Page 2 of Margins of Love
It was futile as long as he did not have the gem in hand. Only twelve jewelers would qualify to design the Crown jewels for George III, and his family had entered the first round. Winning this competition, Fave knew, would mean expanding their business to the royal court at St. James’s Palace. It would be a chance for the Pearlers to infiltrate the ton from the top down. The position as Crown jewelers was a merit that even the sharpest tongues among the ton could not deny.
“What were you shouting about? I was lighting a votive with James, since it would have been his fiftieth wedding anniversary today. You were so loud, he sent me to check on you.” Lizzie pointed to the door behind which the butler was listening.
“I told him I’d go to the parish with him in the afternoon. He should not be alone today,” Fave said. These days, he usually found James in the marble chapel with its stained-glass windows and an altar that had been constructed by the previous owners of the house. His parents preserved it for their devoted staff’s use.
“I will arrange for some fresh flowers in the chapel. His wife was such a dear, may she rest in peace,” Fave’s mother said. The staff’s happiness was of the utmost importance to her. She liked her household run tightly and harmoniously, and, as such, the house provided a comfort Fave was unwilling to forego to reside in bachelor lodgings. With thirty-one bedrooms, there was more than enough space in the family home. And there was, after all, his grandfather’s well-stocked library that Fave had inherited.
“Our dear hostess for the house party is askingusto pay for it so that you can mingle and then be sacrificed at the altar in a few years,” Fave said. Even though this was Lizzie’s first season, the plan was for her to hold off on marriage for as long as possible.
He shuddered. Lizzie was going to have a spectacular wedding, but she would need to remain childless to avoid muddling their bloodline. If the plan were put into action, Lizzie would be hiding her Jewish heritage for the duration of her marriage. It was a dreadful scheme Fave hoped would not come to fruition. He hated the idea that he was to carry on the Cohanim line, the hereditary Hebrew priesthood, for generations. Meanwhile, Lizzie’s branch would be tied off to ensure a steady influx of ton clients and no impure bloodlines. It was too unfair.
“You know it does not bother me, brother. How could I miss what I never had?” Lizzie tried to soothe her protective older sibling.
“That is my point exactly! You will never know what you are missing!” Fave rubbed his head. “You have to stop being so…so…Argh!” He growled in frustration. How could she not understand that she was sacrificing her happiness for business? For money? It made him bitter to even think of it.
“So what?” Lizzie shouted. Her composure had always been mercurial in comparison to their mother’s.
“So complacent!” Fave said. The pain in his eyes was replaced by pity for his little sister. James closed the door from the outside, giving Fave a signal to compose himself.
“I am careful! Don’t you remember the goldsmith who was beaten in the street?” Lizzie assumed a most quizzical expression. “It was all detailed in the last circular.”
“Arrrgh! Those gossip columns! Don’t believe everything you read,” Fave said.
“It is a community circular. I made an anonymous donation to the goldsmith’s widow. He left eight children behind, Fave! Eight! And for what? He waited in front of Lord Parker’s phaeton last spring to ask for the money he was due.”
“Yes, but Jews are not due anything, are we? We are creditors, bankers, suppliers—welcome as long as we don’t infringe upon the ton’s precious comfort.” Fave’s hands combed through his already unruly blond curls. He believed the synagogue’s newspaper and knew most stories like that probably went unreported.
The story scratched at his innate sense of fairness like a blade to an open wound. He found himself wracked with pity for his little sister and loathing the ton for failing to see his family for who they were. They let prejudice against their ancestry cloud their judgment.
“It has only been four years since the Dukes of Cumberland, Sussex, and Cambridge visited the Great Synagogue. Everybody gathers there except for us! They can visit, but we must not be caught among their ranks. Pah!” He threw his arms up in the air, which earned him a cold, condescending stare from his mother. “We are guarding our secret because of some unwritten rule that Jews are not tolerated among the ton.”
“Have you learned nothing, son? The ton never voluntarily associates with Jews.” Fave’s father’s entry into the room and his severe tone indicated the end of this conversation. But Fave was not finished yet.
“Ah, certainly not, Father. How could I forget? Society has no room for anyone who lacks style and manners. How good of thebon ton.” Fave slumped into the chair and rubbed the velvet upholstery, his cheeks in a mad grimace. He surveyed the opulent drawing room and knew it was just as splendid as those of the highest-ranking members of the ton.
“Oy vavoi, Favale,” exclaimed Gustav with a typical Yiddish outcry of frustration, “it does not matter how smart, kind, honest, or rich we are. They only allow us to coexist as long as they think we are like them,” his father said, letting his hand ricochet from a hit against his forehead for emphasis.
“As long as they can profit from us.”
At that, his father raised his hand and halted Fave’s long-suppressed idealistic discourse against intolerance of any minority, including the Jews.
“We can’t live with them or without them,” Lizzie said. That summed up the feelings of love and hate Fave harbored for the ton and the lifestyle that came with his family’s prominent status.
Fave’s sense and his goodness were as evident in candid conversation as his passion for books and pureness of heart. However, as a brother to a London debutante, he was defensive and impulsive. Considering their constant supervision by the ton’s worst gossip, this inevitably led to trouble. And yet, in his perceived male supremacy, he had to act as Lizzie’s protector. Fave let out a frustrated growl and slammed his fist on the side table.
“I will have my things packed for the house party,” he said. If he did not keep an eye on Lizzie at Brockton House, she would fall prey to gossip. Fave tasted acid and grimaced.
His mother’s index finger twitched, ready to silence her children, for that was what they were to her despite their ages. “You are naïve, son. It is high time you faced your role in society.”
CHAPTER2
At that exact moment, at St. James Square, Rachel Newman entered her family’s townhouse alongside her mother, Stella.
“There you are!” the corpulent cook shrieked as she hurried toward Rachel. Stella gave Rachel a look of defeat. Their leisurely ladies’ morning had officially ended.
“He put it in the trough, milady,” the cook said.
Rachel had just returned from yet another tedious morning at the dressmaker. Her mother was outfitting her for her first season. Rachel had imagined the preparations would be exciting and was disappointed that they consisted of no more than being probed and prodded by dressmakers, and sitting with her maid for hours to set her curls just so. One would expect a young lady of almost twenty to have developed a taste for such ladylike pursuits, but Rachel had always shown an affinity for male pastimes and harbored a soft spot for her brother’s shenanigans—so much that she often regretted not being a part of them.
