Those, in turn, allowed them to become the community’s unofficial emissaries to the ton, acquiring invitations galore to the most glittering gentile events and entertainments.
But none of that protected her in the end. Not from the slow-moving disease which took his mother-in-law the prior year. Nor the quick fever to which his wife succumbed a month later.
It’s not fair, Lucy had sobbed as she struggled to take her last breaths.It’s just not fair.
Those had been her final words. Eyes staring at him accusingly.
Not unlike those of his oldest brother, David, the man who headed the family. The man who, when not showing him silent disappointment, treated him as if he were still the child he’d been when their father passed.
Or worse, as if he were their other brother, Louis. Angry, selfish, and reckless. His recent banishment to America was no loss. That they’d permitted his brother to operate in the community for so long was sheer lunacy.
But due to irrational sentiment, his family ignored his opinions on the subject. Not that he hadn’t made mistakes of his own.
Why he’d attempted to remarry back in June, he had no idea.
Well, he did. He’d been past sheloshim and while gentiles waited longer periods before replacing a spouse, he’d never known them to pay particularly close attention to any of their familial traditions.
Not to mention the marriage presented an opportunity unlikely to be matched later: the potential bride had inherited half their business. The strategic union would’ve been both a boon for their coffers—something to which his family had certainly not objected—and a personal victory for him: a guaranteed seat on the Commission of Delegates, the august body that both internally governed the Jewishcommunity and acted as its emissaries with the British governance, the ton, and anyone important.
The thing that could finally guarantee him the respect he deserved.
And now, after months of diligent work, a possibility once more. Narbonne—a friend of his late father’s—was soon to retire, and who else could possibly take his seat?
Roger smiled to himself, even as snow pelted his hat and overcoat, a strong gust of wind rippling through the streets, eliciting frustrated whinnies from workhorses straining against the bluster.
Perhaps when he returned home, he’d have Lopez, his man of affairs, draw him a nice warm bath, where he could soak with his new periodical. He’d been waiting days for the thing, a discussion of various soil additions to assist in the care of roses.
His favorite vocation. He’d eschewed most hobbies in favor of less frivolous endeavors but was never able to quit the fickle flower, which required research, care, and patience—his specialties—to receive a true reward.
He should start pruning the first group in the hothouse so they could yield early flowers. He’d chosen his varieties, inside and out, to schedule consistent blooms for a decent part of the year. Yes, perhaps after dinner he would spend some time there.
But there was another task higher on his list, wasn’t there? Frowning, he strained to recall precisely what Lopez had reminded him of earlier. Something regarding the staff… Oh, he was supposed to hire someone. The nurse.
Yes, that needed to be accomplished. Especially as he’d been forced to bribe his friend Sol Weiss and his wife to mind his children while he was attending a tea to assure one of his least favorite former schoolmates—a baron—and his cohorts, that the young, ambitious former Jew—Diaharoni or some such name—who’d run and lost a seat in the House of Commons was not a threat to them and theirs.Remind them of the good among their people and convince them that those like himself were the majority—true, even if most of their “good” were not actually of his caliber. A challenging task for many but one he’d brilliantly executed.
As a Jew, I can assure you that we do not seek to decide your affairs, let alone supplant you in representation of the people. Like my true brethren, I understand my position. The man is an exception, and now that he’s lost, highly unlikely to be a bother again.
An excellent line if he didn’t say so himself. And assuredly true. The man, who held no background of distinction, and no true talent, would tire of losing and fade into the milieu.
Roger trudged up the stairs to his house, the door opening without him needing to turn the knob. He lifted his chin, ready to greet Lopez, only to stop short as Sol, still dressed for the winter weather, stood in the vestibule, the children at his side.
Notably, none of the trio met his eye. Roger’s heart started to beat in his ears.
“Good afternoon,” he said, working to keep his voice calm. “What’s happened?”
There was a long pause and more fidgeting. Roger turned to his son, who, at barely five, was both the least likely to give him any useful answers and the greatest impediment to his friend speaking freely. He bent so he could meet the small boy’s dark eyes. “Perhaps, Michael, you can go to the nursery with—” Frowning, he searched for the name of the youngest maid.
“Rachel,” Lopez supplied from the hall in a stage whisper.
“Rachel can assist you in preparing for your dinner,” he finished.
His son did not need to be told twice, as he turned and raced through the hall, presumably to find the maid who’d been splitting her regular duties with that of nurse since their last one had up and quit with no notice. He turned back to his daughter and friend.
“What has happened?” he repeated.
Sol shifted on his feet, but his daughter’s expression became distinctly belligerent.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Fannie declared, folding her arms across her chest. “Not really.” She glanced at the ground, her lip quivering.
