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He glanced to the side as the mohel chanted. There were tears in her eyes. Well, that wouldn’t do. It was a happy occasion, generation to generation and all that. He slid closer to her so her skirts could block his actions and took her gloved hand in his and stroked the top. She stared at him, lips parted, before giving him a soft smile as the mohel finished and gave Judah Zvi—better known as John Thaddeus Truitt—the seventh to hold that name—son of “Yonathan” Truitt as Thad was known in Hebrew, and Batya, back to his parents.
The kid didn’t cry either, though he fussed again—little whines and murmurs and struggles against his mother’s gown.
“I think Belle might want to retire with the baby,” Amalia whispered at her own mother. Mrs. Truitt’s lips quirked.
“Probably.” She clapped her hands together. “And that concludes the ceremonial part of this evening. Please, everyone eat. My new grandson is going to rest, but we can celebrate.”
Amalia’s shoulders relaxed. “Ro nursed. When her boys were desperate to eat like that, it meant she was also very uncomfortable.” She indicated to her own chest. “I can’t even imagine what would happen with these.”
David had to slap his hand over his face so not to laugh out loud. “Someone’d lose an eye, probably?” He echoed her earlier words. Amalia giggled and leaned closer before recoiling.
“You need to change. And bathe.” She rushed over to her brother, who returned with a servant.
Thad gave him the once over. “You’re broader than any of us now but still not as tall. I do think my clothes will be better than my father’s.”
“Anything clean,” he said. He’d have to hide in the background if it was too bad, not the worst thing since he was still supposed to be looking after Amalia, family or no family, though damned if being in the spotlight, finally, wasn’t satisfying. “I have work to do after all.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her until you get back.” Thad put his hand on Amalia’s shoulder before handing off his daughter to her.
“No, you want an extra nanny for a few minutes.” She smiled though. “Hurry back, David, the food should be good. Make sure you get some. You might need your strength later.” And the minx licked her lips. Oh, he’d need to make that bath cold now. And he’d have to hurry.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Amalia hunched her shoulders and back towards the wall of the ballroom as family and guests fussed over Thad, her sister-in-law, and the now probably slightly drunk baby J.T.—as he now could claim his other great-grandfather’s nickname. She’d closed her eyes while the mohel from Philadelphia did his part, but her nephew hadn’t fussed. Her brother’s second child, but first son. The next generation was growing. By the set of her sister’s skirts and her skin’s green hue, Ro was probably working on a third.
She heaved a sigh as she milled around the swirling silk bustles and dark wool overcoats, stuffing themselves with the food. A few of the men had already removed their jackets. Thad’s sleeves were rolled past his elbows. Pretty soon the cigars and hard liquor would permeate the room. Her family did things right. No boring holidays or rituals for the Truitts.
With a small smile, Amalia popped a handful of berries into her mouth.
Would she ever have a child? A lump swelled in her throat. Did she want one? Maybe, maybe not, but to never have the option...
“Amalia, darling, that dress looks even better in this light.” A rush of deep plum and gold accosted her.
“Mother.” Amalia brushed aside a graying blonde curl and kissed her mother’s still smooth cheek, flushing a bit at the compliment, even if it was a lie.
Her mother smiled and grasped Amalia’s arms, giving her the once over, before frowning. “Don’t slump your shoulders dear. You’ll crease. It’s better to be tall and proud, than slouchy and messy. Confidence is beauty. If you don’t find yourself beautiful, no one will.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Amalia murmured, especially as she’d pretty much written that advice—verbatim—in a column four months ago. Good god, was she turning into her mother? Now that was a depressing thought. The woman was fifty and probably had no recollection of her youth.
“Thad just told me you wanted to leave for the Philadelphia house almost immediately. Why don’t you stay a bit longer? We’ll keep you safe while you figure out what you’re going to do next with your life.” Her mother tapped her on the back and Amalia adjusted.
“No, you want me here so you can plan the next phase of my life.” She grumbled the words, almost to herself. She was never speaking to her tattletale brother again. Never. “Because none of you trust me or my judgment.”
A stricken expression flashed in her mother’s cornflower blue eyes. Her lips softened and she reached out and stroked Amalia’s shoulder. “Oh, darling, that’s not true. It’s quite the opposite actually. As I was saying in your room, before we were interrupted, your father and I—”
“Ursula, you must tell us about your meeting with President Grant. Jay said that you believe we can trust him, that his apology to the Jewish community was sincere.” A man with a graying mustache wedged his body between them, threading his arm through her mother’s
.
Typical.
A sharp stab pinched Amalia’s core, as she took a step back from the woman who everyone always vied to snatch a piece of—leaving so little for her.
Her mother bounced on her toes and craned her neck to catch Amalia’s eye. “I’ll—”
“You’ll be back. We’ll talk later.” They wouldn’t and her mother would feel bad. And the next day a new gown or hair comb or expensive powder or perfume from England would appear in Amalia’s room. Like the toys and ribbons and sweets had when she was a child. She raised her chin to her mother’s retreating back. “Don’t fret, Mother.”
Her mother gave her a small wave before being swallowed in a sea of bodies. Amalia patted her hair and snatched a few olives and some cheese from the hors d’oeuvres table. She glanced around. She should visit with her sister, make small talk, but out of the corner of her eye she spotted a familiar beard, near a door. David. Thad’s coat was a little snug on him, wasn’t it?
