Mirelle sat back. For one heady moment she’d thought David’s generosity meant everything—not only delivering the men from their tyrannical manager but also granting her the position she deserved, bestowing the legacy of her father’s business upon her. But it was not to be. And she knew David Morpurgo well enough to recognize that she could not persuade him otherwise. He was not her gentle father. As kind as he’d always been, David was a hardheaded businessman. Once a bargain was struck between them, he would demand that she honor the terms.
But it still meant salvation for the workers. And that meant everything.
She reached out blindly, groping for his hands. She clutched them, dry and powdery beneath her fingers. She wanted to pull away. Instead, she leaned forward. “David Morpurgo,” she whispered, “I will marry you.”
PART FOUR
JULY–OCTOBER 1797
51
JULY 20
“They burned the Venice ghetto gates, just as we did here,” Daniel told the Morpurgos, Mirelle, and her mother. “And in Padua, the general made the city fathers tear down the gates with their own hands. Bonaparte posted a declaration saying Jews could reside anywhere they wanted.”
“I’d love to read that,” Mirelle said, remembering what it was like to be locked behind Venice’s gates. She knew Daniel understood what she was feeling, far more than Christophe ever could.
When Daniel’s cheeks flushed, she felt an odd thump of her heart. I’m betrothed to David—she reminded herself—and still in love with Christophe.
He looked away, rustling in a pocket. “Here: ‘First, the Hebrews are at liberty to live in any street they please.’” His voice echoed loudly in the small salon; he moderated it as he continued. “‘Second, the barbarous and meaningless name of Ghetto, which designates the street they have been inhabiting hitherto, shall be substituted by that of Via Libera.’” He handed the paper to David Morpurgo.
“Wonderful,” David said. “Will it be in tomorrow’s papers?” Daniel nodded.
“It’s the beginning of a new era for us Jews.” David’s hands gestured grandly in the air. “To be free to conduct our lives like any other citizen.” His chest expanded. “A new age, a new epoch—not only for us but for Jews throughout the world.”
Mirelle’s shoulders hunched as her fiancé pontificated. She hoped she would eventually grow used to his public persona, making speeches without provocation, a diplomat promising everything to everyone. She noticed Dolce nodding as her father spoke. Of course, she had years of practice as his dutiful daughter.
Mama interrupted Mirelle’s reverie. “What a beautiful way of describing this miracle, David. Such stirring words!”
“Let’s celebrate this glorious occasion,” Dolce cried gaily. “I know—we’ll throw a ball!”
“A ball!” David raised his eyebrows. “You’ll beggar me, daughter!” But of course, if Dolce wanted to throw a ball, a ball there would be.
As Mirelle and her mother entered the ballroom, the violinists were playing a waltz, the new German dance where couples embraced as they whirled about, scandalizing half the dowagers present. Glittering candlelight reflected off crystal chandeliers, flowers adorning the room.
“It’s a wonderful night, isn’t it, Mama?” David planned to announce their wedding date that evening. Mirelle wished she felt more pleasure at the idea. More emotion of any kind, instead of this empty longing.
“A wonderful night. You look like a dream.” Mama slyly eyed Mirelle’s exquisite gown, another gift from David.
Mirelle stepped carefully, unaccustomed to heels, onto the black-and-white parquet tiles of the ballroom, which was crowded with Jews and Gentiles, Italians and Frenchmen. An orchestra played on a raised platform in one corner. Mirelle had festooned the room with candles and flowers that morning, sprinkling the floral arrangements with water every hour so they wouldn’t wilt.
Dolce sashayed into the room, her dress an unusual shade of tangerine, its long train sweeping the floor. Tawny lilies were caught in her blond curls and draped in the folds of her gown. Her neck and wrists shone with amber mixed with seed pearls. “Oh, a waltz!” she cried in delight, eyes twinkling. “I must find a partner immediately!”
“Allow me,” said a tall blond soldier who appeared before her, bowing low. Dolce caught her train over her arm in a practiced gesture and stepped onto the dance floor. Christophe put an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and whisked her away.
Mirelle looked after them, blinking quickly. He didn’t even glance in my direction.
“My dear, how lovely you look,” David said. “May I invite you to the floor?”
To Mirelle’s relief, Mama put out a hand. “Not to this,” she protested. “I’m surprised you allowed the waltz to be played. And let Dolce dance it. It’s shocking!”
David glanced at Mirelle’s mother, annoyed and amused in equal measure. “Do you think I had a hand in ordering the music?” he asked her. “Pinina, you’ve lived with us long enough to know better.”
“Dolce.” Pinina sighed. “We must find her a suitable husband, don’t you think? Before she does something foolish.”
David laughed. “I wish you joy of the endeavor.”
Mirelle was pleased at how fondly he looked at her mother. And Mama, arrayed in soft dove gray, a black cap set on her silver head, seemed almost happy.
“I’ll have a word with the musicians and make sure this is the last waltz they play,” David said. “For I won’t be forestalled from dancing with my beautiful bride—and I hope you’ll honor me as well, Pinina!” He strode off toward the musicians’ platform.
A flush stole up Mama’s neck.
“Why did you stop me?” Mirelle grumbled. “Everyone dances the waltz, unless they’re dreadfully old-fashioned.”
“I guess I must be, then,” Mama retorted. “And stop tugging at your skirt, Mira. It’s too sheer!”
Mirelle glanced down at her skirt, layer upon layer of the thinnest gauze. The dress, which cast a silver sheen in the candlelight, was probably the most expensive garment she had ever owned. But she felt trapped in it, its folds irritating her.
“I’m surprised not to see you on the floor.” Daniel stood before her, bowing low. “Would you finish this dance with me?” He extended a gloved hand.
Quickly, so that Mama couldn’t interfere a second time, Mirelle allowed him to lead her out. The warmth of his arm radiated through the layers of her skirt as he clasped her waist. She put her gloved hand in his and they began to whirl around the ballroom. Before long, Mirelle grew dizzy. She felt him pull her closer to him and nestled into his arms, hoping Christophe would notice.
Across the room, Christophe was complaining to Dolce. “Trust you, you said.” He turned her so that his back was to Mirelle. “And now I can’t even dance with her. Daniel is dancing so close, he’s practically embracing her. And you tell me your father will announce their engagement tonight? What good has trusting you gotten me?”
Dolce grimaced. “I didn’t expect him to win her heart by saving the ketubah workshop,” she said. “He appealed to her sentiment over her father’s legacy. Astute move.”
“Astute move? Do you think this is a chess match? My life’s at stake!”
Dolce’s lips pursued. “You’re being dramatic. Your life will go on if you don’t marry Mirelle.”
He glared at her. “And what of your idea that he’d fall in love with Mirelle’s mother? What happened there?” His lips tightened. “I shouldn’t have listened to you. Who would consider a poor widow when you could bed her beautiful daughter instead?”
Dolce’s eyes flashed. “Careful, Sergeant. That’s my father you’re speaking of.”
They moved down the ballroom. Just as they reached the orchestra stand, Dolce touched his sleeve. “Take a look at my father and Pinina and tell me I’m wrong.”
Christophe turned so he could see them. Signora d’Ancona and Morpurgo were sitting close, heads nearly touching. Morpurgo wasn’t even watchi
ng Mirelle. Instead, he was talking earnestly with his prospective mother-in-law, who nodded at him with a gentle smile.
“But what difference does it make?” Christophe said, whirling Dolce back around. “He’s marrying Mirelle.”
The waltz over, Mirelle started dutifully back to her mother. But before she could reach her, Dolce intercepted her and ushered her into an empty room set aside for card players.
“Enjoying yourself?” Dolce asked, studying her face.
“The evening has barely begun,” Mirelle replied, plopping down in one of the gilt chairs. Her new shoes were already pinching her feet.
“You know that poor boy is in love with you, don’t you? It’s unkind to dance with him just to make Christophe jealous.”
“Daniel? In love with me?” Mirelle shook her head. “You’re joking.”
Dolce’s harsh laugh trilled in the empty room. “What is this power you have over men, Mirelle? Christophe, my father, now Daniel . . . Didn’t you notice how closely he held you? Christophe certainly did.”
“Daniel?” Mirelle paled. Can it be true? She thought back to the many times he’d taken her for walks, visited the family, helped her through the difficult days following her father’s passing. But that was just because he was family. Wasn’t it?
“You don’t deny you wanted Christophe to notice. Don’t worry. I won’t tell Papa.”
“And what if I did?” Mirelle asked, goaded. What game was Dolce playing? “I can’t do anything about it. Isn’t marrying your father what I’ve been brought up to do? Haven’t I been told since childhood that I’m supposed to become a rich man’s wife?”
“What about your heart?” Dolce leaned over the small table. “Don’t you see you’re trying to evade your fate? That you and Christophe were destined to meet and fall in love?”
Mirelle stared at her friend, eyes narrowed, distrustful.
“I admit,” Dolce continued, “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You talk about sacrificing love for duty—while your mother does the same.”
“Mama is what?” “Yes: Mama. So clearly falling in love with my father. Don’t you see it? And she might let herself—if it weren’t for you.”
Mirelle rose, indignant. “My mother adored my father. He’s only been buried three months.”
Dolce laughed. “Do something for me. Watch them when they don’t know you’re looking. Then tell me I’m wrong.”
Mirelle shook her head. “David’s announcing the wedding date tonight. The last day of October, right after the High Holy days. None of us can change that, Dolce. It’s too late.”
“What are you talking about?” Daniel burst out, astonished. He stood in the tiny courtyard under the stars, where Christophe had led him after Mirelle disappeared with Dolce.
“Don’t think I haven’t seen you mooning over her!” Christophe flared. “And then to dance with her like that.”
“You’re crazy! She’s my cousin!”
“Not that close a cousin, though, is she? Her grandfather and yours are cousins—what does that make you?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care! Honestly, Christophe.” Daniel shook his head. “You’ve gone mad.”
“Have I?”
“Besides, it makes no difference who dances with her. She’s marrying Morpurgo.”
Christophe took three wild strides and found himself hemmed in by the garden wall. “If they’re so rich, why is this garden so damned small?” he raged.
“This is still the ghetto, you fool. Morpurgo used up most of his land for the house.”
Christophe groaned. “Why did I even come this evening?”
“Don’t ask me. Because Dolce bade you?” “Dolce!” Christophe’s hands balled into fists. “She’s treating this like a game. I’m done listening to her.”
“Good! And stop thinking about Mirelle. Even if she were free, she would never marry you. You know that.” Despite the shadowy gloom of the garden, Daniel saw Christophe’s face darken, but he persisted. “Her religion still matters to her. Her brother died because he was Jewish. Her father too. How could a Christian win her heart?”
“I know she loves me. She just needs to be reminded of it.”
“Reminded of it? How?”
But Christophe was already striding toward the ballroom. Daniel stood in the blue twilight, watching him go.
When Mirelle reentered the room, the musicians were resting as David stood on their platform, addressing his guests. She lingered next to one of the three-quarter windows open to the night breeze, enjoying the soft draft, as she listened to her betrothed’s speech.
“General Bonaparte’s dismantling of Venice’s ghetto—the first ghetto ever established—is a milestone for Jews the world over,” he said, hands clasped behind his back in the manner of a French officer. “Some history for our Christian friends: in the 1500s, the rulers of that noble city-state decided to isolate its Jews to a cramped and dirty island, the site of a foundry—il ghetto—which gave the ghetto its name. Surrounded by water, secured by heavy gates manned by Christian guards, Venice’s Jews were forced to move to the island and were henceforth imprisoned there after nightfall.” He scanned the faces of his guests. “The ghetto assuaged Gentile fears that Jews would contaminate their population. They allowed the Jews in the city during the day to transact trade, but banished them after sunset to miserable, crowded streets. Soon, other ghettos sprang up all over Italy—we’re standing in the remnants of one right now—as well as throughout Europe. We Jews were also forced to wear distinctive hats and badges, so there could be no mistaking what we were when we walked among Gentiles.”
Mirelle looked around. Fans hid the reactions of the Gentile women. Many of the men looked at the floor or up at the ornate mural on the ceiling.
“But General Bonaparte changed all that. His Hebrew nickname, Helek Tov, is a playful Hebrew adaption of his French name—a good part. His actions throughout Italy have—”
Someone suddenly took hold of Mirelle’s wrist and pulled her backward, behind the long silk curtains. Before she could cry out, she was trapped by a strong pair of encircling arms. Any shout that might have issued from her lips was muffled by a firm mouth covering hers.
Christophe, she realized, a thrill pulsating through her body. Is this really happening? For a moment she tried to pull away, but the teasing thought that this memory would have to last her lifetime permitted her to melt into his embrace. Her knees turned to water, and her arms wrapped about his neck. Her lips trembled under his. They clung together, and desire surged through her. She molded herself to him, felt his body respond to hers.
And then, it was over. He released her just as she heard the muffled clapping of gloved hands, followed by David saying, “But this is not the only reason we have to celebrate,” he announced. “At an earlier event held in this very room, I proposed to the most beautiful Jewess in all of Europe. She recently accepted me, and—Mirelle, where are you?—tonight we announce not only our betrothal but also our wedding date.”
Mirelle leaned against Christophe’s broad chest, unable to move, scarcely breathing. She didn’t dare step out from behind the curtains. Dear Lord, the scandal! She raised her head, a plea for help written plainly across her face. Christophe reached behind her and threw up the window so she could climb out. She reached down for her skirts, blushing as she raised them high enough to clear the sash. His eyes flickered involuntarily over her exposed calves. She clambered over the window frame and stumbled into the narrow path that encircled the house. Her delicately layered skirt caught on the thorns of a rose bush and ripped, and she—tripped up by her new heels—landed on the ground. She snatched them off her feet and ran shoeless, ruining her silk stockings, toward the servants’ door at the back of the house.
Luckily, no one was there; the servants were all either in the ballroom or the kitchen. Using the back stairs, she fled to her room. There, with shaking hands, she lit a single candle on her dressing table. By its dim light, she looked at
the damage to her dress and stockings and peered at her flushed face in the mirror.
She heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Panting, she stared at her eyes in the mirror. What can I say to them? What lie will they believe? Her mind was a blank. She turned to face the door. A knock would mean it was Dolce or David. Her mother would walk right in. She stood there, paralyzed, waiting.
52
AUGUST 30
It had been a month since Mirelle and Christophe first kissed at the ball.
Since then, she’d felt like she was living on a cloud, fully alive only when they met. She frequently stole out—for a walk, to visit a friend, to buy a skein of thread—and met Christophe in the woods. Twice she even let him sneak her into the French barracks when they were empty.
The liberties she permitted shocked her. Every day they went just that much further. Eventually, he would pull back, or she would. But the attraction between them was uncontrollable. He rained kisses on her mouth, her neck, her throat, the tops of her breasts. She stroked his close-cropped hair, moved her hand down his neck to nestle it in his lawn shirt, rested her palm against the hard muscles of his chest. His hands ran over her body, moving closer and closer to the furnace that resided in her lower belly. Her fingers were drawn irresistibly to his breeches, and she felt him through the heavy cloth. As she swooned under his fingers, his mouth, he unfastened one more button on her shirtwaist, reached a little farther under her skirts.
When she left him, she felt sick to her stomach—riddled with shame. But she was helpless at the thought of him. Sitting in the late summer garden or wilting in the heat in Dolce’s blue salon, her limbs would turn languid, her pulse race. She replayed their encounters endlessly, resting a hand on her chest to slow her rapid heartbeat. He must be my soul mate, she told herself. How could I feel this way otherwise?
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