Chapter Twenty-Three
Roger spent most of Sunday attempting not to spy on Dr. Maduro as he examined Rebecca. Not that he had much doubt what the man would say. He was quite acquainted with the woman’s arm. It was healed.
A good thing.
For them both.
At least that’s what he kept telling himself. After all, he couldn’t find any logical argument against it.
Which meant any time wasted doing so was just that—a waste of time.
Instead, he sought to be productive. So after spending some time working with the children on their maths and Hebrew letters—with luck he’d find a proper governess sooner rather than later—he’d retreated to his office to finish paying invoices for the almost repaired Adler house and then attempting to study the rather daunting volume containing the tracts of Nashim.
Attempting and failing. After flipping through the dense commentary, he wondered if he had finally stumped himself.
It was a horrible thought, considering how many men he’d considered of lesser intellect who’d succeeded in the study over the years.
Though they’d had teachers.
And he, well… he was not where his ancestors had been when they stepped onto the soil along Amsterdam’s canals for the first time, but he was closer than he would care to admit. Especially considering his lack of excuses for the same loss of knowledge.
It begged the question that had stuck in his head since his conversation with Rebecca at David’s table: Why did their safety always seem to necessitate giving up part of who they were? That or being locked behind high walls?
Would emancipation, if it ever occurred, really be any different?
If France was the standard—with its forced names changes, destruction of communities, and rules requiring any evidence of their “particularities” being pushed behind closed doors—then certainly not.
They’d always pay a steep price for what others were permitted by right. Over and over. A sad thought to ponder.
But that was what he was doing when Sol trotted in, Lopez at his heels.
“I’ll see Mr. Weiss now, thank you,” Roger said as his friend traipsed into the room and took up his usual chair.
“Miss Adler says Hannah’s illness should lessen soon.
” Sol crossed one booted leg over the other, dripping bits of snow onto the rug.
His friend shook his head, a slightly bemused smile gracing his full lips.
“Though, to tell the truth, while I’d certainly like her to feel like herself again, and I’m certainly not made for so much cleaning, I do appreciate that she permits me to nurse her a touch.
Makes me feel needed for more than just my… you know.”
“I really don’t,” Roger said, squinting at his friend.
“My best use…” Sol raised a brow before giving a meaningful glance downward.
Roger groaned as a slow grin spread on the other man’s face at his own, while admittedly amusing, still rather common joke.
“This is why I can’t take you anywhere,” Roger said, despite his mirth.
“It’s not, but thank you for saying that.” Sol’s smile was far more grateful than he deserved for not speaking about his wife’s former reputation. “But I’m not here for your kindness. Hannah dispatched me for another update on Miss Adler.”
This again? Roger rolled his eyes.
“Well…” his friend prompted after a beat.
“I don’t have a dungeon,” he reminded the man, “Barely even a cellar, though Miss Adler does use that to cure condoms with sulfur.”
“I’m not going to ponder that statement,” Sol said. “But if she’s undertaking such tasks, I assume her health is improving.”
“Very much.” Roger pressed his lips together. “She’s quite hale, and her arm seems almost completely healed.”
His eyes growing wide, Sol gasped. “My god.”
“What?” Roger asked, squinting at him in puzzlement.
His friend slapped a palm on the desk. “You’re shtupping her.”
“What?” Roger cried, his voice rising. “You’re mad.” But his voice sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.
“Perhaps,” Sol said with another smile. “But you’re still shtupping her.” He shook his head. “I knew something had happened when I saw you—you’re different—an improvement.”
Roger folded his arms over his chest and glared at his friend.
“I’m just stating facts,” Sol said with a shrug.
“You had the release you obviously desperately needed, and had it with Miss Adler.” He stared at Roger.
“Even if you deny it, I’m not going to believe you.
There’s too much evidence to the contrary, and I’m quite perceptive, so you might as well admit the same. ”
“Perceptive” was a touch of a stretch, as there had been nearly half a dozen attempts on Sol’s life prior to him accepting that they might not all be unfortunate coincidences, but he was not going to belabor the point.
Especially as, while he was not a man who gave confidences, but held them instead, for the first time since as long as he could remember, the idea of confessing to someone who might understand seemed…
appealing. Even if that person was the most unreasonably optimistic person on earth. A rare feat—especially for a Jew.
“Do you need to say it like that?” he asked, lowering his voice. The children were supposed to be asleep, but they had a habit of not being where they were supposed to be, especially when there was information to be overheard.
“How should I say it?” Sol’s lip tipped in amusement.
“Not at all,” he told his friend. “This isn’t a topic that is discussed.”
“Why not?” Sol sounded genuinely confused. “We’re friends, are we not?” he asked with a ridiculous amount of earnest naivete that if Roger didn’t know better, he’d believe was put-on. At least, though, the younger man was willing to learn.
As much as he could.
Roger touched his fingers to his temples. “We are,” he said, despite “friend” being perhaps an overstatement of their relationship. He cleared his throat. “But—”
“Friends discuss important matters with each other, especially concerning their health,” the other man finished, looking ridiculously proud of himself.
“This has nothing to do with my health.” Roger sniffed.
“I disagree,” Sol countered, raising a single finger. “Physical release is necessary to maintain one’s body, mind, and nefesh,” his friend said, only mangling the last few words.
Biting the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh out loud, Roger leaned forward over his desk, tenting his fingers. “Where did you read that?”
“The Talmud,” Sol responded rather primly.
Roger barked a laugh. “That’s not in the Talmud.” At least he couldn’t imagine it was. He glanced at the volume once more, shaking his head.
“Have you read all of it?” His friend gave him a curious stare.
“No, I’ve read none of it,” he admitted, stroking the binding.
“Though I would bet my family’s fortune that you made that up out of your arse.
” He started as an idea, or rather an impulse, came into his head.
“I have committed myself to a study program in which I read during the week myself and then discuss my findings with my brother during Saturday luncheon, as David lacks the time for daily study. Would you care to join me?” He picked up the volume and showed it to his friend.
“A commendable endeavor.” Sol mused after a pause. “I’d love to join you and your brother on Shabbos as my schedule is quite similar to David’s.”
That should have occurred to Roger in the first place. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Sol was not finished.
“Though I will defer to you, as my knowledge, not to mention my facility with the language, is still quite lacking, despite my recent efforts,” his friend continued. He paused, his expression thoughtful. “However…”
“What?” Roger asked, squinting a little.
“I do know someone who might be a skilled study partner, even helpful regarding his own knowledge.” Excitement bubbled on his face. “And happens to have a great deal of time to devote to the same now that he is no longer employed as custodian,” he added, his tone knowing.
Roger blinked at him. He couldn’t possibly be suggesting…
“No,” he said. Not in a hundred and twenty years could he ever, possibly…
“He’s a good person,” Sol protested.
“He’s a bore,” Roger protested. And would probably be such a smug, condescending arse if they worked together.
Especially considering the content of some of the barbs he’d directed at the man during their competing courtships of Isabelle.
Not one of his finer moments, but he couldn’t undo the past, only hope to avoid it in the future, which for him, meant avoiding Aaron Ellenberg as much as possible despite their mutual connections.
Studying with him in any capacity would go against that.
“He studies regularly,” Sol argued. “Has for years.” He gazed at Roger. “You should consider it.”
“I will,” Roger lied.
Sol rolled his eyes. “Liar,” he successfully deduced.
“But returning to Miss Adler, I’m happy for you,” his friend said, clasping his hands together and changing the subject so quickly, it took Roger a moment to recall what they’d been discussing.
His relationship—if one could call it that—with Miss Adler.
Of which Ellenberg would certainly not approve.
That was another reason to ignore Sol’s foolish idea to include him. He turned back to Sol.
“Truly?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at the other man.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sol asked, leaning back a little in his chair.
“Neither of you is married. Miss Adler is a clever woman. I presume you two came to some sort of agreement beforehand?” He raised a brow, and Roger quickly nodded.
His friend tented his fingers. “One in which you agree to a time-limited, discreet liaison, which ends once she leaves this house, or something to that effect.”
“You don’t disapprove?” Roger asked, again searching his friend’s face for any sense of insincerity. Or judgment.
“Miss Adler knows her own mind,” Sol declared. “While I’ve been told that there’s old law stating that due to your sexual engagement, you are now married and would require a get if you wanted to marry again, the majority believe that has been superseded. Thus, provided you’re discreet…”
“You aren’t afraid that Miss Adler will become… attached and perhaps desire matters not to be so temporary?” Roger asked, studying his friend once again, his own unease growing for some unknown reason.
“Would you like her to?” Sol asking, raising his brow again.
Roger nearly gasped at the question. Why would he possibly—ridiculous. The idea that he could want that emotion—one he was likely not capable of himself—from this woman who had no place in his life was ludicrous. Absurd even.
“No, of course not,” he told the man, giving a shaky laugh. “Why would I? That would be the last thing—I want to give her pleasure, not pain, and I’m going to marry someone else shortly, so there was always a limit on our engagement. Something we both understood at the outset.”
“Well, you shouldn’t worry,” Sol said, crossing one leg over the other.
“Miss Adler is a rather determined woman who knows her own mind. Further, she’s the most trustworthy and honorable among us.
She enters into no agreements lightly and would almost certainly rather be boiled alive in oil than renege. ”
“A charming image,” he quipped. “But I believe you are correct about the rest. An admirable quality and one I try to uphold myself. After all, I like to think of my own most prominent quality as ‘resoluteness.’ ”
Sol stared at him for a moment. “And here I’d have said it was ‘paranoia.’ ”
“Now, that one is hereditary,” he said, raising a finger. “And useful. Saved us from the gallows multiple times and guided us to a land where we’d no longer need to live as Marranos.”
Roger glanced back down at the volume. Something he would recommit himself to, somehow, someway, setting an example for the community in that regard as well.
“Fair,” his friend said with a slightly bemused smile. “Besides, we wouldn’t want you to become too calm and cheery.”
“I’m not cheery,” Roger said with a snort.
“Not now.” Sol raised a finger, but Roger ignored him.
“I won’t be until I regain my life,” he returned.
“You mean remarry?” Sol asked, cocking his head.
Roger nodded, even though he’d been speaking of the seat. The two were inextricably linked. He had responsibilities, and Leone Teres was the only way they could be properly fulfilled.
Clearing his throat, Sol rose. “Well, I wish you luck in that,” he said.
Roger joined him and gave his outstretched hand a shake. “I don’t need luck, just the right person,” he called as his friend strolled out of the room, leaving him to return to his work.