Of course. She lay down, but now the covers suffocated her. She pushed them off, trying to move as quietly as possible, and sat up. Her aunt didn’t stir.
She heard her father’s snuffling snore, then waited for the deep draw of breath that told her Mama was also fast asleep. Her black dress was draped over the chair where she’d left it. She slipped off her nightdress and pulled the gown over her slender body in the dark, not bothering with corset or stays. Her heavy cloak would cover her. All she intended was to step past where the gates used to stand and into Catholic Ancona, to honor her brother’s wish. Then she’d return to bed.
Mirelle let herself out of the house into the dark and mist. Treading carefully, she turned toward Via Astagna. The ghetto was deserted, candles doused, shutters closed. Her thin shoes scuffled along the cobblestones, bare echoes in the silence that hung heavy all around her.
It wasn’t until she reached the old gateway that she realized she was violating the recently imposed French curfew. All residents of Ancona were to be indoors by ten o’clock. She’d paid scant heed to the curfew announcement. She’d never planned to be out this late.
She was too far gone to turn back now. Just let me get through the gates and close to the harbor, she thought. One good look at the sky and the stars, then I’ll go right back home. For you, Jacopo. She crept past the open stone archway.
Her body trembled as she left the ghetto. She remembered the mixed fear and exhilaration of stealing through the gates with Dolce and her father in Venice. Now, taking a few steps into Gentile Ancona, she wasn’t sure what she felt.
A moment later, she heard heavy boots on the cobbles. Three soldiers patrolled just ahead on the Via Astagna, muskets slung over their shoulders. One carried a lantern, the second a bottle of wine. A third lagged behind. Mirelle glanced about. The street was too narrow to avoid them, unless she knocked on a door and begged to be taken inside. Should she? No, not unless she wanted Mama to know what she’d done.
What’s the worst they can do? she asked herself, heart pounding, as she waited for them to approach. They’re French soldiers, like my cousin Daniel. Not like the Christians of Ancona, or even that drunk Venetian nobleman. They’ll just escort me home.
“Halt!” one of them called, his cry echoing off the high walls of the ghetto.
She didn’t move.
“What are you doing out at this hour?” the second asked, shining the lantern in her face.
She started to answer, but the first soldier flung up a hand. “Taistoi,” he said rudely. “Jacques, what a stupid question. What type of woman would be out this late unaccompanied? Only whores.”
“You’re right, Pierre.” Jacques, licking his lips, moved the lantern down her body.
“Please. I was just walking home.” Fear crawled up Mirelle’s spine. Pierre laughed thickly, taking a drink from the bottle. “She’s a pretty piece.”
“I haven’t had a woman since Milan.” Jacques reached out and grabbed Mirelle’s arm. “Give us a kiss, girl. We won’t report you if you do.”
“Let me go!” Mirelle cried, struggling in his grasp. She readied her fist to strike him, but realized that this man, unlike the drunk noble in Venice, wouldn’t be deterred by a mere blow.
The third soldier came up to them. “What’s going on?”
Mirelle’s eyes flew open. Christophe Lefevre stood before her, holding a lantern aloft.
“It’s nothing, Sergeant,” Jacques said.
“We just wanted a kiss,” Pierre added.
Mirelle pulled out of Jacques’s suddenly slackened grasp. “Corporal Lefevre! Thank heavens. Tell these men to leave me alone!”
“Signorina d’Ancona!” The soldier peered at her under the hood of her cape, then turned on the men, mouth pinched. “Let her go this instant! How dare you harass an innocent woman?”
“She was walking the streets alone at this hour. What were we to think?” Jacques protested.
Christophe put a protective arm around Mirelle’s shoulders. “I’ll bring you home,” he said. “On your way,” he added brusquely to the men.
“Oh, so she’s your doxy,” Pierre sniggered. “Sorry, Sergeant-Major.” Mirelle froze, hands clenched in indignation.
Christophe turned on him in unmistakable fury. “Tais-toi! This is a decent woman.”
“If you say so.” Jacques shrugged. “We’ll leave you to it.”
“Be off,” Christophe growled.
Looking relieved that he wouldn’t press the matter further, the two men hurried down the street. Mirelle and Christophe watched as they turned toward the quay.
“Are you all right?” Christophe asked gently. “What are you doing out at this hour?”
She felt her heart turn over in her chest at his tenderness. Instead of replying, she burst into tears. Why am I crying? she thought, appalled. But the French soldier’s kindness had triggered emotions buried deep within her.
Christophe led her to the front steps of one of the houses, helped her sit, and handed her a handkerchief. He sat silent, waiting, as she carefully dabbed at her cheeks.
It took what seemed like an eternity, but Mirelle finally stopped weeping. “It was for my brother,” she said, her breath catching in hiccups. “He always wanted to leave the ghetto at night. I stopped him when he was still alive. So he told me to do it for him now.”
“He . . . told you?” Christophe raised an eyebrow.
Mirelle nodded. “Yes. He wanted to see the stars over the harbor. It was as if he whispered to me.” She broke off. “Listen to me,” she muttered, “talking like a madwoman. It was stupid. I should never have left the house.”
Christophe reached out to touch her shoulder. “No. I understand.”
Mirelle bit her lip. “You do? Because I don’t. Here I am, outside the ghetto at night, nearly freezing.”
Her body was trembling uncontrollably. Christophe took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. His trapped body warmth seeped into her shaking frame and quieted it.
“Did you forget the curfew?” he asked gently.
Mirelle nodded.
“Did you do what your brother asked you to do?”
Mirelle stared, suspecting he might be mocking her. But his face was solemn.
“Do you need me to walk you to the harbor so you can honor your brother’s wish?”
Mirelle gazed at him, then nodded. How strange, she thought. He was here at exactly the right moment. Just like in Venice.
They walked silently down to the waterfront, close enough that she could reach out and brush against him, if only she dared. She wished, more than anything, that he would touch her. As they stood under the stars that Jacopo had longed to see, she realized with a start that she was not thinking of her brother.
“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” Christophe pointed to the heavens. “Do you believe your brother is up there, looking down? Do Jews believe in heaven?”
Mirelle shook her head. “Not in that way. But perhaps his spirit does know.”
“I’m certain of it. Just as I know my father watches me.” He lapsed into silence.
The moment stretched between them and she grew afraid of what she was feeling. “I should go home. Someone will see me.”
“I’ll take you.”
“I’m so grateful. If you hadn’t come along just then—”
“But I did.” Christophe’s voice was thick. “Dieu merci.”
Mirelle gazed back at him. Dieu merci, she thought. “Please, don’t mention this to anyone. Especially not my cousin. Please. Promise me.”
Christophe nodded, his face softening.
What can he possibly think of me? she wondered.
As they started back, Christophe said, “My father died at the start of the Revolution, at the Bastille. I was only nine years old. But even so, I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”
In a few short sentences, Christophe told her how his uncle and father had gone with the National Guard to the Bastille, dem
anding gunpowder for the muskets they’d been given. When the governor refused, two guardsmen clambered over the prison walls and cut through the chains securing the drawbridge, starting the famous assault. But Christophe’s father, Noel, stood too close. The heavy bridge toppled directly on his head, killing him instantly.
“Uncle Alain raised me, gave me a profession,” Christophe said. “But there’s no replacing your own father.”
“Or your brother,” Mirelle agreed.
They arrived at her door, and Mirelle removed his jacket. She paused halfway up the stairs. “Thank you for helping me,” she whispered. “Yet again.”
33
FEBRUARY 14
The next morning, Mirelle tried to find a moment to ask her mother about Signor Morpurgo. But Mama was bustling around the house, making sure their houseguests were comfortable.
Seeing her mother fully occupied with household tasks, Mirelle decided to speak with her father. Still exhausted from the previous day’s events, he had stayed in bed.
She slipped into his room and sat on Mama’s chair. “Am I disturbing you?”
Papa smiled tiredly at her. “Not at all, child. I’m happy for your company.”
“There’s something we need to discuss.”
After arriving back to bed the previous night, she had decided on a foolproof plan. At least, she hoped it was foolproof.
“Is there?” Papa settled himself against his bank of pillows. “When you bring Beniamino into the workshop, I want to come too.”
Papa sighed. “Mirelle—”
“No, listen, Papa. You’re going to be occupied in teaching my cousin about the business. That’s going to be difficult enough without having to manage the men and the accounts—especially after what I’ve seen in the books. It doesn’t have to be every day—just two or three times a week, to keep everything running smoothly.”
Papa shook his head. “You heard what we said about the rabbi.”
Mirelle knew this would be the most difficult hurdle. She picked up his hand and kissed it. “He asked if this would be permanent, didn’t he? If he reproaches you, tell him it’s just temporary. Just until you have Beniamino trained.”
“Your mother won’t like it.”
Realizing she’d convinced him, Mirelle was careful not to smile. “Probably not. But she’ll agree if I tell her I’m there to make sure you’re not overexerting yourself. She’s worried about your health, Papa. I am, too.”
Papa sighed. “I don’t want you to worry.”
“Then let me do this.”
He closed his eyes. “If you can persuade your Mama, I would be grateful.”
It wasn’t until late afternoon, when Prudenzia had retired to rest, that Mirelle finally managed to corner her mother. She was sitting at her desk, writing a note.
Before Mirelle could open her mouth, Mama jumped in with a question of her own. “What are you wearing tonight?”
“Tonight? To the salon? But I thought—”
“I didn’t want you to attend, but now you must. To take your aunt.”
Mirelle stared at her mother. “Won’t she feel uncomfortable? She won’t know anyone and wasn’t invited.”
Mama folded her note and heated the wax to seal it. “Dolce invited her. Her father must have said something. And your aunt is accustomed to much more glittering social functions than this. From what she says, she spends half her life attending parties and making calls. We can’t usually offer her such events in Ancona.” She dripped wax on the note and applied her seal. “So let’s take advantage of this one, yes?” She looked straight at Mirelle. “We need to amuse your aunt so she doesn’t go running back to Rome with Beniamino. The boy must learn his responsibilities if he is going to inherit your father’s workshop, and that will take time. Months, maybe years.”
Should she broach the subject of the workshop? No, Mirelle decided. The time wasn’t right.
Mama rang a bell for Anna, who appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Take this to the Morpurgo house, please,” Mama said, “and hurry back to prepare dinner. We’ll eat early so Mirelle and Prudenzia have time to dress.”
Anna made a face. “I’ve already started dinner.” “Let me go, Mama,” Mirelle said. “I can deliver the note and be back in ten minutes.”
“Just don’t tire yourself, child. You have a big night ahead.”
Mirelle left her mother’s missive with a servant at the Morpurgos’. She turned to head back down their marble stairway—and was startled to see Christophe Lefevre on the bottom step. A flutter danced in the pit of her stomach.
“Signorina d’Ancona,” he said, his face lighting up as though the mere sight of her brightened his day. No one had ever looked at her like that before. “Give me a moment and I’ll escort you home.”
“There’s no need, Sergeant. It is ‘Sergeant’ now, isn’t it? That’s what those men said last night. Are congratulations in order?”
The soldier grinned at her. “I’m still not used to it. Anyway, I’d much prefer you call me Christophe”—his voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned close—“because I’d like nothing better than to call you Mirelle. Did you know that it is French for ‘admired one’? Which suits you, my lovely lady. So if you please, admired Mirelle, may I call you by your charming name?”
His soft voice thrilled her. “I shouldn’t allow it, but I owe you a debt of gratitude. So yes, you may—in private, at least.”
She waited as he rang the bell and delivered his note. “From the general,” he said, rejoining her and extending his arm. “He leaves for Rome tomorrow, so he sent apologies to your friends. He’ll drop by the salon if he can but doubts he’ll have time.”
“You’re heading to Rome?” Mirelle rested her fingers lightly on the crook of his arm. He reached down and tucked her hand more securely. “My relatives have just arrived from there. I’m bringing my aunt to the salon this evening. She’ll be sorry to miss the general.”
“Actually, I’m not leaving,” Christophe said. “Daniel and I have been stationed here. Which means we can get better acquainted.”
“Not leaving?”
“Not leaving. And can I say how pleased I am to be—”
Mirelle half pulled her hand out of his arm. She needed to remember he was a Gentile, no matter how attractive he was. “Please don’t,” she told him sternly, raising her chin. “I am indebted to you for your kindness last night, and in Venice, but it’s not proper for you to flirt with me.”
“And why not?” Christophe asked. “And who’s to say it’s flirting? I know you feel something.”
Mirelle bit her lip. “And if I do? What does it matter? We come from different worlds, you and I.”
“Do we? Did we not break down the gates that stood between us?” Mirelle had to smile at that, but then she turned pensive. “More than mere gates separate us. I have a duty to my family. Now that my brother is dead, their future depends on me.”
Christophe mulled this over. His voice grew serious. “Signorina d’Ancona—Mirelle—a few months ago, I was part of an army that was mocked throughout Europe. A fledgling army that everyone said could never vanquish the mighty Austrians, never make their way into the heart of Italy. Yet here we are. A mere few days ago, your people were penned inside the ghetto. That’s no longer true either. Can’t you see how times have changed for us both? How can you talk about family and duty and the things that separate us, when fate has so clearly brought us together?”
Mirelle stared at him. Could he be right? She drew a deep breath, a sudden rush of freedom entering her chest—a feeling close to giddiness.
“You are all I think of,” Christophe continued, “from the moment I wake until I sleep at night. Even then, you wind like smoke through my dreams. I’ve fallen in love with you.”
Mirelle felt her breath catch in her throat. “If that’s true, I’m sorry for you.”
“If it’s true!” Christophe stopped short and shifted to face her. He stood above her,
his jaw tight. “Do you think I’ve said this before? Oh, I’ve had my dalliances. I won’t deny that. But never before have I met a woman who is the embodiment of all I desire in life. I may not deserve you, admired one—but no one could ever love you as I do.”
Christophe’s protestations overwhelmed her. In Venice, perhaps, such avowals might have been part of a romantic dream that one would remember fondly once awoken. But this was Ancona, and this handsome soldier was making this declaration to her. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, not quite sure what else to say. “The distance between us is too great.”
“Am I alone in my feelings?” Christophe asked, his voice cracking. His sudden vulnerability touched her heart. “If that’s true . . .”
Mirelle looked around. They were just a few paces from her house. Thankfully, the street was, for once, nearly deserted.
She tried to convince herself that she didn’t care for him. He’s a Gentile, she reminded herself. A foreigner, a soldier. And yet when she opened her mouth to tell him that she would never love him, that such an idea was impossible, the words refused to leave it.
Fate somehow keeps bringing us together, she thought. And he says he loves me.
Then she remembered what Dolce had said back when the rabbi had first exiled her—that a man would chase all thoughts of the ketubah manufactory from her mind. She felt ashamed to admit that her friend might be right. Especially now, when Papa needed her more than ever.
The silence between them lengthened. Christophe stepped forward. She moved back, putting up her hands to stop him.
“I’m not leaving tomorrow,” Christophe said. “But a soldier’s life is subject to command. I may be ordered to ride away next week. Next month. Would you leave my question unanswered?”
Mirelle tried to speak, but she couldn’t.
Christophe bent his head, looking into her eyes. She wondered if he could sense her confusion, the jumble of thoughts and emotion. He nodded, as if her eyes had answered him. She felt like a large stone rested on her chest, stifling her. And yet some part of her rejoiced. She might not fully understand how she felt, but she was pleased that he was staying in Ancona.
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