“Says who?” Miriam leaned against the wall.
“Says Isabelle, and her opinion is the only opinion that matters.” Aaron slammed his fist down on the table in frustration. It was over, in the past, and he was leaving. It didn’t matter anymore. “I’m not enough.”
“Did she say that?” Miriam asked.
What kind of question was that? Aaron glared at the woman. “She didn’t deny it.” He kicked at the ground. “She had every opportunity to tell me that she—” He swallowed. “Why couldn’t she give me the words?” Why couldn’t she say it out loud? Give him the words so they could figure it out together? Why was he not enough to merit that?
“Isabelle Lira is a frightened girl.” She rocked a little as she moved toward him once again. “I’m not saying what she did was right, far from it, but—”
“Let’s not rehash this, please.” He tugged at his beard, which was getting bushier by the minute. “She made her choice.”
“Did she? Or did she merely stumble, miss a cue?” Miriam snapped, now so close she was practically on top of him. “Have a temporary lapse in judgment which there’s still time to correct?”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure it was a mistake. I have nothing to offer her. Even if I stayed, even if the Berab brothers didn’t seek revenge, I’ve no status nor money. I’m not learned or clever. I can’t lead the community or help the business. I have no trade, no talent. I have nothing to recommend me. I’m the last person anyone would want as a husband.”
“Yes, because that’s what Isabelle Lira needs—a man who is first in line for a title when they finally realize allowing some of us the illusion of power will keep us even further in check, or one who can write commentary or speak twelve languages.” Miriam placed a hand on her hip.
“Are you mocking me?” He clenched his fist.
“No, I’m making an observation. I think the bigger question is why Isabelle Lira needs a husband who is any of those things.” Miriam grunted as he stared at her, his mind spinning. “Think about that while you inspect what I brought for you. And remember, my hands might be old but are still quite skilled at tying a cravat, if you need them. Though I heard Rabbi Marcus isn’t so bad himself.” She indicated a satchel lying on the bed.
How had he not noticed it before? Aaron squinted, but the item was still present. He must really be out of sorts. “Why?” he managed to ask, blinking at the woman. What did he matter? What was Isabelle to her? After all, the community was her primary concern, and if she truly cared about that, she’d be pushing the Berabs harder. As that union would at least have political benefits.
“If the bill fails over a twenty-three-year-old heiress’s choice in husband, it would never have succeeded in the first place.” Miriam inhaled a deep breath, seemingly reading his mind once more. “The bill is important, but not a panacea. If Sussex and his consortium are true friends, the match will have no effect on their opinions. Rights aren’t rights if they are contingent on us yielding to each and every gentile whim.” She squeezed the head of her cane. “We are people. If they’ll only permit us rights if they like everything we do or say, then they’ll never be full rights. We’ll never be equal, and always be at their mercy.”
Aaron stared at her, his jaw going slack.
“There’s always something,” she continued. “One of us will commit some sort of crime, or they’ll find one of our practices or beliefs repulsive, and all those feelings they have now, the ones just under the surface, will rise once more. They’ll use this or that as a pretext to justify not only the hatred they still harbor but taking away anything we receive.”
“I don’t understand.” Aaron shook his head. What did any of this have to do with him?
Miriam reached out a shaking hand and gave him a pat on the arm. “That means you can’t use the bill as an excuse. Just as the business is not an excuse.” She moved back toward the bed. “Now, I can’t guarantee anything magical will happen if you come to the festival tonight, but I do believe you’ll regret not attending, not giving her that second chance you’re itching to give her, whether she deserves it or not.” Grunting, she reached for the satchel, straining as she bent.
Which wouldn’t do. Aaron moved to her and retrieved the item, clutching it against his chest. “Impossible,” he murmured, even as his mind was already brimming with curiosity about what exactly it contained.
“Only if you make it, only if you let your own doubts and someone else’s fears and foolishness cover you in muck, cover that hope that you manage to keep alive. People do see you, Mr. Ellenberg, more people than you think. More than you do yourself.” The woman gave him a nudge. “Go on, peek inside.”
Against his better judgment and with a grunt of his own, as well as a few choice words under his breath, Aaron complied and gasped. Even in the dim candlelight the fineness of the fabric glistened.
“It will be perfect on you.” Miriam gave him a jab to the ribs. Why all the touches all of a sudden? Not that it mattered, but the night was getting odder and odder.
“And it’s right here in front of you,” she added, “with no one wearing it. And truly, someone should be wearing it.”
“I won’t be wearing it for very long,” he grumbled, running his hand over the velvet of the cravat. He turned to Miriam. “My ship departs tomorrow, from Dover. I need to leave tonight to arrive on time.”
“You should stay at least until midnight. That’s when Miss Isabelle will be making her announcement.” Her hood dipped to the side, as if she was cocking her head behind it.
Was Miriam joking? She wanted him to stay for that? Already, he was terrified that he’d shatter the moment he saw Isabelle again, and hearing her announce . . .
Miriam was wrong about him and her—he wasn’t enough. And staying and watching her choose Weiss, knowing everything he knew—no thank you. A terrible idea.
Even going at all was a terrible idea.
And yet here he was, already tugging the jacket out from the bag, ready to slip it over his shoulders. Because he had to see her one last time. Even if only for a moment, if only until midnight.
“I will certainly not be staying until midnight.” Aaron closed his eyes. “But I believe I’m going to a ball.”
Aaron stood at the top of the stairs, behind a merchant and his two sons, waiting to enter the ballroom from the front door for once. He yanked at the bottom of his waistcoat—a bit tight, but the starched white fabric gleamed with respectability in the chandelier light, especially against the ridiculous deep ruby cravat Miriam had given him. Rabbi Marcus had smoothed and futzed with it as well before assisting him with his Lag BaOmer shave and shear. Coupled with the tighter-fitting trousers and smooth stockings loaned by other congregants, he probably did appear to belong.
