Chapter Four #3
“Until a new trousseau can be completed, my sister-in-law and niece generously loaned you everything you should need.” He gestured to a mahogany wardrobe standing in the corner.
Oy. She could only imagine what was inside.
Her cheeks burned as a memory invaded her mind.
One from when she was twelve and grew faster than expected, giving her mother no time to have her Shabbos dress lengthened.
Mrs. Lira had loaned her one that had belonged to her late daughter-in-law.
The reactions from the other girls her age had not been kind.
Though they’d been accurate. She was plain and intended for the background, not the center.
A lesson learned and not an experience she desired to repeat. However, one would suppose she was not in a position to be particular. Even if she’d done nothing to cause her predicament and, again, saved multiple lives. Her nostrils flared as she glared at the piece of furniture.
“Turn,” she commanded as she moved to the edge of the bed.
“Pardon?” His brow wrinkled in confusion.
“I’m going to inspect my options, so unless you’d care to see me in only a chemise, I would turn if I were you,” she snapped, her exasperation growing.
“While you are no lady, I suppose I am a gentleman,” he had the audacity to respond. Turning and facing the door, he added, “Or at least the closest to one that any Jew can reach.” Annoying, as she’d been about to make a smart remark to a similar point.
“However, I don’t see why you can’t merely take my—”
And the words died in her throat when she opened the cabinet.
“Are you joking?” she asked, glancing between the row of gowns and the man, who was still facing the door. She slid her fingers through a gaggle of silks and velvets, all low in the front, dotted with beads and metal sequins, rows of tiny buttons down the back.
These could not be her only options—they could not.
“Pardon?” the man called from the door.
“I cannot wear—these garments are—” She pulled out a set of stays, which naturally laced in the back. Disaster, an absolute disaster.
“Well made, season appropriate, and approximately your size,” the man said, now having the nerve to peek over his shoulder. “At least so I’ve been told. I wouldn’t hazard a guess.” He sounded priggish once more.
Rebecca’s throat grew tight. She’d look absolutely ridiculous in them. Like she didn’t know who or what she was. Like she was pretending to be something she was not. Like she was attempting to be someone she could never be. Didn’t even want to be. “I cannot walk around London dressed like—”
“First, we’ve—or should I say, Dr. Maduro—established that you’re not going to be walking around London at all for the next few weeks, given your injury,” Berab interrupted, now turning completely around, his nostrils flaring as he glared at her.
“Dr. Maduro advised me not to treat patients. He did not suggest that I be trapped in your home,” she snapped back. “Tell me the part about you not kidnapping me again?”
“You’re not a prisoner here,” he said, his voice revoltingly calm. As if she were overstating the situation or some such nonsense.
She glowered at him. “So I can leave at any time.”
“You can.” He nodded, eyeing her suspiciously. “But only if you’re a—what was the term you so colorfully once used? Oh, that’s right, ‘a fucking schmuck.’ Charming turn of phrase.” There was no small amount of sarcasm to his words. “But accurate in this case.”
He marched toward the wall and pointed to the cord once more. “Now shall I call Marguarite, or are you going to just wander around like that?” he asked, raising that infuriating brow again. “Or perhaps stay in your room?”
Loathsome, the man was loathsome. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I would,” he said, moving back toward the door. “Perhaps I’ll make it a reality.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she sputtered. “I can pick locks.” Not quite true, but how hard could it be?
“Shall we put that to the test?” he asked. “Or should I call Marguarite so you can behave like an adult?”
At that moment, everything—the destruction of her belongings, the exile from her home, the injury, the years of working so hard to gain respect, despite all her disadvantages, only for those like Roger Berab to never comprehend such—not to mention her own frustration for ever being stupid enough to schtup someone like him—it all rippled through her entire being.
A scream tore through her chest. Grabbing a pillow from the bed, she pulled her good arm back and threw it with all her might at Berab’s head, hitting him in the shoulder. “I hate you!” she roared.
“I’m not sure that’s a response,” he said, still perfectly calm—a man with all the advantages and every success, while everything fell apart around her.
“Get out,” she screamed, pointing to the door. “Now.”
Berab did not need to be asked twice. Without a word, he stepped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Rebecca stared at the paneled wood long after it stopped vibrating, before racing back to the bed, pressing her face to the pillow to muffle her tears as they fell.