by Libi Astaire
But before Mrs Baer could deposit the young man’s name into Mrs Lyon’s waiting ear, Miss Taylor had finished her tour of the china cabinet, where a series of china plates painted by Miss Rebecca Lyon was on display, and retaken her seat.
“You must be very proud of your daughter’s talents, Mrs Lyon,” she said. “I would give much to be able to paint as well.”
Mrs Lyon, unaccustomed to hearing her second daughter so highly praised, was momentarily at a loss for words. Miss Lyon was also surprised, but her astonishment expressed itself in a torrent of conversation.
“Do you really admire them, Miss Taylor?” Rebecca gushed. “It would be my pleasure to teach you how to paint, if you are sincere in your admiration, and perhaps you, in return, could teach me how to sew. I am frightfully backward in the art, which causes my mother immense pain.”
“If the arrangement meets the approval of Mrs Lyon, I should be very happy to do so,” replied Miss Taylor.
Mrs Lyon shot a hasty glance in Hannah’s direction, but Hannah’s downcast eyes were busy examining the remains of a piece of seed cake that sat on her plate.
“I fear this is an unfair bargain,” said Mrs Lyon. “You are an accomplished needlewoman, Miss Taylor, while my daughter is still learning her craft.”
“Her lively conversation shall right the imbalance,” replied Miss Taylor. “The afternoons are often long, and I would be glad of the company.”
The matter was therefore settled to the mutual satisfaction of Miss Taylor and Rebecca, and not long afterward Miss Taylor took her leave. Rebecca, expecting to hear praises for the brilliant way in which she had secured Miss Taylor for a sewing instructress, was dismayed to find herself berated from practically all sides.
“What did I do wrong?” she pleaded, turning from the black looks emanating from her mother to the more benign, but still disappointed frown that had appeared on Hannah’s face.
“The plan was to provide Miss Taylor with a more practical remuneration,” Hannah said softly.
“She needs money, not painting lessons,” Mrs Lyon explained in her usual forthright manner. “You have ruined everything, with your interfering.”
“The child meant well,” said Mrs Baer, giving Rebecca’s arm a reassuring pat. “And, Rebecca, you managed to openly reveal the amiable heart that I could only suspect that Miss Taylor possesses. Her praises of your china plates and desire to become further acquainted with you, despite the difference in your ages, are ample proof that she is as eager to please others as she is to be pleased by her new friends. It is a great advantage in life to be happy with whatever circumstances the Al-Mighty has placed you in, which is why I think that Miss Taylor and Mr Jacob Oppenheim will be very happy together.”
“Mr Oppenheim? Why, of course!” Mrs Lyon exclaimed. “Hannah, you remember Mr Oppenheim, do you not?”
The pinkish tint that appeared on Hannah’s cheeks made words unnecessary. How could anyone in the Lyon family forget the great service that Mr Oppenheim, a former assistant in Mr Lyon’s fashionable clockmaker’s shop, had done for Mr Lyon, when that gentleman was faced with financial ruin? Or that Mr Oppenheim had harboured a secret hope that he might one day ask for Hannah’s hand in marriage—a hope that was dashed when Hannah married Mr David Goldsmith, instead? Since the matrimonial alliance between Hannah and Mr Goldsmith had been approved by Mrs Baer, there was no doubt that this was truly a match made in heaven. But even while the Jewish community was dancing at Hannah’s wedding, there was one unresolved matter that had cast a slight twinge of sadness upon the otherwise joyous occasion—when would Mr Oppenheim also attain such happiness and find his intended bride?
“But Mr Oppenheim now lives in Manchester,” said Hannah, her composure completely regained. “How shall you arrange a meeting between him and Miss Taylor?”
“Oh, I will think of something,” replied Mrs Baer, her eyes twinkling with pleasure. “Manchester is not on the other side of the sea. Boney shall not prevent this marriage from taking place, if it is meant to be.”
“Mr Oppenheim and Miss Taylor,” Mrs Lyon murmured happily, apparently already seeing, in her mind’s eye, the happy couple standing under the marriage canopy. “It is a brilliant suggestion, Mrs Baer, but are you sure Mr Oppenheim will not mind that his bride has no dowry?”
“No dowry?” The light departed from Mrs Baer’s eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Mr Lyon has heard that Miss Taylor and her brother are practically penniless.”
“That does complicate matters. If it is not Boney, it is something else,” said Mrs Baer with a sigh. “No wonder our Sages say that finding a marriage partner is as difficult as splitting the sea.”
At this second mention of “Boney,” the English patriot’s name for the Frenchman who has wrecked such havoc in these times, Napoleon Bonaparte, the talk turned to news about the war and the battle that had recently taken place near a Portuguese village called Fuentes de Onoro. While Mrs Lyon lamented the fact that the Portuguese and Spanish would insist on calling their villages and towns by the most fantastic and unpronounceable names, Mrs Baer expressed an opinion that Viscount Wellington was stretching his troops too thin. Or so Mr Baer had said, and he was in a position to know since his coffee house—a kosher establishment situated in the City—was frequented by some who were privy to information not readily available to the general public.
“They say that more than a thousand of our troops were killed,” said Mrs Baer, “and that the French losses were twice as many, if not more. I do not see why Boney cannot be content with being the Emperor of the French. Why must he insist on ruling the entire world?”
While the married ladies discussed this interesting question, Rebecca had other weighty matters to consider. Somehow, she must repair the damage she had caused to the Taylors and think of a way to transfer payment for her sewing lessons into Miss Taylor’s hand without causing the young lady embarrassment. As her brain was unusually devoid of ideas, she decided to ask the opinion of Miss Harriet Franks.
Ever since the Franks family had returned to Devonshire Square—a happy event that had occurred after Mr Franks had been cleared of the charge of being a spy for Napoleon—the two young ladies had resumed their friendship as though there had never been a separation. Thus, Perl, the Lyon family’s housemaid, was not surprised to see Rebecca slip on a pelisse over her muslin dress and then dash out the front door. Nor was the housemaid of the Franks family surprised to see Miss Lyon standing on the doorstep of the Franks’s residence, which was only two doors down from Rebecca’s home. During the course of almost any day there were any number of reasons why two young ladies of not quite the marriageable age must consult one another for sage advice and judicious opinion. On this occasion, though, Rebecca was very surprised to be informed that she could not see her friend.
“Miss Franks is indisposed,” said the housemaid. “The entire family is indisposed.”
Rebecca noticed at once the girl’s anxious expression. “It is not serious, I hope.”
“I am sure I do not know, Miss. Perhaps Mr Taylor can tell you, for I think I hear him coming down the stairs now.”
The housemaid opened the front door wider, so that Rebecca could see inside. Mr Taylor was, indeed, descending the stairs. Yet unlike the sweeping wooden staircase, which had been polished until the steps shone like new, the young physician looked curiously worn and troubled.
“Mr Taylor, perhaps you will remember me. I am Rebecca Lyon. You and Miss Taylor were at my family’s Seder.”
Mr Taylor bowed, in acknowledgement of her salutation. “I hope no one in your family has taken ill, Miss Lyon.”
“No, thank G-d. But Miss Franks is my very best friend in the entire world. Please say that I may see her, and that her condition is not serious. And that her parents will recover, as well.”
For the first time, Mr Taylor smiled. “I apologize that my gloomy expression has needlessly alarmed you. I have every expectation that your friend and Mr and Mrs Fr
anks will recover. I believe it is nothing more than an indisposition brought on by a tainted piece of fish. But because they have all spent an uncomfortable night, I think it best that they spend today resting undisturbed. If, however, you would like to send a note to Miss Franks, I am sure it will do her much good.”
“You have relieved my mind immensely,” Rebecca replied.
The housemaid allowed Rebecca to enter the drawing room, where Rebecca knew that paper and pen and ink would be at her disposal. While she wrote her note, Mr Taylor requested that the housemaid escort him to the kitchen so that he could give instructions to the cook.
Dear Harriet (she wrote),
Your illness has alarmed me to no end, and I should have been frantic with worry had not Mr Taylor assured me that you will soon be well. Please follow his instructions diligently, as I have a very important matter to discuss with you. I will fly to your bedside as soon as I hear that you are strong enough to receive a visitor.
Your faithful friend who intends not to sleep a wink until she hears that Hashem has sent you a complete recovery,
Rebecca
P.S. Isaac tried to say my name today. I am sure of it. But that is not the matter I wish to discuss with you.
P.P.S. Please send my compliments to Mr and Mrs Franks and my best wishes for their speedy and complete recovery.
When she was quite sure that she had no more postscripts to add to her letter, she carefully blotted the page and waited for the ink to dry. By the time she was ready to hand the important missive to the Franks’s housemaid, Mr Taylor was also ready to depart.
“May I walk you to your door, Miss Lyon?”
Rebecca was momentarily flustered. She had never walked alone with a man who was not a member of her family—unless it was with their servant Meshullan Mendel, who was almost like a family member—and even though the distance was just a few steps away she was not sure if she should accept the invitation or find a reason to remain in the Franks’s home. But Mr Taylor was already leading her to the pavement, and in an instant he made his intentions clear.
“I did not wish to speak in front of the servants,” he said, “but I am curious about one thing. Is their cook newly employed, or has she been with the Franks family for some time?”
“Oh, she has been their cook forever - or at least for as long as I can remember.”
“Thank you. Good evening.”
They had reached Rebecca’s home at the same moment that Mr Lyon was returning from his shop on Cornhill Street. Mr Lyon raised an eyebrow, but before he could say a word his daughter told him the distressing news concerning the Franks family.
“Is there anything we can do?” he asked Mr Taylor. “Perhaps we can send over some soup?”
“I have spoken with their cook and she has assured me that she has everything she needs to prepare the family’s meals according to my instructions. Good evening, Mr Lyon.” Mr Taylor then bowed again to Rebecca and said, “Good evening, Miss Lyon. I hope that tomorrow will bring you happier tidings concerning your friend.”
Mr Taylor turned to go, but Mr Lyon called after him, “Mr Taylor, will you not join us for supper? We would be honoured if you would dine with us.”
“Thank you, but my sister is waiting for me in our rooms.”
The young man bowed again, and hurried out of the square.
CHAPTER III
When Mr Taylor returned to his rooms, his sister was waiting for him, as he had said. However, Mr Taylor saw that standing at the doorway was another person, as well.
“Good evening, sir,” said the stranger. “I see by your expression that you do not know me, but I trust that we will soon be happy to have made one another’s acquaintance.”
Here the merchant - for it was all too evident from the man’s familiar ways that he was one of those who are friends with the world not because he cherishes friendship for itself but because he sees in the world a herd of potential buyers for his wares—showed the object he was holding in his hand, a metal tin.
“Yesterday, tea was the exclusive pleasure of the English aristocrat,” the merchant babbled on, as he insinuated himself into the room, “a beverage drunk only in the highest circles. Today all that is changed, thanks to the enterprise I am proud to represent: Amos & Amos. Remember the name, sir, for the next time you will be coming to me, and not I to you. It is our privilege to have found a way to make this drink of the gods affordable to those who inhabit less lofty spheres. And I was just remarking to your wife, who cannot hide her expertise in the housewifely arts from an eye as skilled as mine, she will find no better quality tea for so reasonable a price anywhere else in London. How many tins would you like to purchase, sir? I usually am allowed to sell only one sample tin to a household, but because I see that you are a man of some intelligence and refinement I will make an exemption and sell you two.”
The merchant had already set down upon the table the tin he had been holding in his hand and was about to reach into his great coat’s pocket for the promised second tin, when Mr Taylor stopped him. “You need not trouble yourself, Mr …”
“Amos, sir. My brother, Mr Lazer Amos, is the genius behind our manufacturing process, while I, Baruch Amos, am merely his humble representative in the marketplace.”
“We do not drink tea, Mr Amos. Good evening.”
“That is my point exactly, sir,” replied Mr Amos, refusing to be so easily rebuffed. “Why should not respectable working people such as yourself and your Missus be able to drink a refreshing cup of tea at the end of a long and tiring day? Why should tea leaves, which grow in such abundance in G-d’s glorious world, be priced so high in the desultory world devised by mortal man? These are the sorts of questions my brother and I asked one another. This is the answer.”
Two tins of tea were now sitting on the table. Mr Taylor could see that his sister—he had not bothered to correct the merchant’s mistake—was looking at the tins with a longing eye. But he remained resolute. Returning the tins to the merchant’s hands, he said, “I shall not repeat myself a third time, sir. We do not drink tea.”
Mr Amos received the rejected tins with solemn dignity, and bowed his way to the door. But before he departed in defeat, he shot off one last salvo into the fray. “Amos & Amos. Mark my words, one day you will be coming to me, sir, and not I to you.”
The door closed. Mr Taylor gave a weary sigh of relief as he sank down onto a chair. “Why did you let him come inside, Elisheva?”
“It has been so long since we have had tea with our supper. And he said the tea he was offering was so reasonable. And …” Her voice drifted off into silence.
“And you hate having to live in poverty, watching every penny, not being able to afford a new dress or pay social calls to the other young ladies in the neighbourhood, such as Mrs Hannah Goldsmith.”
“You are not being fair, Gabriel. I have never complained about helping you advance in your career. But you, at least, are out in the world. You see people. You converse with them. I remain inside these four walls every day.”
Mr Taylor loosened the stiff cravat wound about his neck, and as the linen folds gave way his stern expression softened, as well. “I apologize. I should not have spoken so harshly to you. But, Elisheva, if I ask you to economize, I ask it for your own good. If you are to marry, you will need a dowry. The few pennies saved on a tin of tea may not seem much in and of themselves, but over time the money saved will accumulate.”
“When? When I am an old woman ready for the grave?”
Elisheva Taylor was not a young lady who often allowed herself the luxury of a good cry, but the deprivations endured during the last several years had accumulated to such an extent that the barriers she had erected between her sense of duty and her natural sensibilities now tore apart and a torrent of tears ushered forth. Her brother waited patiently for the storm to subside, and then gently asked, “I know it is not the tea you are weeping over, Elisheva. What has happened? What has changed?”
The young lad
y wiped away the few remaining tears with the corner of her apron and said, “I was invited to the home of Mrs Lyon, to Devonshire Square.”
“For what reason?”
“I am not sure I know. The ladies were all doing some sewing. We talked. We had cakes, and tea.”
“It was pleasant?”
“Yes, it was pleasant to be in company again. But when I returned home and all was so silent …”
“Mrs Goldsmith was there, with her child?”
Elisheva did not reply.
“I promise you, Elisheva,” said Mr Taylor, rising from his chair to place his hands on his younger sister’s shoulders, “that one day you shall also be a happily married woman, surrounded by your children. And it shall be when you are still young. It shall be soon.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door.
“If it is Amos & Amos calling again, I shall …” Mr Taylor opened the door, but he had no need to complete his threat. The tea merchant must have gone to find greener fields, for he was not the one standing at the door.
“Alt clo’s, sir?” asked an elderly Jew, dressed in ragged clothes, whose hoary head was crowned by a faded, low-sitting, flat-brimmed hat, which had been the height of fashion some ten years previously and from which there now escaped several tangled strands of white hair in a straggly fashion. “Buy or sell, I am at your service, sir.”