Dolce shook her head, a hectic flush decorating her high cheekbones. “You’re a fool, Daniel. A bewitched, befuddled fool.”
He bowed once more and half turned away. “Perhaps so.”
Dolce stared at him with raised brows for a moment. Then she turned on her heel and, with a sharp bark at her servant, walked away.
62
OCTOBER 20
Mirelle’s eyelids were fused together. She wanted to wipe them clean, to open her eyes, but her hands wouldn’t obey her. She felt weak. So weak.
“Is she awake, doctor?” someone asked.
Mama? Mirelle thought dimly. Hadn’t Mama declared her dead?
“Barely, Signora d’Ancona. She’s regained consciousness, but we should let her sleep.”
Sleep, Mirelle thought. She stopped fighting and sank back into darkness.
When she opened her eyes again, it was black outside, and she was alone. She tried to shift position, but every part of her body hurt. She groaned.
Her mother appeared out of nowhere, leaning over the bed, kissing her forehead. “Mira’la,” she murmured. “Let me help you drink some water.”
Mama reached behind and supported her. Mirelle felt as if her head would explode. She closed her eyes, trying to stop from moaning. Mama raised a cup to her lips and she sipped obediently, barley water trickling down her throat.
“Shhh, now,” Mama said, settling her down. “Back to sleep, darling.”
Now it was day. The sunlight hurt. A maid sat next to her. “You’re up,” she said. She rose to leave the room.
Mirelle was back in her room in the Morpurgo mansion. But how? She remembered the man hammering her with his fists, smashing her head against the wall. She remembered pleading with him to stop.
Mama came into the room and adjusted the curtains.
“What day is it?” Mirelle asked.
“Shabbat.”
“Shabbat? But that means . . .”
“It’s been nearly four days,” Mama said. “I was afraid I would lose you, too.”
“Too?”
Like Jacopo or Papa? Then she remembered what had happened right before the attack. “Mama, I have to tell you—I’m not . . .”
“Pregnant. I know.”
“You know?”
“I helped undress you, sweetheart.”
Mirelle shut her eyes, trying to shield them against the too-bright light. Tears leaked from under her closed lids. Mama patted them away with a scrap of linen.
“Christophe?” Mirelle whispered.
“He’s outside, waiting to speak to you. Are you strong enough?”
Mirelle tried to sit up; her head throbbed as she shifted position.
Mama eased her against a bank of pillows and smoothed her hair. “You don’t need to see him right now, you know,” she said, the backs of her fingers tracing down Mirelle’s cheek.
“Now, Mama,” Mirelle insisted, her voice a mere thread. She closed her eyes and waited.
Her mother went to the door. “She’s still weak,” she warned the man standing outside. “Don’t tire her.”
“I won’t, I promise.” Christophe sounded solemn.
Mirelle heard him move softly into the room and sit in the chair next to her bed. Her eyes still closed, she felt him take her hand.
“Mirelle?”
Her eyelids refused to open. Why did the light hurt so much? When she finally managed, he was peering uncertainly into her face. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
“Sorry? Why sorry?”
“I really thought I was pregnant. I wasn’t trying to fool you.” Christophe clasped her hand to his heart. “Don’t you think I know that?”
“When I found out, I panicked.” She pulled her hand out of his grasp. Why didn’t I just stay where I was? Safe?
Christophe patted her arm. “Did your mother tell you? The doctor says you’ll be fine soon.”
A tear escaped her eye, traveled slowly down her cheek. He brushed it away with a thumb.
“Listen, we need to talk. The French garrison leaves Ancona in three days. You’ll follow me to Paris . . . when you’re well enough to travel.”
The words stuck in her throat. “Follow you to Paris?”
“Of course. What else?” He shifted back in his chair.
What else? Mirelle took a short breath. “There’s no baby. Do . . . do you still want . . . ?”
Christophe looked away, stared out the window. “Of course,” he said, but there was no conviction in his voice. “If you do.” He waited a beat. “Do you?”
Do I? Mirelle asked herself, closing her eyes again. Darkness enveloped her and she slipped back into slumber.
When she woke again, Dolce sat by her side.
“Well, finally,” her friend said.
Looking out the window, Mirelle saw the sun was near to setting. She remembered Christophe’s words in a flash of panic. He had three days left in Ancona and she had slept one of them away.
“How are you feeling?” Dolce asked.
“Thirsty,” Mirelle croaked.
Dolce rang a bell and a maidservant bustled in. Following Dolce’s pointed finger, she poured some water and helped Mirelle drink it.
“Enough?” Dolce asked after a few seconds. She dismissed the servant with a brisk nod and pulled her chair closer. “Papa will speak with you himself, but I wanted to make some things clear first.”
Mirelle waited, too exhausted to protest.
“My father could never marry an impure woman. Even if you were never pregnant, you’re still ruined. You know that, yes?”
Mirelle nodded.
“You’ll leave Ancona, marry Christophe. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Mirelle stared at her. No, she thought. You don’t choose my future for me. Neither does your father, my mother—not even Christophe. I will decide.
But Dolce, being Dolce, interpreted her silence as acquiescence. She rose briskly, looking calm now, as though their friendship had been restored. Mirelle knew better. They were not friends, not anymore. Perhaps they never had been.
“Don’t worry,” Dolce said. “I’ll help when you’re well enough to leave. And just think—I’ll be able to visit you in Paris!” Her silk skirts swished on the marble floor as she left the room.
The candles were lit and Mirelle had managed a light supper of chicken broth and whey wine when her mother ushered Sabato Narducci into the room. David followed.
“A friend to wish you well.” Mama backed away to stand with David.
“Signorina Mirelle,” Sabato said, doffing his hat and bowing. “We were heartbroken to hear of your attack.”
There was a slight, uncomfortable pause. Did the entire ghetto know she had slept with a man while still unmarried?
“I am happy to see you, Signor Narducci,” Mirelle said slowly, wondering why he was here. “How are things in the workshop?”
Sabato told her of commissions won, ketubot completed, happy customers. “And happy workers, too,” he added. “Signor Morpurgo visits almost every day, ensuring the quality your father and grandfather were so proud of. We are relieved to be free of Turko.” Sabato bowed in David’s direction. “After so much tragedy and unhappiness, it is paradise to have everything settled so satisfactorily.”
“I’m glad,” Mirelle said. But her heart sank within her. What would happen to these men when her betrothal to Morpurgo was officially severed? Had she really ever stopped to consider their fate?
“I brought you a gift—actually, a few gifts,” Sabato said.
He placed several pieces of parchment on her bedside table. One by one, Mirelle picked them up and exclaimed over their beauty.
They were ketubot—her ketubot, made out in her name. The name of the bridegroom had been left blank. She looked at David in astonishment.
“I decided,” he answered her questioning glance, “to allow space for the groom to be filled in later.”
She studied the beautiful marriage certificates. There wer
e five in all—one with ancient animals, a veritable Noah’s ark of a ketubah; one drawn with delicate pastel flowers curling in and around the block of dark-lettered text; one richly decorated with gold curlicues around the edges; one with Biblical figures dancing in celebration. And last was a magnificent ketubah that placed two love birds above the text, set off by marble columns, flowers intertwined throughout, drawn in gold and silver and jewel tones.
“We thought that would be the actual marriage certificate,” Sabato said. “You shouldn’t have more than one, but we all wanted to have a hand in making these—even if only a pen stroke or hue.”
Fresh tears rolled down Mirelle’s cheeks. She reached for her handkerchief, but it eluded her grasp and slipped to the floor. David stepped over and handed it to her.
“Look at the amount,” he hissed in her ear, leaning close. “See what you were once worth to me.”
She glanced at the price that her bridegroom would pay if he ever divorced her. Her eyes widened. “One hundred thousand scudi?” she whispered, unbelieving. It was a fortune.
“One hundred thousand scudi,” David repeated, anger tinging his voice.
Sabato averted his eyes, sensing the discomfort in the room. David dismissed him and Mama with a commanding wave of his hand, Mama glancing back anxiously as she left.
David sat down and Mirelle shrank against her pillows.
“How could you have just abandoned them?” he asked. “After I paid for their articles?”
Her face burned.
“You’ve wanted to carry on your father’s legacy since you were a child,” he continued. “And you gave it all up to sin with a Christian. Do you think I’ll marry you now that you’ve disgraced yourself before man and God?”
Knowing he didn’t expect an answer, Mirelle’s lips tightened.
“Think about the price I put on my bride. Can your Christian lover match it?” David’s lip curled. “Take those ketubot to Paris and no court will honor those certificates. The civil courts would laugh at them, the Jewish courts disregard them. And he’ll never have such wealth, will he? Marry Christophe and those beautiful documents will be nothing more than wallpaper in your wretched home.”
“It was just—”
“You are not what I thought you were. You made a fool of me in front of the entire community, cost me more money than I could easily afford. Despite your being punished by God for your misdeeds”—he glared at her, and she raised a hasty hand to her face—“I’ll never forgive you. But what does that matter? You’ll leave, I’ll recover, and only your mother will be left, mourning the loss of her family. You might spare her a thought as you abandon her.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then rose stiffly and walked out the door. Mirelle watched him leave, clutching the ketubot against her chest, heart aching.
63
Mirelle lay in bed, sleepless. David had made it clear: she had to leave Ancona with Christophe, no matter how little she wanted to. All the reasons she’d wanted him seemed idiotic now, when weighed against her home, her heritage, her father’s legacy. Everything she was being forced to abandon. Christophe must realize it, too. Their infatuation had been fleeting, foolish. If they married, if she moved to Paris, they would be miserable together.
But she couldn’t stay here, could she?
Could she?
She suddenly remembered the papers that signed the workshop over to her mother. The original agreement between David and herself was in the same envelope. Where were they? She’d left them on the dressing table near the window. Getting out from under the covers with an effort, she gripped the edges of the dressing table. The envelope was gone.
She slid open the table’s single drawer and there it was, unopened. She took it in both hands, glad her pounding headache had subsided somewhat, and collapsed in the chair next to her bed.
“Mirelle!” Her mother rushed in, looking appalled. “You should be in bed!”
“I needed to see the terms of the workshop agreements,” she said. “I told you, didn’t I, back at the printshop, that I would provide for you?”
Her mother looked at her blankly. “Did you think to ask if I wanted it?” She pushed aside the rumpled covers and perched on the bed. “Did you stop to consider that it would only bring me pain—make me miss your father even more? Or Jacopo? Or even you?”
“But you need an income,” Mirelle said. “Unless you stay here. Dolce talked of your becoming Signor Morpurgo’s housekeeper. You may feel that’s awkward now.”
Mama’s eyebrows rose. “An understatement, don’t you think?”
Mirelle allowed herself a faint smile. “Well, perhaps if I stay here, manage the workshop myself. . .”
“If you what?” “You know it’s what I’ve always wanted.”
“Aren’t you leaving with . . .” Mama’s voice petered out, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say the name.
“When I thought I was pregnant, it was different.” Mirelle sighed. She knew how it must look—how flighty! how irrational!—but she no longer cared. “But he doesn’t want me, not really. And I don’t want him. It was all a mistake, don’t you see? A terrible, terrible mistake.”
Mama laced her hands in her lap, hope flashing across her face. “But then why not marry David?”
“David?”
“You acted like a child,” Mama continued. “True. But now you’ve a second chance at a golden future: A man who cares for you. Who can provide for you. Who even found a way to answer your childish dream to own the workshop. He’ll give you a second chance, I know he will. I’ll speak to him!”
“Mama, he won’t! He’s humiliated, says I’m unworthy. And even if he did listen to you, I won’t marry him. I didn’t want to before and I certainly don’t now.”
The hope that had shone so brilliantly was snuffed out. “Still acting like a child!” Mama clenched her hands in her lap. “Just throw it all away. Selfish. Stupid. What do you want, Mirelle? Don’t you care about me at all?”
“Care about you?” Mirelle pulled the second agreement out of its envelope and extended it to her mother with an outstretched hand. “Look what I did for you!”
Mama snatched the sheaf of paper. “This?” she spat. “What is this?”
“The agreement granting you ownership of the workshop,” Mirelle replied. “Dolce and I drew it up when I thought I was leaving with Christophe.”
Mama took a moment to consider the document. Then, without a word, she tore it in two.
Mirelle watched the pieces flutter to the ground.
Mirelle woke up resolved the next morning. Her head still throbbing slightly, she rose and washed. She wished she felt better, but there was no time to stay in bed, no time for recovery.
Why didn’t I stay in the printshop? Mirelle wondered. If I had, I’d be well now. Even now, I might be on my way to Paris.
She felt a guilty sense of relief that she wasn’t.
She dressed slowly, every movement stabbing at her temples. She brushed her hair and gingerly placed a hat on her head, struggled into a warm pelisse.
The morning air was crisp and clean. It had rained while she lay unconscious, and all remnants of the battle in the ghetto had been washed away. Mirelle felt the sun’s beams tease her eyes as she walked toward the French barracks.
As she mounted the shallow steps, several soldiers emerged, arms full of kitbags. She was glad she hadn’t delayed. Preparations to leave were clearly underway.
“Is Christophe Lefevre here?” she asked one of the guards.
“I’ll find him. Wait there.” He pointed to a bench just outside the barracks.
Mirelle walked to the bench and sat. Grateful that it stood in the shade of an olive tree, she shut her eyes, waiting.
“Mirelle? What are you doing here? I would have come to see you before we left!”
She opened her eyes and smiled. He was as handsome as ever, though the glint in his green eyes had now been replaced with worry.
“I didn
’t want to talk to you there,” she said. “It’s better away from that house.”
He sat next to her and she couldn’t help but think of another bench, in the Morpurgo rose garden, when he had made her heart beat faster just by sitting close.
“I’ve made arrangements for your journey.” He pulled a thick purse out of his jacket and handed it to her. “There’s money and instructions.”
She felt the heft of the purse and tears prickled her eyes. “Christophe, you’re a good man.”
He kicked at a stone. “Nonsense.”
She handed him back the purse. “I’m not coming to Paris. We’re not getting married.”
The sudden flare of relief in his eyes was masked just as suddenly by shock. “What do you mean? Mirelle, let me do the honorable thing. You can’t stay here, and you certainly can’t marry Morpurgo now.”
“I won’t marry him,” she said, putting a hand on his knee. “As for staying here, here in Ancona—well, we’ll see. But I release you from any promises you made me. You’re a free man.”
“But . . .” He seemed too bewildered to go on. Then he found his voice. “I would have always cared for you. Cared for our children.” He looked at his boots. “We’d have had a good life together.”
“I know,” Mirelle said. “And I’ll never forget what we shared. I know it’s not as important to you, a man who has loved other women.”
“Never one like you, though.” Almost in wonder, he asked, “Why wasn’t that enough?”
She sighed. “Because we’re from two different worlds, I suppose. If we’d truly loved one another, we might have bridged the gap. But what we had—it only tricked us into thinking it was love. It wasn’t real.”
He nodded slowly.
She rose. “I must go. Will you be all right?”
He put his arms around her. “Will I be all right? Will you?”
She smiled up at him, and, rising on her toes, gently kissed his cheek. “I will. Farewell.” She took a step back, and repeated herself, this time separating the two words. “Fare well, my dear friend.”
Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 37