“I know.” She waved off the cloying pity she most certainly didn’t earn or need. “And I have a trade. As for the rest, it’s early yet. We aren’t officially speaking to anyone about matches until the spring, so you don’t need to worry—”
“And until then? What am I meant to do? You barely let me help in the shop anymore.” Her sister’s tone had transformed from consolatory to accusatory in a flash. Though not unfairly. Hannah had been restricting Tamar’s work.
But for her own good.
While the business was mostly legitimate, they still dealt in some stolen goods. Though nothing as risky orprofitable as their parents, there was always danger in what they did. And it was best for Tamar to keep herself safe. After all, she was still young, a mere twenty, and Hannah had vowed to her parents she’d always protect Tamar.
“I’m not a child any longer,” Tamar added between gritted teeth, as if she could read Hannah’s thoughts.
“I know. Which is why we’re searching for a match for you.” Hannah ladled the thick mixture, the potatoes only slightly burnt, into two bowls. Moving to the table, she slid one before her sister before taking up her own seat and mumbling the motzi over the leftover bread from the night before, even as her sister broke off her own large piece. “And I’m making progress. Remember, last week at Bevis Marks, I overheard some very useful information about who of the respectable families still has money and who is desperate for it and might be willing to marry the likes of—”
“I could be the Queen of Sheba and the Sephardis wouldn’t bother with me.” Tamar heaved a slow sigh. “You know that.”
The guilt returned, vanquishing Hannah’s appetite.
Their situation was because of her. They were not of the Sephardi side in the Jewish community—those families who had been invited back to English shores several generations back and now had the wealth and trade links to show for it. If enough money was involved, a Sephardi man might be persuaded to look past the “inelegant” and “less-civilized” traditions and names and accents of their Ashkenazi brethren—those who, in the gentiles’ eyes, had immigrated too recently to claim any shared pedigree. Even if Sephardi and Ashkenazi had recently united as one Jewish community.
But Hannah’s mistakes had rendered such a match impossible. The Sephardic members of the community worked so hard to please the gentiles—for their communal safety, they’d argue—and to those same goyim, she and her parents represented the monsters of their folktales.
No self-respecting, well-regarded Sephardi would link themselves with them.
No matter how large a fortune Tamar could offer.
“If you didn’t get names, did you at least see anyone to watch for? Someone handsome? Anyone who caught your eye?” Tamar’s questions burst through Hannah’s cycling thoughts.
She near spit her water across the room as the image of Solomon Weiss rose in her brain. Oy. Ducking her head, she patted her mouth with her cloth napkin.
“Because if I’m going to marry, I would need someone handsome. Along with all the rest, of course.” Tamar smiled slyly, taking a large spoonful of cholent.
“With your looks, you’ll have handsome. I was more focused on ‘all the rest,’ as you call it.” When she could breathe again, Hannah narrowed her eyes—Tamar’s list of requirements seemed only to be growing with each week. Soon she’d need a man more paradigm than possible. “Things that you also claimed were critical to your potential spouse, including whether they’re well read.”
“So you do listen, it seems. However…” Tamar screwed her lips to the side. “You’re acting oddly.” Her eyes narrowed as she leaned over to peer at Hannah. “What happened today? Was it the women again? Did they see you and talk about our—”
“No.” Hannah shook her head. She’d never been asocial favorite, even when her parents were around. “Charm” was a skill that had always eluded her. And now, after everything, the whispers and pointed looks didn’t touch her in any way—she didn’t even flinch each time she passed by the empty space on the bookcase that had once held a donation plaque with her family name.
Not that she didn’t notice the grooves from the nails still marring the wood. Even twelve years later. Probably because the Great Synagogue had ripped it out so quickly after the news of their arrests was splashed across all the gentile papers—heralded as some triumph for humanity. Their community’s most respectable members had jumped all over themselves to show the gentiles that, unlike her and her parents, they weren’t ogres too. Or at least merely the tamed sort. That they, like their most favored Sephardi counterparts, could become “good Jews.”
“I was careful and stayed towards the edge of all crowds,” Hannah assured her sister. “No one of note noticed me, and even if they did, it isn’t as if I care what they say. I only want to go there to help you—which I am happy to do—veryhappy.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Anyway, it was—it was very silly. I tripped.”
Worry lines sprouted on her sister’s brow. “Are you injured?”
Hannah rolled her eyes. “It would take a great deal more than a few bumped limbs to daunt me.”
“Yes, yes, you’re the toughest of the street toughs.” Tamar gave a dismissive wave before leaning over the table, inspecting Hannah again. “How’s your arm by the way?” Her sister gave a knowing point of her fork to the elbow she was still nursing from an encounter withMick and George. The pair had become more aggressive since Ned spent less time on the streets, having risen in the criminal world, though she’d managed to hide all her take this time, so the injury was born out of their frustration, not her loss.
“My arm is perfectly serviceable,” she said, resisting the urge to give the still tender joint a rub.
Her sister bit her lip. “You know. When I marry, perhaps you could come and stay—”
“When you marry, you will live happily ever after, far away from here, and I will not do anything to make trouble for you.” Hannah set her jaw, refusing to engage in the old argument. Yes, the life she led might not be respectable, but it was hers. And she’d earned every bit of it. The good and the bad. And it was where she’d have to remain. Even if it was likely that one day she would be without her sister.
The two fell into silence as they ate, or more, in Hannah’s case, stirred their meal.
“Did anyone help you when you tripped?” Tamar finally asked.
“What?” Hannah blinked at her.
“It would be rather awful if they ignored you,” her sister continued, twirling her utensil between her fingers. “Even if our father hadn’t attended the synagogue at Duke’s Place, we’re still Jews, still like them. And he did attend and support their efforts to maintain and help those less fortunate in our community. Which… I suppose we now are.”
