Appetites & Vices

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Appetites & Vices Page 22

by Felicia Grossman


  He stumbled to the bed, stretched out, and closed his eyes. He’d punished his body enough to permit it to overtake his mind.

  However, just before oblivion took him, a thought, a lucid, almost clever thought sparked. Mathematics weren’t his strong suit, but something Bernard said, something nagged at the deepest corner of his mind.

  If Judah was merely forty and Urs was twenty-one and Amalia Levy had died at twenty and she and Judah were born on the same day...the numbers made no sense. The first conversation between Bernard and Judah—the one he forgot to tell Urs.

  She’s his daughter, you know? If someone had gone to a tailor and ordered the female version of Judah... Bernard’s words repeated over and over. She’s his daughter. She’s his daughter.

  He writhed under the sheets, clutched at the pillow with his good hand. He had to stay awake. He had to think. He had to figure this out, for her sake. He gripped and pushed, but nothing happened. His limbs wouldn’t obey.

  No.

  He repeated the word over and over, but exhaustion finally won and he fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  How many bloody rounds of chess could she play with Isaac? Locked in the house too, with nowhere to go due to the rain. Between that and the heat, steam rose from the cobblestones outside, ruining all hemlines and boots.

  Three days of glares and stares and Ursula had about enough. Three days since Jay woke with a fever and hand so swollen he couldn’t hold a utensil. Her father and Uncle Bernard quarreled about a doctor, but she’d done the tending herself. A doctor might prescribe something he shouldn’t and if she refused to give it to Jay, everyone would know.

  At least his head was cool now and he’d been awake for almost an hour. Still, he hadn’t even said two words to her. Instead, he’d sipped his tea and traded glum glares with the fireplace. They needed to speak. When though? Her uncle made things tricky. And Isaac just took her rook. Blast it all. Before she could make another move, feet skidded across the varnished floor.

  “Mr. Nunes, Ursula, everyone, I’m so sorry.”

  Everyone in the room turned towards the doorway. Lydia’s hair was disheveled, her bonnet at her side while she clutched a newspaper. The butler stood behind her as she panted, free hand on her chest.

  “My father—my father will be over shortly, but I ran here as fast as I could. It isn’t his fault. They broke into his office. They knew you were his client and had heard the rumors, knew something had happened or at least there was more than met the eye. I’m so sorry.”

  Tears rolled down Lydia’s cheeks. Ursula’s mind stuttered. She was apologizing? For what?

  Her palms started to sweat. There was plenty of money and even if there wasn’t, money wasn’t everything. They’d always be fine no matter what happened. Also, who was “they”?

  Lydia sobbed harder. Ursula squinted at her. A bit dramatic. It was as if Lydia and her family were the ones harmed, instead of whatever it was. Obnoxious. But, she adored Rachel, who for some unknown reason adored Lydia... Better attempt to be kind.

  Ursula moved to the girl and placed an arm around her shoulder, giving her a slight pat. “It’ll be all right.” Lydia’s tears dripped down the bodice of her dress. “Whatever happened we’ll be fine. There are other holdings, in London and in Amsterdam. The portion of the business your father assists is hardly a quarter. Many families suffered far greater losses than that during the downturn.” She rubbed Lydia’s back.

  Lydia pulled away and stared at Ursula. “You don’t understand.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It wasn’t the business files the thieves took, it was the personal files. They were working for someone who wanted to hurt you, specifically.”

  Ursula frowned. Personal files? What sort of personal files? She glanced at her father. His deep, tanned skin had turned gray. Eyes wide, he sank to his knees.

  Jay finally came to life, ran and assisted him onto one of the chairs. What was happening? Was he ill? He couldn’t be ill, not her father. Her heart began to pound.

  “Water,” Jay called to the butler.

  “And a cold cloth,” she added when she found her voice. She ran to his side. “Father. Father, are you all right? What’s the matter? Whatever it is, we’ll survive. As I said, there’s plenty of money and there isn’t much that money can’t solve—”

  “Urs.” Jay cut her off.

  She stared at him. What did he know? Hot, it was so very hot.

  The butler returned. Jay shoved the glass of water in her father’s hands and assisted him in bringing it to his lips. She pressed the cloth to his forehead, her hands clumsy.

  Uncle Bernard made a noise of disgust and snatched the paper from Lydia’s hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. The girl stared at the floor while her uncle grumbled.

  He waved a finger at her father. “I warned you, Judah, I warned you this would happen. She was making too many enemies, without even knowing the whole story. Reed, Middleton, even Morris—take your pick, it doesn’t matter which one—all had the means and it had to have been so easy. Enough people knew, have always known, that it was bound to be exposed. I’ve told you for years, but you didn’t listen. You never listen, not now, not nineteen years ago.”

  Ursula froze. Reed, Middleton, Morris? Her uncle couldn’t have told her father about what she said at the poker game, could he? No, Jay’s throat hadn’t been slit.

  Wait—nineteen years ago? A shiver shot through her body. She’d have only been two.

  She gasped. The secret, the feud, her parents, her mother and father—that was what this was about.

  “What are you not telling me?” she demanded more than asked.

  Something was wrong, very wrong. She snatched the paper from her uncle. He could hate her if he wanted or disapprove or—

  “Ursula,” her father cried.

  She scanned the words. The society gossip section. She found her own, full name this time, but Jay’s was only mentioned once. Her voice shook as she read.

  “‘Miss Ursula Nunes, fiancée to John Thaddeus Truitt V, half of this season’s most attractive couple, is not what she seems. She may personally hold controlling interest in Nunes Companies, an odd feat for a woman, but she is not a Nunes.’”

  She read the line over and over again. It didn’t make sense. The business belonged to her father, not her. And not a Nunes? Her name was Ursula Nunes. That’s who she was. She was her parents’ only child. She was Ursula Nunes from Wilmington, Delaware.

  “The late Roseanna Nunes was once Roseanna Simon of London, a common criminal...”

  Her vocal cords no longer vibrated. The words rang in her ears, but she made no sound. The article went on to state how she’d been born before her parents’ marriage, her father unknown. It was even suggested her mother had died of—there was no good euphemism for that disease.

  It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. She stared at her father again. Her knees buckled. Jay ran to her and caught her before she reached the floor, easing her down.

  Her father coughed and choked on the water. Uncle Bernard sat next to him, forcing slow sips. That should be her job. She should be able to take care of him, but she couldn’t rise again.

  “Who is my father?” She couldn’t stop repeating the question. From the expression on her father’s face, if she’d have slapped him it would’ve been less painful, but she couldn’t stop.

  Uncle Bernard sighed. “Lydia, please go find Rachel. I’m sure the two of you have studying to do. Mind Isaac as well for a little while.”

  Ursula didn’t turn around as Lydia’s feet echoed on the stair. The room spun while her uncle directed his butler to take her father into the study with smelling salts.

  Everything burned. The man had to hoist her father like he was an invalid.

  When the air was quiet, Uncle Bernard put his head i
n his hands. He lifted his chin and his eyes were haunted.

  “I’m not the person who should be telling this story, but I was there for most of it and I’m the best we have.” Her uncle shook his head.

  Ursula clutched Jay’s hand as she leaned against his body.

  “We were in London in 1822, visiting cousins on the Nunes side. One of the girls’ husbands—Moses—was very active in the community over there, politically and philanthropically. The House of Commons was considering emancipation for us again and there was a situation.”

  No.

  The story was headed somewhere horrible. She shivered. Why was it now so cold in the room?

  Her uncle cleared his throat.

  “There was a young woman, a thief and sometimes prostitute who’d been in the penal colony in Port Jackson. She was one of us. When she was sent, she attracted little attention, just a common criminal, one of thousands. The trouble began over there. She had a lover and they escaped. When they were caught it was all the city could discuss. The reporters adored it. It probably inspired the tripe that Dickens fellow wrote. After the damage that Fagin character has done...” Her uncle grunted again. “When we arrived, the man had already been tried and executed. The woman though, they’d waited. She’d been with child.”

  Me. That child was me.

  Jay pulled her closer, but her muscles wouldn’t relax.

  Me.

  The child of criminals. She and her mother, they were the kind of Jews who weren’t supposed to exist. The kind who brought trouble, who brought death and retribution. She’d heard the stories. The reason to exclude them, to deny them rights, or worse, justifications for the slaughter of innocents—from the Crusades to the blood libel in Damascus, just a year ago.

  Uncle Bernard shifted and frowned before speaking again.

  “The community wanted it out of the papers. Moses’ idea was for us to help bring her to America, get her a job, take care of her, but make her disappear. But when we got to Newgate...”

  Newgate. The word screamed in her head. She had no memories, none of that time. Why should she? She’d been a baby, but the horror of it twisted her body. A prison. She’d been born in a prison. Her father came to that place and found what? She stared at her uncle.

  “Your father couldn’t leave either of you there. Moses was clever that way. Your father’s fiancée had passed away before their wedding. Seeing a beautiful young woman in distress with a child—there was no question that he’d help. Even Moses didn’t expect a marriage.”

  Her uncle ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

  She shook her head. They hated her. They truly did. The enmity had been real, all those years. Her father had thrown his life away, at least in their opinion. Her stomach twisted. In any sensible opinion. He was from a wonderful family, could’ve had any suitable woman and he married someone who’d—and had taken in a child that wasn’t his.

  “Who is my father?”

  “Urs.” Jay squeezed her arm.

  She’d forgotten he was there. Oh, if they could only be where they were four days ago, in the fairy world of the bedroom. When they were alone there was nothing else, there was just them—oh good lord. Her mother—had done what she and Jay had done—for money.

  “Who is my father?” She had to know.

  “Urs.” Jay squeezed harder.

  She wrenched her arm away from him and crawled towards her uncle. She had to know.

  “Who is he?”

  Her uncle closed his eyes and shook his head. “It’s not my place—”

  “Tell me.”

  Uncle Bernard swallowed. “I don’t know. No one knows.” He coughed into his hand and stared at the ceiling. “Her pregnancy was established almost a year after she reached Newgate—I—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Ursula. I truly am. I wish I could give you a different answer. You’ve done nothing...”

  His voice grew distant.

  The tears still fell, even as she closed her eyes. There were no words. She was the product of—unwanted, completely unwanted. She should’ve never been born, never.

  Her uncle hung his head, as if he couldn’t say more. When he lifted it, there were tears streaming down his cheeks. “You’re just like him, you know? Exactly like him.”

  She gasped. What was he saying?

  “He may not have sired you, but you and Judah could be the same person.” Her uncle’s voice cracked. “He believes he can fix everyone, save everyone. He can’t, you can’t.”

  Her uncle raked his hands over his face. “I want you to ask yourself, is he happy? Will you be?”

  She could no longer hear him. Her father, she had to find her father. She pulled herself to her feet and pushed past Jay into the hall.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The tears blurred her father’s face. No, not her father. Yes, her father. Yes, no matter what, he was her father, wasn’t he? He had to be her father. If he wasn’t her father and she wasn’t his daughter, who were they?

  “I’m sorry.” Her father sank into his brother-in-law’s mahogany desk chair, hands on his temples. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

  “You didn’t want me to find out, ever.” The words sounded harsher than she intended. Ursula gulped breath after breath after breath. “Why? Why would you close me out? Why would you lie?”

  The tears fell hotter, faster. All the years, all the time, she was never actually his. She was the daughter of—“Ashamed.” The word came as a choke. “You’re ashamed of me. And you have every right. I’m a constant reminder of—you never were able to have, you were robbed—”

  “No.” Her father leapt to his feet and slammed his fists on the deep stained desk. The clawed feet stamped the floor. Books on the shelves danced.

  Ursula jumped back, shaking.

  Her father had become a beast, a twisted creature of rage and sorrow and she’d done it to him. His face was red and swollen as if it might burst.

  “Don’t you ever say that. I’m not. I never was and never will be ashamed of you or your mother, but especially not you. You are everything to me. You’re why I’m alive. You’ve been my driving force for nearly two decades. Every decision was made with you in mind. I had to protect you. That has been my life’s goal.”

  “What?” The word was all breath, almost the last she had because there wasn’t enough air in the room. She was going to faint. She clutched the back of a chair.

  “I liked your mother, yes, but when I was in London, it was you I fell in love with.” He closed his eyes and sat again, fanning his hands over the wood. “When we visited that place with Montefiore to discuss what to do about the matter, you—you were on the floor and came to the door with her. You mimicked our conversation. She hushed you, but you paid her no mind. You were young, not even two, but the way you repeated back phrases, and your voice, and your eyes—” His color evened as a smile crossed his lips.

  “I was completely in love, love like I’d never felt before. What I felt for Amalia, my fiancée, never held a candle to what occurred when I saw you. It sounds crazy, but I knew you were my child, the child I wanted. You were so clever, so very clever, and beautiful and precocious and—you didn’t belong there. You were to be with me. I was meant to raise you. You stared at me through the darkness in that place and I had a purpose, a duty, an occupation.”

  He came to the front of the desk and wiped her tears with his thumb. She pulled Jay’s handkerchief from her bosom and blew her nose. The tears still fell.

  “I’m so sorry, Ursula. I should have told you. I just—” He coughed into his hand. His shoulders slumped. Had the gray streaks just appeared in his hair or had they always been there? Same with the lines running from his nose to the edge of his lips. Her eyes burned.

  “You were protecting her.” Her entire chest was on fire. “She was sick the enti
re time, wasn’t she?”

  “She had the early stages in London. She’d not have survived any punishment, hard labor or Parramatta for more than a year. You’d have just started weaning. Everything was a death sentence for you both.” Her father’s chest heaved.

  “So, you married a woman who you liked, but didn’t love, who you could never have—”

  “She had a delightful sense of humor while her mind remained. You remember it. She was also kind, very kind, considering the world was not a kind place to her. You should never speak ill of her. She did her best with very little, very, very little. And she loved you very much.”

  Her father rose and paced. Plap, plap, plop, his boots crossed the floor bumping against the rug each time.

  “She was an orphan too. She did what she had to survive. Our people didn’t always take care of our own, especially there. The prejudices and the laws and the banishment are easy excuses, but we didn’t do our part.”

  Ursula clenched the wood harder. Excuses, logical excuses for giving up one’s own happiness.

  “But was she a wife?” She shouldn’t have asked the question, but her mouth opened.

  “Ursula.” Her name, laced with so much pain from her father’s lips.

  She should stop, should flee, should clamp her hands over her own mouth, should bite out her own tongue, but she couldn’t, she couldn’t stop. She didn’t know what she was, but everything, everything was being released.

  “But she wasn’t a wife, was she? Even when she still had her faculties. She might have been a companion, a friend, but not a wife. You knew why she was ill. You and she never—”

  Visions of her and Jay and all the joy, the desire, the trust, the sheer delight of just being the two as one, coupled with the juxtaposition of her parents’ lives—she ached, burned.

  Her father tore at his own hair. “Ursula. There are questions you cannot and will not ask. I am your father and certain topics are not to be discussed. It’s inappropriate.”

 

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