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 benefitsit 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 shoulderwhen 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.
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.”
