Beyond the Ghetto Gates

by Michelle Cameron

  He frowned. “But your father wants to marry her.” It was a statement, not a question. Christophe studied her beautiful face, trying to gauge if she were sincere.

  Dolce shrugged. “Think about it this way. Your mother is a widow, correct? Would you want her to marry your friend Daniel?”

  Christophe sputtered with laughter. “Daniel—and my mother? My mother thinks he’s the devil incarnate—a cursed Jew. Besides, it’s different for a man.”

  “Oh, of course.” Dolce waved a careless hand. “But if you truly love her—and she loves you—what do you care about my father’s feelings?”

  Christophe’s eyebrows rose. “You surprise me. Don’t you want your father to be happy? And can’t he do more for her than I can? He’s rich and I’m a penniless soldier.”

  Dolce rose, paced to the window, and gazed out at the street beyond. “I love my father, but I love Mirelle, too. And my father won’t make her happy.”

  Christophe’s heart skipped a beat. “What are you saying?”

  “He’s rich, but do you really think Mirelle cares for wealth? That she wants to be an old man’s pet? Doesn’t she deserve better? But perhaps you don’t know her that well after all.”

  Christophe studied her silently. She swiveled back, her stare searing him.

  “Her duty—”

  “Ah, yes, her duty. You really aren’t the man I took you for, are you?” She sighed. “I should return to my guests.”

  Christophe jumped up, extending a hand to stop her. His head was whirling. He had been trying to forget Mirelle—a difficult task when at any moment he might stumble across her path. And now . . . what was Dolce implying?

  She stood, watching him. Then she said, almost as if the words were dragged from her, “I keep thinking of the wedding night, you see.”

  Christophe felt himself turn to stone. That old man and his beautiful Mirelle . . .

  He closed his mind to the image. “But he’s your father. Don’t you want him happy?”

  “My father?” Dolce shrugged. “Do you think Mirelle is the first young thing he’s pursued? He wants someone like my mother—someone sweet, obedient, kind. Everything I’m not.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Besides, shouldn’t you think of her happiness rather than his? Perhaps she’s right to fear the worst—that your love isn’t true.”

  Christophe’s mouth gaped. “She’s afraid I don’t love her? Signorina, assure her that I do!”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Dolce said, breaking into a smile, “but it’s you who must convince her, by deeds as well as words. If you care for her, show it! You have to fight to win her.” She paused, eyes raking Christophe’s face. “But remember this: she is my dearest friend. If this is just a game to you—if you really don’t care—you must be honest with me.”

  “This is no game!” Christophe blurted.

  “I certainly hope not. For you’re right—Papa is wealthy.” Dolce raised her fan, eyes lowered modestly. “Think, Sergeant, of everything she’d give up for you. Wealth, leisure, a position in our society. Her religion. You must be certain you are not offering her false coin. And if I’m to help you, I must be sure as well.”

  “Be sure,” Christophe said. “Be very sure!”

  Dolce smiled serenely. “Then I will help you.”

  The chime of a carriage clock on the mantle made them both jump. Dolce moved from the window. “I must go back to the drawing room.”

  A twinge of doubt crossed Christophe’s mind. “Before you go,” he said slowly, “I need to understand. You once told me that she’d never marry a man who was not Jewish.”

  Dolce threw up a hand, her long fingers sparkling with gems. “Do you want to marry her or not? Yes or no?”

  Christophe took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  Dolce nodded briskly. “Good. Leave it to me.”

  41

  MARCH 17

  Mirelle stared at the note. “Who’s it from?” Prudenzia asked. She and Mama were in the small parlor, working on their embroidery.

  Mirelle thought her aunt rude for prying, but she bit her tongue and replied, “From Dolce. She wants me to come see her today.”

  Mama looked up from her sewing. “Well, of course you will. You should have come with us yesterday, to see her father. Even if you won’t—”

  “And you should,” her aunt interrupted. “You owe the family the duty of marrying well.”

  Mirelle threw an annoyed glance at her mother. “Never mind that now,” Mama said hastily. “You have known Signor Morpurgo your entire life. It is unkind not to pay him a visit, to wish him a speedy recovery.”

  What her mother said was true. But Mirelle felt awkward visiting him. Even were she and Dolce still on speaking terms, it would have been difficult. But any attempt to bridge the yawning chasm between them had been rebuffed. Until now.

  Mirelle read the letter again:

  I realize how badly I’ve behaved. It’s clear to me now that you did nothing to attract my father’s affections. And why shouldn’t he hold you in affection? You are a dear and true friend to my entire family. I am determined to return to the way things were before, when we saw one another daily. Since I cannot stir a step with my father still in his sickbed, I beseech you to come to me. Will you? Today?

  Part of Mirelle welcomed the olive branch her friend was extending. Another part remained angry. I really did nothing—how did she put it?—to attract his affection. How could she think I was on the catch for him?

  “Would you like me to come with you?” her aunt asked eagerly, already folding up her embroidery.

  “Mirelle should make this visit on her own,” Mama said firmly. “Besides, we are promised to Signora Narducci’s at-home this afternoon.”

  “Signora Narducci.” Prudenzia’s lips tightened. “She gives herself airs, hosting at-homes when her husband is simply a worker. Really, Pinina, you should stick to your own class of people and not bolster her pretensions by attending.”

  “Abrianna Narducci is a good friend,” Mama said, eyes flashing. “She was here every day when Simone was wounded. And her husband is not just a worker—he is the most skilled scribe at the workshop. It’s a privilege to have him work for us.”

  “Still.” Prudenzia ignored her sister-in-law’s spurt of anger. “You can’t compare the Narduccis with the Morpurgos. You can send your friend a note of apology. Or you go, Pinina, and offer my regrets in person. Tell her I have a sick headache. Then I’ll go with Mirelle.”

  “I’m not going to lie to Abrianna,” Mama said indignantly, shaking her head emphatically. “If you pretend to have a headache, you must stay home.”

  “And really, Aunt, I don’t want company,” Mirelle said. “Dolce and I haven’t spoken for weeks. We have so much to catch up on. In private.” She stressed the last words.

  “Very well.” Her mouth screwed tight, Prudenzia picked up her embroidery hoop and began to add stitches, her needle plucking angrily through the taut material. “I must say, though, that Ancona is very different from Rome. Very different indeed.”

  “We know that, Aunt,” Mirelle said. “You’ve told us so. Many times.”

  Dolce came down the stairs as soon as Mirelle arrived. “Mira!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around her friend, hugging her tightly.

  “It’s good to be here.” Mirelle stepped out of Dolce’s embrace. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I know.” Dolce hung her head. “I’ve been stupid. How could I be upset with you? But anyway,” she picked her head up quickly, before Mirelle could speak, “that’s all in the past and we won’t talk about it ever again. Will we?” She looked straight into Mirelle’s eyes, almost daring her to contradict.

  Mirelle wanted to tell Dolce how hurt she’d felt. But she let it go. After all, she told herself, Dolce had been through a lot lately. Better to make peace and move on.

  “Papa is napping,” Dolce said. “But he’ll want to see you when he wakes.” She studied Mirelle’s face, as if looking for any sign of em
barrassment or discomfiture.

  Mirelle, feeling both, kept her chin raised with an effort. “Let’s not disturb him. I hear you’ve been a wonderful nurse, in constant attendance. You must need some fresh air. Why don’t we take a stroll in the garden?”

  “A quick stroll would be most welcome. I haven’t set foot outside since it happened.”

  Mirelle nodded. “Wrap up, then. It’s not cold, but there’s a stiff breeze.”

  Dolce threw a shawl over her shoulders and they stepped out the back door. The limited space of the ghetto didn’t allow for much of a garden, but Dolce’s father had built a tall wall behind his house and hired a gardener to cover it with ivy. A single orange tree grew next to a narrow gravel walk, and rose bushes were laid out in a square around a small bench. The girls could span the garden in six steps, but by ambling slowly along the gravel walkway, they were able to enjoy the sun and breeze.

  After a few turns, a distant church bell chimed three o’clock. “I need to make sure Papa takes his medicine,” Dolce said. “Why don’t you wait out here? It’s quite pleasant. I’ll send someone with some chocolate.”

  Is she trying to keep me from seeing her father? Mirelle sat on the bench, wrapping her shawl about her shoulders. “Some chocolate would be lovely.”

  Dolce slipped back into the house. Mirelle sat looking at the still-flowerless rose bushes. Soon, she thought, they would bloom, filling the little slip of a garden with their scent. If she married David Morpurgo, she’d sit here every afternoon. It felt very far from the cramped ghetto streets just beyond the garden walls. Mirelle had heard talk, though, that some of her neighbors might leave the ghetto. Their new freedom allowed them to live wherever they wanted in Ancona. Their children even attended school with the Gentile children now. Signor Morpurgo, wealthier than everyone, might well decide to move. Delighted as she was at the thought of more space and light, Mirelle wondered how Christian neighbors would react to living next door to Jews.

  She owed Signor Morpurgo an answer to his proposal of marriage. He would give her everything she’d ever thought she’d wanted as a child—dresses and comfort and kindness. Did it matter that she’d outgrown those desires? That she wanted a life outside the ghetto, a life where she’d be free to do what she did best? If she couldn’t have her heart’s desire in Ancona—to keep working at the workshop—perhaps she could find a place where her talents would be welcome.

  She shook herself out of the pleasant daydream. She had to think of her family. Signor Morpurgo would ensure the future of the ketubah works, no matter how terribly Mino might mismanage them.

  Marrying him, however, meant duties that alarmed her. The wife of a wealthy politician needed to speak up at the dinner table, keep abreast of the events of the day. Like Dolce. Dolce was a wonderful hostess, Mirelle thought wistfully. Of course, she’d had years of practice.

  But even more important, Signor Morpurgo stirred nothing inside her but affection and respect. Like her father, he seemed to understand her better than her mother or even Dolce. But the thought of surrendering to him—under the wedding canopy, in the marriage bed—made her feel queasy.

  What did she want, really, from a husband? An image of Christophe swam before her—young, handsome, with that bit of a swagger that drew her eyes whenever he appeared. She had no idea if he were rich or poor, if he even had a home to give her. By marrying him she would have to surrender her entire past, including the love of her parents and the religion she was born into. But part of her yearned for the adventure they would have—for a young soldier just starting out in life rather than an old man whom she regarded as a second father.

  The thought of hurting her parents stopped her cold. They’d suffered so much since the riots. Not just Jacopo’s death—a wound that ached every day—but her father’s injuries, which still showed no sign of healing. How could she make their lives harder? Breaking the promise sworn solemnly on her brother’s grave?

  And yet part of her rebelled against her mother’s wish that she marry David. She felt she was being sold, body and soul, to the highest bidder. Why should she consider her parents’ feelings when they were so willing to ignore hers?

  It seemed like an impossible dilemma, but she knew which way her duty lay. And she’d been raised to do her duty.

  “Your chocolate, signorina.”

  Her head jerked up. Christophe stood there, his smile broad, holding a silver tray with a tall chocolate pot, two small china cups, and a plate of cake. Her mouth opened in shock, but anything she might have said was silenced by the appearance of a servant with a small table. Christophe stood aside to let the servant put the table down, then placed the tray on it.

  “Shall I pour?” the servant asked.

  At Mirelle’s nod, Christophe sat next to her. The bench was small, and she felt the heat of his thigh against her skirts. The servant poured two cups of chocolate and left.

  “This is a surprise.” Mirelle strove for calm, hoping he couldn’t hear the tremor rattling her voice. “I thought you decided to cut my acquaintance.”

  “I did.” Christophe shifted on the bench so he could watch her face. “But I was wrong. It was just . . .”

  “That I received a proposal from a worthy—and wealthy—man?” Mirelle’s bitterness made her sound sharper than she wished. “So you concluded that I would accept him?”

  “I would not have blamed you. Why wouldn’t you choose a rich man over a penniless soldier?”

  Penniless. Well, that answers one question.

  “But if I loved you and not him?”

  Christophe’s eyes never left her face. “Do you?”

  Mirelle took a deep breath, lacing her hands together in her lap. “You’re asking me—”

  “To love me. Me, not him.”

  She fixed her eyes on the ground. “Do you realize what you’re asking?” Her uncertainty turned the question into a pointed barb.

  “Do you think my parents will permit me to marry you? A Christian? And penniless besides?”

  “If we truly love one another, what does that matter?” Christophe put a hand to her cheek, and she closed her eyes at his touch. “I would send you to Paris, to my mother and uncle. I will inherit his print-shop one day. We could be happy there, Mirelle.”

  Not quite penniless, then. He has a future to offer me. But Paris! Yes, I want to travel, but not live so far away!

  “I need to give Signor Morpurgo my answer soon,” Mirelle said, her chest hammering. Giving in to her heart made no sense. She’d lose a rich future, the chance to support her parents, to help the ketubah workshop. To honor her promise to her dead brother. But the throbbing pulse deep within her made her want this man who watched her solemnly, love alight in his eyes. She took a deep breath. “But I won’t give him an answer today.”

  The servant who had poured their chocolate returned and eyed their untouched cups. “Signorina, the master is awake and asks that you visit.”

  “Of course.” Mirelle stood, fingers trembling as she straightened her skirt.

  Christophe rose, took her hand, turned it over, and kissed her palm softly. “I will visit you tomorrow, signorina. Will you be at home?”

  “I will,” Mirelle said before pulling away. The imprint of his lips burned.

  The servant led Mirelle to the sick room. Signor Morpurgo, sitting on a daybed, was dressed in a thick robe, his feet in cloth slippers, a striped afghan covering his lap and pooling at his feet. He looked recently shaven. Dolce was nowhere to be found.

  “Piccola,” he greeted her. “I was delighted to hear that you had come to visit me. I apologize for not rising to greet you.”

  “How are you feeling?” Mirelle asked.

  “Sit, child.” He motioned to a chair. “I can’t complain. The doctor tells me I was lucky. Luckier than your father, in fact. The ruffian’s blade missed any vital organs. I should be up and around in about a week.”

  “I’m glad.” Mirelle shifted in her seat. “Have they discovered who attack
ed you?”

  “Not yet, although everything points to a man named Emilio Marotti.”

  At the name, the blood rushed from Mirelle’s cheeks. “Marotti? That’s the man who killed my brother and wounded my father.”

  “Is it?” Signor Morpurgo turned serious. “We will bring him to justice. I’m told he’s hiding in the mountains. He can’t stay there forever.”

  Mirelle wondered if the man’s capture would make her feel better about Jacopo’s death. She thought not.

  Morpurgo watched her for a few seconds before saying, “I owe you an apology.”

  “An apology?” “I made a mistake, proposing to you in such a public setting. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was just swept up in the day’s excitement.”

  Mirelle’s cheeks felt hot. “Don’t apologize. I was—am—honored by your offer of marriage. I certainly don’t deserve it.”

  “Don’t say that!” Morpurgo shook his head vehemently. “My girl, if you only knew how much more you deserve! Your modesty is one reason I fell in love with you. Your kindness. Your calm, capable soul. You are beautiful—inside and out.”

  “Beautiful? Me? Compared to Dolce, to my aunt, to other women in the ghetto, the ones who have thrown themselves at you . . . Why me, Signor Morpurgo?”

  He smiled. “David. Please call me David. Why you? I’ve asked myself that question many times. I know I’m too old for you, Mirelle. You have been friends with my daughter since childhood. In fact, that was one reason I thought of you—because Dolce loves you. I know she reacted badly at first, but she invited you here today. So clearly she’s coming around to the idea. She’s always resisted the idea of someone taking her mother’s place. But you’ll have your own place here, in both our hearts.”

  Mirelle wondered if Dolce would ever really accept her as her father’s wife. Or if she could ever accept David as anything more than her friend’s father.

  “I’m older than your father,” David continued, watching her closely, “but men older than me have married young girls and the couple has been happy. Especially if the marriage is blessed with children—with sons.”