Chapter Twenty-One #2
“Such a secure place we’ve built for ourselves,” she retorted.
He raised a brow. “Do you have an example of anything better?”
Rebecca paused, searching her mind, and—no, she could not quite find an example where they had been granted anything better.
At least under someone else’s rule.
“No,” she admitted, wagging her finger at him again. “But do we really want to divide ‘good’ and ‘bad’ in accordance with their whims? Especially when there’s not always a consensus between them on the matter?”
There was another pause, with the entire rest of the table glancing back and forth between them.
“Touché,” he said finally.
She stared at him. “Pardon?”
“You’re right. This never ended well for us.” Roger inhaled. “But it can be good for a time,” he had the nerve to point out.
Irritation sparked within her at the flippant response. Especially its honesty.
“For certain people,” she returned with yet another sniff.
“For all of us,” he countered, indicating his family, who were still glancing between the two of them, his sister-in-law’s expression especially worried. Rebecca felt a small pang of pity for the woman who’d been so kind. But she could not quit her back-and-forth with Roger.
“If we behave like you,” she snapped.
“It helps.” He shrugged. “Though I’m particularly talented at it.”
Just as I’m not.
“You are,” she said out loud. “And you enjoy it.” Like his late wife had. And Miss Teres—or the new Mrs. Berab.
Who would not be making his relatives shift in their seats like they were now. Oy. What a mess. What a—
“Dessert is served,” a servant announced, finally saving her. A plate of sweets and a light round cake were placed in the center of the table. Taking out a knife, the newcomer began to cut slices and place them on plates garnished with candied orange and mint.
“Pan esponjado?” Roger asked, glancing at the cake. “It’s not even Purim yet.”
“It shall be,” the man’s brother reminded them. “The cook is practicing. For that and for the dinner I just scheduled with Teres.” He and his wife passed plates of the stuff around the table.
“Right,” Roger said, before taking a bite. “Well, compliments to the cook. It’s excellent.”
The others murmured in agreement, seemingly relaxed once again.
Rebecca took a bite of her own. It was all right, a touch dry for her taste, though the light flavor of orange was bright and pleasing, and the appearance was elegant. What these people preferred. Something that she could not forget.
While the remainder of the luncheon was pleasant, a disquietude that she couldn’t quite place grew in Rebecca through the rest of the day and well after their Sabbath concluded.
It remained even as Marguarite helped her prepare herself for bed.
Or what little time in her bed she’d have between sneaking in and out of Roger’s room.
“Thank you for all your help,” she told the housekeeper, smoothing her night dress.
“This is my job,” Marguarite reminded her as she returned Rebecca’s gown, petticoats, and stays to the wardrobe.
“But you do it excellently,” Rebecca insisted as sincerely as she could, then cleared her throat. “I hope I’ve been appreciative enough.”
“You have,” the woman said, returning to her with a new pair of stockings. “And even if you weren’t, you’ve been good for the household.” She handed them to Rebecca, now seated on the edge of the bed.
“You enjoy more work?” Rebecca joked as she rolled the stockings onto her legs.
Marguarite gave a shrug before moving to fiddle with the curtains. “I enjoy seeing the children smile more,” she called. “And throw fewer fits.”
Rebecca resisted a smile. “I believe that is Ro—Mr. Berab’s doing,” she replied.
The woman paused. “I think he might have had some inspiration,” she said, turning back around, eyeing Rebecca with an odd expression on her face.
One that suggested—well—something it shouldn’t. Something beyond the boundaries in which she was living. Something that could not be.
That wasn’t.
She lifted her chin, “Yes,” she told the other woman, her voice firm. “His upcoming nuptials to Leone Teres.”
“There’s no agreement,” Marguarite replied.
“But there shall be,” Rebecca reminded her. “And it’s necessary.” She took a deep breath. “She’ll be good for this household. And for this family.”
No matter how obnoxious Miss Teres was.
Unlike with her, Roger’s brother and his family would not have to endure awkward meals with Miss Teres. They knew her parents and would be thrilled to strengthen that alliance and all the benefits it brought, not to mention how well the two families undoubtedly fit together.
Miss Teres would never embarrass them, nor would she make them uncomfortable. Whether she agreed with their choices or not, Miss Teres fit where Rebecca did not.
“All of them?” the housekeeper asked, breaking her thoughts.
“Yes,” she returned. As such was the truth. “Most certainly,” she continued. “She shall give him—”
“A seat on the Commission?” the woman stated more than asked, folding her arms across her chest.
“Yes,” Rebecca said, working to stifle her irritation at the way the declaration cheapened the much more complete set of reasons as to why Miss Teres was the sort of person Roger wanted and would be right for him and his family. “Very much so.”
“Which is exactly what they need,” Marguarite finished, her words even, though Rebecca could not help but detect a note of disapproval in her tone.
Which was… unfair. Not that she agreed with all of Roger’s and his family’s choices, but changing now would require an amount of sacrifice that would be quite difficult to justify, both to themselves and to those around them.
Suddenly the room was too hot, too crowded. Too much.
Alone. She needed to be alone.
Posthaste.
“Thank you again,” Rebecca said quickly. “I—” She bit her lip, searching for the kindest, least brisk way to communicate her desire to be alone. “Permit me to do my own braid. I need to practice my coordination if I’m to fully return to my profession.”
The woman stared at her for a moment then nodded. “Of course.” Handing Rebecca the brush, she strolled to the door. “Don’t hesitate to ring if you need anything.” She glanced back over her shoulder when she reached the threshold. “Good night, Miss Rebecca,” she called as she exited.
“Good night,” Rebecca whispered, moving over to the vanity, her heart still pounding in her chest long after the woman’s footfalls had died.