Chapter Two
Once, Roger Berab believed himself a prince.
But as he grew older, he learned that instead, he was a showman at best. A master of funambulism, constantly upon his wire, crossing a very narrow bridge, the possibility of death with one wrong step.
His voice, manner, apparel, coiffure, and most importantly, his words, all carefully chosen to conform to the image that best protected himself, his family, and his community from doom.
His skills as an ambassador to the gentile ton and its intellectual favorites, the ones who could expel even Jews as wealthy and useful as he, like their old king had done years before—like his counterpart had to his family in Portugal even more recently—were unparalleled.
However, despite his efforts and phenomenal successes, no one was ever satisfied with him. At least no one who mattered.
Just know, I have high expectations for my life. I intend to rule the community and be admired beyond.
His late wife Lucy’s words to him on their wedding night echoed in his ears. As did his own.
Is that a challenge? Because I’ll have you know, madam, I can rise above any, beyond your wildest dreams.
And he had.
Well, he’d believed he had.
After all, he’d repaired and refurnished her family’s crumbling home until it was among the stateliest in the community. He’d given her all the gowns, jewels, and connections money could buy in addition to the ones he’d already forged from careful calculation.
Those, in turn, allowed them to become the community’s unofficial emissaries to the ton, acquiring invitations galore to the most glittering gentile events and entertainments.
But none of that protected her in the end. Not from the slow-moving disease which took his mother-in-law the prior year. Nor the quick fever to which his wife succumbed a month later.
It’s not fair, Lucy had sobbed as she struggled to take her last breaths. It’s just not fair.
Those had been her final words. Eyes staring at him accusingly.
Not unlike those of his oldest brother, David, the man who headed the family. The man who, when not showing him silent disappointment, treated him as if he were still the child he’d been when their father passed.
Or worse, as if he were their other brother, Louis. Angry, selfish, and reckless. His recent banishment to America was no loss. That they’d permitted his brother to operate in the community for so long was sheer lunacy.
But due to irrational sentiment, his family ignored his opinions on the subject. Not that he hadn’t made mistakes of his own.
Why he’d attempted to remarry back in June, he had no idea.
Well, he did. He’d been past sheloshim and while gentiles waited longer periods before replacing a spouse, he’d never known them to pay particularly close attention to any of their familial traditions.
Not to mention the marriage presented an opportunity unlikely to be matched later: the potential bride had inherited half their business.
The strategic union would’ve been both a boon for their coffers—something to which his family had certainly not objected—and a personal victory for him: a guaranteed seat on the Commission of Delegates, the august body that both internally governed the Jewish community and acted as its emissaries with the British governance, the ton, and anyone important.
The thing that could finally guarantee him the respect he deserved.
And now, after months of diligent work, a possibility once more. Narbonne—a friend of his late father’s—was soon to retire, and who else could possibly take his seat?
Roger smiled to himself, even as snow pelted his hat and overcoat, a strong gust of wind rippling through the streets, eliciting frustrated whinnies from workhorses straining against the bluster.
Perhaps when he returned home, he’d have Lopez, his man of affairs, draw him a nice warm bath, where he could soak with his new periodical. He’d been waiting days for the thing, a discussion of various soil additions to assist in the care of roses.
His favorite vocation. He’d eschewed most hobbies in favor of less frivolous endeavors but was never able to quit the fickle flower, which required research, care, and patience—his specialties—to receive a true reward.
He should start pruning the first group in the hothouse so they could yield early flowers. He’d chosen his varieties, inside and out, to schedule consistent blooms for a decent part of the year. Yes, perhaps after dinner he would spend some time there.
But there was another task higher on his list, wasn’t there? Frowning, he strained to recall precisely what Lopez had reminded him of earlier. Something regarding the staff… Oh, he was supposed to hire someone. The nurse.
Yes, that needed to be accomplished. Especially as he’d been forced to bribe his friend Sol Weiss and his wife to mind his children while he was attending a tea to assure one of his least favorite former schoolmates—a baron—and his cohorts, that the young, ambitious former Jew—Diaharoni or some such name—who’d run and lost a seat in the House of Commons was not a threat to them and theirs.
Remind them of the good among their people and convince them that those like himself were the majority—true, even if most of their “good” were not actually of his caliber.
A challenging task for many but one he’d brilliantly executed.
As a Jew, I can assure you that we do not seek to decide your affairs, let alone supplant you in representation of the people. Like my true brethren, I understand my position. The man is an exception, and now that he’s lost, highly unlikely to be a bother again.
An excellent line if he didn’t say so himself. And assuredly true. The man, who held no background of distinction, and no true talent, would tire of losing and fade into the milieu.
Roger trudged up the stairs to his house, the door opening without him needing to turn the knob. He lifted his chin, ready to greet Lopez, only to stop short as Sol, still dressed for the winter weather, stood in the vestibule, the children at his side.
Notably, none of the trio met his eye. Roger’s heart started to beat in his ears.
“Good afternoon,” he said, working to keep his voice calm. “What’s happened?”
There was a long pause and more fidgeting.
Roger turned to his son, who, at barely five, was both the least likely to give him any useful answers and the greatest impediment to his friend speaking freely.
He bent so he could meet the small boy’s dark eyes.
“Perhaps, Michael, you can go to the nursery with—” Frowning, he searched for the name of the youngest maid.
“Rachel,” Lopez supplied from the hall in a stage whisper.
“Rachel can assist you in preparing for your dinner,” he finished.
His son did not need to be told twice, as he turned and raced through the hall, presumably to find the maid who’d been splitting her regular duties with that of nurse since their last one had up and quit with no notice. He turned back to his daughter and friend.
“What has happened?” he repeated.
Sol shifted on his feet, but his daughter’s expression became distinctly belligerent.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Fannie declared, folding her arms across her chest. “Not really.” She glanced at the ground, her lip quivering.
Roger knelt by the girl, who, at nine, was in the throes of some rather mercurial moods, the sort that accompanied children of sophisticated intellect and speech who had been through a terrible ordeal and demanded a certain amount of deference.
“I’m sure it was not your fault,” he said, before shifting his attention back to his friend as he rose to his feet. “What happened?”
Sol rubbed the back of his neck, his top hat slipping down his forehead. “I was attending evening minyan, and I had always planned to bring Michael, but, well, Hannah has been ill, and Tamar was assisting her, and—”
“It stank,” Fannie cut in, wrinkling her little nose.
His friend pursed his lips before resuming. “I permitted Fannie to come with us and, well—”
“It was dull and there was no one else on the balcony,” his daughter said with a flounce. “I just went outside for a moment, but Rose saw a rat and got loose.”
Rose? Roger stood agape. “You permitted her to bring the cat?” he asked, glancing around for the little beast, the tom he’d mistakenly brought home as a pet. A creature who regularly destroyed everything from curtains to bedding, to chairs, his claws far stronger than the thorns of his namesake.
“I didn’t notice,” his friend said with a guilty cough.
“He was under my pelisse, so he could be warm,” Fannie explained. “I only entered the house for a moment, just to fetch him, and nothing would’ve happened if she hadn’t frightened him.”
“Who?” Roger managed to ask, his mind racing to make sense of his daughter’s words.
Had she entered someone’s home without their permission?
Had her governess not discussed such etiquette?
Possibly, as both his children were likely quite advanced in their academic endeavors, she might have made an unfortunate assumption.
Something to keep an eye upon, though later.
He still had to make sense of the current circumstances. He turned back to the child.
“The angry lady.” Fannie scowled. “She was wearing nightclothes in the afternoon, can you imagine?” After giving a derisive sniff, his daughter smoothed her little skirts, reminding him of his late wife, even though the child favored him in appearance.
“Anyway, she frightened Rose and made him jump, and he knocked over some jars and, well, she became very cross and grabbed me.” Her light brown eyes flashed.
“Did she hurt you?” Roger asked, panic now flooding his senses as he assessed his child for evidence of harm.
“I hurt her,” his daughter pronounced with not a small amount of pride. “I bit and kicked her, but she wouldn’t let go. She was hollering something awful too. Until she tripped on the cobblestones.” His daughter paused for a moment, staring up at him.