Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hours after the Berabs’ exit, Rebecca stood outside the door of Roger’s office.
There were a hundred better things she could be doing with her time rather than dithering, and yet here she was, unable to either raise her fist and knock or leave.
“Coward,” she murmured to herself. This was ridiculous.
She’d never been afraid to say what needed to be said, and now was certainly not the time to change.
Because she had not changed these past weeks. Yes, she’d altered or softened a few opinions, but she was still the same person she’d been when she arrived, albeit with more garments only suitable for holidays, new spectacles, and some lingering pain in her arm.
She would always be who she was: someone whose home was on Mitre Street, not here, which was why she needed to just… Taking a deep breath, she rapped on the wood.
“Come in,” a now familiar voice called from inside, making her traitorous heart flutter.
Metaphorically, naturally, as if not she’d be quite nervous regarding the efficiency and state of the organ, as—Oh, do shut up and get in there, she admonished herself, pushing her way through the door to find the man coatless, though his cravat was still impeccably tied, yarmulke on his sandy-brown hair, poring over a large book.
He looked as handsome as ever—perhaps even more so, if it was possible.
“Ah, Rebecca.” He rose from his seat and came toward her, his arm outstretched.
“I was hoping to find a time to get you alone today. I wanted to—” She dodged him.
She could not permit his hand to glide over her body again and distract her.
She was there for a purpose. One that could not be put off any long.
Moving over to the desk, she glanced down at what he’d been reading and started.
“Is that Talmud?” she asked, scanning the large folio with its layers of internal and external scripts, all their alphabet but with a decent portion nearly unrecognizable, ostensibly the special version of the letters for Rashi’s commentary, of which she’d heard but only seen once in passing.
“Yes,” Roger said. “I’ve been attempting to study on my own, but it’s a touch beyond my capacities, I’m afraid.
” He ran a hand through his hair, nearly dislodging his yarmulke.
“My Hebrew is rudimentary, and my Aramaic is far worse. I do have this French translation,” he told her, pointing to another volume, “But it was not done for us, so I don’t know its accuracy.
Not to mention my medieval French is not as strong as my facility with the modern language. ”
“What’s this?” she asked, not daring to touch an unmistakably fragile collection of bound, aged sheets.
“A partial manuscript of a translation in Spanish,” Roger explained, his voice soft. “From before it all happened.”
Rebecca’s eyes widened as she stared at the more than three-centuries-old pages again. “Did your family… ?”
“No.” He shook his head. “We lived in Porto,” he reminded her. “One of my relatives purchased this sometime later, likely my Uncle Naphtali.” He glanced at the thing and sighed. “Unfortunately, my Spanish is not as strong as my French or even my Portuguese.”
“This is an impressive undertaking,” Rebecca murmured, gazing again at the tract of Talmud itself. “I wouldn’t even know how to begin. At least not without guidance.” A rabbi and students or some sort of chabura of men, like her father must have been a part of when he was alive.
“That’s what I’ve deduced I need.” Roger paused for a moment. “Or perhaps a bit more. I should’ve realized this sooner, as we were never supposed to do very much alone. For better or worse.”
Precisely. These past few weeks were an aberration in many ways. They belonged outside with the community. In their assigned roles.
“One of the secrets to our survival,” she murmured out loud.
“Indeed,” he agreed. “I had forgotten how losing that was almost our doom,” he continued.
“My mistake. Thus, like my ancestors, I plan to hire a tutor, as much it pains me to admit after earning many of my current friendships by being a tutor for others.” He gave her a rueful smile.
“Sol had wanted me to ask Ellenberg, but that wouldn’t go well. ”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Especially as I cannot imagine any of the rabbis in the Talmud justifying the murder that would likely result.”
The two stared at each other for a moment before bursting out laughing.
“Mercy, I’ve missed you.” He came toward her as if he was going to embrace her—like she wanted. But she could not want that. Not any longer.
“Stop,” she told him, raising a palm to halt him. “No,” she repeated, as much for her own benefit as his.
The man stepped back as if he’d been slapped, then quickly covered the emotion behind his usual mask. “I apologize,” he said, his voice curt. “I—”
“We can’t do this anymore,” she interrupted. “I thought I could, but I—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”
He blinked. “Beg pardon?” he asked, his brow knitting in near confusion, making everything so much worse.
Oy.
Strong. She had to be strong. Rebecca rubbed her wrist. “I thought I’d start packing so I can return home. Tomorrow.”
This was the best course of action. Truly, it was the only course of action if she wanted to retain any part of her dignity and her sanity.
“But what about your staff?” the man asked after a pause.
“I already had Lopez send word yesterday,” she told him. “They should be back Monday or Tuesday.”
Hopefully.
Roger frowned. “So you’d be alone…”
“I can manage,” she assured him. One way or another.
“I’ll find Isabelle after services on Shabbos, and I’m sure I can finagle an invitation to spend the day with her.
” It would be a touch humiliating, but not more than staying.
“If I don’t get a call,” she added quickly.
“There are periods where I’m not even home to rest. Thus, I won’t even notice the extra days. ”
“Rebecca—” Whatever he was going to say was thankfully lost as Michael raced into the room, nearly knocking over the chair next to her.
“Papa, can you read this to me?” the young boy asked, clutching a book.
“I’d love to,” Roger replied, not looking at Rebecca.
He reached up and lifted the boy into his arms. “Why don’t we see if Fannie would like to listen as well?
” he asked, turning his back to her completely.
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Adler. Please enjoy the rest of your day. I’ll see you at breakfast, I presume.”
He truly should’ve taken to the stage, as he would’ve been a star for the ages, Roger thought as he nodded along politely to Teres’s chatter at David’s dinner table.
The man was a coffee importer and seemed to enjoy nothing more than name-dropping prominent members of communities from around the world.
He would potentially be useful, but mercy, he and his self-important tone were tedious. Not that he wasn’t used to such behavior, but usually it was not among family.
At least Fannie and Michael were behaving. They were enthralled with the attention David’s youngest, their fourteen-year-old cousin, Jacob, was lavishing on them. He’d have to make sure his nephew received something extra special for Purim.
Miss Teres’s brothers were a touch older, though far younger than the other men. However, both seemed quite comfortable at the table, despite their limitations. Or at least, they were enthusiastic regarding the food.
He glanced toward the women at the other end of the table. Well, really, just Nina, his niece, and Miss Teres, as his bride-to-be’s mother was caring for a sick aunt in Willemstad. Hopefully that wouldn’t delay the wedding.
“Do you know Roger here has been tutoring his children?” Nina asked Miss Teres, loud enough for her voice to pierce his conversation.
“Oh, really?” Miss Teres asked, glancing back and forth between him and his sister-in-law.
“Yes,” he said, suddenly a touch warm.
“How do you plan to manage such a feat with your schedule, especially when you become a delegate?” Teres asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Or even next week, as I heard you were invited to a luncheon at the Duke of Westmoreland’s,” Miss Teres chimed in. “Perhaps you’ll attend with your fiancée?” She gave a flirtatious smile.
“Yes, certainly,” he said automatically, as such would be expected after their betrothal was finalized and announced. As he wanted.
“Not to mention, there’s the Lira family Purim ball,” Miss Teres reminded him. “We’ll need costumes for that made posthaste. I was thinking we could go as something romantic, perhaps Romeo and Juliet.” She clasped her hands together in excitement.
“Don’t they both die in the end?” one of the brothers—the older one—asked.
“For love,” Miss Teres said with a rather girlish sigh. “Though I suppose that is a bit gloomy for Purim,” she mused with a small frown. “Esther and the king fit us, but that’s so trite.” She pressed her lips together. “Perhaps something more English.”
“Perhaps you could go as King Henry and one of his wives,” Sofia suggested then took a long sip of her wine.
“Didn’t they get their heads chopped off?” the other brother asked.
“Really?” Fannie’s eyes grew wide. “Could you do that with a large gown and holes in it?” his daughter asked, turning more fully toward Miss Teres. “Or perhaps just paint around your neck?”
Nina glanced at Fannie, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
Miss Teres wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t seem appropriate.” She tapped a finger to her lips. “How about a fairy story?” Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, the French one, La Belle et la Bête.” She clapped her hands together.
“Which one of you would be which?” Fannie asked.
Nina coughed into her hand, though Miss Teres did not seem to notice. “I’d be the beautiful maiden, and your father would be the cursed prince who turns handsome again with her love,” she explained.
“That seems quite appropriate,” Teres said, smiling at his daughter.
“There’s no one as pretty as you, Lee,” her younger brother added.