Page 9 of Margins of Love
“Solomon writes that she is well-endowed,” his father began with renewed enthusiasm and a fake smile while his eyes trailed the letter.
“So, she’s fat?”
“Oy, oy, my son.” Gustav shook with laughter. “Give her a chance. You cannot go about your childish ways indefinitely and hide behind Greek epics. You need to present a bride to the ton or else you will be found out.”
Fave appeared to be the rake everyone wanted him to be—during the season—then he retired to his library where he could truly be himself. He found the ton mind-numbingly tedious, exhausting, and shallow. Small talk came easily to him but that did not mean that he enjoyed it one bit. Thebon tondid not make such good tunes for him. From time to time, he pulled a pretty lady into a hallway and stole a kiss or two, but none had aroused a passion within him that could make him forget his destiny. With Rachel, a kiss might mean more, he speculated. But it could never be more, for hisCohanimlineage came with responsibilities and burdens. Curiously, he should be at the Great Synagogue chanting alongside Rabbi Solomon at the head of the community. Instead, because of his father’s business, the Pearlers kept their Jewish identity shrouded in secrecy. Fave’s father had told him innumerable tales of gem dealers who were stripped of their rights, fortunes, and sometimes their only income due to their religious pursuits. Whether true or false, Fave thought these tales warnings but he hoped that the Pearlers’ fortune would protect him. His father surely meant well, but it stung no less to be left out of the fun.
“Pray tell, Father, how did Rabbi Solomon find someone worthy of a Cohen in such a short period of time?” Fave decided to level with his father, believing that he would at least consider the match. Certain aspects could disqualify a woman as a bride for a Cohen, or else he would lose his special status. Conversely, it would be difficult to find a match for a Pearler with Cohen ancestry.
“It says here she is not azonah, an unchaste woman, so your children will not bechalalim, born without the priestly status. Your daughters can marryCohanim.”
Fave had never doubted that he would marry a virgin. He saw nothing wrong withzonah—Arnold sure seemed to enjoy them—but Fave’s ancestry was a privilege he could not squander. Yet, despite his celibacy, he was no fool. He knew all too well that certain pleasures of the flesh could be most rewarding. In fact, he had imagined those pleasures so vividly that he had not slept since he met Rachel, the luscious forbidden fruit from the library.
“She has a dowry, quite large in fact.” His father paused and continued to skim the letter. “Even though her father has not confirmed the amount yet.”
“I do not care for her money.”
His father shook his head. “You are spoiled rotten!”
“Does she speak English?” Fave asked.
His father scanned the page, then flipped it over. “It does not say. But she lives in London. I asked for camouflage.”
“Specifically?” Fave’s eyebrows had risen nearly over his hairline in contempt. His father, Fave understood, alluded to a level of anonymity of the bride. Gustav’s goal was to ensure her seamless introduction to the ton without arousing undue suspicion. However, Fave pictured her, nibbling on a nut like a red squirrel, whose color blended seamlessly into the young branches of Scots pine and its cones. If his bride was ugly, he thought, he would go positively insane and perish of sexual frustration. “Brilliant. I am going to have to hide a fat chit who probably only speaks Yiddish from the ton.”
Gustav shook his head. The smile had left his face. He looked tired.
“You have little faith in theShadchen, the arranged match, my son.” His father’s efforts to convince Fave of the merits of following the matchmaker’srecommendation were futile. Fave imagined epic resistance against the betrothal.
Indeed, Fave believed faith was at the core of all of this. The news had deflated him, left him feeling more lonely and empty than usual. Unlike his father, his grandfather had constantly nourished his mind. Sometimes with stories, sometimes with philosophical lines of questioning to tease Fave’s understanding of truth, reality, and honesty. For hours and hours, years and years, his grandfather had fed his mind with mythology, philosophy, Talmud, and Torah. He had nourished his soul with love and attention. He had ingrained in him that his were chosen people and that he was a Cohen, like him and his great-grandfather before him. His grandfather made their ancestry sound like an elite group of Jewish knights around their table, serving the Jewish commandments of the Torah instead of a king. This image had instilled in Fave a sense of responsibility to his people, solidifying his goal to honor his grandfather’s ancestral legacy. But most of all, his grandfather had believed in him. Nobody else had. Now that he was gone, nobody was left to nourish Fave’s soul.
“And how is this wedding supposed to stay hidden, Father?” Fave tried another angle to find a weakness in the arrangement.
“It will be no different than many others,” his father said. “You will claim a hectic wedding and explain it away with your smile. Do not think that I am unaware of its powers.” He gave Fave a conspiratorial glance. “Once yourfaux pasis forgiven, you will simply emerge from the honeymoon with your new bride and introduce her to society.”
Fave’s father leaned back in the oversized upholstered chair that resembled a throne. “Your mother and I will ensure that the introductions are suitably grand and well-attended.”
Fave closed his eyes. He didn’t care about the popularity of this chit if she were introduced as his wife to the ton. The ease of planning this marriage seemed to transcend his reality, putting his needs at odds with his obligations. He knew exactly what lie he would tell, the story of a special license he would concoct to excuse the absence of a traditional wedding ceremony to which the ton were not invited. He would probably say he left town, and then returned with a bride, poised to fit in and keep up the convenient ruse. It all seemed awful. Convenient. Scripted.
Instead of breaking free and standing true to himself, he would have a new wife who would twist the lies even more, forcing him into an even more superficial life. Fave felt a headache creeping up his forehead, exerting pressure on his skull. So far, he only had to put on airs outside, to the public. Now, he would have to keep up the ruse even at home, with a loveless marriage to boot. The word “home” felt bitter in his mouth. Panic overtook his apprehension. Fave was running out of time.
CHAPTER8
In the western guest wing at Brockton House, Rachel stepped into her parents’ room. Though larger than hers, it appeared cramped with the four of them altogether. There was little space to move about. The side table next to the armchair and the nightstands on either side of the bed filled the room.
Rachel felt a bit silly for inspecting her hand over and over. Fave’s kiss lingered somehow, yet there was no visible trace. Merely thinking of the moment when his head tilted toward her hand and his mouth touched her skin infused her with scintillating warmth. She felt it everywhere in her body and could not stop thinking about the instant his eyes met hers, when his lips were still on her knuckles. It had only been a fleeting second and yet it felt significant, like the quiet before a summer thunderstorm.
“Why are you looking at your hand? Are you hurt?” Her father’s voice drew her out of her dreamy memory of the encounter with the golden-haired stranger.
Ilan had his mail forwarded by a special messenger and had spent the entire morning hunched over his correspondence, just as he would have done back home at St. James’s Square. He straightened from the desk and stood up, his back cracking.
“Ruchale,” her father’s voice rumbled. Over the past year, a rift had erupted between her and her father, causing tension that she found troubling.
“I am here. Can I help? With a ledger?” Rachel asked audaciously as she skimmed the papers on the escritoire. It only earned her a familiar growl.
“Don’t be facetious. You know you must not; you are a girl.” He tensed, his mouth set in an unforgiving frown.
“I am well aware that I am a girl. But Sammy is achild,and you are teaching himeverything.” Despair made her shriek. Ilan usually won this much-repeated conversational battle.
