Chapter 16
They stayed on that chaise for hours, until the sun began to set.
At times, between inhaling her hair and whispering things that had no weight or bearing, Beck found himself drifting between waking and sleeping. He was uncertain he had felt so relaxed at any point in recent memory. Perhaps ever.
He could not stop thinking about that first night at Blackcove, that moment that he had seen her in the crowd, isolated in the sea of black tails, glowing in the darkness.
He could not stop thinking about all those wealthy, well-bred, handsome men who had milled about her, looking, admiring, wanting. They had all desired her.
But it was him holding her. It was him here, today, holding her in his arms. Somehow, it was him who had won her.
He could not help but marvel at that, pulling her closer and basking in her warmth.
The club was closed on Sundays. He knew they would not be disturbed. But the dimming of the fire and the sinking of the light was a call they could not ignore, even so.
They emerged into London to find the cobbles drowned in snow, their boots covered to the ankle in fresh powder as they huddled together under the heavy flakes that swirled down from above, sharing delight in its beauty as they hurried toward Clerkenwell.
He did not resist the way she clung to his side this time. He did not concern himself with who might see her cheek pressed into his sleeve. In fact, he thought he walked a little taller for it, a little prouder, to be chosen by someone so utterly singular.
Her house was exactly as grand as he had imagined it to be, with the dried skeletons of ivy vines climbing up either side of several stacked stories behind an iron gate and a frozen fountain in the center of a brickwork drive.
It was beautiful and rich and opulent, as delicate and carefully curated as the world he always believed had created a creature like Hannah.
“Do you want to come inside?” she asked, turning to face him, sliding her gloved hands into his. “You could meet my parents.”
“Oh, I … ah,” he chuckled, glancing at the house and then back at her. “Perhaps we ought to plan that for another day, when we are less rumpled?”
“Rumpled?” she repeated, feigning offense as she reached forward to pluck one of the flowers that had been in her hair from the sleeve of his jacket. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“Hannah!” came a voice from the drive. A girl burst from the house, a bundle of green velvet and ribbons, rushing toward them. “Oh, you missed the most horrid thing. Nelson Goldfarb was by with flowers and a poem, and he wanted to sing to you and—oh!”
The girl paused, blinking her big blue eyes first at her sister and then at Beck and back again. “Oh, you are … hello?”
Hannah sighed. “Dinah. Go back inside. I will be in to speak with you presently.”
But the girl had already dismissed her sister and was grinning at Beck, a mischief in her face that was unmistakable. “You must be St. Thaddeus,” she said, whipping her skirt out to the side and giving an exaggerated curtsey. “It is my utmost pleasure, your benevolence.”
“Dinah!” Hannah snapped, stomping her foot toward the girl like she was going to kick her into the snow.
It made her giggle and spin away, rushing back into the house in a trail of ribbons and mirth, leaving Hannah pink and white-lipped, shaking her head in mortification.
She flicked her eyes to Beck, shrugged, and said, “I am sorry. Little sisters.”
Beck gave a wary grimace, glancing at the house again and then back at Hannah. “How many of you are there, exactly?”
Hannah grimaced right back. “Three.”
“Three,” he repeated, nodding. “All right. And … Nelson Goldfarb?”
She bit her lip, tilting her head to the side like she was gauging how to respond to that question. “A pest,” she said after a moment. “Who keeps trying to marry me.”
“I see,” he replied evenly. “Perhaps I ought to meet him too.”
“I would enjoy that very much,” she told him. “I wish I could kiss you good night.”
“You did,” he said softly. “Good night, Hannah.”
“Good night,” she said with a sigh, twisting on her heel toward the house, “my Thaddeus.”
He turned, rubbing his hands together against the cold, and immediately caught sight of a familiar figure across the street, watching near a lamppost. He crossed the distance, curious and attempting not to give in to the trepidation chittering in his chest as he drew close to the rabbi, whose hat had gathered a ring of snow all the way around.
“Good evening, young man,” the rabbi said pleasantly. “Thank you for seeing Miss Lazarus safely home.”
“Good evening,” Beck returned. “Are you not cold, standing out here in the snow?”
“Oh, I am very cold,” said the rabbi. “But I saw you and the young lady and thought I would wait to say hello. Are you hungry, Mr. Beck? I am hungry. There are many good public houses around this way.”
There was no denying such an offer, especially as Beck was quite peckish himself. The rabbi became very enthusiastic about a particular favorite, waxing poetic as they walked about a warm poultry and cranberry dish with a side of cheese that they only made in the winter months.
“I was always skeptical about the softer cheeses,” he said.
“Very French, you know. But my wife would sneak camembert into the house, and then I would sneak her sneaked supply, and, well, now I’m afraid I have a bit of a habit.
The cheese at the pub is a brie, Mr. Beck.
A very fine brie. It’s not as good as a camembert, but it will do. ”
They settled in and the rabbi ordered for him, choosing a mulled wine as accompaniment.
“Oh,” said Beck with a raise of his brows. “I wasn’t sure if you could partake.”
“In wine?” the rabbi said, chuckling. “Don’t you know, lad? All the best things in life are spiritual in moderation. Especially with a bit of orange peel. Would it shock you very much to know that for my people, the plate is more scandalous than the cup?”
“The plate?” Beck asked, genuinely curious. “Why’s that?”
The rabbi sighed. “Cheese and meat. Together! In the same dish! Oh, God weeps. Or something. By itself, the cheese is fine. By itself, the meat is fine. Together? Well, two houses both alike in dignity, and so on. It’s too cold for me to pretend I am very orthodox in matters of brie or harmless indulgence.
In fact, I keep meaning to ask to come by your club. ”
“My club?” Beck repeated, a little aghast. “Why?”
“To roll the dice, naturally,” he answered, widening his eyes. “I just want to feel the clackity-clack, just once. I will lose, of course. That isn’t the point.”
Beck was puzzled. “What is the point?”
The rabbi laughed. “Enjoyment. What else? Is that not why you spend so much time with our fair Miss Lazarus? To enjoy the bounty of her company?”
The plates arrived then, smelling absolutely heavenly as they were slid onto the table between them.
If the rabbi saw anything amiss in Beck’s paralyzed, horrified stare, he did not immediately acknowledge it, instead making a big show of shaking out his napkin and tucking it into his collar like a bib as he took up his knife and fork.
It was only once he was ready to cut into his side of turkey that his eyes fell on Beck and he gave a fond little sigh. “You think I disapprove,” he said. It was not a question.
“Don’t you?” Beck blurted out, before he could think of anything more elegant to say.
The rabbi tutted, shaking his head. “Do I wish she’d found a nice Jewish boy, you mean? Of course. She didn’t, though. She found you. And I like you very much, Mr. Beck. Even if I didn’t like you, I can see that you love our Hannah. What is there to disapprove of?”
Beck blinked. “The taboo?” he suggested. “There is one, isn’t there?”
“Is there?” the rabbi asked, carving off a slice of turkey and dipping it in brie. “I will not lie to you, Mr. Beck. Many will take great offense at this match, but I do not. Hannah does not. You do not. Her parents and sisters do not. Who are those other people, hm? Shall we bother with them?”
“I don’t know,” Beck answered carefully. “Should we?”
The rabbi shrugged. “It is not my choice. But if you are asking my counsel, I rarely advise worrying about the opinions of strangers.”
Beck nodded, tapping his fork on the side of the plate. “And she won’t be … shunned? Nothing like that?”
“She will bridge two worlds. I cannot promise that there will not be politics and the turning of backs,” the rabbi said, taking a sip of his wine.
“But I doubt Miss Lazarus will suddenly take a great interest in adhering to every observation and rite of the faith. Her family is very of the world, as we say.”
Beck took a few bites of his food, surprised that it was exactly as good as the rabbi had promised.
“The problem, of course, will be the ceremony,” the rabbi continued, his tone still friendly and warm. “The law is very prickly about mixed matches. You may have to elope, which would be a shame, my friend. A real shame, with so many who would wish to attend the happy occasion, here in London.”
“Elope?” he repeated, looking up with a cranberry balanced on his fork. “Why?”
“Well, the law is a bear,” the rabbi said with a shrug, building another bite on his own fork. “I would happily officiate if I were permitted, but I am not. You may wish to speak to a barrister. Or a vicar. Or both. I will assist in any way I can, should you need me, of course.”
“A barrister,” Beck repeated in a tired voice, “or a vicar. I do know both.”
“That is well, then. That is well,” said the rabbi. “You know who might be worth speaking to? My old friend Alan Casper. He, too, married a woman from a different world, you know. He might have a great deal of wisdom to share.”
“I met Dr. Casper,” Beck said with a twist of his lips, taking up his own wine. “He seems just as like to tease me for sport than to give me wisdom.”
“Oh, you did meet him!” the rabbi declared, delighted. “Yes, he is a bit of an old trickster, isn’t he? A good man, though. A good man. We met during the Gordon riots, you know. Terrible time. Don’t skimp on the cheese, lad, it suits the cranberry.”
Beck paused and amended his forkful, nodding respectfully. When he tasted it, he inclined his head, acknowledging that the good rabbi was correct.
“Oh! I saw that the foundation was set at the new clinic this week. Good thing, eh? Before all this snow. It is much larger than I thought it would be. I walked all the way around it.”
Beck smiled into his food, nodding. “We had a large bequest from Cornwall. Our single wooden room has grown substantially these past few months. It is looking to be four rooms on the bottom and two on top, in the current plans.”
“From Cornwall, eh? Old Penrose paying his dues?” the rabbi said, eyes glittering. “Oh, yes, I know about him. Merry old fool.”
Beck didn’t bother to hide how startled he was.
He felt that the repeated action of suppressing it around this particular man might start to impact his health if he continued to put forth the effort.
Instead, he endeavored to enjoy his plate, his cup, and the conversation as the snow continued to fall outside and simply be startled as many times as the night required.
He walked back to the Vixen with a full belly and quite a lot to think about, but oddly, he did not feel heavy at all.
Perhaps it was the magic of her scent still lingering about him, or the memory of her weight in his arms. Perhaps it was the promise of keeping her, as impossible as that seemed even mere hours ago.
Of course, there was also something to be said for the release he had been sermonizing about to her, prior to finding it himself. There was likely a great deal of relief in his own body now, despite a pervasive and growing appetite for more of her that he was certain would never fully disperse.
He pulled the key from his waistcoat pocket as he trudged up the path to the door, relieved to finally be able to use the front entrance again, now that the ceiling had been patched.
If the plastering went well, he might be able to open the place again just after the new year, though to be honest, he was coming to enjoy the excuse to favor the Flaming Fox instead.
He hesitated about midway up the stone steps to the entry, frowning at the light that glowed from his own windows.
No one should be here. No one at all. Especially not this late.
He pulled his coat tighter around him and set his jaw, hoping that it was only Reed doing some mischief or the housekeeper having forgotten her favorite broom or some other such explicable nonsense. A burglar wouldn’t light the lamps, after all.
He used his toe to nudge the door open, looking around the floor before making himself known. His gaming tables were still covered with protective sheets. The ceiling work still had two ladders under it, planks exposed above. Only the flicker of flames along the walls was amiss here.
Only that and two sleek valises stacked neatly against the bar.
He stepped inside, toward them, frowning.
“There you are, Teddy,” came a sharp, female voice, and in it the sound of a frown. “I thought you’d never come back. Whatever happened to the ceiling?”
He spun around, disbelief clashing with alarm in his chest, to find his sister standing at the foot of the stairs, poised and impatient with her hand on the bannister, like a duchess greeting a late dinner guest.
Gone was the girl he had seen in his last memories of her, with plump cheeks, rumpled crinolines, and frizzy curls.
In her place was an upright woman with cheekbones that did not suffer even a hint of baby fat in their vicinity and a severely styled, high-necked gown in lush lilac.
Her hair, darker than his, was swept into a stylish, glossy coif with not a single strand out of place, despite her assertions of having been waiting here for some time and having traveled to get here besides.
Still, it was unmistakable.
“Vix?!” he exclaimed, deeply confused.
“Victoria,” she corrected with a little click of her tongue. “Hello, Brother. I’m afraid I’ve come to stay.”