Chapter Twenty-Two
Rebecca returned to the kitchen from the cellar, where her latest batch of condoms was drying, the noxious scent from the sulfur cure still irritating her nose.
It had already been quite a long day, thanks to a steady stream of patients who’d traveled westward from their usual neighborhoods for treatment.
Fannie, a more and more frequent presence, had watched, her elbows on the worktable, a borrowed apron nearly swallowing her.
The girl was not a bother, but did, with her questions, require Rebecca to think in ways she’d not for a long time.
“I don’t know how you stand this smell.” A familiar voice floated down from the staircase, followed by a loud clacking of hard-soled slippers on the wood.
Rebecca gazed upward to see Isabelle barreling toward her in a cascade of velvets, furs, and intricately styled black hair.
How someone so small could demand so much attention was a wonder to behold, but Rebecca loved her for it.
Had since Isabelle was a tiny baby, born nearly a month early, with still the loudest cry imaginable, and had been thrust into Rebecca’s arms while her mother tended to Isabelle’s to no avail.
Both the first birth Rebecca had ever seen and the first death.
“I think about how popular these are and how upset you’d be if you had to get yours from anyone else,” she reminded her friend as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“A fair analysis,” Isabelle said, giving Rebecca a quick hug, stench or not. “Yours break a great deal less frequently, even with the most vigorous action.”
“Did not need that affirmed,” she told her friend. Nor to picture it, no matter how fond she was of Isabelle and her choice of husband.
“No, but it’s amusing to toy with you.” Isabelle gave a wink, inspecting the area as if she owned the place.
“How you manage not to be thrown out of every gentile ballroom…” Rebecca said.
“I know my audience,” Isabelle told her. She must have seen something on Rebecca’s face because she narrowed her eyes. “A trick you could easily master if you actually cared to—though it would make you far less entertaining.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “I think my brand of ‘entertainment’ is only suitable for a few.” Very few.
She grimaced, remembering the Shabbos luncheon again.
Though truly, what did she or anyone else expect more than proof of what she and Roger both knew before she arrived—they were not suited to be anything other than occasional acquaintances, tolerated through their joint peoplehood and slight social connections.
“You mean those of us with brains?” Isabelle adjusted her bonnet.
“Or without. Take your pick,” Rebecca teased back.
“Oh, I missed you,” Isabelle declared with a grin. “So much that I brought you something.” She retrieved a vial from her reticule and shoved it in Rebecca’s direction.
“You didn’t need to.” Rebecca turned the thing over in her hand, her face heating.
“I have plenty of oils and perfumes.” Not to mention specially scented soaps to assist with removing the smell from the chemicals she worked with.
They were a touch harsh on her skin, though she compensated with ointments she made herself to cut down on costs.
“Not of this.” Isabelle pointed at the label. “It’s a new scent from my favorite shop. Similar to your rose water but with a hint of something special.”
The word made Rebecca itch and feel even more like an impostor than she already did in the too-fine gown she wore or at Shabbos luncheon with people far too polite.
“I don’t need anything special,” Rebecca protested. Which was true. She didn’t. Nor did she feel particularly comfortable accepting the constant gifts from her friend, no matter how many funds Isabelle had.
Not that she wanted to be rich, but because it reminded her of how mismatched their pairing was in yet another way.
“I don’t need a new Purim costume next month, but I’m having one made,” Isabelle told her, bouncing a little with excitement.
Rebecca took the bait despite herself. “Do I dare ask what it is?”
“Titania, from the Shakespeare,” Isabelle explained, twirling a touch. “Aaron is going to be Oberon.”
“Naturally.” Rebecca smiled at how wonderfully silly and awkward the woman’s husband—a former custodian hardly used to fine dress, let alone fancy dress—would look.
A twinge of jealousy once again rose in her breast. Oh, to love like that and to be loved that way in return. For it to be so powerful that no opinions, no differences, no mismatches mattered.
Not that she begrudged them what they had. She just understood, even now, how special and rare it was. After all, Roger would never feel that way about her, no matter how much fun they had in bed.
Not that she actually loved him or wanted him to love her.
Only that their intimacy could cause the mind to follow dangerous roads of “what ifs,” which she needed like a hole in the head.
“There’s going to be a great deal of gold and sequins and lace, and we’re going to have the loveliest wings.” Isabelle turned to Rebecca. “You’ll come with us to the reading and then to our party, won’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose,” she agreed. Not that she ever did anything different and not that it wasn’t enjoyable, both being with her friend and the glorious food her family served.
It was only that he would most certainly be there—with his new bride. And while she’d gone to bed with the man knowing that would occur in the end, her stomach twisted at the idea of seeing them happy in public.
“Good,” Isabelle said, cocking her head. “I don’t suppose you have a costume idea?”
“No, as I’m sure you’re already having one made for me,” Rebecca returned, folding her arms.
Isabelle grinned. “You know me too well.”
“Who am I?” Horrifying memories of Isabelle’s suggestions for Purims past rose in her mind.
“Don’t tell me. One of your fairy court?
” she asked, already grimacing at the almost certainly flimsy costume her friend would have in mind and how she was going to have to find a cloak to place over it for as much of the time as possible. A frequent occurrence on the holiday.
“I’m not that self-centered,” Isabelle said with a laugh. “Usually.” She grinned at Rebecca. “It’s a surprise.” she declared, holding up a palm to halt any argument Rebecca might have. “I promise, you’ll like it and it’ll be flattering,” she assured her, pouting. “Don’t you trust me?”
“No.” Rebecca shook her head. “Not at all.” She was smiling, though. “But I don’t have much choice in the matter,” she said and sighed again. “Especially as I’m here until right before.”
“How has it been?” Isabelle asked. “I know you’ve written me, but it’s so difficult to tell tone from mere letters.” She peered a little too closely at Rebecca for her comfort.
Turning away from her friend, Rebecca grabbed a rag and began scrubbing at a spot on the worktable. “You can presume mine is irritated most of the time and, when not dry, perhaps a touch acerbic,” she told Isabelle. That was most certainly true.
“Which I do enjoy, but you’ve been rather scant on specifics.” Her friend drew nearer.
“I’ve listed every activity in which I’ve partaken, as well as all the people who have come to make purchases, many of whom are not clients,” Rebecca reminded her. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Not at all,” Isabelle said, shaking her head a touch too quickly to be believed.
She had suspected something like that, even if it was not what she wanted or needed.
“When I said that I didn’t want anyone poaching my customers, I didn’t mean that I sought to poach someone else’s,” Rebecca scolded her friend.
“You aren’t,” Isabelle assured her. She paused as if she was thinking quite hard. After a moment, her friend’s large eyes grew even wider. “It’s a matter of safety,” she declared.
“ ‘Safety?’ ” Rebecca asked despite herself.
“You’ve seen the weather,” Isabelle argued, gesturing toward the exit. “Do you truly want members of our community venturing out needlessly far in this?”
“You’ve managed to travel in it quite well,” Rebecca pointed out.
“I’m special,” Isabelle declared.
“That you are,” Rebecca conceded. “Though, I might remind you, most people of whom you speak would send their servants.”
“You don’t care about their servants’ safety?” Isabelle argued, apparently not ready to let her win. Most people did so almost immediately. The woman’s grandmother, Rebecca, and now Aaron were the only people who made her actually work for a victory.
“I don’t want to get into a war with another midwife, as I am highly unlikely to win such a contest,” she attempted to explain to her friend. “Especially after my mother retires.” She swallowed again at the thought.
“Why?” Isabelle frowned. “You’re the best midwife, not merely in the community but in London. You’re well trained, experienced, organized, efficient, calm in the face of any emergency, and learned, keeping abreast of all the latest techniques while remembering the past.”
If only that was all which was required.
“I endeavor to be, and I succeed. Most of the time,” Rebecca admitted, wagging a finger at her friend. “But I’m also obnoxious and disliked.”
“Only by people with no taste,” Isabelle responded.
“Which, according to you, is quite a few people,” Rebecca reminded her friend, easing the conversation to a more comfortable plateau.
“People would have to be fools to not desire the best, and you are the best,” Isabelle argued. “And our people are not fools.”
Rebecca raised her brows at her friend.
“Fine,” Isabelle scowled. “They’re mostly not fools.”
Rebecca didn’t need to respond.
“Usually,” Isabelle continued, waving her hand a little. “In some matters, and this is included those matters.”
Rebecca laughed despite herself. “If you say so.”
“I do,” Isabelle said, with a finger wag of her own. “But you’ve not answered my question,” she continued, peering at Rebecca. “How are things here, with Roger?”