Chapter Three
Mitre sat a stone’s throw away from the Jewish community’s two largest congregations—his own, the Sephardi’s venerable Bevis Marks, and the Ashkenazis’ ridiculously named Great Synagogue.
While the location was a mere mile from his home, a distance he’d walked every Shabbath since he was too large to climb on David’s back, the ride through the quickly increasing snow seemed to take hours.
When the carriage finally came to a halt, Roger leaped from the vehicle as his coachman opened the door, only to grimace as he gazed up at the four-story, rectangular building, every single one of its windows broken.
Small streams of smoke still emanated from the brick and plaster, billowing above the large hole where a significant portion of the roof had once stood.
A crew of workmen milled about, carrying furniture and cartons over and around broken bits of wood and other debris.
Shards of glass glistened in the light of the streetlamps, making the damp, most certainly slippery cobblestones even more dangerous.
Carefully as he could, he rounded the bend, only to come face-to-face with a tiny form swathed in furs.
“Roger, you’re here.” Isabelle Ellenberg, his family’s business partner, greeted him with an expression not dissimilar to Rose’s when the tom cornered a hapless cricket who’d made the mistake of seeking out their kitchens for warmth.
Fortunately, he was no insect.
“Good evening, Isabelle,” he said, working to keep his voice even.
Rubbing her gloved fingers in the frigid air, she asked, “What do you know?”
Probably not as much as he should. He cursed Sol in his head.
“That there was a small accident at the Adler house.” He glanced between her and the still-smoldering structure.
“You’d call this small?” Her obnoxious husband approached, his arms folded across his chest, glaring at Roger.
Frappe, frappes, frappe, frappons, frappez, frappent.
“I’d call it not grave, as I understand no one was hurt, most of the house and possessions are intact, and the damage can be repaired,” he offered, keeping his voice properly calm, unlike some people.
“While it is upsetting and inconvenient to the owners and occupants—to whom my family apologizes—we shall make every effort to repair, replace, and compensate them so that they might be made whole, and we can move on from this unfortunate incident.”
“Your empathy is startling,” Ellenberg deadpanned. Removing his top hat, he ran his fingers through his shaggy dark hair, nearly dislodging his kippah, despite its unfashionably large size.
God, he despised the man.
Tue, tues, tue, tuons, tuez, tuent.
“My empathy is perfectly adequate,” he said. “Especially as I’m not speaking directly to those affected.”
“I’m sure he’ll do a lovely job when that occurs,” Isabelle interrupted, her voice bright.
“I wouldn’t hold your breath, darling.” Ellenberg didn’t even bother whispering.
Roger’s patience terminated.
“Do be quiet, Ellenberg,” he snapped. “This is none of your concern.”
“No, I suppose not.” The man eyed him for a moment before returning his attention to his wife. “I shall go see if the men we’ve hired on your behalf need any assistance.” After giving her a kiss on the cheek, he lifted his chin and met Roger’s gaze. “My wife shall send you a bill.”
Then he sauntered over to a group of laborers, directing them, as if he had the training to supervise others.
“I—” Roger started, before Isabelle stepped closer and interrupted him once more.
“As Aaron indicated, I took the liberty of beginning the process of making the Adler family whole. I didn’t believe you’d mind, as I already knew you’d be seeking to do the same and would want to employ the same crews,” she explained. “Our families are always of mutual mind on such matters.”
“Naturally.” He nodded, even as his senses ticked with wariness.
A small row of jewels just beneath the rim of her velvet-lined bonnet twinkled in the dim light of evening. A touch gaudy, as the Lira family’s taste ran, but what she said was true; their families were generally united in their views of the world, the community, and proper comportment within both.
“All the salvageable furnishings and housewares shall be warehoused until the internal repairs are made,” Isabelle said.
“The servants have been instructed to pack all their remaining belongings, and I hope you don’t mind, but I hired a hack to transport them to Maria’s home in Kent to stay for the duration of the repairs. ”
Roger started at the mention of his sister’s name.
“I know how she loves guests,” Isabelle continued, somehow without taking a breath.
“I would’ve taken them to my home, but unfortunately, it’s quite crowded at the moment, as my aunt and cousins from Amsterdam arrived the other day and are being joined by a rabbi from Djerba and his lovely wife, Haviva, who’ve been traveling to all the best communities to improve relations, and thus, under the circumstances, I think they’d be most comfortable there. ”
The words tumbled out at a dizzying speed, loud enough that she rivaled most performers onstage, reminding him yet again why, despite its advantages, their union had truly been ill-advised. At least for his hearing.
“Don’t you agree,” she demanded rather than asked.
“I do,” he said, the uneasiness in his gut now intensifying. He was most certainly being managed. Though to what end?
“Once you receive an inventory of the damaged goods, I’d be more than happy to assist in procurement,” she offered.
“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I should be able to manage.” As there was no way he was going to permit this woman, or worse, her husband, to believe that he wasn’t perfectly capable, his own schedule be damned.
“Excellent.” She clapped her hands together, her silver reticule bouncing against her pelisse. “We’re in agreement.”
Before he could respond, she’d slid her arm through his and tugged his body to the left with surprising force for someone so small. “Shall we?”
“Beg pardon?” he managed to protest.
“You’re like a brother to me, so I don’t think such is immodest,” she told him, not releasing his arm.
“We are like siblings in a way,” he conceded slowly as she continued to drag him along. “But that’s not what I was—where are we—”
“To discuss matters with Rebecca,” she informed him, leading him to—Roger squinted—his carriage? It ought to have been empty after his exit only a few moments prior, but now… the door swung open and, assisted by his coachman, out stepped an older man carrying a large bag.
“Ah, Dr. Maduro, how is our patient?” Isabelle asked as the elderly physician stepped forward to meet them.
“Unsatisfied with my diagnosis.” The man harumphed.
“Does she doubt it?” There was enough curiosity in her voice to give Roger pause.
“No.” Maduro scowled. “Though it’s clear whose medical expertise you trust.”
“Not at all,” Isabelle said smoothly. “We’re just a people of many opinions, and thus I was curious if there were more to this situation.”
“No, there is not.” Huffing, the doctor continued. “She’s merely unhappy with its reality.”
And Ellenberg thought he was the one causing discord.
Before Isabelle could irritate the man more, Roger cleared his throat loudly.
“And what is that?” he asked, stepping between the two. “Both the diagnosis and prognosis?”
“A badly sprained wrist and elbow, which must remain unused, bandaged, and contained in a sling for the next four weeks,” the doctor said, shaking his head a little. “Given the weather, it’s imperative that she spend her time indoors lest she slip and damage it permanently.”
Isabelle’s face fell with what appeared to be genuine distress. “Poor Rebecca.” She turned to Roger. “I must go to her.”
She darted around Maduro, adding an “Excuse me, Doctor” before disappearing into his carriage, where apparently Miss Adler was being housed and examined.
Not that he would have denied her access for such use, however it might have been thoughtful for someone to have asked him first.
Yes, such matters were often better accomplished by asking forgiveness rather than permission. After all, none of their ancestors would have survived if they’d waited for the goodwill of the gentiles before acting on their own behalf. Though one would’ve thought they were beyond that now.
“Thank you for your work,” Roger said as politely and deferentially as he could to the physician. After all, someone had to maintain the relationship. Especially given the fact Maduro was his family’s first choice in care as well.
“Am I to send my bill to you?” Maduro asked in return.
“Yes.” Roger resisted an eye roll.
“Excellent,” the man said, threading his gloved fingers. “I shall deliver it when I follow up. Good day, Mr. Berab.” Moving past Roger, he trotted up the street to his own waiting carriage.
Did the man say follow up? With him? Why would he need to—
“What do you mean—” Roger called after the doctor before being pulled in the other direction.
“Please come join us, Roger.” Isabelle took his arm once more, guiding him into the carriage.
Rubbing his now freezing hands, Roger slid inside to find the last person he wanted to see, let alone speak with. However, now he did not have a choice.
“You know my good friend Rebecca Adler,” Isabelle said, seating herself next to the other woman, leaving him across from the two.
“We’ve met.” He kept his voice perfectly polite, endeavoring to stare at her face and not the rest of her, as Miss Adler had apparently run from the house wearing only a chemise and nothing else.
Not even shoes. Or stockings. He blinked a little, his eyes drawn back to her form, against his better judgment—and willpower.
He was dutiful, not dead, making it nearly impossible not to stare at her surprisingly fetching, completely bare legs, which he’d once nipped and licked on the way to her—no. He would not think about that. He would not.
“On many occasions,” Miss Adler piped up to his surprise, disdain dripping from her shaking voice. “A pity, truly.”