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When the air was quiet, Uncle Bernard put his head i
n his hands. He lifted his chin and his eyes were haunted.
“I’m not the person who should be telling this story, but I was there for most of it and I’m the best we have.” Her uncle shook his head.
Ursula clutched Jay’s hand as she leaned against his body.
“We were in London in 1822, visiting cousins on the Nunes side. One of the girls’ husbands—Moses—was very active in the community over there, politically and philanthropically. The House of Commons was considering emancipation for us again and there was a situation.”
No.
The story was headed somewhere horrible. She shivered. Why was it now so cold in the room?
Her uncle cleared his throat.
“There was a young woman, a thief and sometimes prostitute who’d been in the penal colony in Port Jackson. She was one of us. When she was sent, she attracted little attention, just a common criminal, one of thousands. The trouble began over there. She had a lover and they escaped. When they were caught it was all the city could discuss. The reporters adored it. It probably inspired the tripe that Dickens fellow wrote. After the damage that Fagin character has done...” Her uncle grunted again. “When we arrived, the man had already been tried and executed. The woman though, they’d waited. She’d been with child.”
Me. That child was me.
Jay pulled her closer, but her muscles wouldn’t relax.
Me.
The child of criminals. She and her mother, they were the kind of Jews who weren’t supposed to exist. The kind who brought trouble, who brought death and retribution. She’d heard the stories. The reason to exclude them, to deny them rights, or worse, justifications for the slaughter of innocents—from the Crusades to the blood libel in Damascus, just a year ago.
Uncle Bernard shifted and frowned before speaking again.
“The community wanted it out of the papers. Moses’ idea was for us to help bring her to America, get her a job, take care of her, but make her disappear. But when we got to Newgate...”
Newgate. The word screamed in her head. She had no memories, none of that time. Why should she? She’d been a baby, but the horror of it twisted her body. A prison. She’d been born in a prison. Her father came to that place and found what? She stared at her uncle.
“Your father couldn’t leave either of you there. Moses was clever that way. Your father’s fiancée had passed away before their wedding. Seeing a beautiful young woman in distress with a child—there was no question that he’d help. Even Moses didn’t expect a marriage.”
Her uncle ran his fingers through his thinning hair.
She shook her head. They hated her. They truly did. The enmity had been real, all those years. Her father had thrown his life away, at least in their opinion. Her stomach twisted. In any sensible opinion. He was from a wonderful family, could’ve had any suitable woman and he married someone who’d—and had taken in a child that wasn’t his.
“Who is my father?”
“Urs.” Jay squeezed her arm.
She’d forgotten he was there. Oh, if they could only be where they were four days ago, in the fairy world of the bedroom. When they were alone there was nothing else, there was just them—oh good lord. Her mother—had done what she and Jay had done—for money.
“Who is my father?” She had to know.
“Urs.” Jay squeezed harder.
She wrenched her arm away from him and crawled towards her uncle. She had to know.
“Who is he?”
Her uncle closed his eyes and shook his head. “It’s not my place—”
“Tell me.”
Uncle Bernard swallowed. “I don’t know. No one knows.” He coughed into his hand and stared at the ceiling. “Her pregnancy was established almost a year after she reached Newgate—I—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Ursula. I truly am. I wish I could give you a different answer. You’ve done nothing...”
His voice grew distant.
