Page 88 of Dalliances & Devotion (The Truitts 2)

HIAS was founded in 1881 and though it initially helped resettle Jewish refugees, has expanded its mission to help refugees of all faiths and nationalities resettle in the United States so they can hopefully have the opportunities that David Zisskind found in this bo

ok. Because it is never only enough to help your own family.

In 1860, the Jewish population in the United States was quite small, around .05%, much less than today’s 1.5%. However, a significant amount of Jews, roughly 10,000, did fight in the Civil War. During the conflict, several all-Jewish units existed but most fought alongside non-Jewish soldiers. Around 70% of the Jewish soldiers fought for the Union—a decent percentage, but not good enough.

In an effort to acclimate to America, many of us forgot what Hillel said. “If I’m not for myself, who will be for me. But if I’m only for myself, who am I? And if not now, when?” Or more, many of us actively supported something evil—supported slavery whether through fighting for the Confederacy, financing the institution, or ignoring it altogether, often in favor of our own causes—because we were happy and comfortable with our lives. It was wrong. And while we applaud people like the real-life Rabbi David Einhorn of Congregation Keneseth Israel and Rabbi Sabato Morais of Mikveh Israel, there could’ve and should’ve been many more, who fought harder and earlier.

I get asked where I’m from a lot. What am I? I have black hair and dark skin and resemble some of the non-Jews in places where my ancestors lived. However, we never had full rights in any of those lands, so my answer is always: “I’m American and I’m Jewish.”

America has never been perfect, but it has always had potential. It has performed miracles. It has given its Jewish population rights and privileges we rarely received anywhere else in history. That means we have the ability to extend those rights and privileges to everyone if we work hard enough and care enough and listen enough. And never forget, that when they tell us we are “meddlesome” or “troublemakers” it means we are making a difference.

While we always have to be vigilant about antisemitism, as is demonstrated by recent history, people like me have a special duty, as Amalia, David, and Ursula articulated, to help others achieve the same status we have, and in that mission, never yield to threats. Only then can America actually fulfill its promise and live up to its potential.

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I want to thank my fabulous editor Kerri and my wonderful agent Lane, the two most understanding, most patient, and most unflappable people ever. Without you guys, this book would not be possible. Your guidance and faith in me and my characters is everything. To Danielle, John, Anna, and the rest of #TeamCarina and #TeamHarlequin, thank you for all your hard work making me and my messy character fabulous.

To my family: Dan, the kiddos, Marni, Mom, Dad and Susan, much love. To my work family, PKA SFU—you guys are my rock. To my CPs and betas, especially Lily, Yaffa, Lindsay, Tara, Evie, Luna, Becca, and the other RChat ladies—I could not have done this without you. Thanks for putting up with me. Stacey and Laura for abiding my note nagging. To Meka James for going above and beyond her usual beta reading and asking of the smartest questions, but for sensitivity reading as well, and making sure Will is Will. To Tara Tsai, who makes me smile and inspires me always. And, to the brilliant MJ Marshall—you make writing and this entire journey worthwhile. XOXO.

About the Author

Felicia Grossman is a historical romance writer, originally from Delaware, who now lives in the Rust Belt with her spouse, two children, and poorly behaved dogs. She’s a total Broadway nerd and lover of eclairs. Her high school superlative was “most salacious” and she hopes her books live up to that title. She can be found on Twitter at @hfeliciag, on Instagram at @feliciagrossmanauthor, and through her website: feliciagrossmanauthor.com.

Available now from Carina Press and Felicia Grossman!

He’s her ticket into high society...

She’s his ticket out...

But when the game turns too personal, all bets are off.

Read on for a preview of Appetites & Vices, the first book in Felicia Grossman’s beguiling Truitts series.

Chapter One

June 1841, Centerville, Delaware

Throw one chair when you’re eleven and you’re a pariah for life.

Ursula ran her finger along the edge of the gilt-wood console table in the Truitts’ vestibule, alone. The music and conversation of the rollicking party in the adjoining rooms wafted through the empty space.

Her presence at the soirée was secured out of obligation—humiliating, but at least being the sole child of a banking baron provided some benefits. Loans were hard to come by in this economy, especially in Delaware, so if the husbands had any say in the guest list, the Nunes name was etched on an invitation.

Bollocks. Her father always complained that parties were frivolous and boring, but if she wanted to see Hugo, this was the place to be. It was time for him to propose. True, the season had hardly begun, but if he did as promised, the night’s outing wouldn’t be a complete waste.

Her chin steady, she ascended the hosts’ grand double staircase. Almost as impressive as the one in her father’s house, though a bit old-fashioned.

She shoved a crème puff into her mouth to ease her rumbling stomach. Perhaps she should take one more gander at the refreshment table and swipe a few more treats. Last time they’d served the most delicious baked apples, and pound cake with sugared berries, and fruit dipped in chocolate. She closed her eyes at the memory.

Chocolate. Ambrosia had nothing on chocolate. With strawberries. Divine. Later—Hugo first, sweets later.

Marriage was the only prudent course of action. He was her best friend, and she was his, and if they didn’t marry each other, they’d have to marry strangers. Or, worse, no one would marry her and when her father died she’d be all alone. Besides, they had a pact.

She hitched her skirts and crept into the upstairs hall.

Hugo Middleton’s familiar form slumped so low he covered more chair rail than wall. His shoulder rested against a portrait of some long-dead Truitt ancestor. The frame was already crooked. She’d have to fix that before they left.

She tapped his shoulder. No need to beat around the bush. It was time. If he did it now people would congratulate her, act friendly towards her, smile at her, pretend she belonged so for once, she didn’t have to tiptoe over glass. “Are you going to talk to my father tonight or tomorrow?”

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