Clanking in the kitchens roused Sol.
He pushed himself up from his now empty bed, staring out the window at the still gray sky, as the night stars quietly blinked out. Stray footfalls and an occasional grind of an axle floated up, but the world was still mostly asleep. Even the workers and servants were just beginning their day.
Hannah had left over an hour ago—rising from the bed and refusing to even permit him to assist with her buttons. It was the sensible time to leave, before anyone in the house could spy her. Facts he knew and had accepted. Even if everything in him raged at the idea of her being hidden away, of her having anything but her due.
They’d talked late into the night. Every bit of him bursting with desire to share anything and everything with her and encouraging her to do the same. To his surprise—and joy—she’d given him her secrets too. Well, some of them.
He’d told her of his father, of Frederick, and of the few fleeting memories of his own mother.
“She liked to laugh. She used to crawl on the floor and play with me. At night, she’d sing me songs. Mostlyin German. A few Hebrew prayers. Really just the Shema. Last thing before I went to sleep.” Reaching a hand behind his head, he’d stared at the bed curtains. “She was quite young with soft curls and perpetually flushed cheeks and loved flowers. At least I think so. I was small and my memories of her are… I hope they were real.”
“I’m sure the best ones are. My sister’s memories of our parents are like that, so I try to make sure to strengthen what she has.” Hannah’s voice had been wistful. “My mother was a beauty, you know? People forget that because of the rest. But she was. Like my sister.” She’d rolled on her side. “Unfortunately for you, I favor my father, whose looks suited him more than me—but he was… striking. Though the papers called him cold and ‘reptilian.’”
“He must have been clever as well as handsome, then,” he said, stroking her soft skin. “Is this all right?”
She nodded but didn’t tell him any more of her family; instead she stretched a little and pointed to the chair near the fire. “That book, the poems…”
“The Keats?” Sol asked as he wound his fingers through a lock of her now loose hair. “Did you like it?”
“Yes.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps you could read some?”
He bent and kissed her forehead. “My pleasure.”
And he had. For over an hour as she fell asleep in his arms. She’d been so lovely, her long brown hair splayed over his chest and her smooth shoulders. He could’ve lain there for days, weeks, months, watching the rise and fall of her back as she breathed, her skin against his. Never before had he been so content and calm and, well, happy.
But as she’d pointed out, he couldn’t keep her.
Which was… wrong. That was the only way he could describe it. Wrong. Even if almost everyone in his life, including Hannah herself, would disagree.
That should likely move him. More than move him. Convince him to leave her alone.
Yet he couldn’t convince himself that they were right, andhewas in the wrong. No matter how foolish that was. Because he saw her—saw her value. Even if no one else did. Thus, in those wee hours of the morning, when it was as if they were the only two people in the world, the thoughts that had dogged him since they’d met turned into dreams, visions.
Ones in which they had a life—one where they could be together, with their own home and their own family. Taking care of her sister and his brother, of course—but connected—together.
Both independent yet part of a greater whole. And people would respect her. He’d see to it. He’d thrust himself back into the Jewish world—while protecting Frederick’s place in the gentile—and she’d be able to go to synagogue and sit in the center of the balcony and no one would say a bad word about her ever again. A future that, though almost certainly impossible, made his meshuggeneh heart yearn.
Dangerous to say the least. Especially as the woman in question seemed quite determined to crush that same organ. Or at least chew off her own hand before risking hers.
Yes, the wisest thing would be never to go near her again. Except no one had ever accused him of being wise.
Still, he’d have to proceed with the utmost cautionfrom here on out. For Frederick’s sake, for Hannah’s, and for his own.
Sol stretched and rose from his bed, pacing over to his wardrobe to at least half dress for the day. Maybe he’d even wear shoes. He buttoned his shirt before pulling out a navy cravat, when a knock came at his door.
“Come in,” he called, donning his jacket. One of his brother’s footmen entered, bearing a tray.
“Your breakfast, Mr. Solomon,” he said as he placed it down on the small table by the fire. The maid who’d followed him in set about poking at the flames to bring them back to a comfortable roar.
“Thank you,” he told her before turning back to the man. “Thank you so much, Gregory.”
The man gave him a small nod as the maid rushed over to futz with the curtains.
“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” he called to her.
“I suppose,” she returned, continuing her work. He turned back to the footman.
“I enjoy a little nip in the air, especially this time of year. Not too cold, but enough so everything is fresh and crisp, like a tart, tender apple.” Sol smiled. He could never resist apples. Baked or raw, all ways, an absolutely perfect food. His mother had liked them on the holidays. At least he thought she had. Did Hannah enjoy them as well? If she did, perhaps he’d charm the cook to get a few extra and take them to her.
