The Jew is not of our stock, nor of our soil. He is other. To elevate him is to abase the Englishman. Better a mongrel hound at one’s hearth than a Hebrew in the halls of Parliament.
Maisie’s face stayed serene, her practiced mask. Inside, her skin burned.
Her eyes dropped again.
Woman, at least, is fashioned to nurture. But why do we need the Jew? To admit him to our universities is to sully the minds of England’s sons. To tolerate difference is weakness; to honor plurality, treason.
The words blurred. She swallowed hard. She could not let her hand tremble, not here, not with John watching.
John wrinkled his brow. “That sounds… cruel.”
Maisie gently squeezed his arm again, her tone airy, calm, the voice of a lady who must not disagree. “It is not for us to dispute Parliament,nephew.” She let the word hang but she hid behind John as much as he hid behind her. They were family and responsible for one another, regardless of whether they were related by blood or not.
The tailor gave a grunt of approval, tugging John’s collar into place, pleased with her supposed agreement—oblivious to the fire smoldering in her chest.
But Maisie’s thoughts were elsewhere—on Rachel’s warning, on Faivish, on the tide that seemed to rise higher with every passing day, threatening to wash them all away.
And on the vow she had whispered into her own silence more times than she could count:she would never abandon John.
The tailor bowed himself out, muttering about delivery dates, leaving them briefly alone. John tugged irritably at his collar, cheeks flushed from the pinpricks of the needle.
Maisie exhaled slowly, smoothing her skirts as though pressing calm back into her bones. The words from the newspaper still echoed, sharp as vinegar, but she would not let them show. Not here.
Deena slid down from the windowsill, eyes blazing. “He spoke as though you weren’t even in the room,” she whispered in Yiddish, too soft for John to catch. “As though women and—” She bit the rest off, her teeth closing around the danger.
Maisie’s glance cut quick and warning, but her smile to John was gentle, as if none of it had touched her. “Your collar sits perfectly now.You’ll look quite the young gentleman.”
John studied her, suspicion clouding his young face. “Why didn’t you answer me?”
She blinked. “Answer you?”
“When I asked if you wanted to marry. Or to be in love.”
The words landed like a splinter under skin—small, piercing, impossible to ignore. Maisie bent low, fingertips brushing the lapel of his jacket, her voice lowered into a half-whisper meant for him alone.
“Love in marriage,” she said softly, “is like smoothing the planks of a table. It makes the surface easier to live with. But it doesn’t make the table stronger.”
Deena tilted her head. “So what does?”
Maisie’s gaze lingered on her sister, then returned to John. Her voice gentled further.
“Trust,” she said. “That’s the nails. It keeps everything together when the weather turns. When the wood begins to warp, without trust, even the finest timber will break apart.”
John’s brow furrowed as though he were engraving the thought into memory. After a long pause, he asked quietly, “Do we have that? The nails?”
Her throat ached. How could she tell him about the hollow carved inside her—the name she had buried, the man she had promised to wait for? And yet, what did any of that matter? This boy was hers to protect. Whatever the law said. Whatever the tailor or Parliament whispered.
Maisie laid her palm gently on his shoulder, steady as a vow. “We do,” she said. “We are family now. We hold.”
Deena’s lashes lowered quickly, but not before Maisie saw the glimmer in her eyes. She turned her head, pretending sudden interest in the bolts of fabric stacked neatly against the wall.
The bell above the door jingled. The tailor returned, bowing stiffly as he offered the parcel wrapped in brown paper.
“Your nephew will be a credit to Eton, madam,” he said.
Nephew.The word pierced her, another hidden needle. Maisie accepted the parcel with serene grace, thanking him with the practiced voice of a lady who had never been anything but. Inside, her chest burned.
Stepping into the street again, the city rushed back—carriage wheels clattering, hawkers calling through the drizzle, the air thick with coal smoke. Across the way, a jeweler’s sign swung faintly in the damp breeze.
