{b}William{/b}
Though his mother, worried about a possibility of rain, implored him to take the family carriage, he went on horseback. He found the exercise beneficent for his body and the lively ride to the seaside—refreshing for his mind. Before he left, Vanessa wished him a good rest, and Alexandra complained about wanting to go with him. But more than anything, he felt that he needed rest and solitude, and for once in his life, he was going to be selfish.
During his ride to Brighton, it did not rain, but the sky was cloudy; William wished for a bit of sun, but knew better than to hope for it. Yet, he did find some disagreeable beauty in the overcast sky and the gray, roaring expanse of the sea. Having arrived to Brighton, he inquired at the inn whether his valet had arrived with things, and, having received an answer to the negative, handed Zanzibar over to the inn attendant, and walked to the seashore.
As a boy, William often came to Brighton with his father. Sir Isaiah, with his somewhat melancholy nature, taught his children to see beauty in nature, and ever since then, William had always preferred the serenity of the countryside to the tumult of the city; even when nature itself chose to be anything but serene. Right now, standing on a crag over the turbulent sea, his eyes closed, he greedily inhaled the briny seaside air. He felt that all the pain and worry of the past six months were slowly letting go of him. And it was when he turned around, to walk back to the inn, that he saw her.
He could barely believe his eyes; she stood a little way off, huddling against the wind, which was playing rough with her many skirts and petticoats; it seemed that a moment longer, and she should fly away. Her sister, Miss Elena, was with her; she was saying something to her, softly, completely inaudible to him behind the grumbling of the sea; Miss de Lara was smiling back at her sister, and William saw that love and gratitude shone in the look she gave Miss Elena.
For a moment, he hesitated and wondered if he should simply walk away; after all, he still remembered what Vanessa said to him the morning she returned from visiting the de Laras.
He had woken up late, and found himself still sitting in the chair in front of the fireplace, a warm plaid covering him and a cruel headache reminding him why he so rearely partook of hard liquor. He went upstairs and took a long bath, faced with all the inconvenience of doing it without his valet, left at Bloomfield; when he came downstairs, fresh and cleanly shaven, but still ailing, Vanessa was already there. She had just come in and was taking off her hat and gloves. He asked her where she had gone; she turned to him, and he was taken aback by her expression.
Concerned, he inquired what had happened. She made an angry sound and waved her hand. William waited for her to gain her composure; finally, she said:
“I went to speak with your Jewess.”
“What?!” He was immediately very angry. “I have not asked you to do so!”
“I know,” she said. “But yesterday, you were in no condition to ask anyone anything.”
“It is an outrage! To speak to her about what? And she isn’t mine, by the way!”
“Apparently not,” Vanessa went into the living room, and he followed her, white from headache and anger. “So she told me.”
“She told you what?”
Vanessa turned around. “I went to tell her that you were besotted with her.”
“Vanessa, how could you?!”
“Well, aren’t you?” she asked calmly.
He looked down at his shoes, shaken that his sister was able to see inside him better than he, himself, was.
“Aren’t you?” she repeated. “Aren’t you, Will?”
“Well,” he sighed. “I have to—yes, I am quite—quite smitten with her.”
“Well, I went to tell her that.”
“And?”
“And she told me that it was the best thing altogether if you forgot about her.”
He was lost; though angry with Vanessa for taking matters into her own hands, William had hoped, for a brief second, that her envoy had proved successful.
“She said that?” he muttered, rather pitifully.
“Yes. And also, that she would have to sacrifice too much if she were to marry you.”
“She said that to you?”
“She did as much. So I have to agree with her,” Vanessa went on bitterly, “the best thing to do would be to forget her. Oh!” she cried, as she walked away. “Insufferable conceit!”
Then, left standing in the middle of his mother’s drawing-room, William felt lost, angry, even insulted; his anger, however, soon subsided and left room for the understanding that if she were at all sensible, Miss De Lara could offer his sister no other reply. For his own purposes, he was not at all sure that he was prepared to weather the societal disapprobation and marry a Jewess; he was quite smitten with her, but he had others to think of, including his three unmarried siblings all of whom still needed to make good matches. And even if he were to offer her marriage, he had to consider that for her, it might not be the best solution—which, in spite of himself, he still saw as quite incredible, for he knew that, with fifteen thousand pounds a year and an exceedingly good name, he made a desirable match. William took it on faith that Miss de Lara’s losses, in case of their union, would be at least equivalent to his own. So in his mind, he congratulated himself on Miss Stella Rosa de Lara’s good sense in this matter, wished her, with all honesty, a good marriage, and resolved to forget her as soon as possible.
By God, he even thought he had almost succeeded.
Almost. For as he stood there, watching her, thinking feverishly whether to approach, a hurricane of senses seized him. His heart beat wildly, and his throat became painfully dry. His body reacted in other ways, as well, for which he chastised himself cruelly, for he thought them base. Indeed, the sight of her was an onslaught on all his senses and feelings; for he was gripped with desire, shame, anguish, longing. And it was only when it became obvious that she saw him, and it was no longer proper to stand aside, did he approach.
“Miss de Lara,” he bowed, and then, turning to her sister, “Miss Elena.”
The women curtsied, the wind messing with their hair. “Sir William,” Stella Rosa de Lara said ceremoniously, and he noticed, for the first time, that as she smiled, dimples appeared on her cheeks. “How pleasant to see you.”
“You have been at Brighton—long?” he squinted against the wind.
“Only two days,” Miss de Lara answered. “And you?”
He told them that he had only just arrived; he mumbled congratulations on her engagement; he inquired after their parents. Miss de Lara, to the visible consternation of her gentle sister, asked if he would walk with them to their inn, and he gladly agreed. He was immensely pleased to see that she was not bitter or angry at him for the liberty Vanessa took; indeed, as they approached the inn, she said:
“Sir William, your sister visited me several weeks ago.”
He waited for her to continue, saying nothing, his heart beating wildly; Miss Elena looked as if she was wishing for a crack in the earth to fall through.
“I was ill at the time; I am afraid I may have been uncivil towards her,” Miss de Lara went on. “I hope that she holds no resentment for that.”
“I am sure she has none.”
“Would you still be so kind as to give her my most sincere apologies?”
He assured her that he would. He wished, more than anything in the world, to ask her whether her feelings had changed since Vanessa’s visit, and that prompted him to inquire of himself whether his own did. So instead, he asked her:
“How long are you to stay at Brighton?”
“For the next three weeks,” she said. “My betrothal is to take place on April 28, and we shall stay here until a week before.”
He muttered felicitations again, hiding his eyes, but not even to the most casual observer could his pronouncements to her happiness seem genuine. Miss Elena de Lara, red in the face, could not feign propriety any longer and escaped, pathetically, pointing to the figure of their mother near the inn.
“I must go,” she stumbled over words, “Must ask mama something. Stella Rosa, shall you join me soon?” she asked, making large round eyes at her sister. The latter assured her that she would and Miss Elena walked, nay, nearly ran away.
William and Miss de Lara continued to walk towards the inn, now in silence, as it was no longer necessary to pretend. He kept throwing clandestine glances at her, and found her lovely—more so than when he saw her in London—indeed, it was now certain that she was lovely, even with her hair loosely pinned on the back of her head, and a simple shawl around her shoulders, moreover, precisely like that, yes, precisely like that she was at her loveliest. What was even more unsettling was that their silence was by no means uncomfortable; it seemed to him that he could walk like that for miles, as long as her soothing presence was near.
“Well, we have arrived,” she said, stopping in front of the inn. “Are you staying here as well?” He confirmed that he did. “You must dine with us, then,” she said. “Or, as the case may be, we must dine together.”
William bowed sharply and watched her walk away; once again, he found that her figure was most comely. Indeed, in the last hour, the adjectives that came to mind as he thought of her beauty, grace and intelligence were only of the most superlative kind.
After she was gone, he ran up to his room, where Barrington, his valet, was already waiting with his things.
“Run me a bath!” William snapped, and added, “Cold!”
“Cold, sir?” Barrington asked, perplexed.
“Yes, cold!” William was rapidly tearing off his coat, his vest, then his shirt. He then stopped and waited for Barrington to finish with the bath; after which, he dismissed him and finished undressing. As he slipped into the bathtub, the water was unbearably cold, but it served its purpose and soothed his yearning. William could now think more clearly, though at risk for pneumonia.
With a small yelp, he shot out of the bathtub, wrapped himself in a warm robe and fell into a chair in front of the crackling fireplace, shaking. He had two options available to him: he could go, or he could stay. In the first case, the much-needed rest would once again elude him, and he would feel like a most despicable coward. In the second case, he would still most likely get no rest, but at least, his torture would be sweet. And so it was decided: he was going to stay at Brighton for the next three weeks, much as he planned, and enjoy his acquaintance with Miss de Lara to the fullest.
Even if it was going to cost him his heart.
***********************************
{b}Stella Rosa{/b}
It was pure torture: not only was he staying at Brighton at the same time with us, he even rented a room at the very same inn. And his first night at Brighton, he came down to dinner at the inn and sat at my side. I threw sideways glances at him, which, I knew did not escape Elena's watchful--and disapproving--eye. I noticed that he had large hands--graceful, but decidedly masculine.
"Miss de Lara," he asked me quietly, "how is it that you are able to eat here?"
"Sometimes," I replied, just as quietly, "we are forced to break the rules of kashrut. I would much like to adhere to them, but it would make this trip of ours quiet impossible."
"And have you been enjoying your visit?"
"Very much so, sir," I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster at the moment.
"Have you been to Brighton before?"
"Never," I said. "I had never been out of London before."
"Ah yes, I remember you saying that before."
"Have you? Been to Brighton before?"
"Many times," he said, nodding. "With my father, as a child."
"So you know the town pretty well?"
"Yes."
"And the coastline?"
"Most definitely."
"Perhaps I can then beg of you to show me around--for I am quite beside myself locked here at the inn." I almost added "with my mother and sisters," but thought better of it. All the while, as I was asking of him to serve as my guide to Brighton, I kept querying myself on the prudence of my behavior: what on Earth was I doing?
"I shall be honored," he said, "to serve as your guide."
"Perhaps Elena can come as well," I made a half-hearted attempt to add propriety to our conversation, but it was hardly necessary, as he threw a glance at me, which spoke volumes to the fact that my sister's presence would be neither necessary, nor desirable.
"Stella Rosa," My sister Margarita said from across the table, "why, you have the good gentleman's ear all to yourself. Pray tell us, Sir William, all about your travels. My brother and his wife cannot say enough of your travel accounts!"
He seemed embarrassed, looking down. "Mr. de Lara grossly exaggerated the extent of my travels," he said.
"I am certain he did not," I said quietly, making sure that he was the only one to hear me. "Enrique never lies or exaggerates."
Margarita and my mother continued to implore him; he gave in and told the tale of the Great Clock of Death in Prague. The story was appropriately gruesome: the subject of blinding and medieval punishment served to provide conversation for the rest of the supper.
Later that night, as he was about to retire to his room, I asked Sir William whether he could show me around Brighton to-morrow. He bowed sharply in acquiescence, and we said our good-byes for the night.
As we later went up to our rooms, I heard Margarita say to Mother:
"He is entertaining enough--for a goy." My sister was certainly the most two-faced creature I knew. Later, as we were preparing to go to bed, I dismissed of all of Elena's attempts to speak to me about my behavior at supper. She finally became offended, climbed into the bed and turned her face to the wall. My heart was instantly softened: I climbed into bed next to her, and forcibly turned her around. I was startled to see that Elena had tears in her eyes.
"You're crying!" I exclaimed, touched.
"I am frightened for you, Stella Rosa!" she said. "You never did tell me what his sister come to speak to you about! For all I know, you may be lovers already!"
I could but laugh at her ridiculous suggestion. "My dearest Elena, I shall tell you presently what Vanessa Hester spoke to me about!"
After I did, she whispered, looking at me mournfully. "So he is besotted with you, then."
"She thought so. But I made it clear to her that I could not return his sentiments--and after all, any such sentiments he might have are by no means certain..."
"And what if they were?" Elena inquired, angrily.
I said nothing, falling back on the pillows. Sir William Hester was by far the most attractive--pleasant, amiable, interesting--man I had ever met. In his company, I was simply tumbling in love with him; away from it, I missed it dearly. This, however, was not what I told Elena.
"It is nothing," I said resolutely. "Listen, Elena, darling. In a month, I am to be betrothed to a man whom I heartily dislike--a stupid, crude, uninteresting creature. If I am given a gift of company of someone who is exceedingly pleasant--just for a short time--how am I not to take it?"
"But your good name--"
"I shall do nothing to jeopardize it, Elena," I reassured her. "And I am certain, he, being a gentleman, won't do anything of the sort, either."
"Margarita says that they do not see us as equal," Elena worried. "Perhaps he will not see you as a lady of his upbrigning, and will not afford you the same civility?"
"He is a gentleman," I said firmly. "I cannot imagine that he would treat me any worse because of my race. If you so wish, do come with us tomorrow and be my chaperone."
***********************************
{b}William{/b}
As he had promised, William escorted Miss de Lara and Miss Elena to the beach; the three of them walked down, towards water’s edge, where the sea and the earth fought their perpetual battle over a natural frontier. The waves lapped away at the sand and the ladies’ petticoats. William loathed the idea of water in his boots and stayed well in the dry area. Miss Elena shied away, gathering her skirts about her; at first, she tried to walk in a dignified manner, but very soon, William saw her scurry away from the waves. Her sister’s laughter followed her—lively and pealing, like the ringing of a silver bell. Miss de Lara herself chased after the waves as they retreated—only to dash back to dry land as they advanced and pursued her, again and again. Finally, a particularly large wave thrashed the shore and caught up with the young woman, mercilessly soaking her feet and petticoats.
“Oh, Stella Rosa!” her sister cried. “Look what happened! You are all soaked now!”
Laughing madly, Miss de Lara walked to a large stone and leaned against it, her back to them. A moment later, before either William or Miss Elena had anything to say, she was standing before them, suddenly barefoot, holding her shoes and stockings in her hand. “I might as well!” she said, making a flippant head movement at the water, and before her sister or William managed to say anything, threw her shoes on the sand and ran towards the tide, holding her skirts up, so that William, though embarrassed beyond reason, could throw a furtive glance or two at her shapely legs.
Miss Elena wrought her hands, watching her sister play in the tide, the bottom of her skirt now dark with sea water. “She is sure to get pneumonia now!” she cried. “Oh, Sir William, she is my older sister, why is she so reckless!”
William himself was at a loss for words. This kind of behavior was utterly unacceptable, improper, unworthy of a young, well brought-up, lady: William would never tolerate it from Vanessa or Ali. Now, however, he stared, in confusion and endearment, at this amazing young woman, so eager to be alive, so ready to disregard the rules of the proper society, so beautiful and enticing as she frolicked in the waves. He knew that it would be proper to be dismayed at such wild behavior, but the only thing he truly felt was admiration of her spirit, her liveliness, her incredible joie de vivre.
Together with Miss Elena, they finally coaxed Miss de Lara out of the water. She came out, her hair wild again—it positively refused to stay put, he thought darkly, as he was drawn, overwhelmingly, to run his fingers through these dark tresses—small drops of water shining in her curls. Her dress was thoroughly ruined now, but she was laughing, and, as she raised her eyes at him, he saw in them the vast joy of living in the moment. With almost a physical difficulty, he tore his gaze away from her face.
“You are going to get a most severe cold,” he said curtly, taking off his coat and throwing it over her shoulders. She thanked him and the three of them walked back to the inn—the older sister still giddy, grinning happily; the younger—surly and displeased at her wild behavior; and their escort—pale and tight-lipped in his appearance, but inside, torn between passion and propriety.
Having deposited the sisters in the care of their mother and promised to be back by tea, William mused, for a short while, on what to do next. Of course, he could go up to his room and have Barrington pour cold water over him; but that involved a certain degree of embarrassment. He could simply go for a walk, but as his thoughts invariably returned to Miss de Lara, he doubted that the walk would do him much good. For a short moment, he was at an utter loss: though possessed of a passionate nature, William had never before been in a situation where his mind could not fully command his flesh. Then, all of a sudden, he knew what he must do.
William turned around and walked back to the beach. There, in a secluded spot, he disrobed and hid most of his clothing, his cane and his boots under a large rock. He now wore but his breeches; the sand felt lumpy and damp under his bare feet. William turned and faced the sea. He closed his eyes, listening to its even growl; he felt the gentle breezes caress his bare chest and shoulders.
Finally, having taken a deep breath, he ran towards the blinding waves and dove in. It immediately became difficult to breathe and nearly impossible to move and he struggled with the waves, as his own movements became confused and served to propel him down rather than forth. But only a moment later, he prevailed, and swam onward, his movements graceful and powerful at the same time.
William came out of the water only a short time later and found, to his great dismay, that though his body had calmed down, his mind certainly had not. It was in just as great a state of flux as before, as it argued vociferously with his heart. It was most confounding, indeed: in his mind, he saw clearly all of her faults, not the least of which were her race and religion. But his heart! Oh, his heart. His heart melted every time he thought of her. Where his mind saw oddity, his heart only noticed sweet freshness and originality; what his mind perceived as a lack of decorum, his heart declared to be pure sparkle. So, bewildered and very cold, William dressed sloppily and made his way back to the inn.
That night, he joined them at supper. Other boarders dining with them included a wealthy widow, Mrs. Matlock, with two children, a adolescent lanky boy and a quiet, reticent girl a few years older; a decorated Army major, an invalid, whose chair was wheeled to the supper table by his attendant; a clergyman and his young wife on their honeymoon; and an absent-minded, bespectacled, scientist, who every day went out to the shore in search of interesting seashells. Some of the boarders were certainly people at or close to William’s station, but, to his own surprise, he found himself unconsciously keeping close to Mrs. de Lara and her three daughters.
All through the supper, numerous looks were exchanged over the table:
William noticed that both the major’s aide and the widow’s young son shot glances at Miss de Lara, the first one—furtively, mindful of the rules of propriety, the second one—brashly and openly, as he was too young and hot-blooded to concern himself with etiquette. One could fairly say that he all but stared at her all through the evening. William was first amused, but his amusement quickly changed to irritation after he noticed that she was flirting with the assistant. William himself was the object of keen attention, both by the minister’s pretty wife and the old widow, who obviously saw him as a fitting target for her matrimonial designs regarding her daughter.
“Lord Hester,” the widow cooed, “do you come to London often?”
“As rarely as I can manage it, madam,” he answered earnestly.
“So you stay mainly at your estate in –shire?”
“I do, madam.”
“Ah!” she clasped her hands in front of her monumental bosom. “But isn’t the society dreadfully lacking in the country?” she inquired.
“I find that my demands for society are well served by my neighbors in –shire,” he replied. “They are fine people, and I do find large gatherings oppressive.”
“But what about finding a wife—can that be easily done without attending, as you call them, large gatherings?” the woman pressed tactlessly. William noticed that Miss de Lara, sitting across from him, rolled her eyes most spitefully.
“I should not know that, madam,” he said, cross, “for I have not looked for one. I suppose that when I do, the country should do just splendidly.”
“But the girls in the country!” Mrs. Matlock scoffed derisively. “They cannot possibly be as refined as those in London are!”
“Perhaps,” William said, truly addressing it to Miss de Lara, “I should not be looking for “refined.””
“Rightly so, my boy, rightly so!” the old major barked, curtly. “The women in town are positively loose, I tell you!”
With a strange, perverse, pleasure, he turned to Miss de Lara—she was gazing at him serenely, wholly composed, though somewhat pale—and continued. “The qualities should look for in a wife are just as easily—and perhaps more so—is found in country ladies as it is in London ones.”
“Pray, tell, sir,” Miss de Lara said, not taking her emerald green eyes off his face, “what are these qualities that you should look for?”
“Good manners,” he said, harshly. “Seriousness. Propriety.”
“If that is all you look for, sir, then true, you could find it almost anywhere,” she said softly and turned away, immediately engrossing herself in a conversation with Mr. Pennington, major’s aide.
The conversation at the table, in the meantime, has taken a different turn.
“Have you heard,” the major inquired sonorously, his deep baritone covering the rest of the conversation, “that upstart Jew Rothschild is contending for Parliament again?”
Oh, Lord! William threw a quick glance at the de Lara women. The palpable disapprobation with which the old major referred to the most illustrious among their people had left them lost. Mrs. de Lara lowered her eyes to her plate, as if accustomed and resolved to this sort of discourse; her oldest daughter, Mrs. Abravanel, grew red in the face and pursed her lips tightly, and her youngest one became deathly pale. As to Miss de Lara, she turned her head towards the speaker, in obvious interest, but, unlike her sisters, did not seem particularly hurt.
“It is true,” the widowed Mrs. Matlock agreed. “These people have no shame!”
“Pray tell, sir,” William asked, “why do you think Baron Rothschild to be an upstart?”
“You should know, sir, your family goes back for centuries! Probably to William the Conqueror, does it?”
William stifled a smile. “I am duly impressed, Major, that you know the history of my family so well—“
“Well,” the major seemed flattered, “I do dabble at heraldry, sir.”
“—but I would just as well have you answer my question. Why is Baron Rothschild an upstart?”
“Sir William! Pray, do not tell me that you should want Jews in the Parliament!” Mrs. Matlock piped up.
“I should have no objection to their being there,” William replied coolly, “as long as they are duly elected, as Baron Rothschild has been, for the past several years. But the Major still has not answered my question.”
“Very well,” the major said. “The Jews are a plague, sir, if you are so interested in my opinion.”
“I am very interested, sir. Why are they a plague?”
“Well,” dared the young minister, timidly, “They are the non-believers, sir? They reject Christ!”
“So do the Moslems, and the Chinese, yet it would not occur to you to call them a plague.”
“And the Good Book teaches us that in their rejection of Christ they have murdered Him!”
“Dear Sir!” William turned to the minister. “You amaze me! The Good Book says many things, including prohibiting the combined wearing of linen and wool—yet I do notice that you are wearing what looks like a linen shirt under an obviously woolen waistcoat!”
The major was now becoming exceedingly red. “I do not see the thrust of your query, sir!” he protested. “You wish to know why I think Rothschild to be an upstart—very well, I shall tell you. The Jews are a plague, my good sir, because they attempt to smother every people to which they attach themselves—with most preferred occupation, usury. Which is how maison Rothschild made its money—by sucking off the people who had given them shelter, first in Amsterdam, then here! If you consider that every Christian country that had ever welcomed them soon closed their door to them—”
“Whatever you think of Mr. Rothschild, sir, it is preposterous to deny him a seat in the Parliament based on an antiquated oath,” William said. “His constituents keep electing him—it should not be up to you or me to say that he should not serve because his faith is different from ours!”
“Lord Hester,” the minister protested, “you do make light of a very serious matter!”
“Quite the opposite, sir, I think it is an extremely serious matter—a British citizen is being denied his rights—based on a prejudice.”
The minister objected: “The oath clearly states: “I swear on the true faith of a Christian—’ That cannot be done away with! Christianity, our one true faith, is one of the cornerstones of our system of government!”
“Well,” the major quipped heavy-handedly, “You give them another year or two—and you shall see, they will jew their way around this problem!”
“You are a bigot, sir!” William heard and saw Miss de Lara stand. Her expression was most irate, and the fire, which William saw burn in her deep emerald eyes, made them even more bti. “And a fool,” she added, raising her chin proudly. “You spout these hateful words, and yet, I am most sure, you do not know a single Jew.”
The supper party sat quietly, deeply shocked. Miss de Lara’s family were all obviously and painfully shamed. William watched her, breathless, sharply aware of her loveliness and fire.
“Baron Rothschild keeps running for Parliament and winning , and that but does your countrymen an honor. No,” she corrected herself, “it does my countrymen an honor. For I am a British citizen, born in this country—generations of my ancestors have been born here, ever since Mr. Cromwell allowed us to return. You speak true in our respect, sir,” she continued, “we have been driven out of many lands, including this one. But I have always believed that it was due to the vicious prejudice of our offenders—not that we somehow deserved religious persecution, murder and wholesale expulsion. At least, that we deserved it no more than the man who translated the Bible into English did, from Sir Thomas More, or any and all, who were ever persecuted for their religion. But you justify your own prejudice by thinking otherwise—and I do so pity you!”
“And you, minister,” she turned to the young clergyman. “Remember always that you built your religion on ours. Remember, sir, that when your ancestors lived in caves, mine built the Great Temple in Jerusalem and lay the foundation for the Good Book you so love. After all,” she said, smirking, “Jesus Christ was a Jew.”
An audible gasp flew around the room as she said this; she left her seat, placed her hand on Miss Elena’s shoulder and said, gently:
“Mother, sisters, shall you not come upstairs with me? This company has gotten stale.”
Hiding their eyes, the three other de Lara women rose and filed out of the room. Before she left, however, Miss de Lara stopped near William’s chair.
“Shall you join us in lighting the candles tonight, Sir William?” she asked, smiling.
“The candles?”
“Yes. Tonight is the eve of Sabbath for us. Hebrew women light candles each Friday night. Have you ever seen it done?”
“No, I have not,” he confessed.
“You may find it interesting,” she promised. He looked up, and her smile warmed his heart.
“I shall be honored to join you tonight,” he assured her.
“Splendid,” she said, turned around, and left the assembly. After the light sounds of her steps disappeared outside, the party came alive and buzzed angrily.
“I do say!” The major grinned. “What a lusty lass! Pennington, she has surely told me off, hasn’t she?”
“Such poor upbringing!” the widow opined. “I have heard it said that their women are brazen and masculine, and now I have witnessed it myself!”
“Awful, just awful,” the minister fussed. “Such outright insult to our faith! I think we shall change our lodgings presently, dearest,” he turned to his wife.
“We shall do no such thing,” she replied coldly, eyeing William greedily from her seat.
The scientist looked the supper party above his spectacles, visibly disturbed by something—perhaps by the altogether sudden disappearance of Miss Elena, who had served as a willing and attentive outlet for his theory of mollusk development—and said, incredulously:
“I thought they were Spanish!”
“I thought she was splendid!” Mrs. Matlock’s young son interjected, suddenly. “And she was fair, too! The major has said dreadful things about her people! Oh, I do wish I were older!”
“Oh, Stephen, do hush up!” his mother burst. “How dare you! Sir William, I do hope that you do not go up to participate in their barbaric custom! ” she scoffed. “We shall have dancing instead, shan’t we, Emma?” she inquired of her pallid creature of a daughter.
“I do hate to disappoint you, madam,” he replied, rising from his seat. “Yet I must. I have already promised to be there. Cannot break a gentleman’s word.”
And, amidst everybody’s utter disbelief, William took his leave.
******
That night, he knocked on the door of their apartments. Mrs. Abravanel opened and was, to his utter distress, immediately all smiles.
“You were our defender today, sir!” she cooed.
William was decidedly uncomfortable with this; he had argued with a major partly out of his regard for Miss de Lara, but even more so, because he could not stand the man’s stupidity. He tried his best to ignore Mrs. Abravanel’s insincere words and her obsequious manner; for behind her, he already observed her younger sister, standing near the dinner table, holding a tall candle.
He entered their drawing room and approached Miss de Lara, who stood, her head lowered, looking down at the candle she held.
“Every time I see such behavior in seemingly rational, honorable people—I begin to think that Beni is right,” she said softly, dejectedly.
“Beni?”
“My oldest brother. He think we should do well if we were to cut all ties of friendship between us and—and them.”
“I cannot judge whether your brother is right, Miss de Lara,” he said, and, suddenly bold, gently drew his fingertips down the back side of her hand, “but I would regret it most cruelly, should I lose your friendship.”
She shuddered at his touch and shot a glance at him, before quickly hiding her eyes. “What you said in there,” she whispered. “Was it simply said for our sake?”
He answered her with all possible honesty.
“I do not know,” he said. “I believe everything I said. But should I have been so vocal in arguing it, had it not been for you?” She looked up at him again. “I do not know, Miss de Lara. I should like to think that, but I do not know.”
She smiled easier. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for your honesty, Sir William.”
Her mother and sisters entered, all carrying candles—her mother and Mrs. Abravanel had two each, and Miss Elena only had one.
“It is time, daughters,” Mrs. De Lara said, and the women gathered around the table. Miss de Lara furtively pointed at a spot next to her, which William took, hesitant. The room had been made dim, and, as the four women lit their candles, six in all, their faces became loci of light amidst the shadows. After Miss Elena blew out the match, the women covered their faces with their hands, and Mrs. De Lara led them in a prayer.
William watched them, listening to the strange, hoarse tongue, in which they said their prayer. He took the language to be Hebrew, because it sounded more like what he had heard when traveling in the Mahreb than what he had heard in Mr. Enrique de Lara’s house. He suddenly felt very alone, as he was not privy to their private congress with God.
William was glad when they took their hands away from their faces and Miss de Lara whispered, giving him a most joyful smile,
“El Sabado es un dia de la gloria!”
That he understood, and he returned her smile, hoping that his unsure grin betray all the admiration and awe he had come to feel for this woman.
***********************************
{b}Stella Rosa{/b}
On Friday night, my sister Margarita was angry with me for betraying us to our neighbors. She was worried that now that everyone at the inn knew that we were of the Hebrew persuasion, she would be lacking in society. Indeed, I thought, a great loss it should be if she had no-one to discuss the latest fashions with!
“Would you rather Stella Rosa sat quietly and bore that outrage?” Elena asked her.
“It is not the first, nor the last time that she may have to,” our mother said curtly.
“The man was a boor, mother,” I said. “I am sure that Father would reply to him much as I did.”
“I am not so sure of that,” Mother said, smiling. “Either of your brothers, perhaps, but not your father.”
“And even if he did, you are not our father!” Margarita snapped. “You are a girl, and it befits you to hold your tongue!”
“Oh, hush, Margarita,” I said. “It befits you to stay at home with that belly of yours, and yet you insist on going out! Take care not to have your babe down at the beach!”
Margarita wheezed, outraged, and Elena and I escaped to our room. There, I climbed on the bed, holding my knees to my chest.
“Oh, Elena, did you see him?” I whispered to my sister. “He was magnificent !”
“Yes, he was quite—quite good.” Elena smiled, softly. “Quite kind.”
“I think he likes me, Elena,” I seized my sister’s hand.
“There is nothing to think, Stella Rosa,” she answered. “He is clearly quite besotted with you.”
“Is it really so obvious?”
”How you can fail to see it is beyond me. He does not take his eyes off your face;
when he speaks, he only speaks to you—even if he addresses himself to someone else or to all; when he sees you enter the room, his face simply lights up.”
I sighed and closed my eyes. As I heard of his affection for me, I, too, grew quite smitten.
“But,” I heard my sister wise voice, “Stella Rosa, I hope that as an honorable man, he will keep his emotions at bay.”
I opened my eyes. “Why as an honorable man? What has that to do with honor?”
Elena did not say anything, but lowered and hid her eyes.
“You do not believe that he should want to marry me, isn’t it so?”
“No, I do not believe so,” Elena said. “Whatever he said at dinner tonight, it may
be quite a different matter when it comes to marriage.”
“Oh, come off it, Elena,” I was now angry. “Must you go and ruin my beautiful fantasy?”
“I do hate to remind you of it,” she whispered, “but you are to be betrothed to Marcus d’Almazan at the end of the month.”
The mention of the hated name completed my misery. Angry with my sister for reminding me, but most of all, with myself, for keeping my head in the clouds, I stormed out of the room.
I went down the back staircase, so as to avoid being questioned by my mother or Margarita. I walked down the street, towards the beach, and very soon, felt a cool seaside breeze caress my face.
Elena was right, of course. I simply could not imagine that a gentleman of Sir William’s station would disregard the opinion of his peers so callously as to marry a woman of a race so despised and hated. True, he had defended my people at supper; but there was an abyss of difference between showing the magnanimity of his soul among those so unequal to him in worth and intelligence and connecting his very life with someone who was fundamentally different from him in faith, upbringing and even race.
This could not be expected; it would be a life-long ordeal—to struggle, every day of his life, to justify the most important choice of his life to those dearest to him—and could not be asked of him.
Thinking thus, I reached the tide, and this time, stayed away, mindful of my wild morning frolic in the waves. After all, I only had two pairs of outside shoes with me, and the other one was already thoroughly ruined. Now that I thought about it, perhaps it was not such a good thing to behave so; Sir William did seem to be displeased with me, and at supper, he made a point to show how much he disapproved of my wild behavior. I thought, with a great surprise, that his esteem meant more to me than that of my brothers or parents; the only person, whose disdain would pain me more was my Elena.
“Miss de Lara!” I heard, and, turning around, saw him. “What are you doing here so late?” he inquired. “It is already completely dark and you are here all alone.”
“I stepped out for a walk, sir,” I answered. He was hatless, and the evening breeze played gently with his dark curls. For a moment, I imagined him placed among those I loved best, and, to my own amusement, I thought that he would blend perfectly in. “And you, sir, what forces drive you outside so late at night?”
He grinned sheepishly, hiding his eyes. “I saw you leave out of the window of my room, Miss de Lara.”
“And you had nothing better to do than follow me! What a delightful thing to do for a gentleman! Spying on a lady, indeed!”
“Not spying,” he hastened to object, “but perhaps, meaning to be near, should my assistance be of need!”
“Very well,” I said, observing his honest, serious mien. “It may be that I shall need your help and protection, dear sir. Walk with me a little, Sir William.”
We walked down the beach, towards the gigantic shadow of an old light-house, many years since abandoned.
“What do you want here?” he asked me.
“Ever since I’ve come to Brighton, I have been meaning to climb up there. I cannot do it during the day, since it would cause the objections of too many, including my own mother and sisters. I could not sleep and thought that now, perhaps, would be a good time.”
“But you shan’t see anything in the dark,” he said.
“But during daytime, I shan’t climb at all,” I replied, and, seeing him hesitate, pulled the heavy wooden door open, and slid inside.
Of course, I had had no previous design to climb the exceedingly tall light-house—it was simply a wild notion, partly inspired by his posturing during dinner. I regretted it immediately: inside, it was pitch black, the air was foul, and in general, it was all positively frightening. And Sir William was perfectly correct—I would barely see anything at all, some lights perhaps, but nothing worth such a labor. But now that I have made it so obvious to him that it has been my fondest wish for the past week to scale the terrifying tower, I could not admit defeat and come out. So, without much heart, sickened by the stale air and frightened by the dark, I began climbing.
The door behind me opened and closed, and for a second, I froze on the steps.
“Sir William?” I asked tremulously.
There was no answer.
Then, a match alit, and in the circle of light, I saw his face.
“Shall we?” he inquired, pointing to the spiral staircase.
A quarter of an hour later, we stopped. We were both weary, breathing heavily, and he had taken off his coat; in a narrow staircase, visible only due to the faint moonlight, which was seeping through the small windows, we stood, facing each other, he, wiping perspiration off of his forehead, I, still clutching my skirts instinctively, though there was no longer the danger of tripping over them (in general, I found that ladies’ attire was poorly suited for such adventures!).
“Why did you bring me here, Miss de Lara?” he asked, suddenly, and I had to confess that it was all purely on the spur of the moment. And then I added, marveling at my own presumption:
“Perhaps, there is yet another reason.”
“Pray, tell,” he said, fairly wheezing.
“I feel that with you, I do not need to pretend or think of propriety.”
“Why so?”
“Because I—Because my world is so far away from yours. Because our paths should never have crossed—and they only did because you were liberal enough to hire my relation as your solicitor. Because in three weeks, I am to be officially betrothed to a man who is as different from you as an ox is from a lion.”
He was silent, and I continued.
“Had there been a whisper of opportunity for me to secure your affection, I would endeavor to achieve the ideal you described at supper today. I should be quite proper and serious, you may depend on that. But as it is, in two weeks we shall part forever, and I may as well enjoy them—my remaining two weeks of sweet freedom. And in your company, dear sir, such enjoyment is guaranteed to me.”
He did not say anything for a long time. Then, quietly, he inquired:
“So I take it, Miss de Lara, that your fiancé is not altogether to your liking?”
“He is as good a man as any, I suppose,” I lied. “No,” I corrected myself. “I am lying to you, and I have promised myself that I shan’t. He is not a good man, not a good man at all, at least for forcing me into marrying him. And no, he is far from being to my liking. But it looks to me like you have gathered your breath?”
I turned around and started up the stairs, this time not caring, particularly, if he followed me. He did, silent; in another fifteen or twenty minutes, we reached the top.
To our common surprise, our arduous scramble was well worth it. Through a large window, whence the guiding light once shone to the mariners, the most incredible panorama opened to our eyes. On the firmament of ebon velvet, incalculable stars, so large and brilliant as diamonds, were scattered. The moon, perfect, round and yellow, hung low above the dark expanse of the sea, paving on its surface a broad, striking path to the shore.
“Sir William,” I whispered. “I had no idea…”
I touched the windowsill cautiously, testing if the stones were still solidly set. A few of them crumbled and I staggered back, frightened of the merciless height.
“Be careful,” he whispered, taking my elbow solicitously from the back. I made a step back and all of a sudden, in liberty previously unknown, he wound his arm around my waist and held me firmly against him.
I gasped. I wanted to break free and run; but even more so, I wanted to remain there, my back pressed safely against his masculine form, cradled in his arms. We were not meant to be; this was the only caress we were ever to allow ourselves.
“What are you doing, sir?” I whispered, driven by the very propriety I had so wantonly disclaimed but minutes ago.
“Keeping you from falling out of that window,” he whispered into my hair.
Knowing full well the regrettable consequences of my words, I asked him:
“Are you taking such a liberty with me because I am a Jewess?”
He immediately let me go and stood to the side, shamed.
“Forgive me,” he said, hiding his eyes.
“You should have just denied it,” I smiled.
“I could not bear to have you think so,” he said. “Forgive me.”
We spent the next ten or so minutes in silence and stillness, observing the beautiful vista, which opened to our eyes. Then, I turned to him, startling him, as if out of deep reverie.
“Sir William, we should return now. My family, if they have discovered my absence, must now be beside themselves.”
And as we commenced our descent, he walked slightly ahead of me, from time to time, turning around to offer me his arm; bitterly, I watched his broad back in the moon-light, thinking that Elena was right. Once again, as always, Elena was right. His almost involuntary caress, though most welcome to me, would never have happened, had he entertained any serious designs on my account, and that, of course, was impossible! I breathed with relief when we finally escaped the dark stairwell and stepped out on the deserted beach.
In the moonlight, I saw a solitary figure on the beach, and, to my great shame and consternation, recognized it to be that of my beloved sister. Calling her name, I ran towards her. Elena scolded me for disappearing and making her mad with worry; she then saw Sir William, who followed me at a slight distance, and cut herself off.
“What—where have you been?” she asked, in visible dismay, as she removed some cobwebs from my hair.
“I shall tell you later,” I told her, as Sir William approached and bowed to her.
Sir William walked Elena and me back to the inn; we were about to retire, when he asked:
“Miss de Lara, shall you do me the honor of returning to the beach with me tomorrow?”
I could not think of a good excuse, and, to tell the truth, though my heart ached after what happened in the tower, simply seeing him near was a delightful torture.
“I shall,” I said, curtsying.
Upstairs, Elena and I crept past our mother and Margarita’s room, and made it safely to our bedchamber. Sitting down in front of a mirror, I removed the remaining cobwebs from my hair and quickly undid the stifling collar of my dress. In the mirror, I saw Elena sit down on the bed.
“I do think I deserve an explanation,” she said, cross.
Feigning excitement, I turned back to her and told her that she should go up to the top of the old lighthouse before we leave Brighton. Elena ignored my advice and my praise of the most excellent vista, which opened from the top of the said lighthouse; instead, she focused on the imprudence of my behavior and particularly, on the impropriety of my escapades in the company of a man—particularly, when that man was a gentile.
“It is easy for you to say,” I answered, annoyed at her posturing. “You are to marry the man you have loved all your life; I am to be given away to a disgusting stranger! He is a gentleman and will do me no harm; and who is to know of this, unless you tell?”
“That is, unless Margarita notices.”
“She will not. She is too preoccupied with the subscription to the Journal des Modes, which this excellent establishment receives.”
“But I am to become your unwilling accomplice?” Elena asked angrily.
“You cannot be my accomplice as there is no crime. But I do so cherish his company, Elena,” I could not help smiling. “No harm is to come of it—to anyone—unless you tell.”
Elena shook her head. “Well, of course, I shan’t tell! But you should know that I do disapprove of your behavior most severely!”
Once we were in bed, I tugged on the sleeve of Elena’s gown and called her name softly.
“What, Stella Rosa?” My sister whispered sleepily.
“Shall you come back to the beach with us tomorrow?” I asked.
“Pray tell, why do you need me there?”
She already knew the answer and sighed, tiredly. “I shall come, dear. If only to keep an eye on you!”
***********************************
{b}William{/b}
Standing near the inn, he endured, for a long enough time, the mindless chatter of the oldest sister, Mrs. Abravanel. She might have been as pretty as Miss de Lara herself, but he could not be the good judge of that, for she seemed silly, mean, and conniving, and irritated him exceedingly. She was also quite with child, he noticed, and he found it absolutely imrpoper that she should be out so much at such a late stage in her pregnancy; but it was also fortunate, for that meant she would not be able to come with them on their excursion, which she regretted vocally.
Finally, his wait was over, and the two young ladies, Miss de Lara and Miss Elena, came down, wearing light dresses and carrying white summer parasols; for it was a beautiful, unseasonably warm day. Having bid their good-byes to Mrs. Abravanel, the trio set off towards the coast.
They walked for a long time, listening to the pleasant warbling of the sea. Miss Elena walked a little ahead of them, hidden under her parasol, and William was thankful to her for giving them the privacy. For he had a burning question to ask Miss de Lara, and, lowering his voice, he did:
"What you said last night about my sister's visit--"
"Yes?" She quickly raised her eyes at him, and he was immediately stricken by their brilliant hue of green.
"She has related to me your answer--and I confess, it displeased me greatly."
"I am sorry for that," she said earnestly. "I was only trying to be honest."
"And I do commend you for that. Lying would be a most pernicious thing to do here."
She said nothing, and he continued."I confess, had your response been different, I would be pleased--no, thrilled."
"Sir William," she said softly. "What other answer could your sister expect from me? She was only reasonably suspicious that you--" she stumbled over words and lowered her voice all the more, "--that you liked me. You had not communicated it to her in any more certain terms."
He gupled for air. "Miss de Lara," he said. "What if I had?"
Their exchange was interrupted by a disagreeable "Oh!" emanating from Miss Elena: her parasol became inverted with wind, and was flapping in her hands like a bird, about to fly away. As it did, scuttling across the sand towards the water, William ran for it, captured it like an errant child, and brought it back to its rightful owner.
As he handed Miss Elena the parasol, she thanked him, but his eyes were on her sister: Miss de Lara was pale, and he understood the reason for that--she must have been considering his last question. What if he had made his feelings known to her? Seeing her pallor and the slight trembling of her lower lip, William almost regretted his forwardness. Unfortunately, Miss Elena now took to walking next to them, and he was unable to continue with the conversation; but his last question, asked in spite of himself and left unanswered, burned in him for the rest of the day.
The next morning, he came back to take them to the Brighton Pavillion, and found, to his great delight and simultaneous great fear, that Miss Elena was feeling out of sorts and was unable to go. He and Miss de Lara were able to walk towards the Pavillion, and under its mangificient shades, he asked her again.
"Have you considered my question, Miss De Lara?"
She had been studying a Chinese embroidery on the wall. Slowly, she turned around.
"Sir William," she said seriously and, as it seemed to him, angrily. "It is most ungracious of you to ask me questions like these. I am to be married. Have you considered that?"
He was immediately ashamed. "Yes," he said. "Forgive me. It is positively dishonorable on my part to attempt to, to--" he searched for a right word.
"To torment me," she said softly, raising her beautiful eyes to him.
"Please do forgive me," he repeated. "I was unthinking. I in no way wished to cause you any discomfort!"
Her countenance softened; she sat down on the bench and drew the tip of her shoe across the marble floor.
"Do not chastise yourself, dear Sir," she smiled. "My impending marriage is the chief reason for my discomfort. Your question the other day simply added to it--though greatly so."
He was silent, waiting for a continuance. "The only comfort I find in my situation is that I have nothing--no-one--to lose in marrying my future husband. If I should be in love with someone presently, my heart would just break. What you said yesterday--it made me think, for a momemnt, that it could, perhaps, go differently for me. That my life could take a different, happier, turn; yet, because I am powerless to affect my fate in any way--Sir William, it is pure torture!"
"Miss de Lara," he said hotly. "My sister was right about my feelings. If anything, she has grossly underestimated them. Since your conversation with Vanessa, I have not been able to think of anybody but you. When I saw you here the other day, I was conflicted--I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay, I knew that you could never be mine, and at the same time, I knew, I knew, that I could not simply walk away from you, that perhaps, this was something I could conquer."
"Sir William," she whispered, and he saw that she had tears in her eyes. "Pray, do not toy so with my poor heart! I am a Hebrew, and if you were to--to marry me, you would forever be subject to the most cruel disapprobation by your peers!"
He was suddenly kneeling in front of the bench.
"My dear Miss de Lara, I should be the last one to toy with your heart," he said passionately, and added, in a voice altogether more subdued and earnest. "For my own, I think, has been taken by you. Seeing you again has made me realize that I care little for what my peers will say! Oh, Stella..." he whispered her name for the first time, feeling the sounds of it roll off his tongue like pearls...
His last words had the most distressing effect on her. She shook her head desperately, and cried. "No! I am to be married, in three weeks' time! Why are you tormenting me so? Why are you here, on your knees, like an empty promise, like a reminder of a love I could never have?"
Suddenly, she sprung to her feet and dashed past him. He jumped up and followed her, but could not possibly chase her down the street, calling her name, without scandalizing them both. Their inn was only a block away from the Pavillion, and William saw her stop near it, gathering her composure, her face still covered with both hands. He dared not approach and could only helplessly watch as she straightened up, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and entered the inn, without so much as turning around to look at him.
***********************************
{b}Stella Rosa{/b}
My sister Margarita was sitting in the inn's drawing-room, looking idly through a Paris fashion-book.
"Back so soon?" she asked me. "And where, pray tell, is your novio?"
The word hit me like a whip; for a second, I thought that she knew. But how could she? No, my brainless, cruel, spiteful sister was only making light of me.
I ran up the stairs to the room I occupied together with Elena, and found her there, reading. Paying her no mind, I fell down on teh bed, weeping.
"Stella Rosa!" Elena was near me immediately, seizing me by the shoulders, but I only further dug my face into the pillow. "What is happening, dear sister?"
Finally, after another desperate attempt at an answer, Elena was managed to sit me up. Taking my hands away from my face, I cried:
"It's my fault, Elena, it is all my fault! I have encouraged him so thoughtlessly!"
Elena's eyes grew round, and I read the awful thought that darted, at that moment, through her mind.
"Oh, no!" I cried. "No, that is not what you think!"
"Oh, dear," Elena clasped her hands together and implored me, "Do tell me what has happened!"
Elena had refused to go with us to the Pavillion; I was still somewhat cross with her for saying that she had no desire to be a silent witness to something of which she so heartily disapproved. I now related to her everything that Sir William had said to me; her countenance became sadder and more tortured with every word I said.
"Oh, Stella Rosa, I was so afraid of it," she whispered to me. "Now what?"
"Now nothing," I said, wiping away angry tears. "He does not understand. I, myself, can barely guess what difficulties such a union would bring!"
"You are most prudent--most wise to think so, Stella Rosa," my sister said, regarding me shrewedly. "But is this really your heart talking? Would this union be agreeable to you save for these difficulties?"
"I think so," I said with a pathetic sniffle. "He is the first man in my life--save, perhaps Enrique--to speak with me as a person! If I could pursue it as a courtship, perhaps, to see what it would turn out--yes, Elena, I think this union would prove rather agreeable with my heart."
"And he seemed genuine when he said all this to you?"
"What reason would he have to lie? All this cannot lead but to problems and difficulties for him!"
Calming down a little, though a pitiful shudder did now and again ran through me, I concluded:"Affording him the same measure of trust I would give a stranger who came and confessed his love for me--yes, I think I do believe him. And oh, Elena, it breaks my heart," I whimpered.
"Now think about it this way," Elena said, reasonably. "You are sad because Father is forcing you into a marriage with a man you do not love. If you did not have to marry Marcus so soon--would you still cry about Lord Hester?"
I considered her question: without a doubt, I was smitten with Sir William. In his countenance, I saw kindness, worth, goodness and manliness altogether; he was a first man to affect me so powerfully. I twenty-one years old, a year Elena's senior, older than most of my married friends, and I had not yet met a man to make my heart flutter so. The other day, when I saw him on that cliff, as he stood there, laughing, his face raised to the sky, breathing in the seaside air, I was seized with such weakness that I thought, for a moment, I was going to fall. And now, to know that he, too, was besotted with me--and at the same time, to know that our growing regard for each other was fruitless and stood no chance in thsi world!
Elena saw that I was tortured and ran her hand through my hair. I could not bear it; tears flowed freely once again.
"Now, now," Elena said. "Do you believe him to be an honorable man?"
I could only nod, sobbing.
"I cannot give you any advice, sister," Elena sighed. "You know everything that is to happen should you choose to accept his advances. Please remember that whatever happens, you will always keep my love and esteem." With this, she reached for me and we embraced, I, weeping, she, cradling me against her chest.
That night, Sir William did not come to dinner. His absense did not remain a mystery long, for a note was brought to my mother, with apologies and explanations.
"It seems that he had urgent business in London and could stay in Brighton no longer," Mother said, folding the note. She was most indiffirent to his presense or absense, and would have changed the subject immediately, had it not been for Margarita, who immediately proceeded to belittle the poor gentleman for "escaping" without first taking formal leave of the ladies.
"Most rude of him," she said. "What a disagreeable man!"
"Come, Margarita," Elena said crossly. "Did you not just profess your liking of his travel accounts days ago?"
"Just like a goy to do something like that," my oldest sister said, ignoring Elena's quip.
"Would you just be quiet?!"I exploded. "You silly, mean-hearted, two-faced creature!"
Margarita was taken aback by my outburst, and I regretted it immediately, for she said, turning to our mother:
"Stella Rosa seems to have a little too much care for what I say about our gentile friend! We need to watch her closer, before she up and disgraces the whole family!"
My mother chastised both of us softly, and I, able to stand their society no longer, asked her permission to retire.
"Are you not well, child?" My mother asked, concerned.
"I am simply tired, mother." I lied as I endured the laying of her hands on my forehead to check for fever. "I've walked too much in the last several days," I added.
"Daresay in the wrong company, too," Margarita muttered, and I saw Elena throw an angry glance at her.
Upstairs, I undressed and went to bed immediately. My anguish was hard to describe; surely, my reaction to his pronouncement has offended him most grievously and now he was gone forever. Suddenly, there was no greater evil in the world than what I have done that day; I lay in bed, choking on my tears. Elena came up and sat with me, trying to soothe my pain.
"I cannot believe I am saying this to you," she whispered, "but all will be well. He will be back, Stella Rosa, if he is half as reasonable and kind as you believe him to be, he will be back."
...Of course, my wise-beyond-her-years younger sister was right. The next day, I received a letter. Addressed to me personally, it was almost snatched by Margarita, but Elena managed to take it from the postman and give it to me--and from me, there was no taking it. I went to the seashore to read it. Sitting down on a rotting piece of wood, my heart beating wildly, I opened the red seal, noticing a gryffon and an intricate "H" on the red wax seal.
"My dear Miss de Lara," he wrote. "Yesterday, you have asked me whether I was prepared to weather societal disapproval for marrying you. This letter is to inform you that I am. Indeed, I have found myself to be in love with you over such a short period of time that it is quite to my consternation--I have never before been so in love. Now that I have found myself so entranced by you, there are very few things in this world, which I shall not weather for the sake of being with you.
Miss de Lara, I shall be gone tonight. I am going to London, to inform those closest to me that I intend to ask your father for your hand. Pray, do not misunderstand this as asking anyone's permission: I am a man of independent means and need not do so. This is simply to show you that I value your presence in my life above any mark of approval the society can bestow on me. I hope, on my return, to find your countenance much improved, my dearest Miss de Lara, nay, may I say this? My dearest Stella. If only you knew how violently in love I am with you."
I folded the letter and held it to my breast for a brief moment; it seemed to radiate warmth, and I felt airy, light, dizzy. He loves me! I thought, in the deepest state of happy shock. He loves me, he loves me! I opened the letter and continued to read.
"My beloved Stella, I have entertained a hope that you return my affections. I am bold enough to believe that to be the case; perhaps I am too bold, but pray, do not break my heart, of which you are now the full mistress. As to your father, I will speak to him, beg of him, if I need to. You are promised to another man, but this situation is agreeable to none, as you love him not, and I love you dearly. I promise to repay your father for any grievances that your broken engagement may cause him.
As I soon hope to become, yours, etc, etc."
In giddy happiness, I kissed the letter, folded it gently, and hid it on my bosom--one place I knew it was going to be safe from Margarita's prying eyes. I did share it with Elena, and was exceedingly cross with her when she suggested, worrisome, that perhaps, Sir William's certainty of his success with our father was misplaced. For the next two days, I walked in a state of happy delirium; my love for this man grew with my every thought of him.
Then, two days after I received the letter, he called on us again. It took me all my composure to not betray the great joy I felt upon seeing him; and I hoped that it required a similar effort on his part. He immediately invited my sisters and me for a walk down the beach; to her consternation and my joy, Margarita was too unwell to walk with us, but Elena readily agreed. Once down on the beach, my kind sister stayed away, hiding under her parasol, paying the keenest attention to the business of gathering seashells, and I, for the first time in my life, truly looked at the man who was to be my love, my companion and my master from that day on.
Chapter 7
William
His mother was delighted he had finally decided to take a wife, but she was appalled at his choice. She felt that it was most selfish and irresponsible of him--after all, he had three unmarried siblings, whose chances at a good match would be cruelly cut down if he were to marry a Jewess--and as she said all that to him, William felt entitled to be selfish about it. For in the past week, his affection for Miss de Lara had grown; it was now strengthened by his resolve to marry her, whatever the societal consternation.
"Madam," he said to his mother. "I cannot be expected to sacrifice my own happiness to that of my brother and sisters. I believe that we have enough money and influence so that our neighbors should pay no mind whom I marry."
"And if they do?"
"If they do," he answered quietly, "then blast them to hell."
Lady Hetty even ignored his inappropriate language as she attempted to talk sense into her son: "William, but it is about the family! What kind of a match is it for a Hester?"
"Madam," he laughed. "This is the last of my concerns right now."
He could not believe himself; for only several weeks ago, he would have found such speeches ludicrous and such reasoning--defiicent. It had always been--and, as far as Lady Hetty was concerned, remained--about the multiplication of the family wealth and influence and the betterment of the family status. It was strange to William himself how much he yearned to get back to Brighton and to look, once again, into her marvelous emerald eyes, so much that barely anything else mattered.
"I understand," his mother said, hurt, "that you are not asking my permission."
He lowered his head respectfully. "I am asking your blessing, madam, I would very much like to have it."
"And if I deny it?"
"Then I shall be heartbroken, but I shall marry her nonetheless--with or without it."
She looked at him and saw the same maddening resolve in his eyes, that her late beloved husband so often exhibited.
"Very well," she said. "You have it. I shall not lose you over this, William. But you know what I think of this whole affair."
She rose and left, without saying good-bye to him, and he thought that with time, her resentment will be cured.
Vanessa was the next one to learn, and she doubted him as well.
"You are simply bitter because she was uncivil to you when you went to see her."
"I am nothing of the sort," Vanessa said dryly. "But there are far too many things that are different between you and Miss de Lara. I can see that you are quite besotted with her, but please remember that she has been brought up to think herself superior to the rest of the world."
All that notwithstanding, Vanessa embraced him and promised to be kind to his bride when he first brought her home.
"You are not worried that I am ruining your prospects?" he asked her.
"I do not have any prospects," she grinned. "You know what I wish to do with my life--marriage is certainly not the keenest desire of my heart."
William knew where she was going and sighed in exasperation.
“Vanessa, we have discussed it, time and time again,” he chastised her softly.
“And yet I cannot persuade you to see my point,” she echoed. He was quiet, afraid that she should once again get into the insufferable discussion of why he did not want her to sing. “So be it as it may,” she sighed, making a wave with her hand. “We both, Will, desire something that the society would rather deny us. The only difference between us, dear brother, is that you shall get your way, and I shall not.”
William did not know what to reply; in any case, he was not about to apologize for being a man. Vanessa noticed his uneasiness and took pity on him.
“Do not worry, dear brother,” she said. “I shall be kind to your new wife,” she said. “That is, if you marry her,” she added, raising an eyebrow.
“If?”
“I may be mistaken, but you have not secured the blessings of her family, have
you?”
William looked at her like a man possessed; at that moment, Vanessa knew that
no-one would be able to stop her brother from making the little Jewess his wife.
“So I shall endeavor,” she said, quickly, “to be a sister to her, Will. I shall gratify your wish, brother,” she added, lowering her voice, “even if you refuse to gratify mine.”
She walked William to the doors, as he insisted on returning to Brighton immediately.
“I shall write to Samuel at Oxford,” he said as they stood on the steps outside. “I should be indebted to you if you told Alexandra.”
At that moment, a carriage, rattling, stopped near the steps, and looking down, the brother and the sister saw their aunt, Mrs. Anne Hester, step out, followed by her older son, Captain Alec Hester.
“Oh, no,” William whispered, giving his sister a pitiable look, but it was already too late: Vanessa rushed down the steps, waving her arms and crying:
“Aunt Annie! Cousin Alec! We have the most excellent news!”
William felt like a complete daft idiot; though he felt reasonably sure that Miss de Lara’s uneasy joy at reading his letter equaled his own at writing it, he had never gotten her definite agreement. While sharing his intentions with his mother or Vanessa seemed a natural—as they would neither judge his choice, nor revel in his failure—as well as a necessary thing, he was not at all prepared to announce them to relations such as the London Hesters, with whom he had always had a rather cool rapport.
In the meantime, Captain Alec Hester was coming up the stairs.
“What is it I hear?” he clamored, clasping his large arm around William’s shoulders. “You are to get married! And who, pray, is the lady of your heart?”
Vanessa appeared behind, helping her aunt up the stairs.
“Miss Stella Rosa de Lara!” she announced, giving William a playful look. He gnashed his teeth almost audibly.
“De Lara!” the aunt said, seemingly displeased. “Spanish, is she? Catholic?”
William lowered his head and avoided answering that, but his cousin startled, as if
remembering something, and then asked:
“Is it not—De Lara, de Lara—by George, cousin, is it not the girl—“
“Yes,” William said quickly. He was cruelly uncomfortable with all this, and
angry with Vanessa for this petty betrayal. “But really, dear Aunt, Alec, I must away,” he kissed the old lady’s withered hand, shook the masculine one of his cousin, threw Vanessa a poisonous glare, and ran down the steps.
“To think only!” the old woman continued to muse as they went into the house. “Catholic! Niece, your brother is positively insane if he thinks a Spanish Catholic may make a good wife to an English gentleman!”
“The lady isn’t Catholic, Mother,” her son said, visibly amused.
“Not Catholic? With that name?”
“I shall go and fetch my mother,” Vanessa said, smiling coyly. “She will be exceedingly glad to see you, Aunt Anne.”
And as she exited the drawing room, she heard her aunt exclaim, sounding utterly scandalized: “That cannot be true! What outrage! I must speak with Henrietta at once!”
Smiling to herself, Vanessa quickened her step. There was noting she loved as well as a good family skirmish, which involved her prim old aunt.
He arrived to Brighton about eleven o’clock in the morning. Immediately, he called on the de Laras, and was thrilled when Miss de Lara suggested they take a walk along the beach. Mrs. Abravanel pined rather loudly about not feeling good enough to go along; nobody even attempted to pretend that they were sorry for it.
He walked in the middle, a sister on each arm. Throwing furtive glances at Miss de Lara, he tried desperately to ascertain her feelings, but she was nothing if not pleasant and beyond that, he could not tell. All of a sudden, he felt like a love-struck adolescent.
At the beach, Miss Elena straight away immersed herself in the business of gathering seashells, and William was left to deal with the awkward silence that hung, like a gray shadow, between him and Miss de Lara.
Finally, he was able to meet her eye; he was immediately struck—and given hope—by a smile of happiness on her lovely face.
“You have received my letter?” he dared, encouraged by the way she was looking at him.
She replied that she had.
“I pray its content was not offensive to you,” he said cautiously.
“No, sir,” she raised her brilliant eyes at him, “I shall be honest with you—its content pleased me ever so much.”
It took an effort not to succumb to the overwhelming happiness of hearing that; not to seize her in a mad embrace and cover her with passionate kisses.
“Very well,” he said and dared to reach for her hand, “I am glad to know that.”
They stared at each other with luminous eyes, standing dangerously close to the lapping tide; at long last, he pulled himself out of the happy reverie and said earnestly.
“I believe we should better come to a formal understanding then, Miss de Lara—or dare I call you by your given name?”
“You have, in your letter,” she said, still smiling dreamily. “Miss de Lara” sounds awfully formal and unpleasant, coming from you. I should be delighted to hear you say my name.”
“Stella,” he whispered, feeling that he was beginning to lose his head. Her name felt like sweet wine, myrrh and frankincense, clover and cardamon. “My Stella Rosa…”
Snapping out of it, he returned to the question of a formal understanding.
“Stella,” he said seriously, taking her hands in his, “I have fallen deeply in love with you. I have dared hope that you returned my sentiments.” He paused, looking at her. She wore a pretty bonnet of emerald silk, which complemented her eyes beautifully. It was a cooler day than the ones before; fresh April breeze played with the ribbons, loosely tied under her chin. Her lips parted slightly, she slowly inclined her head, acquiescing to his supposition. This small sign of affection nearly undid him; grasping her hands tightly, he said, somberly:
“Miss de—Stella, shall you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She laughed openly, showing a row of even pearly teeth; but she was not laughing at him. There was such jubilation in her laughter that if any doubts had thereto remained, William could now be absolutely sure of her answer.
“The privilege will be mine, sir,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
He did not know how to express what he felt; he felt happy, of course, but it was more than that—there was something exhilarating, intoxicating, head-spinning about the way he felt.
“I love you,” he whispered, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing, one by one, her fingers. Sighing, Stella Rosa closed her eyes; the flower of her mouth, lips like ruby petals, tempted him. William could not help it; leaning closer, he placed a hand on the side of her face and gently brushed her lips with his.
A shudder ran through her, much like several days before, when he had embraced her in the old lighthouse. They stood together a little more; she—leaning her head against his shoulder, he—gently cradling her in his arms. The sight of Miss Elena approaching tore them out of their happy reverie; as Stella Rosa’s sister tactfully averted her eyes, pretending not to notice their somewhat compromising position, William regretfully released his beloved’s gentle hand.
“Um, Stella,” Miss Elena softly addressed her sister. “I have not taken a shawl and am quite cold—should you mind terribly if we returned to the inn?” She hid her eyes as she said that, knowing that she brought them grief by her request.
“Here,” Stella immediately parted with her own shawl and gave it to her sister. “Take mine—I am not cold.”
“But you shall freeze—“
“The wind is quite warm, Elena, please! Take it!”
Miss Elena had nothing to do but grant her sister’s insistent request; she retired to continue her seashell-gathering enterprise.
Stella Rosa's shawl was immediately replaced, as William stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. Thus they remained, oblivious in their newfound happiness, holding hands and beaming at each other.
While in London, he had bought her gifts—a decorated mirror, a lovely embroidered scarf, a cameo brooch to hold it together. She admired them all with the sincerity of a child, but refused to accept them. Seeing the disappointment in his face, Stella Rosa explained to him that she did not want her mother or older sister to know they were now betrothed to each other; it was not time yet, as he still had not spoken with her father. They could not risk him finding out from anyone else but William himself.
As to that, William had planned to apply for an audience with the old Mr. De Lara immediately; Stella Rosa begged him to wait. She worried that her father was not going to be pleased when a gentile young man came to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage—and she wished to postpone the frightening discussion as long as she could. What if they were not meant to be? What if Father refused William—then they would have nothing but an abyss of despair. The two weeks remaining before their return to London were the sweetest she had ever had; how could they poison them with the knowledge of her father’s refusal? William, on his part, was secretly and cockily sure that his application would have the most welcome reception by the old Mr. De Lara—after all, he was a scion of an illustrious English family; his father had been a Peer of England and a Member of the House of Lords; and finally, and not insignificantly, his yearly rent equaled just over fifteen thousand dollars a year. That, and he loved Stella Rosa, which was apparently more than the other candidate for her hand could say.
Every time they spoke, he had to remind her that his name was no longer “Sir William” or “Lord Hester”, but simply William, or, if she preferred, Will.
“What do you like better?” she asked, as they strolled together down the beach, her sister’s figure looming eloquently some yards ahead.
“It depends,” he said. “William will generally do, but sometimes ‘Will’ is delightful to hear—I guess, as I never have—from the mouth of my beloved.”
“What does your mother call you?”
“William.”
“And your sisters?”
He chuckled. “Will, or Willie.”
“Willie?” she raised her eyes at him and laughed. “May I call you that, too?”
He kissed her hand warmly. “You may call me anything you want, love.”
“Do you only have one name?”
“Only one. Our parents were not in favor of giving us a string of useless monikers.”
“What sensible parents you have. My parents gave me two Ladino names, and two Hebrew names. All my siblings have at least three, I have four.”
“Really?” he laughed, “And what are those Hebrew names?”
“Well,” she recounted. “Well, all our girls have at least one name to honor a great Hebrew woman. I am Shoshanna Rivkah—after Rebecca, the wife of Isaac, the mother of Jacob, and a great healer.”
“And sir Walter’s Rebecca, as well?”
“Well, I doubt my parents had read the book when they named me.”
“But maybe that is the reason why you like Sir Walter’s Rebecca so well.”
“May be,” she agreed, and continued. “Margarita is actually Miriam Aviva—
pretty, isn’t it? After Moses’ sister—though, I regret to say, she truly is nothing like the Biblical Miriam.”
“And Miss Elena?”
“Elena is named after two great Hebrew women: Esther, who saved her people from total annihilation by Hamman, and in whose honor we celebrate Purim, and Yael, who is somewhat like Judith, in that she slew an enemy commander in his sleep.”
“Slew him?”
“Yes. Drove a nail through his ear.”
“A nail!” William feigned horror. “While he was sleeping, no less?”
“Of course.”
“How ghastly! And that woman is celebrated as a heroine? Girls are named after her?”
“Well, she is something of a minor heroine, actually,” she laughed. “A mini-Judith of sorts. She invited the gentleman into her tent, fed him milk and honey, and when he fell asleep--” She wrinkled her nose, as if apologizing for some inconvenience, and raised her shoulders comically.
He gave her a longing stare; she wore a blue silk bonnet, which once again failed
to keep her hair in place and it fluttered under it, caught by the wind, and threw gentle shadows on her high forehead. For a second, a dark shadow crossed the sun: William thought that the story of Yael’s unwitting admirer may well still be his own—that she was like milk and honey to him, and that once he was trapped by her charms, she would drive a stake through his heart.
Yet he chased the troubling thoughts away and said, smiling:
“I like Rebecca the healer better. Now, what of your brothers?”
“My brothers—Beni’s name is the same as it is in Ladino, actually—Binyamin Moshe—and Enrique is Eliahu Shaul. There,” she said, smiling. “You are marrying into a truly Biblical family.”
“Fascinating,” he smiled. “Forgive me for saying this, but you are the most peculiar people.”
“Is that what attracted you to me?”
“Forgive me again,” he said apologetically, “but I think that your eyes attracted me to you.”
“My eyes?”
“Your beautiful, lovely eyes. And your form, and your laughter, and how you held your head, and how sensible and clever you were when I spoke with you, and how unabashedly real, alive and lacking in pretense you were. You attracted me to you.”
They walked a little more and he could not resist asking her a similar question.
“Why you?” she repeated, pensively. “The way you spoke about your sister—there was such kindness in your words. And the way you looked at me and bowed when you were leaving. And the respect that I heard when you spoke to me—but most of all, your kindness.”
“My kindness?”
“I think you are a very kind man,” she said, stopping and giving him a very earnest look.
“I am ever so fortunate to have you.”
...Their days at Brighton were delightful, but they passed quickly. Miss Elena was constantly near them; William was thankful for her presence, for it kept the suspicions of Stella Rosa’s mother at bay, but at the same time, he was much grieved by it, as well—for the boldest caress he had been able to bestow upon his beloved was a brief, gentle peck on the lips. And even that small liberty, however modest, left him in a state of mental disarray for hours—so, for his own sake, he decided to suspend even the smallest caresses until they were married and at each other’s disposal.
The society at the inn noticed, of course, the uncanny amount of time William spent in the company of the two lovely Jewesses. They did not make much of it, because both girls were always with him and because, he knew, they could not fathom that a gentleman of his station would form any serious designs on a daughter of that insufferable folk. Old Mrs. Matlock, on her part, never missed an opportunity to push her pallid daughter Emma on him—clearly she suspected nothing.
Neither did Mrs. De Lara and Mrs. Abravanel notice anything: the former—because of her naïve inattention; the latter—because of willful misinterpretation. She was exceedingly civil to William every time he called on them, but, he suspected, not so kind to him in private. Once or twice Stella Rosa said something, which confirmed his misgivings about the oldest sister. When he asked Stella Rosa about it, she hid her eyes from him before she answered.
“Margarita is just stupid,” she said. “She has no opinions of her own; the ones she repeats belong to her husband, Luis, and his opinions are not his own to begin with—he is a good friend of my brother Beni, and repeats everything Beni says…”
“So what does your sister think about us spending all this time together?”
Stella Rosa laughed.
“She thinks you are forming some awful design on one of us—if she hadn’t been so with child, of course, it would have been her, but as it stands right now, either on me or Elena.”
“What kind of design?”
“Well, you know—the kind after which no respectable girl can look her family in the eye.”
“What do you know about that?” he laughed. “You are not supposed to understand what that means!”
“Well, it just so happens that I do,” she said, defiantly. “At any rate, Margarita thinks you are planning to, um, seduce one of us. But because Elena is always with us, Margarita cannot decide which one of us is really the object of your, um, carnal desires, and also—she realizes that while the three of us are together, you cannot possibly accomplish it…”
While speaking so, she had blushed violently, and looked her loveliest. William’s heart brimmed over with love and desire, and, to calm his spirits, he turned his eyes away from Stella Rosa.
“Your sister certainly has a high opinion of me,” he said, and his voice was unexpectedly hoarse.
“Pay her no mind,” Stella Rosa said softly. “Nobody else does…”
*******
The blessed three weeks at Brighton—the time of joy, excitement, discovery, anticipation, sweet torment—passed, and one early morning in late April, William rode Zanzibar back to London. Stella Rosa and her family were coming later, and he wished to speak with her father before she came home. He hoped to welcome her there with the best kind of news.
He found Mr. Levi de Lara in his office above the diamond shop, observing with a magnifying glass a spread of petite diamonds on a chamois. The old man seemed pleasantly surprised upon seeing him, but behind his spectacles, lurked an apprehensive gaze of a man who did not expect anything but the very worst things out of life.
“How may I be of service to you, dear sir?” he inquired, pointing to a chair in front of his desk. William sat down, observing Stella’s father secret away the diamonds. All of a sudden, he was beginning to feel anxious; after all, he thought, this man has my life in his hands.
“I am straight from Brighton, Mr. de Lara,” William said. Fear registered in the old man’s eyes, and William hurried to assure him that his family, when he left them there this morning, was alive and well.
“They are to come to town later tonight,” he explained. The old man watched him intently, as if wondering why it was he came—surely not to inform him of his wife and daughters’ traveling plans!
William saw Mr. de Lara’s anticipation, and he could contain himself no longer. Looking extremely somber, he rose and addressed the old man with an air of gravity.
“Sir,” he said. “I am here to beg your permission and blessing to marry your daughter, Miss Stella Rosa de Lara.”
William then proceeded to assure Mr. de Lara of the utmost genuineness and violence of his affection for Miss Stella Rosa, as well as of his excellent pedigree and over fifteen thousand a year.
The old man was shocked; it took him a minute to regain his composure. After which, he said, slowly:
“Lord Hester, do sit back down.”
William did as he was told, though everything inside of him was shaking violently. Perhaps, he thought, he had been over-confident!
“Lord Hester,” Mr. de Lara went on, “are you aware that my daughter has been promised to another man?”
“Sir, Miss de Lara intimated to me that this union is abhorrent to her, and that on the other side, there are few strong emotions.”
“Yet, she has been promised,” the old man said harshly. “She is to be married to him in a week."
He paused, then gathered air in his chest, and went on. “Lord Hester, I must first express to you how flattered I am by your attention to my daughter. I give you thanks for that—and thanks for coming to ask my permission. But the permission itself I must refuse.”
I have not heard him right, William thought feverishly. This cannot be; there is not a single objectionable quality about me—
“To be sure, you, Lord Hester, make a highly desirable match. I am certain that you would make a good provider and a good husband for my daughter—in all respects but one.”
“Pray tell,” William uttered, not quite trusting his voice, “what is that respect?”
“You are uncut,” Mr. de Lara said. William stared at him in utter amazement; it took him a second to understand what he was referring to. When he did, his anger was fierce.
“How dare you, sir?” he cried, jumping to his feet.
“I am simply referring to you being of a different faith, upbringing, culture and race than my daughter,” Mr. de Lara said calmly. “Forgive me if it sounded wrong, or if I offended you somehow. But the difference between you and the men that Stella Rosa was brought up to marry is immense. It is signified by the presence in your physique of the element absent from that of all of my brothers, but the actual disparity is far more fundamental. Lord Hester, you are a most pleasant young man. But—correct me if I am wrong—you have never in your life read a word of Hebrew; you consume pork on a regular basis; you have been baptized in church and so will your children be—my grandchildren should be baptized! What you lack, my dear sir, is a connection to our people; you are an outsider. It is something that you could not buy with all your money.”
“I love your daughter!” William said hoarsely. “And I daresay she loves me back.”
“Ah, young hearts,” Mr. de Lara chuckled. “Shall you believe me, sir, that I love my daughters more than my own life? But I am also old, having lived, probably, more than twice as long as you have. Stella Rosa’s heart will ache, but it will mend. She will have family; children; home. She will be a Jewish woman—something that she could never be if she married you.”
“She will be miserable!”
“Perhaps—for a while. But life heals all wounds, and though I heartily regret having caused you pain, young man, yours will be healed in time as well.”
“That is not for you to say,” William snapped, and instantly regretted it, because Mr. de Lara rose and said, coolly, all pretense of amiability now off.
“Well,” he said, “Then I shall not concern myself with it. Good day, sir.”
William stumbled out of the office and made it, barely, down the stairs. He hardly knew how he found his way out of Whitechapel, so many feelings were boiling in him: disappointment, pride, love, fear, disbelief at what had just happened. He has been refused! There was hardly a woman in England whose family would not consider it an honor if he had asked for her hand. And a Jew—a lowly Jew! William stopped and checked his feelings; he must not think of Stella’s father this way, he told himself, must not become like all those ready to hate at the slightest provocation. His pride, however, was badly hurt, and not even the vision of two beautiful, sad green eyes could calm it.
He reached his mother’s house, threw Zanzibar’s reins to the attendant, and rushed up the stairs to his room, past Alexandra, who had fluttered out to greet him and having nearly grazed Vanessa, who was walking down the stairs.
“Will!” she cried angrily. “What—“
The door to his room slammed.
.....Inside, he flung his top hat into the corner and fell on the bed, having not even taken off his riding boots, which had the sands of Brighton and the grime of Whitechapel on them. He was undone; not even the death of his beloved father had made him so miserable. This was unexpected, heartbreaking, humiliating—and the worst part was to imagine her pain when she came home later that night. This motivated him. He must give Stella Rosa some comfort; he could not be with her physically, but she must know how much he loved her.
William jumped off the bed and sat down in front of a writing armoire, held the quill in the air for a second, and then wrote on a piece of paper bearing his coat of arms:
“My beloved,
My heart is breaking as I write this. By now, your father will most likely have apprised you of the dreadful news that I, myself, would not dare tell you. He has chosen to deny my application. As much as his rejection of my proposal grieves me, I am ready to try again, if you think he can be reasoned with and appealed to. I am ready to do anything for you, for us, for our future together. I love you ever so much, my Stella, my princess, my star.
William Hester.”
He dispatched the letter immediately; his promise to her made him feel a little better, as if he had convinced himself that Mr. de Lara, could, indeed, be reasoned with. As he was coming back up the stairs to his room, William was accosted by Vanessa, who stood near the doors with the most determined air, demanding to know what was wrong.
“Come in,” he said, dryly, letting her in first. Inside, he told her what had happened, and she commiserated, honestly.
“What do you plan to do now?” she asked him. He confessed to her that he did not know; she advised him to appeal to any and all people in the community, who he thought might have some influence on Levi de Lara.
“Perhaps his wife first, and then the young Mr. de Lara, and whoever else you can think.”
So, over the next two days, William took Vanessa’s advice and continued with his appellations. To Mrs. de Lara he wrote, for fear of confrontation should he once again appear in the house, whence he was all but expelled by its owner. Her reply, which he received that same day, left him no hope. “I stand by my husband’s decision,” she wrote. “Mr. de Lara only has Stella Rosa’s good in mind, Sir, and I concur with his reasons absolutely. Please do not call on my daughter anymore, as she is to be betrothed at the end of his week.” Furious, William threw her reply in the fire.
Henry de Lara was hardly any more help; he exhibited joy at seeing William, but told him right away, that he could not hope to persuade his father to change his mind. “The Rabbinical Council is strictly against intermarriage,” he said to William, as he offered him coffee and cigars in his drawing room. “They feel that anyone married to a gentile is lost to us forever.”
William was furious.
“Our hearts, our feelings, our lives—does it not matter to anyone?”
“Sir William,” Henry de Lara said kindly, “as far as the juderia is concerned, both you and my sister have made a rather, if you forgive me, stupid mistake. It is forgivable of you, sir, since you probably did not know, could not imagine, that a gentleman as illustrious could ever be denied a simple Hebrew maid, for whom he had deigned to ask. But my sister—oh, my sister has done something really daft. She should know better before falling in love with someone so insupportable.”
William caught a note of malice in his voice, and said, bitterly:
“I thought I had a friend in you!”
“You do,” Henry de Lara said softly. “But please understand—juderia views such marriages as pernicious, because they threaten its existence. If my sister is allowed to marry her very handsome, very rich, very noble gentile prince—if you forgive me—what is to keep our neighbor’s daughter, or Viola’s younger sister, from wishing to do the same? And if they all marry gentiles, baptize their children, and never teach them a word of Ladino—or Hebrew—never observe Shabbat, never celebrate Passover, never fast on El Dia Puro, dirty their persons with pork and shellfish—what is there to be left of us? One by one, the community will disappear.”
“Oh, de Lara, but I do love your sister,” William sighed in exasperation, dropping his head on his folded hands.
“I know, Sir William,” Henry de Lara answered. “Who could not love my fiery Stella Rosa? But as you have no business caring about our community, the juderia has no business caring about your heart. If Stella Rosa marries you, there will be repercussions for all of us, particularly for my father, for not being able to keep his daughter from falling out. Do not expect him to change his mind, Sir William.”
...Over the next three days, William sulked, barely speaking to any member of his family; he was quietly beginning to resign himself to the impossibility of marrying Stella. His father seemed positively unyielding: William requested another audience with him, but it was explained to him, politely, by Mrs. de Lara, who came out to him as he waited in the parlor, that Mr. de Lara was unwell and could not receive visitors. He asked if he could see Stella; it was refused to him as well, with the same politeness, on the grounds of the impropriety of such a meeting.
As he was leaving the house, desperate, he heard someone whisper his name, and saw Miss Elena, who was looking at him from behind heavy velvet drapes in the hallway.
William was genuinely thrilled and relieved to see her, for he knew her to be a confidante of her sister and sympathetic to their love. He approached, and noticed that she was holding an envelope.
“It is most fortunate that you should come to our house today,” she whispered urgently. “All servants have been prohibited from taking any letters from my sister. Both of us are watched quite closely—my father is angry and has forbidden us to leave the house.”
“How is she?” William asked as he seized the letter. “Has she received my letters?”
In the past week, he had written Stella Rosa a letter a day, but had not received an answer from her.
“She has, but she had not the means to answer them. She is very sad, Sir William,” Miss Elena raised her eyes to the ceiling. “If I did not know my sister better, I would expect her to make an attempt at her own life.”
William shut his eyes and gnashed his teeth; but his agony was lessened, somewhat, when Miss Elena said, before disappearing behind the curtains:
“She has said to tell you that she loves you, Sir William.”
William quickly made it out of the house; he could not wait to get home, so he read the letter in the dirty Whitechapel street, while on horseback.
“My dear sir,” she wrote, “all is lost. My father is resolute against our union. I cried, I begged, I genuflected and threatened—but nothing seems to have any effect on him. I am to be betrothed to Mr. Marcus d’Almazan tomorrow; after this, I shall be lost to your world, and only a religious Jewish ceremony shall remain to make me wholly his. How it breaks my heart! Your love will always be a comfort to me, William, but it will also torture me most cruelly; I hope that my love for you serves only the first purpose. But I should like to say good-bye to you, tonight. There is a garden behind my father’s house, with a small door in the wall. I shall have Elena leave it open; wait for me there at about ten—after they have taken me to my ritual bath, I shall come out to say good-bye to you.”
Desperate people are given to desperate measures; and there was simply nothing, which he could refuse her—particularly now that they have so obviously been doomed. That night, after warm spring night enveloped the city, William left his carriage in the back of the de Laras’ house and slipped through a small gate into a lovely, but neglected garden. He stood there for a long time, in the shadow of the wall, hidden by the darkness, watching the windows of the house with eager eyes. They were all lit, and he saw figures moving, heard voices, some of them—feminine, but could not discern which one of them belonged to Stella. He then saw the side door open, and a group of women, wrapped in mantillas, step out; he recognized Mrs. de Lara and Miss Elena, but could only deduce that the wrapped figure in the middle was, indeed, Stella.
The women came back in another hour, and soon, the house fell dark and quiet. William had lost count of time when he heard a door creak, and saw a figure move quickly towards him through the garden.
“William,” Stella breathed, more than said; she was wearing a black dress, a black lace mantilla wrapped around her head. William stepped out from under a trellis, where he had been hiding, pressing a finger to his lips. When she saw him, her face twisted, as if she was about to cry, and she followed him, quietly, under the trellis.
William could not, as much as he would later chastise himself for that, keep from locking his arms around Stella Rosa and pressing her to his heart. Now, that he had surely lost her, she was even dearer to him; now, that no hope remained for them, he would gladly given his life just to make her happy.
They spoke, in harried whispers.
“How did you manage to leave the house?” he asked.
“Everyone is asleep,” she whispered. “I sneaked out from the back—but they may realize I have gone, and start looking for me any moment. We have very little time.”
“I spoke with your father, and your mother, and your brother Henry,” he whispered back, as if apologizing.
“I know,” she said, smiling. “I feared my father would not agree.”
There was nothing at all to say; all assurances of love have suddenly lost their meaning: they would never be able to consummate them. All that was left was to stand close together in the darkness, one caressing the other’s face with errant fingers and longing stares.
“I shall never forget you,” Stella Rosa said softly. “I hope you have a wonderful life, my darling.”
William wept; he could not bring himself to wish her the same, could not fathom that she should have a wonderful life without him.
“I must go,” she whispered, slowly disengaging herself from his embrace.
Suddenly, there was a sound of a window slamming and, immediately, several voices, male and female, carried from the house.
“Oh!’ Stella Rosa whispered urgently. “They must have discovered me gone. I must go!”
William held her back. “Wait, maybe it will calm down. Do not leave me just yet,” he whispered. But the house was evidently in a state of great alarm; several windows alighted, and they saw figures rushing back and forth.
“Please go!” Stella Rosa begged him. “Beni is here, if he finds you in the garden, he will kill you!”
But suddenly, that seemed like small trouble, when compared to leaving her forever. William’s grip tightened on her arm.
“Come with me!” he said. “I do not think I want to live without you.”
“You are mad!” she whispered, her eyes glistening in the darkness. “You are insane, sir! You would have me leave my family like this? Elope?”
“Yes, elope!” he said. “Anything, just to be with you, Stella! I am all undone when you are not near. Please, Stella, come!”
She was shaking now, unable to move; suddenly, the back door of the house opened, and several figures were seen walking quickly towards them.
“It is now or never,” William whispered urgently. “I can’t—I shan’t lose you!”
He stepped towards the garden gate, and she followed him, barely knowing what she was doing. A second later, they were in the street, having slammed the door behind them, and as William quickly handed her into the carriage, numb, the voices behind the wall grew louder.
“Home!” he cried to the driver, before joining Stella Rosa in the carriage.
Inside, she was white and shaking, looking at him madly.
“What have we done?!” she cried, as William fell down on the seat facing her.
“I do not know,” he shook his head, suddenly exhausted. “I had not planned for this. I only came to say good-bye to you. But I cannot live without you, that much I know is true.”
“But my family—my father! Oh!” she held a hand to her mouth.
“Stella, my Stella,” he leaned forward, forcefully taking her hands in his. “Do you not love me?”
“Oh I do, I do! But my family—William, they will be so brokenhearted!”
“Stella, you know I cannot take you back now,” he said softly. “At least not on my good conscience. We love each other, we shall have to make good on whatever comes out of this. But do you believe me that I did not plan for this?”
If she did not, she would have to, when saw the faces of his mother and sisters. They had already disrobed and had been startled, when William, flying up the stairs, knocked most incautiously on their doors and told them—not asked them, but nearly ordered them—to come downstairs. They were standing now, wearing their sleeping clothes and dressing gowns, pale, frazzled, shocked. William gently steered Stella Rosa into the foyer of his mother’s house; she herself was in a great state of shock, but it did not escape her that clearly, if he had planned to elope with her, he had not apprised his family of his plans.
“William, I shall speak with you at once!” Lady Hetty said and walked out of the parlor. William made eyes at Vanessa, who immediately understood and took his place next to Stella Rosa as he followed their mother out of the room.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lady Hetty asked, furious. “What is that woman doing here?”
“Mother,” William said, bowing his head low. “I have no reasonable explanation for this, except that she may not go home now. She will remain with us, until we are able to marry.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you carried her off?”
“That would appear, madam, yes. But I had to, truly, I did. Had I not brought her here, she would have been lost to me forever.”
“But William! This is such a scandal!”
“Madam!” William was now angry. “I realize that it is not the most proper way to marry, but we were left no options by her family. I love Stella and no other, and I shall marry none but her.”
“And she returns your sentiments?”
“She does, very much so, madam. Nobody needs to know of the manner in which she came to be here.”
“How do you propose that? You shan’t be able to marry her for three weeks, while the banns are published!”
William bit his lip; he had not thought of it. “None of it matters now,” he said resolutely. “I love her and I shall marry her. In the meantime, I shall take Miss de Lara to Bloomfield Park, and I would like you and the girls to follow us.”
“Why do you need us there?”
“Because I shan’t be able to stay,” he explained. “As you said, it is a scandal, and I would like to give it at least some patina of propriety. We cannot live together before marriage, even if it means separate wings at Bloomfield.”
“You really are too much like your father!” Lady Hetty cried. “You appear like so, in the middle of the night, and proceed to wring all our arms’ out! How selfish of you, William!”
“I know,” William said. He was suddenly far better composed than anyone else in the house. “I know how incredibly selfish of me this is, but Mother, please understand, this is about my life. I should be indebted to you to no end, if you came to Bloomfield Park within a day or two.” And with this, he hung his head, penitent, and his mother could no longer deny him what he came to ask.
“All right then, we shall,” she said, still very angry. “We shall come to Bloomfield, as soon as I am able to put my affairs in town in order.”
William and Stella Rosa left London immediately; he was certain that within a day or two, her family would come searching for her. He did not intend to give her back; in his desire to secret her as far as possible from her family, he took her to Bloomfield Park, his estate in –shire, nearly a day’s ride from London.
In the carriage, she slept, exhausted, as they rode on through the night. They reached Bloomfield by morning, and William carried her upstairs and deposited her in the care of Mrs. Livesay, their old and trusty housekeeper. As he lowered Stella Rosa on the bed in what was now to be her room, he watched her twist miserably and gnash her teeth in her sleep.
“Make sure the lady is comfortable,” he said to Mrs. Livesay, and quitted Stella Rosa’s bedroom immediately.
He had not slept through the night, and was exhausted, but he had too many things to think of: how they were to be married was his foremost concern. His mother spoke the truth—it took three Sundays to publish banns, and that meant three weeks of waiting. In addition, the idea of banns itself—an announcement to the world of their upcoming marriage and an invitation of anyone interested to contest it—made William more than nervous. He could, of course, take Stella to Gretna Green—but as he said to his mother, they needed no more disrespectability as they began their life together. The only thing left was a special license, but only the Archbishop of Canterbury himself could grant it, and William had no hope of prevailing upon the illustrious prelate to bless such a marriage. So it was the banns, he resolved, unless Stella Rosa’s family made a serious effort to return her; in this case, they would have to go to Gretna Green. Respectability or not, he was not going to lose her.
Stella Rosa
I awoke late and lay, motionless, for a long time. Above me, I saw a beautiful painted canopy of the most brilliant blue color. I had to wonder where I was--this was surely not my and Elena's bedroom in our father's house in Whitechapel.
The thought of my father sent a jolt throughout my body, and I jumped off the bed. This was precisely it: I was not in my father's house. The previous night, Sir William came to say good-bye to me, and we--we--for a moment, darknes sealed my eyes--we eloped; escaped. I had committed the unforgiveable offense, having quitted my father's house and run away with a gentile man. I dashed to the window, and saw, enveloped by a sea of white blooms, a magnificient estate.
I sat down on the bed again, my heart beating wildly in my breast. I was obviously at Bloomfield Park, Sir William's country estate. Last night, he had promised me that this is where we were to go--a day's ride away from London. I must have fallen asleep in the carriage, I thought, looking around me. The room was handsome, with the beautiful blue bed as its centerpiece, an Oriental rug, similar to those we had at my father's house, on the floor, and a large free-standing mirror in the corner.
There was a light knock, and then, not waiting for my answer, a stately woman entered the room. Though dressed like a servant, she had poise and presense about her, and looked more like a manager of sorts than like a simple abigail.
"M'lady's woken up?" she asked. She sounded good-natured and friendly. "Would you like to get dressed, Miss?"
ONly then did I notice that I was wearing but a night gown, a very pretty one, of Alencon lace and silk, but definitely not my own. Noticing the look I threw at my garb, the woman explained:
"I took the liberty and put my lady into one of Miss Vanessa's gowns," she said. "I hope it is to your liking."
"Will Miss Vanessa not mind that you gave her gown to me?" I asked.
"Miss, both my young mistresses are most generous girls," she said. "As their brothers are most generous men."
"Shall you help me get dressed--" I stumbled, not sure how to address her.
"My name is Jemima Livesay, Miss."
"Mrs. Livesay," I tried my best to bow gracefully while sitting with my feet on the bed.
"--I shall most certainly, Miss." She smiled at me. "I placed the dress you wore last night in the wash, so I am afraid, you are confined to Miss Vanessa's dresses."
"Just get me one, I care not which one," I said. My head was swimming and I could barely believe my eyes. Most of all, I wished to ask Mrs. Livesay where her master was, but dared not say his name. But she seemed to read my mind.
"As soon as you are ready, Miss," she said, as she brought out a pretty plaid dress and held it out for me to see. "Will that do?"
"That will," I said. "You started saying, Mrs. Livesay--as soon as I am ready?"
"Lord Hester is waiting for you in the tea-room," she said, holding the dress for me to step into.
After she parted my hair and rolled them into a simple chignon, Mrs. Livesay walked me through the house. As I followed her, I marveled at how handsome and large it was, and how tasteful and well-appointed all the rooms looked--though perhaps a touch too dark and a little too somber. Finally, we reached the tea-room, and I was left all alone, standing in front of tall double doors.
My heart about to jump out of my breast, I knocked. Immediately, there were hurried steps behind the doors, and as they were flung open, I saw Sir William, his mien betraying both worry and relief. He immediately took my hand and pulled me into close embrace.
"I could barely wait for you to wake up," he whispered into my hair. "You slept for so long, I thought I had made you ill."
"No," I said, still somewhat numb. "I feel quite well, actually."
"You are not sorry, are you?" he sat me down in a comfortable chair and took a chair across from me.
"Sorry?"
"That you came along?"
"No," I said, smiling, and, reaching out, allowed myself a bold carress of touching his comely face. "I am shocked at what I did. I am terrified at what I did. But--unless you give me the reason to be so--I am not sorry."
"Never!" he sat hotly, kissing my hand. "Never shall I give you a reason to regret your choice. No, no, I shall make it worth it for you. Oh, Stella, I am just so happy you are here!"
For some time, we sat like that, facing each other, smiling like two idiots, and I was happy. In spite of the awful feeling of guilt that had gripped me the moment I had stepped out of my father's garden; in spite of the fear, which had just set in and would pervade my first three weeks at Bloomfield--fear that any moment, my father's carriage will rattle down the garden path; in spite of the fact that as I thought of my family--particularly of my mother and Elena--my heart was bathed in tears; in spite of all that, I was deliriously happy. For in his face, I found beauty; in his voice, I heard music; and in his touch, I felt heaven.
It was already tea-time; he fed me toast with butter and jam. I was ravenous, having not eaten for nearly twenty-four hours; Sir William rang for Mrs. Livesay and asked her to bring whatever remained of the luncheon from the kitchen. As I ate, perhaps much too quickly and gredily for a refined young lady, he observed me with a gentle, quiet, kind stare.
"My mother is coming here the day after tomorrow," he said.
"Oh," I could only nod, unable to express any emotions at such news.
"She is bringing Vanessa and Alexandra with her," he continued, leaning back in his chair. "They are to keep you company while I am gone?"
"While you are gone?" I put down my napkin, and looked up at him. I did not wish to stay at Bloomfield Park without him, for he was the chief reason I was here. I told him as much, and he seemed pleased at my admission.
"My darling, I do not want to leave you, either," he said. But, he explained, there were formalities to be attended to prior to our marriage; in addition, he said, as he hid his eyes, he wanted to remove himself from Bloomfield in order to avoid any improprieties.
"Improprieties?"
"Yes," he said, visibly uncomfortable. "For people are going to talk; it is altogether best if I stay in town while the banns are published."
"How long will that take?" I asked him. I was poorly familiar with the way marriages were formalized outside of the juderia.
"Three weeks," he answered. He explained to me that banns were for the purpose of anyone wishing to register an objection to the marriage; I gasped as I heard this.
"But it is practically an invitation to my family to separate us!" I cried.
He nodded. "In a way, it is. But we shall hope that they will not do so," he said.
"Is there not any other way?" I inquired, troubled greatly. I was practically certain that my father would attempt to prevent our marriage, if only to punish me.
He told me that there was a special license, which there was little hope of attaining. There was also Gretna Green, but that, he said, was to be our last resort; for there was little honor in running away again. He said he wished to marry me in the same church in --shire where his parents had been married. Tears clouded my eyes, as I thought that I should never stand under a huppah in Bevis Marks, should never have my khatan wrap his white tallit around my shoulders, should never cast my eyes up to the gallery, and imagine there, behind the partition, the smiling faces of my mother and sister.
He noticed my sadness and said, gently:
"I know what you are thinking. I cannot marry you in your Temple, in the presence of all of your family. But they will always be welcome here--if they so wish."
I was touched and thanked him most genuinely. In an attempt to raise my spirits, Sir William offered to show me Bloomfield Park, for it, he said, was now my home.
And what a magnificent home it was! I had never seen anything so grand and elegant at the same time; I had considered my father's house in Whitechapel large and comfortable, and it was, compared to many others in that area of London. Yet it was nothing like the rolling expanse of green hills and a rows of tall, straight pine-trees, which protectively circled the great house.
"So this is your home?" I asked him as we walked, hand in hand, down a long forest path. "Your childhood passed here?"
"It was the happiest of times," he said longingly. "Until I came away to Cambridge and then to the Orient--it was all perfect until then."
"And after you came back?"
"My father was ill already, and it ruined his disposition; my mother cried constatntly and herself took to her bed; and then, just over half a year ago, the doctors pronounced my father to be without hope."
Sir William squinted against the setting sun; the subject was obviously painful to him. It dawned on me that amidst all the wealth and prominence, his life was sometimes exceedingly difficult; to my admiration for his many fine qualities, was immediately adduced a sense of the most earnest commiseration for him for his many burdens. As I gave his hand a light squeeze, Sir William turned to me and gave me the kindest smile.
"But now, perhaps, these walls should hear laughter once again," said he. It pleased me to no end that he parallel the return of happiness to his home with my arrival; in most congenial silence, we walked on.