“She will be ecstatic,” said Judith. “And it will keep her mind off the new baby and all the attention he will be receiving.”
“You are so sure it is a ‘he,’ then?” teased Barbara.
“One does begin to form an attachment,” replied Judith, passing her hand over her belly, “even when the baby is unseen. Simon very much wanted a girl the first time, and so we always thought of Sophy as a ‘she.’ This time, I am determined to get my way. And, of course, Simon wants an heir.”
“I am hoping that by this time next year I will be an
enceinte
lady of leisure,” said Barbara as she got up to leave.
Judith followed her to the door. “I wish you all the happiness that Simon and I have shared, my dearest friend,” she said, squeezing Barbara’s hands in hers. She had tears in her eyes as she waved Barbara down the street.
Since Wardour was not likely to return for a day or two, Barbara made plans to attend the theater with Viscount Vane and his wife and David Treves. The play was a comedy, and Barbara found herself laughing harder than she had in a long time, and indeed, the whole party was in a giddy mood as they made their way out of the theater.
Perhaps it was because they were distracted by their good humor, but it was not until they were almost upon it that they noticed the real-life drama occurring in front of them. Several young bucks, obviously the worse for a night of drinking, were gathered around one of the ever-present orange sellers. The hawker, an old man in a long black coat, was down on his hands and knees trying to retrieve his fruit, which was rolling around in front of him. Every time he had gathered a few up and replaced them in his basket, one of the young men would nudge the basket with his toe and upset it again. Two of the hawker’s tormentors were tossing oranges back and forth, and dropping them in their drunken clumsiness. A small crowd of theatergoers stood around, enjoying the old man’s confusion, and as Barbara drew closer, she could hear their taunts.
“Look at the Jew crawl,” said one young woman, exquisitely gowned and coiffured and with the ugliest expression on a beautiful face that Barbara had ever seen.
“Aye,” said her escort, “let him beg for his ‘gold’ as I have had to beg for mine from his cousins, the cent-percenters.”
Barbara automatically put her hand out to stop David in the vain hope that he would not hear such filth. Sam was already among them, grabbing one drunk by his cravat and pushing him into another. They were too disoriented to put up a fight, and all was over in a few minutes. The spectators moved on and Sam helped the old man to his feet.
“Here is your basket,” he said, placing its strap over the peddler’s head. “We may be able to rescue some of this fruit.” Nora and Sam got down on their hands and knees, picking up oranges and dusting them off, until the basket was at least one quarter full again.
David had not moved. Given the fact that most orange and lemon sellers were Jews, he had immediately guessed what was going on before he could even hear the drunken insults. He knew, of course, that incidents like this happened, but had never before been a witness to one. He had frozen in horror and distaste. Horror that human beings could be so cruel to one another. And, he had to admit, to his deep shame, distaste that the peddler and he shared something: not a religion or a way of life, but an identity that made them vulnerable to the most vile sort of persecution. He did not like being made to feel Jewish, and did not like himself for reacting that way.
By the time he was able to move, Sam was brushing off the old man’s coat and asking him where he lived. “For we cannot let you go home alone tonight.”
The peddler protested. “Thankee, sir, but there is no need. I am most grateful for your help, but I will get home with no trouble.”
“Sam, someone must go with him,” said Nora.
“I will.” David felt shamed into taking some action. He had done nothing, stood by and watched, and now the viscount was prepared to go even further in an act of charity. “If you escort Lady Barbara, then I will make sure the old man gets home safely.”
“Thank you, David,” said Sam, and Barbara smiled at him with approval.
“Where do you live?” David asked the old man as the others moved off.
“Mitre Street.”
David shuddered. Although Mitre Street was not in itself a bad street, their route lay through some of the worst slums in London. He grasped the peddler’s arm and they started off.
David had not been in the heart of the East End before, but it was as bad as he could have imagined it: filthy, crowded, rat-infested, and crime-ridden. He did not relax until they had got to Mitre Street, something of an oasis in that it was cleaner and seemingly less populated than any street they had walked down so far.
“I live over there, sir,” said the old man, pointing out a well-kept building bearing the sign “Jacob Cohen, Wholesale Fruit.”
“Surely you are not Mr. Cohen?”
The old man gave a rasping sound which David took for a laugh. “No, no, sir. I’m Malachi Goldsmid. No relation, I hasten to add, to the better-known Goldsmid. No, Jacob is a kind man, a real ‘Christian,’ sir.” Rasp, rasp. “I was dismissed from my tailoring position because my eyes were going, and he took pity on me. He sells me fruit cheaply, and lets me a room above his shop.”
“Well, let us make sure someone is there tonight.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Jacob and Deborah will be up doing the accounts, I have no doubt about it.”
David pictured an older shopkeeper and his wife. When the door opened on the third knock, he was completely taken aback by the young woman framed in the doorway. She held a large candle, which illumined a pale face liberally covered with freckles and which set the tendrils of hair around her face on fire. It took David a minute to realize that she had red hair, glorious, thick red hair, which seemed to be alive and struggling to escape from the tight braid that hung over her shoulder.
“Excuse me, are you Mrs. Cohen?” asked David. He immediately heard Malachi’s wheeze of a laugh behind him.
“I am Miss Cohen,” replied the young woman. “What are you doing with Malachi?” she asked sharply, alarmed at the unlikely appearance of an exquisitely dressed gentleman at the door.
“There was an…incident in front of the theater tonight, and we felt he should not go home alone.”
“An ‘incident’? You mean some sort of attack, don’t you? I am surprised that a fine gentleman like you would even care.”
“Now, now, Miss Deborah,” piped up Malachi. “No need for that. He’s one of us.”
“One of us?” she repeated skeptically.
“Mr. Goldsmid is correct. I am a Jew,” admitted David.
Miss Cohen’s expression did not alter at this revelation. She still looked doubtful.
“My name is David Treves. Or Tre-ves as my great-great grandfather would have pronounced it. I am Sephardic.”
“That explains it, then,” she said dismissively.
“Explains what?”
“Your clothes, your…fashionableness.”
“There are many poor Sephardim, Miss Cohen.”
“And you are certainly not one of them!”
Malachi had been listening to their exchange with great interest. There was a palpable energy between the two of them, and although negative, Deborah’s response to Mr. Treves was the strongest reaction to a man he had ever seen from her. In his comings and goings as the Cohens’ tenant, he had seen many young men become weary trying to spark a reaction from her. From what he had seen, she had responded to all with indifference. Until now.
“Mr. Tree-ves,” said Malachi, falling somewhere between the old and new pronunciations, “must be a fine gentleman indeed, for he was with a party of real ladies and gentleman.” The old peddler hoped this would impress Deborah.
It did, but not positively.
“So you are one of those Jews who try to pass as ‘English gentlemen,’ ” she said with great contempt.
David was stung out of politeness. “It was one of those ‘English gentlemen’ who was the first to help Mr. Goldsmid. I am not sure where your so righteous anger comes from, Miss Cohen, but there are many good things to be said for an English gentleman.”
“He’s right, Miss Deborah. The young bucks that attacked me weren’t real gentlemen. And I’ve had some Jews look right through me as if I weren’t there. Not like Mr. Tree-ves here.
David was again ashamed of himself. He had been one of those Jews tonight, unwilling to be identified with someone who fit all of the stereotypes held by society. He wanted to be away from these streets, away from the old man, and most of all, away from Miss Cohen, whose scorn had not been tempered at all by Malachi’s praises. The strength of his feelings surprised him.
“Mr. Goldsmid, now that I have seen you safely home, I will be on my way,” he announced coolly. “Good evening, Miss Cohen. Perhaps we will meet again under better circumstances.”
“Oh, I doubt that any business of yours will bring you back to Mitre Street.”
“One never knows, does one?” replied David suavely. “After all, I could never have predicted this visit.”
“Good night, Mr. Tree-ves,” said Malachi.
“Good night, Mr. Goldsmid. I wish you good business to make up for tonight.”
Deborah pulled the old man inside, and David heard her asking Malachi if he was sure he wasn’t hurt as she closed the door behind them.
Deborah did not look back. If she had, she would have seen David Treves standing there, wondering why, when only a few minutes ago he was in such a hurry to leave, he now didn’t want to miss the last glimpse of Miss Cohen’s red hair.
“It was quite painful to have David there as a witness,” said Barbara the next morning, as she recounted the incident to Robin. “Do you think he is exposed to such scenes frequently?”
“I would not imagine he would have encountered much blatant hatred.”
“Yet I have noticed a certain coldness, even rudeness, amongst members of society. In fact,” continued Barbara with some hesitancy, “I do not think Diana entirely approves of my friendship with David.”
Robin frowned, and Barbara hastened to add that she was making an observation, not a criticism.
“Oh, you need not apologize, Barb. You know that Diana comes from a fairly conservative family. In fact, I have always thought that her willingness to challenge the conventions when she was younger came from a need to proclaim her own independence rather than from any conviction. Once she had a family of her own, she settled down almost immediately,” said Robin. “But many of the opinions that she holds are those she learned at home.”
“Does that not bother you, Robin?” Barbara had been curious about this for years, but had never had such an appropriate opportunity to ask.
“Sometimes I envy the way Simon can open his mind to Judith. But a happy marriage need not depend on agreement on all particulars. In fact, I think some thrive on difference. When you marry Wardour, you will discover that, Barb, for the two of you are different in many ways.”
“Yes, and there are times that I have worried about his being such a dyed-in-the-wool Tory. But he has a great deal of natural sympathy and common sense, and that more than makes up for his political leanings.” Barbara was ready to continue when she saw their butler enter.
“Major Stanley.”
“Yes, Henry?”
“The Marquess of Wardour is here.” There was a faint trace of disapproval in his voice. It was clear that Henry thought such an early morning visit the height of bad form.
“Send him in.”
“I believe he wishes to see Lady Barbara, my lord.”
“He must have gotten back from Ashurst late last night, and rushed over first thing. I hadn’t thought him such a romantic,” teased Robin.
“Show him into the drawing room, Henry,” said Barbara, frowning at her brother. “I will be there directly.”
“Bring him in for some refreshment after you have finished your billing and cooing.”
Barbara crumpled her napkin and threw it at her brother, who expertly ducked and went on drinking his coffee. She was unaccountably nervous. She had accepted Wardour. There was no reason for her father to refuse him her hand, after all. So why did she have butterflies?
As soon as she opened the door and Wardour turned eagerly to meet her, all her nervousness fell away. He was the same familiar friend, amiable, handsome, and soon to be her husband.
“I am afraid your butler quite disapproves of me, Barbara, but I couldn’t wait until a more fashionable hour.”
“I am glad you didn’t, Peter,” said Barbara, extending her hands. “How was your visit to Ashurst?”
“As successful as I hoped it would be. Of course your father accepted my suit. So now we can make our betrothal official.”
Barbara felt a momentary flash of annoyance, which she dismissed as irrational and unfair. There was no reason Wardour shouldn’t have taken her father’s approval for granted. What was there to object to? And by this time, her father would have been pleased to accept almost any eligible suitor. It was the unconscious self-satisfaction in Wardour’s voice that bothered her.
“I will have Robin contact the
Times
immediately,” replied Barbara. “And the
Post.”
A slight frown creased Wardour’s forehead at the thought of his name appearing in a liberal newspaper, but he forgot everything as Barbara stepped closer and lifted her face up for a kiss.
Their kiss was deep and slow, a fitting seal to their official betrothal. Wardour was the first to pull away, to Barbara’s disappointment.
“We must be careful of being alone these next few months, my dear. It is hard to treat you with the respect I feel for you.”
“Oh, I think it is allowable, now that we are betrothed, to have the balance fall in favor of passionate kisses rather than respectful embraces,” said Barbara teasingly.
Wardour smiled down at her. “That is what attracted me to you in the first place,” he told her. “Your spirited nature. I am a trifle too reserved, perhaps.”
Somehow, Wardour managed to say this in such a way that Barbara felt mildly criticized rather than complimented, and Wardour sounded satisfied with himself despite his self-depreciation. But their kiss had been more than satisfactory, and so she dismissed her slight apprehension.