enormous jewel, the next deal. And at night, he made his conquests wherever it suited him. He was so handsome that he made men uncomfortable. Women—and Arnold was all too aware of this effect—shivered in his presence. It seemed that only Lizzie and Fave were immune to his charms, sharing a large portion of his lucky genetics.
“When you are not busy guarding your little sister’s virtue, Cous, we should devise a plan to win the competition,” Arnold said.
Of late, Fave’s father had set his eye on the competition for the King’s jewels, for winning could mean a royal appointment. Fave had not listened to the details because there would never be a Jew in court, and he doubted they would ascend to the final round. But Arnold was enticed by the opportunity, which drew jewelers from near and far. The jewelers had a waged war for the biggest gem deal, the most significant profit. Arnold was as keen on the arrangement as a tiger on the prowl. But Fave left the business to Arnold and his father. Fave had seen his parents grow cold under the pressure of business, money, and wealth, and preferred his role as a designer. He would rather sketch artful designs for others to sell, or cut a delicate stone and bring out the best play of light within the gem.
He already had enough money, so the grand prize barely mattered to him. He would rather fence all day and read all night, but he knew he could not afford such leisures at a Bustle-Smith house party. Then his mind trailed off to Rachel. He could not afford any leisures with her either.
“In position!” Fave had more energy to burn and would not let Arnold get away easily.
He knew his cousin was holding out for a fling with some ladies at the party, but Fave would have none of that. He preferred books. Epics were never about money, but rather love, passion, honor, and adventure, things that mattered. Just as his jewelry designs were about light moving through the facets of a gem or gold dancing around stones and pearls. But nobody had understood him well since his grandfather had died. Only his grandfather shared Fave’s fondness for the adventurous love stories of the ancient Greeks. He wanted that sort of sweeping romance where appetite and smarts were replaced by passion and desire. But this much was true: he needed an outlet for his sexual tension, and his athletic endeavors no longer seemed enough. He found himself wondering whether Rachel shared his deep admiration for Greek romances and heroic adventures. His body tightened at the memory of her delicate frame hunched over the books and the candle’s flickers shining on her hair. She was beautiful in an unconventional, intelligent way.
“Your steam is bursting out the spout! It’s a damned shame, Cous!”
“I am not a teapot in need of any lid to contain my steam, Arnold!”
Arnold gave him a boyish grin. “Come with me tonight, and we shall divert that steam of yours with some luscious chits.”
Fave was disgusted and walked into the hallway. There was undoubtedly nobody left to talk to. Arnold was taller and stronger but rarely a match for Fave’s intellect. However, his loyalty meant the world to Fave. Fave had a curious mind thanks to his grandfather’s tutoring, while Arnold had been more playful. Fave knew his own virtues; he could have had any young lady at the ton with one of his charming smiles, but he would not. Arnold usually swept up the crème de la crème and covered his tracks with white lies. His ruse was special-tailored to the ton to maintain Fave’s rakehell reputation—a male self-defense against matrimony. Arnold bedded willing ladies, while Fave went home to read and preserve hisCohanimvirtues. Greek myths were his only excitement after balls instead of rolling from one lady’s bed to another’s as his cousin could. In reality, neither of them could marry among the aristocracy.
No woman had ever caught Fave’s eye more than fleetingly at the balls. Of course, he would never be accepted among the ton, except with Arnold. His cousin knew what it meant to be on the margins, with one foot outside the inner circle of noblemen and their lavish lifestyles. Those noblemen had no ancient ancestry to guard or family secrets to protect. For British aristocrats, the idea of a Jew among the ton was far outside the ordinary, an entirely absurd impossibility. And yet, it was a real concept, one that filtered how Fave could see the world. At least he, cousin Arnold and his sister, Lizzie, would have their little club of outsiders once Lizzie made her debut. It was almost comical to think of their trio mingling at Almack’s marriage market for the ton while keeping their hearts on the sidelines.
“Taylor,” he said, nodding at the butler as he handed him his gloves, sleeves, and mask, before stepping through the tall double doors to the foyer.
“This came for you by a special messenger.” Taylor handed him a small package wrapped in wrinkled paper.
Fave eagerly grabbed the package. “The translation!” He had been eagerly waiting for this particular translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. His butler James had promised to send it by a special messenger once it arrived in London. Fave had to remember to obtain some of that unique whiskey James enjoyed so much. He could not wait to uncover the new details about Pygmalion and Galatea, the sculptor who fell in love with his sculpture. A painting by the French Jean-Baptiste Regnault had recently been on display at the British Museum. Fave had walked back four times to look at it, reveling in the detail of the artist’s depiction of Galatea’s transformation. Maybe he could show Rachel this book. He felt his heartbeat quickening at the prospect.
“Your father is expecting you in the blue drawing-room.” Taylor interrupted his daydreaming. The staff at Brockton House had none of the finesse most London households required.
Fave understood the summons and proceeded there.
“Come in!” His father’s muffled voice sounded grim as Fave peeked into the late Earl’s study. Gustav was likely the only one to have used it in the last twenty years.
Fave’s mind was still on the book in his hand, so he was not prepared for what came next. Without much ado, Gustav rose from his desk and declared, “Your betrothal. It’s arranged.”
CHAPTER7
Fave nearly dropped Ovid’s translated poetry as he sank onto the threadbare brown settee.
“It…it can’t be, Father.” Focusing on the bad workmanship of the settee, he plucked at the frayed trim of the cushion. His mind drifted to Rachel’s walnut brown hair.
“I have it right here, son.” His father waved a letter in the air, written in Yiddish. “Rabbi Solomon found a match. You understand what this means.”
“Enlighten me!” Fave shouted, seeing the irritation rise on his father’s face. Fave held his head defensively high, arrogantly so, in fact. His objections would be fruitless unless he gave the chit a chance. It was not a forced marriage, merely an arranged one. He could reject her. For a good reason—unless his father insisted, which he undoubtedly would.
He felt locked into a position where he saw his life unfold without the ability to feel from his heart. Gone were the dreams of heroic conquests and passionate goddesses. His time had come. He could already imagine, to make way for the perfect foil to Lizzie’s fate. They were both destined for passionless marriages of convenience and tradition, she destined to be childless, he expected to carry on the bloodlines.
