“The house was entailed as part of the workshop property,” he said. “It was necessary back when Simone’s father needed collateral for a loan to keep the business running. Simone should have altered the will, but he never found the time. Had he not died so suddenly . . .”
“We’re homeless? We don’t even own the furniture? Everything belongs to Prudenzia?” Mama wiped her eyes. “What are we to do?”
Morpurgo pursed his lips, glancing sidelong at Mirelle. A pang struck her heart. She knew what he meant. I am still in mourning, she thought, shrinking away. He cannot make me choose now. Not yet.
Once Prudenzia learned she was mistress of the house as well as the workshop, her manner turned from barely polite to openly hostile. The day after the shiva was over, while they sat at breakfast, she turned to Mama.
“I should have the best bedroom,” she proclaimed. “Anna and Mirelle will move you into Mirelle’s room by nightfall.”
Mama sobbed into her handkerchief, but Mirelle raised her chin and looked straight into her aunt’s flinty eyes. “We’ll make the necessary arrangements, Aunt.”
“Excellent. And Mirelle, tell that Christian soldier to stop visiting. He’s not welcome.”
Mirelle closed her eyes. “I’ll tell him.”
Prudenzia poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. “I assume your mother will live with you once you marry David Morpurgo.”
Mirelle’s throat clenched. “Yes. If I marry him.”
Prudenzia snorted, her upper lip curling. She knows, Mirelle thought, I’ve no alternative now.
That afternoon, she sat down to write a note to Christophe—the hardest letter she’d ever had to write, too painful even for tears.
My aunt refuses you entrance to what is now her house. Though I wish things were otherwise, I recognize that this is necessary. When my father was still alive, I had some choice in whom to marry, but no longer. Even then, our marriage would have betrayed my faith and my duty to my family. I believe my head would have eventually prevailed against my heart. For you know where my heart lies.
For my widowed mother’s sake, I must marry David Morpurgo. He may be old, as you constantly remind me. But he has never been anything but good to me. He leads our Jewish community with compassion and generosity. And he will give both my mother and me a fine home, free of want.
We must no longer meet. Any future we might have shared was always just a figment of our imaginations. In time, dearest, you will come to accept that, as I have.
Mirelle sanded and sealed the letter like an automaton she’d seen once displayed in the port—her movements precise, her sorrow tucked deep, where it couldn’t burst forth.
The next day, Daniel found Mirelle crying in the sitting room, face buried in her hands.
“Cousin,” he said, his heart twisting, “what can I do? How can I help?”
Mirelle straightened, startled, and dabbed at her wet cheeks with an already moist wisp of lace. A polite smile quivered on her lips. “I’m fine.”
Without asking permission, Daniel sat next to her and took her hand. “Mirelle, you can talk to me.”
It was as if a dam burst. Mirelle pulled away, hands rising to hide her tears. She wept for several minutes, shoulders shaking. Daniel sat unmoving, wishing there was something he could do or say. As her tears turned to gasps, he pulled out a square of fresh linen from a pocket and placed it between her fingers.
She resolutely wiped her eyes and cheeks and then, with an apologetic glance, blew her nose thoroughly.
His mouth twitched.
“I’ll wash it before I return it,” she murmured, tucking the handkerchief into the depths of her skirt.
They sat in silence for a minute while her breathing evened out. Finally, she swiveled toward him. “Christophe. The letter. How did he . . . ?”
Daniel had known the question was coming but dreaded it all the same. “He’s upset,” he said slowly. “But he knows how difficult your situation is—and will do nothing to worsen it.”
That wasn’t strictly true. That morning, he’d practically had to tie his friend to a chair to prevent him from besieging Mirelle’s home.
“Get out of my way!” Christophe had raged, trying to shove Daniel aside.
“You read the letter,” Daniel argued. “Don’t you understand? You’ll only make things worse.”
“Why?” Christophe demanded, prowling their narrow sleeping quarters, his riding whip angrily slashing the air. “She needs me now. More than ever.”
Daniel leaned against the door, refusing to stir.
“She doesn’t want to marry that old man,” Christophe fumed. “It’s me she loves.”
“And you love her?”
“Have you not been listening? With all my heart!”
“Then prove it,” Daniel said. “Respect her wishes and walk away. Allow her to do what’s right for her family. It’s all you can do now.”
Eventually, Daniel had managed to calm him long enough that he’d felt it was safe to leave the barracks. Christophe had still been pacing and flicking his whip when he left, however, and Daniel didn’t know how long his impulsive, impetuous friend would stay away. He glanced at Mirelle’s miserable face.
“I wish I had another choice,” she muttered.
“I know,” he said, placing his hands over hers. “I’m sorry.”
They sat, silent, while the clock on the mantle ticked. He felt drawn toward her, almost against his will. Inching closer, he placed an arm around her shoulder and tipped her head into the crook of his neck. Mirelle clasped his free hand with both of hers. He felt her soft hair and sweet breath against his skin and shut his eyes, trying not to think of how close her lips were.
“Well,” came a familiar voice from the doorway, stripped of its usual rich amusement.
Mirelle pulled out of Daniel’s embrace to greet her friend. “Dolce. Hello.”
“What’s going on?”
Mirelle smiled wanly. “Daniel came by to pay his respects.”
“Is that all?” Dolce slanted a searching glance toward him.
He hated the warmth that crept up from his neck into his face. Rising, he bowed toward Dolce. “I’d best be off.”
Dolce moved forward and lay her long fingers lightly on his arm. “Don’t leave on my account.”
“Duty calls,” Daniel responded brusquely, and with a nod at Mirelle, he left the room.
Dolce frowned, staring at the empty doorway. Mirelle gestured toward a chair. “Won’t you sit?”
Her friend seated herself, her eyes still slightly narrowed as she studied Mirelle’s face. “You’ve been crying.”
Mirelle nodded.
“Well, maybe I can help. I’ve come here to invite both you and your mother for an extended visit. It will give you time to settle your affairs without feeling pressured by that witch of an aunt.”
“Dolce! Do you mean it?” Mirelle felt a burden lifting. Then a thought struck her. “Was this your father’s idea?”
“No,” Dolce said. “But he’ll welcome you both, of course.”
Mama entered the room, still bearing the weight of Papa’s death in her eyes. Her face looked sallow, her shoulders hunched. Mirelle jumped up and hugged her. “Mama! Dolce has invited us to stay with them.”
Mama looked from one girl to the other. A slight smile—the first one Mirelle remembered seeing since her father had died—flickered across her face. Then it vanished.
“But child, if we leave, we’ll never be able to come back home again. Prudenzia won’t let us.”
“I know,” Mirelle said. “But we can’t stay here. Once we’re at Dolce’s, we’ll be able to think of a plan.”
45
APRIL 24
Nine days into the visit, Mirelle woke, her heart heavy with grief. She felt awkward living under the Morpurgo roof but tried to set those feelings aside for her mother’s sake. Mama needed to be away from her memories and the home she had lost. If only we could leave Ancona altogether. But at least
they no longer lived under Prudenzia’s roof.
Mama was still deeply mired in her mourning. Her husband’s death had revived all the anguish of her son’s murder. She never left her room, and drew the shades closed day and night.
As for herself, Mirelle knew where her future lay. David Morpurgo, wise diplomat that he was, kept a respectful distance, never once alluding to his desire for her in her presence. But as she’d left the dining room the first evening, she’d glanced back and seen his face. He’d regarded her like a prize already won, his gaze warm on her slender body. She’d kept her expression blank as she exited but hadn’t been able to help the shudder that overtook her in the hallway. What is the matter with me? she thought. Why do I feel dead inside when he looks at me?
She reminded herself that she still had a month of freedom left. Her thoughts centering again on her mother, she rose, dressed, and headed downstairs, where she asked the butler for Dolce. She was out for her morning ride, so Mirelle sat in the blue salon and waited.
When a thud at the front door announced Dolce’s return, Mirelle followed her friend upstairs to her bedroom and waited as she removed her velvet habit behind a screen.
“I’m worried about Mama,” Mirelle said finally when Dolce emerged and sat at her dressing table. “All she does all day is sit in her room. It’s not healthy.”
“I know,” Dolce said, bidding her maid to pin up her long blond curls. “Do you think she’d agree to help with my reception next week? Address some envelopes? I want to have a party to celebrate Papa’s recovery.”
“She won’t attend.”
“Perhaps not. But if she’s working alongside me, she’ll have to leave her room. Is she awake? I’ll go ask her.” Dolce swept from the room.
Mirelle let her go, thinking Dolce might be more successful alone.
Mirelle came downstairs thirty minutes later, and was pleased to find Mama seated at a small writing desk, Dolce perched on a chair beside her. The two had their heads bent together, talking refreshments.
“Coffee cream pastries? They sound wonderful, child—but it wouldn’t be a party in Ancona without orange cake. I have a recipe I can give your cook.”
Dolce nodded. “And your cream puffs. Would you share that recipe?”
“That one?” Mama sounded reluctant, but she was smiling. “That’s a family secret.”
Mirelle laughed. “And it needs to stay in the family. But Mama, if Dolce’s cook doesn’t object, why don’t you bake them yourself for the party?”
“Dolce?” Mama looked more cheerful than she had since Papa passed away. Mirelle silently blessed her friend. “What do you think?”
“Wonderful.” Dolce tossed a bright curl behind her shoulder. “Thank you, Signora d’Ancona.”
Mama took Dolce’s hand. “Child, why don’t you call me Pinina? I’m a guest in your home and Signora d’Ancona feels too formal. After all”—Mama glanced at Mirelle and looked quickly away—“Mirelle has been invited to call your father David.”
Mirelle noticed a flicker of a frown cross her friend’s face, quickly masked. “Thank you, Pinina,” Dolce said. “We are family, aren’t we—related by blood or not?”
“Is there something you’d like me to do?” Mirelle asked them both. “Because otherwise, I’ll go for my morning walk.”
“Is Daniel calling for you?” Mama asked.
Mirelle noticed the swift, suspicious glance Dolce shot in her direction. Her friend couldn’t be jealous of her cousin’s affection for her, could she? “Not this morning.”
“Take one of the maids, Mirelle,” Dolce said. “I’d come myself, but . . .”
“No need.” Mirelle left before they insisted on a chaperone.
Since her father had died, Mirelle was visited by daily waves of remorse. And searing, relentless guilt for not paying more attention to Papa’s illness. As penance, the only thing that felt right was working at the ketubah workshop daily, if only for a few hours. Though she’d prefer to spend all day there, she was still cautious of the rabbi’s censure. And she had to time her visits to avoid encountering Prudenzia.
The second day after the shiva, Mirelle had arrived at the workshop early.
“We are sorry for your loss,” said Narducci, speaking for the men. “We feel bereft, all of us.”
Looking around, Mirelle knew it was true. She also saw expressions of relief on nearly all the men’s faces—relief that she hadn’t totally deserted them.
“I don’t know what the future holds,” she told them. “But I know what Papa would have wished. And that was for us to keep the workshop thriving.”
The men nodded and headed to their desks. Mirelle checked the work that had been done during the week of mourning, swallowing hard when she encountered one of her father’s decisions—and even harder when she had to make a decision in his stead.
Then the door burst open and Mirelle’s head whipped up. Her stomach fluttered as Prudenzia strolled in. She ducked behind the open door and stood, nerves alight, as Prudenzia made her way from table to table, dressing down the men.
“Why are you using gold paint?” she demanded, pointing at Abraham with an imperious finger. “Didn’t I tell you yesterday the yellow would be just as good—and far less costly?”
“Yes, but . . .” Abraham stopped himself.
Mirelle’s throat clenched. It had been her decision to use a touch of gold in the design, expensive though it was. Bless Abraham for not exposing her.
“And what’s this?” Prudenzia snapped, fingering the parchment on another table. “This is too heavy.” She glared. “I said to use the heaviest vellum only for important commissions. I thought I made that clear.” She turned toward the office. “Narducci!”
Narducci walked calmly into the room. “Every one of our commissions is important, Signora Fermi.”
“Nonsense! This is a ketubah for a clerk, not a merchant or a banker.”
Mirelle couldn’t contain her anger any longer. “It’s our work,” she said, stepping out from behind the door. “The work of the d’Ancona Ketubah Manufactory, the best in the world. We take pride in our high standards, Aunt, and the men need to know we’ll maintain them.”
“We?” Prudenzia’s lips thinned. “We’re not going to do any such thing. This is my workshop now.”
“Your son’s workshop,” Narducci corrected gently.
“Which I manage,” Prudenzia snapped.
“Your workshop?” Mirelle retorted. “Just as my house is now your house, and you’d like to put me and my mother out on the street?” The words felt like daggers in her mouth. “You could barely wait until the shiva was over to take my mother’s room away from her, could you?”
An audible gasp rose from the men.
Prudenzia, falling back a step under their glares, colored brick red. “How dare you?” she exclaimed. “That’s a private matter.”
“Private? Ha! You think my mother and I are too polite to tell everyone how you treat us.” Mirelle’s fists clenched.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Prudenzia said, clasping a hand to her chest. “Go home, Mirelle. You’re sick with grief—you don’t know what you’re saying. I’m sure it’s no wonder.”
Mirelle held back a wave of tears with effort. “No wonder? Of course it isn’t—when you are destroying everything my father, my mother, my”—her voice broke—“brother held dear. Everything I hold dear!”
“Now, now, child,” Prudenzia said, reaching out to touch Mirelle’s shoulder.
Mirelle flinched. “Don’t you dare. We both know what you are.” Prudenzia looked around. At the sharp condemnation on the men’s faces, she gave up her pretense of sympathy. “You need to leave, Mirelle. You’re not welcome here.”
Narducci moved between them. “Signorina Mirelle is always welcome,” he said calmly. “She understands what cutting corners and making bad decisions would do to us.”
“How dare you tell me who is welcome and who is not?” Prudenzia snapped through gritted t
eeth. “You’ll learn your place soon enough! All of you!”
At that, she whirled and slammed out of the workshop. And since then, Mirelle had avoided her.
Truly, Mirelle thought now, walking through the ghetto streets, shading her face with a parasol, Papa should have found a way to leave me the manufactory, entailment or not, Jewish law or not. I’d manage it better than Mino, and certainly better than his mother.
She let herself in by a side door. Narducci stood in the stockroom, examining different types of parchment.
“Good morning,” he greeted her. “We’re happy to see you, but be wary. Your aunt has not yet arrived today.”
“After I check the books, is there anything else I should do?” Mirelle asked. “If not, I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“No, we’re fine. It’s a calm day, at least so far.”
Mirelle went into the office and opened the book of accounts. She quickly tallied up the newest numbers, then returned to the stockroom.
“Everything is in order,” she told Narducci.
“You’re a good girl, Mirelle,” he said. “Leave now before your aunt arrives.”
“Wish the others well for me.” Mirelle started toward the door. But a sudden roar of voices stopped her.
She and Narducci peered into the main room. Mirelle could see her aunt, looking out of place in her fashionable puce walking dress, standing before the men. Beside her was a swarthy man with broad shoulders.
“Turko,” Narducci breathed, his face wrinkled in distress. “Oh, Lord, no.”
“Turko? Who’s Turko?”
“A monster. He was foreman of the Simon Tov Ketubah Works in Rome. This is bad. I need to hear what’s going on. Go home now.” Without waiting for a response, he pushed past her and made his way to the front of the room.
Mirelle stood by the open door, not sure if she should stay or not. She was helpless to help the men. But surely Papa would have wanted her to discover what was happening. She slipped into the back of the room, careful to stay out of her aunt’s line of sight.
The man was speaking. “We’ll open our doors at six in the morning, close them at three a.m. I’ll divide you in three shifts so we can work through the night. If necessary, I’ll hire new men to fill out your ranks.”
Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 26