April 1832
Aldgate, London, England
If one wanted to hide, the front row of the women’s balcony in the Great Synagogue at Duke’s Place was not where to do so. But hiding wasn’t part of the plan, no matter how tempting. Staying at the top of London’s Jewish community required a particular type of husband. And to land him, public perfection was required. Or at the very least, expertly feigned perfection.
Luckily, projecting an ideal image was—like for her father before her—Isabelle Lira’s specialty.
With deliberate angling, Isabelle raised her neatly bound, personally commissioned, English-transliterated prayer book. She held the volume high enough that the small metal sequins dotting her sleeves, which sparkled against the light streaming from the giant arched windows, drew every eye to her position.
“Performance time,” she whispered to herself as the murmurs echoed over the cantor’s voice.
Framed between the proud Ionic columns, she adjusted the velvet ribbon holding her bonnet in place, the dark blue chosen to make the black of her hair gleam, highlighting her best features.
Most who attended the Great Synagogue were not in the Liras’ social circle. Except for holidays—when her family made an appearance at Bevis Marks, the congregation long favored by the Sephardi side of the Jewish community—they mainly used the private synagogue in their Mayfair townhome.
But with leadership from the Sephardi and Ashkenazi sides now united, she’d be foolish not to at least give the appearance of considering their men for the husband she currently required. After all, thanks to several Ashkenazi’s rising fortunes, some gentiles were even willing to enter business relations with them now—despite their “newer” presence on English shores.
“Tip your chin a little,” her grandmother hissed against her ear. “Everyone is dying for a glimpse of your face, so let’s show it off to its best effect.”
“A good thing we maximized my physical charms, then.” Such was the purpose of the artfully applied soot and powder, as well as the beeswax she’d donned. Not that she needed to remind her grandmother—they’d already had a row over the enhancements earlier that morning. But given the approving murmurs from below, Isabelle had clearly been in the right.
Isabelle adjusted her ankles behind the metal crosshatched barrier further dividing the women from the men. “Everyone received the invitations for the festivals yesterday, guaranteeing we are at the forefront of their minds. It’s only polite to give people the gossip they crave.” Squaring her shoulders, she gazed over the covered, swaying heads of the men below. “And the gown is flawless.” She smoothed the navy and powder-blue silk stripes.
“We’ll have to work on your modesty.” Her grandmother gave her a pointed nudge.
Oof.Isabelle rubbed her side. How the woman’s sharp elbows always slipped between the whalebone was a miracle. “You taught me to be clever and charming,notmodest or sincere.”
“We can still call this off. Work privately—with a matchmaker.” The older woman patted the evenly styled row of gray curls peeking from beneath her lace- and rosette-lined bonnet.
“We’re making a statement, blending gentile culture with our own traditions. The matchmaker you hired already scouted and gave us her thoughts. Our family, and whoever we decide is most suitable, will still come to an agreement, but we will have the façade of modernity.”
At least that was the story they’d woven for the London Commission of Delegates. The organization not only acted as a liaison to the Crown on the Jewish community’s behalf but also decided upon—and carried out—the community’s political objectives, all while assuring its safety, security, and continued legal presence within England.
Not to mention the tight control they exerted over the image the community presented to the outside world.
The Commission’s approval of the Liras’ public endeavors was, whil e not required, important. Especially considering her father’s seat on the Commission had remained vacant since his death. Given her family’s influence—and coffers—the tacit understanding among the delegates was that her husband would fill the role.
Provided he was suitable for such an appointment. All she needed was a man worthy of it.
Isabelle twisted the enormous square diamond buckle on her waist. “Besides, if we cancel now, everyone will be disappointed.”
Or worse, realize how desperate she and her grandmother truly were. How fragile their individual power was without her father. And how easily they could be dethroned, moneyed or not.
“I don’t care about them. I care about you.” With discreet fingers, her grandmother adjusted her own crisp pleated skirts. “You don’t need to rush. Your father’s first yahrzeit isn’t for another three weeks.”
And his death still felt like it had happened yesterday. But time had passed. Enough for the vultures to circle. Or to plot a coup d’état, as the French said.
The threat made by David Berab, the eldest of her father’s business partners, still echoed in Isabelle’s ears, as did his deadline—the day after Shavuot—which loomed now less than six weeks away.
“It’s time that I marry.” Isabelle squeezed the brass railing in front of her, the metal chilling her palm despite her gloves.
And she would. To a man who could force David Berab to accept her as her father’s successor in their company. A man who would assume her father’s communal role in a manner fitting her family’s reputation. A man who would see that none of them fell from their place of admiration and power. A man who’d be unwaveringly loyal to her and her family.
And, best of all, a man she would choose—and in such a way designed to entertain key prominent gentiles. The community’s permitted existence depended upon those people’s favor. Not to mention their interest was the best way to justify holding celebrations between Passover and Lag BaOmer, a period of semi-mourning with a myriad of restrictions.
“Three festivals in three weeks.” Her grandmother scoffed. “The timeline is understandable given the holidays. But inviting every eligible Jewish man in the city to parade before you and vie for your hand? At least the gentiles are more subtle with their Season and balls. One might callthispresumptuous—or dare I say greedy?” The older woman’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline.
“The merits of subtlety are greatly exaggerated. Besides, reviewing all my options isn’t greedy, it’s intelligent. The men on the matchmaker’s list are only suggestions. Good suggestions, but it would be foolish of me not to confirm that no one is being overlooked.” After all, why meet only six rather predictable men, when you could meet six hundred surprises? She turned back to her grandmother. “Who I choose must benefit the family, the business, and the community. His power, his contacts, and his loyalty to us must be superlative in every respect.”
