Chapter Eight
L ater that night, after Ada tended to Charlotte’s most recent shopping, she unwrapped the parcel of pastries that Alfred had given her.
“You look rather dreamy this evening.” Dylan surprised her in the servant’s kitchen. “Oh, can I have one?”
Without waiting for her permission, he helped himself to a slightly squished eclair. “This is…” he made excited chewing noises, “the best chocolate I’ve ever had! Where did you get it?”
“From the doctor.” She and Alfred had split the leftovers and wrapped them in a clean towel that he carried in his doctor’s bag, probably as bandage material.
“That’s some doctor giving you chocolate pastries.” He took another bite. “Are you ill?”
“No.” Ada couldn’t focus her eyes, and tears welled up. “Can’t I just see a doctor?”
“You seem pained. What’s wrong, Ada?”
“He’s wonderful. Brimming perfection.” Her fingers trailed over her mouth as if she could conjure him up again. “Unattainable for someone like me.” Defeat drained her energy.
“The doctor?” Dylan stuffed the last third of the eclair in his mouth and watched her curiously.
“Look at me!” Ada pulled at her worn dress. “I’m shabby.”
“Ada!” Dylan leaned toward her. “Never say such a thing, please!”
“I wasn’t always like this, Dylan. Can you believe it?” There had been times when she had the prettiest dresses and read the finest books.
“Yes, I can. I do. Only because they make us feel shabby doesn’t mean that we are.” He plucked the fuzz from his worn breeches. “They may believe that they are better and we are not worthy, but I’m telling you, when it counts, we have more to offer than the Silvers.”
“Maria is very lucky.” Ada knew Dylan was in love with the kitchen maid. “You have many things to offer!”
“I’ve been saving, Ada. If I had another twenty-two pounds, I could buy us passage to America and get her out of here.”
“You’re leaving?”
“One day, yes.” She should be happy for him, but she felt a pang of loneliness. If Dylan left, her only confidant at the Silvers’, she’d be even more lonely. Ada stifled a sob and laid both hands on her mouth. Dylan’s eyes lingered on her.
“Did you kiss him?”
She nodded. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Dylan sank into the chair next to hers. “And why is that so bad?” He inclined his head to meet her eyes, but she didn’t want to look at him. Not anyone.
It was so bad because Alfred’s kiss had given her courage, however short-lived. But a love match was impossible for her. Impossible because she feared he wouldn’t want her once Charlotte had soiled her reputation. Impossible because she was only supposed to marry a Jew and Alfred’s golden locks and clear blue eyes, along with his clean-shaven face, were not what she’d expected, especially not in Marylebone. He was the most unlikely match for her and fuel for wild dreams, not a basis for reality.
Hours after the kiss, their connection had become the highlight of her life. His touch lingered on her skin, painting sinful shades of splendor on her soul. Falling for Alfred meant giving up the last part of her freedom—her heart.
“Maybe he likes you, too?” Dylan’s innocent question unraveled Ada’s nerves.
His words opened the floodgate. Ada stood quickly, knocking the chair over with a loud clatter, and she ran to her room. Up two flights of stairs past the carpeted floors where the Silvers lived, she dashed through the plain door and threw herself on the cot.
A gorgeous young doctor with prospects of an office on Harley Street and a mouth more delicious than all the French pastries she’d ever tasted was…forbidden. That’s why she’d made the kiss count. For a little while, she was Ada, cherished in his arms. Not Ada-go-fetch-this or Ada-mend-that.
So much time had passed since she was her father’s darling with a bright future overflowing with potential that she’d lost herself. These days, her life happened while catering to Charlotte’s whims and hiding her gambling. Ada rubbed her face in agony. She couldn’t have Alfred. He was like a romantic fairytale prince. Unattainable. And a match with a Gentile was taboo. Plus, as a regular at The Lyon’s Den, he had dark secrets in which Ada should have no part.
And yet, he’d felt so good. Especially the kiss! The memory made her gasp for air. He’d held her hand on his arm, too. Strong muscular arms that oozed health, youth, and the promise of a better life than hers.
Over the last few weeks, she’d made about twenty pounds per day gambling at The Lyon’s Den. Ada reached under the cot and lifted the lid of the tin box where she kept her money. It totaled more than Dylan made in a year. But it wouldn’t buy back her freedom. For that, she either needed to wait four years or find a Jewish husband. And both prospects were bleak. At this rate, her trust wouldn’t vest in her name. Ever.
Four years was an awfully long time, and she couldn’t bear the thought of serving Charlotte after she made her debut. It would be a nightmare to cater to her whims. Ada imagined drowning in frilly dresses and ribbons. Impossible to endure already, Charlotte would grow devilish if she didn’t have any offers the day after her debut. And what man in his right mind would offer for a wretch like her?
What man, indeed, would even want Ada? With no respite in her daily routine, Ada found no opportunity to visit the Jewish community, and lacking connections in London, life felt stagnant. Her fate seemed sealed within the walls of the Silvers’ estate; there was nothing worth returning to in Konigsberg either. She felt stuck.
Offering herself up for a shadchan was not a solution either. If she could marry a Jewish man and access her funds, she’d go from her present trap to the trap of marriage. She would essentially use her fortune to pay such a man to take her. And that pricked her pride even more than ironing Charlotte’s undergarments. Ada buried her head in the folded rags that served as her pillow. Four years of Charlotte…