Chapter Nineteen
Rebecca could only stare after Berab as he exited with his kicking and screaming daughter. It was not the scene she expected that morning.
Well, Fannie’s behavior was not particularly a surprise. But Berab’s personal involvement, instead of delegating it to poor Lopez or Marguarite—that was quite unexpected.
As was his impressively calm demeanor. She’d probably have been pulling her hair out if the child were hers.
Not to mention the fact that he’d told his children about his pending betrothal. That he’d respected her enough to have not merely considered but actually listened to her advice.
At least that had not been the source of the conflict.
Hopefully. Rebecca frowned as an image of Fannie’s face when Michael showed a smidgen of excitement regarding the prospect.
Oy.
This was why she was grateful that she didn’t have siblings or children of her own. Imagine having to navigate such complexity on a daily basis. It was certainly not for her. How people like Hannah, who had a sister she raised like a daughter, survived with their sanity was a wonder.
Now the poor woman had married a man who needed almost as much maintenance and would be giving birth to a child of her own at the end of the summer.
Nevertheless, a ridiculous tinge of guilt twisted Rebecca’s gut.
Several minutes after his departure, Berab returned, a slight bruise beginning at his temple. Without acknowledging it, he slid back into his seat and turned to his son. “How would you like me to go over your Hebrew letters with you before I begin my work for the day?” he asked the boy.
Rebecca’s mouth most certainly fell open.
“Yes, Papa, I would—” Michael was interrupted by Fannie racing in with a scream, barreling toward her brother.
Rebecca barely had time to gasp, but Berab was surprisingly quick on his feet, and caught her in his long arms.
“Pardon us again,” the man said with impressive calm, hoisting the girl over his shoulder and departing the room once more.
The process was repeated twice more, with Berab finally instructing that she and Michael conclude the meal themselves.
“I shall be with you shortly,” he promised his son as he exited once again.
Though “shortly” was a relative term, as for the next two hours the entire house was rocked by a series of thuds as well as high-pitched screaming emanating from the nursery.
Grimacing, Rebecca retired to the kitchens to mix tonics, as she’d received several orders. She had to admit, Isabelle had been right. She’d not been forgotten, and her business was not dead.
Something she should thank her friend for when she wrote her again—or responded to Isabelle’s last letter, which involved quite a great deal of anecdotes regarding the quips the woman’s grandmother and her relation threw at each other.
Apparently, the distant cousins had been childhood rivals, and old habits died hard.
Rebecca’s lips twitched at the idea of anyone daring to imply the rather formidable Mrs. Lira’s jewelry was gauche and living to tell the tale.
Yes, she should most certainly write, posthaste.
Moving toward the staircase, she nearly collided with Marguarite, who was carrying a tray laden with a pot of something hot and two teacups.
“Beg pardon,” she said to the woman, who, despite being perfectly polite on the surface, gave her the distinct feeling she disliked her.
“It’s all right,” Marguarite said, adjusting her load. “I was just bringing this to the master.” Her voice was brisk. “He says this is going to be a long morning, and he needs some fortification.”
They glanced up in unison as more screaming floated, followed by a series of thuds, almost certainly from tiny feet pounding the floor, shook the house.
“I can only imagine,” Rebecca murmured.
The man did have spectacular patience. Unfortunately, so, it seemed, did his daughter.
Well, even their enemies called them a stubborn people, and thus their leaders should have an abundance of the quality.
A sudden impulse struck her. “Permit me,” she said, reaching for the tray.
“You really don’t need to,” the housekeeper protested, still holding on to the other side.
“I’m going upstairs anyway. I know the house has a limited staff.” Wincing at the woman’s expression, she added, “Not that you aren’t perfectly capable of handling additional work with competence and ebullience and in the utmost—”
“Are you quite finished digging that particular hole, or would you care to add some additional complimentary adjectives?” Marguarite asked, though she did relinquish the tray. “I suppose you were of great assistance last night,” she admitted rather grudgingly.
“I do my best.” Rebecca secured her grip with her good hand.
“Yes, you do,” the other woman returned, eyeing her once more.
“I’ll be careful not to spill,” Rebecca promised, turning back toward the staircase.
“I’m not sure he would mind, depending on the location,” she thought she heard the housekeeper murmur, but when she turned around to ask the woman to repeat herself, all Marguarite said was: “The nursery’s on the top floor.
Use the first door on the right and continue through the governess’s room. There’s a connecting door.”
Ten minutes later, Rebecca had managed to make her way to the fifth floor while remaining completely dry. Huffing, she moved through the short hall and the empty governess’s room and rapped on the door, from which a great deal of noise was emanating.
When there was no response, Rebecca knocked again, a touch louder. This time, the door opened a crack and revealed Berab, his hair slightly mussed, his yarmulke askew. When he saw her, his lips curved into a soft smile, making her legs wobble.
“I have people to do that, you know,” he said, as he relieved her from her burden. “People with two hands,” he added.
She could hear Fannie continuing to rage from somewhere within the room. She was stomping and pacing, from the sound of it. Oy, the child had energy. And lungs. And a great deal of rage.
“I’m practicing my balance,” she whispered.
They stood for a moment, staring at each other. Or he at her, she, rather inappropriately, at his jacketless form, the outline of his surprisingly muscled lean torso. Something that she should not be doing outside the bedroom. She coughed a little.
“You’re very patient,” she managed to say, rubbing her right thumb with her left.
His eyes widened in surprise for a moment, his face breaking out in a grin, making him look about ten years younger than she knew him to be.
“I endeavor.” He took a deep breath, his broad shoulders rising a touch. “Thank you.”
They stared at each other for another long moment.
“Well, I’ll see you at luncheon,” she told him, moving toward the stairs.
The man’s expression turned wry as another series of screams and bangs erupted from the room.
“One can only hope,” he told her, before lowering his voice once more. “I should definitely have asked for gin as well,” he stage-whispered.
“I’ll remember that next time,” she told him, ducking as a tiny shoe flew over his head.
“I best return to battle.” He sighed. “But thank you again,” he added, his eyes soft as he shut the door behind him, leaving her alone in the hall wondering why he was somehow now more ridiculously handsome than he’d ever been.
An odd thought and not one that could signify anything good.
Two hours later, Roger yawned as he glanced up at the grandfather clock across the room.
Fannie’s tirades had become less frequent and softer.
Mostly due to the fact the child had strained her voice.
While she ate a touch of the food that had been brought for them, she’d not spoken directly to him since the argument at breakfast.
Now she only stormed about expressing her displeasure, mostly regarding the crimes he’d committed, including not being close enough friends with some family named “Molcho,” not having the staff serve enough berries, and, chiefly, not being Lucy or his mother-in-law. Quite the list.
Not an inaccurate one, either.
How could he make his children understand that his role was to provide them with a good future, not to maintain their present? Something he would do. Better than anyone else.
“Papa?” a small voice called, breaking his thoughts.
“Yes, Fannie,” he said, straightening himself in his chair as his daughter crawled out from beneath the table where she’d wedged herself.
Rising, she stepped forward. Her hair hung messily around her shoulders, her pins having been removed and tossed upon the floor, her gown rumpled, her sash untied, her face still flushed, and her eyes red.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her lip quivered. “I shouldn’t have shoved Michael,” she told him, bursting into sobs.
“No, you should not have,” he told her as he pulled her into his arms.
“I shouldn’t have said all those horrible things to him,” she continued as she cried against his equally rumpled vest. “Or to you.” She sniffled harder.
Roger stroked her hair. “Why did you?” he asked after she settled against him, keeping his tone as mild as possible. And people thought he was impressive when members of the ton whispered about his family’s past or accused them of malfeasance and greed, or gave him the cut direct.
“I don’t know,” Fannie said, shaking her head as she wiped her eyes on his garments before lifting her head. “It’s just—” She bit her lip.
“Just what?” he asked, squeezing her hand.
His daughter swallowed. “When Mama and Oma were here, I—” She bit her lip once more.
“You what?” he prodded as gently as he could.
“I was Mama’s special little princess,” Fannie sobbed, falling back into his arms.
Roger’s heart squeezed. His daughter was still truly very young, and it had barely been a year since his wife’s and mother-in-law’s deaths.
A memory rose in his mind, of himself at eleven, standing alongside his brothers at Bevis Marks reciting Kaddish for their father. Every day for the full eleven months a child grieved a parent.
Swallowing, he turned back to his daughter.