Appetites & Vices

by Felicia Grossman

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ursula shivered beneath her robe. Why was it so cold? Or more, why was it so cold to her? Rose had doused her own body twice with water since she entered, but Ursula still shook. The maid ran a brush through Ursula’s tangles.

  “How many dresses have you ruined this trip? Four? Since when did you go from responsible to spendthrift?”

  “We have the funds, Rose. Your salary will be paid.”

  Rose snorted and loosened a knot with her fingers.

  “You know that’s not my worry,” the maid said.

  Ursula closed her eyes and pulled her robe tighter. Perhaps she should put on something. It had been two days, two days since Jay left, or more since she’d forced him to leave.

  She glanced towards the sentinel-like painted wardrobe in the corner. It was so far—and standing and being buttoned—maybe she could wear her robe and stay in the room forever. She did own it, or two thirds of it, after all, since the company owned all the family properties.

  Perhaps servants could bring her the accounting books in the room. She could take meals in the room too. She’d purchase more robes and nightgowns. She patted Arte and pulled the cat closer. The creature squirmed in her arms.

  Cats.

  Ursula sighed and released her. Arte skittered under the bed skirts.

  “You could throw things, you know.” Lydia stuck her chin out from her perch on the window seat next to Rachel. “You’d be perfectly within your rights to do so. What he did was completely wrong and unfair and cad-like.”

  The tears prickled and taunted behind her eyes. No. She couldn’t, wouldn’t give in, not in front of Rachel and Lydia.

  You don’t owe anything to anyone, only to yourself. Remember that. If there is anything you need to remember, it’s that.

  Her mother’s voice, strong and clear echoed from the past, from the day after an incident involving a rather expensive vase. She expected a scolding. After all, the hostess’s mother screamed “irreplaceable heirloom,” and referred to her mother as “uncouth,” “common,” and “unfit.”

  Even in the present Ursula recoiled a little, hot tears scalding her cheeks now. So much for no tears.

  Her mother never flinched, and instead marched the two of them out of the house, head held high, later dismissing the nanny for the evening and rubbing Ursula’s back herself.

  Drawing in all the air she could, Ursula forced her chin upwards, emulating the image her mother made so many years ago. Roseanna Simon Nunes hadn’t fought every moment of her rather short and unfair life for her daughter to squander hers feeling sorry for herself.

  “He acted within the bounds of what we agreed.” She clenched her fists, drawing all the dignity she could muster.

  Lydia tugged on her collar. The girl should really try for something more fashionable.

  No, softer tone.

  Ursula sighed. “We had an agreement. There were never any promises between us. His goal was to be able to go to Europe. He’s achieved that. He always told me the truth and he never pretended—”

  The catch was back. She swallowed over and over. Why would it not stay down? She ran her sash through her fingers.

  “But he loves you.” Lydia was on her feet. “He does. He may not have said it in words, but he said it a million times in deeds—in glances—in between his words. He was—he is—in love.”

  Rachel cleared her throat and tugged on Lydia’s sleeve. Lydia paid her no heed except to wriggle loose and hold her friend’s hand instead.

  A ringing started in Ursula’s ears. So much pressure. Everything inside her body was tight.

  “You love him too. You sit with him when he’s uneasy. He’s the first person you find in any room. You love each other. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t marry—well, other than the fact he’s a gentile, but you seem determined to marry one of them and your father is willing. What happened before—it isn’t as if his reputation is anything—besides, the money is still yours. That should count for something. I don’t understand. I don’t understand what’s happening and why he isn’t here. It just isn’t right.” Lydia’s confused words tumbled at breakneck speed.

  Ursula dug her nails into her palms. Why did it all burn so much?

  “Lydia.” Rachel’s voice was low but powerful.

  Even Rose ceased brushing for a moment. The two exchanged glances and Lydia took a seat.

  Silence hung in the air.

  Good lord.

  Did they want her to respond? How was she supposed to ever respond to anything? She twisted her fingers. No, she’d respond. She was still alive. No matter the pain, she wasn’t actually going to die.

  Ursula sucked in a breath and straightened her spine. She’d been through worse, hadn’t she?

  “Sometimes love isn’t enough, even without societal constraints. Jay isn’t able to marry anyone at this time.” She managed to say all the words without crying.

  She gripped at the fabric of her robe. Rose had gone still, though she was still close enough that her breath tickled the back of Ursula’s neck.

  “Perhaps I wasn’t intended to marry anyone either. If I don’t, there’ll be no husband to hold my stake in Nunes. I can always own the properties and the shares. I’ll be able to be the one on whom you all can rely when you have other responsibilities.” Blast. Did her voice just crack? She shoved the side of her hand over her mouth, pretending to yawn.

  Ursula glanced around the room. The pity, the overwhelming pity. She sucked in her lips. The pity was going to kill her.

  She’d not be pitied. She was fortunate, a great deal more fortunate than so many. Her father had given her such a gift. It was time to—well, time to be an adult. Be the adult. The ordeal had cost him enough already and she was young and healthy.

  “We shall all endure.” Ursula strode over to the dresser and slipped her mother’s ruby bracelet on her own wrist, the one that she used to finger while sitting on her mother’s lap when she was little. She paused and returned to the box. There was an opal pendant, far too small and delicate for her taste. She removed it and presented it to her cousin. “I think this would look lovely on you.”

  “Ursula.” Lydia was the one who spoke. “That’s lovely, but wasn’t that—”

  She wagged a finger and brightened her voice. Peaches. She’d have a peach tartlet later, someone would make one. She found a small string of pearls and held them against Lydia’s skin.

  “These go so well with your complexion,” she said.

  Bright, generous, happy. People were like animals. She could take care of them. She may not have a partner anymore, but Jay’d still given her a great gift. He’d shown her things she’d not even known she wanted.

  “Ursula.” Lydia grew quiet as she laid the necklace on her.

  She blinked over and over. “Doesn’t that feel wonderful? Rose, fetch a mirror, we’ll do my hair and then the three of us can go shopping. As someone mentioned, I could use some new gowns. Perhaps in a new color. And then you two can introduce me to people, other women whose company you’d think I’d enjoy, that we can invite over next time I’m here.”

  Yes, she could endure. She’d be fine.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ursula’s head hit the back of the seat of her family’s carriage with a thud. Hecate scurried off her shoulder and onto the ceiling while Arte cuddled against her and hissed. Not to be outdone by the glum animals, her father stared out the window while her uncle glared, mostly at her. She clenched her fists. What right did he have? He wasn’t her father and they weren’t blood.

  “I don’t know why you look like that. You should be happy. Isn’t this what you wanted?” she snapped at the man.

  “I’m not rejoicing in anything that happened, Ursula.” Uncle Bernard folded his arms.

  Her father made a noise of disgust but didn’t t
urn around.

  “I’m not, Judah.” Her uncle wiped back his thick curls with his hand. “My desire was to protect, not hurt you, both of you.”

  Oh, so he knew what was best. Indeed. The man needed a good thrashing.

  “You weren’t so protective of anyone’s feelings during your conversation with Jay,” she snapped.

  The corner of his mouth tightened.

  Aha.

  So, he was the origin of at least some of Jay’s self-loathing. Score one for her. Though, to be fair, the original seeds were sown by J.T. Truitt and the Hales years before Jay’d even heard of Uncle Bernard.

  “He needed to understand, Ursula, to be aware. He lives in his own little world, insulated from things you’re not,” her uncle added.

  Her father offered no assistance to either her or his brother-in-law, still facing the scenery, twisting at his jacket. She sighed. Time to represent her own interests.

  “That’s unfair and I didn’t hear all that you said to him, but what you said...”

  Uncle Bernard knotted his own handkerchief, his gray darkening to match her father’s black.

  “Was the truth, Ursula. He’s sick. You really don’t understand. I know you’re fond of him and he’s amusing, but the matter is far more grave.”

  Fond of him? Was he implying her feelings towards Jay were similar to her affection for purple or eclairs?

  “He’s strong—stronger than you believe.” The words were strangled, half caught in her throat.

  Her uncle threaded his hands and hung his head. “Opium doesn’t discriminate, Ursula. It should only be used as comfort for the dying, like it was for your late mother. You’ve not seen what I’ve seen. I’ve travelled. Opium is almost impossible to shake. He’ll yearn for it every day, for the rest of his life.”

  He leaned toward her. She clutched Jay’s handkerchief against Arte’s fur. The tears were so close to the surface. Every time she closed her eyes there was his face, in the chair, staring into an empty fireplace. He’d have to fight and struggle day in and day out.

  If only she could soothe that pain. She’d give anything. If she could shoulder some of it for him, she’d agree in a heartbeat.

  Ursula squeezed her lids shut. Jay suffered. Knowing that was worse than being apart from him somehow.

  “I don’t care.” She stamped her foot for emphasis. Arte twisted her head round in warning.

  “You should. You’ve destroyed your reputation in some misguided heroics on his behalf and where is he now?” He nearly spit the words as he wagged a finger at her. “This isn’t Berlin or Paris, where you have real protection, a real community. We have to live with them in Philadelphia. They already want to snub you. Why do you insist on making it easier for them?”

  Uncle Bernard shook his head. “You’re clever, Ursula, but not as clever as you think. You can’t fix everything. You cannot cheat death. Ask your father. He learned that lesson already.”

  Her father—so much gray for someone so young, only ten years older than Jay. She swallowed.

  “Father?” She whispered the word.

  Her father lifted his head. “No, there are things we cannot fix, cannot change, but we can adapt.”

  “Like you did?” Uncle Bernard snorted.

  Ursula rubbed Jay’s handkerchief against her cameo. Had her father ever been happy? Had his life just been an endless call to duty and service with nothing in return?

  “Bernard.” Her father’s voice grew in volume.

  She pressed a hand over her mouth. Memories of Jay’s hands, twirling her on the floor, dabbing sugar from lips, stroking her curls out of her face flooded her mind. The warmth from those simple touches—no. She might never understand her parents’ relationship, but she understood her own. She was not Jay’s caregiver. They were partners.

  “It’s not the same,” her father whispered.

  Her uncle reared up in his seat. “Like Hell it isn’t.”

  “Bernard.” Her father tugged at his brother-in-law’s sleeve.

  “What, Judah?” Her uncle’s voice softened. He always did have endless patience for her father. All the enmity was never directed at him, just at his choices, and at her mother.

  “She loves him.” Her father lowered his eyes.

  Blast, bollocks, and bloody Hell all at once. No, no one was supposed to know. Saying the words out loud might snap the rope binding her soul to her body.

  “What?” Uncle Bernard’s voice was strangled.

  “She loves the worthless little sluggard.” Her father’s near scream reverberated through the carriage. Hecate screamed back, tucking her body behind Ursula’s shoulder. Arte dug her claws into Ursula’s travelling cloak. At least it was last season’s.

  “She’s infatuated and wants to care for him like she does her animals. We’ll find her someone who will adore her and care for her, instead of an opium fiend who’ll leach every shred of vitality from her.” Her uncle was insistent.

  “She loves him, like you love Miriam.” Her father choked on the words.

  The tears she’d tried so hard to lock away spilled onto her lap, soaking the white cloth. Why were they speaking about her as if she wasn’t there, as if the unyielding agony already killed her? It wasn’t fair. Didn’t they understand she’d give anything to make the throbbing go away—make it all untrue and never have happened?

  “Damn it all.” Her uncle ran his palm over his head, the only way not to tangle his fingers in his curls, so much like Isaac’s.

  He reached towards her. She couldn’t. He cared, but he’d scraped her already raw innards too hard to trust him even with her palm. She tucked her head in her hands and sobbed.

  “We’ll find you someone better, someone from our community, who understands who you are.” Her uncle’s voice shook. “We’ll send you to Europe, so you can be protected the way you deserve to be protected. One of the Cohens married a Rothschild. They have a boy the right age. No family could offer better security. They’ve been given titles all over the continent. You could be a countess. A marriage like that could make everything right. We’ll send Mr. Truitt instructions so he can ask for a Get.”

  He moved to her side of the carriage and grabbed her hand this time. Every word was a dagger in her breast, but she had no strength to yell or scream or kick or fight. She buried her face in Uncle Bernard’s frock coat and sobbed so hard she hiccupped, until one word reverberated in her brain, stilling all the sadness.

  Did her uncle say “Get?”

  She and Jay were only engaged, not married.

  Weren’t they?

  Ursula’s head shot up. She wiped her sleeve across her eye.

  “Uncle Bernard.” She made her voice calm. This was too important to misunderstand. “Why would I need a Get?”

  “To remarry. You can’t have two husbands.” Uncle Bernard drew the words out as if she was an imbecile.

  She may not have been raised in the community, but her parents imparted some knowledge, including what a Get was and what one undid.

  Impossible. She’d have remembered a wedding ceremony.

  “Jay and I aren’t married.”

  Her uncle sighed. “He gave you a ring and he signed a Ketubah.”

  Ring yes, but the contract? She’d never seen one, though truth be told, only Jay had to sign. Still, the Ketubah belonged to the bride. But he wouldn’t have signed one without telling her, would he? And to make the marriage legal he was supposed to have presented it to her.

  “When?” she asked.

  Her uncle rubbed his temples. “Right after you arrived. You think I would permit him to stay in my house when you’re only betrothed? I don’t care what our assimilated relatives in London do, that was not going to happen in my house.”

  “Bernard.” Her father gasped.

  “You should be pleased with me, Judah. I’
ve at least made it possible to recover her reputation.”

  “Bernard.” Red-faced, her father stumbled to his feet, rocking the carriage.

  Her uncle raised his head and rolled his eyes. “She announced her behavior with Mr. Truitt to half of Philadelphia. News that there was actual marriage should solve that issue quite nicely. You owe me some gratitude.”

  Uncle Bernard could hang. She didn’t shout it from the rooftops. She had more sense. She also hadn’t announced anything to her father—just fibbed about the kiss. Her cheeks burned.

  “That’s a bit of a misrepresentation. I only discussed certain matters with Jay’s father. Yes, a few other people were present, but I needed to prove that he wasn’t the monster they all believed. That was more important than my reputation. People already hated me.”

  Blast. The tears rolled down her cheeks again. She wiped with her elbow. Tears would detract from her point.

  “Mr. Truitt apparently has some sort of marking on his body.” Her uncle gave her father a knowing look.

  She scowled. Uncle or not, he was one gesture away from being cut off from his portion of the Nunes profits. That was the one advantage to learning the secrets. Two thirds of the holdings were hers. Her “suggestions” were now law.

  Hecate screeched as her father threw a valise at the space next to her.

  “I’ll kill him.” Her father punched his own fist.

  Uncle Bernard gave another eyeroll, this one more theatrical than the last. “Judah, you can’t be serious. How did you not know?”

  Her father picked up and tossed two volumes of balance sheets on the floor. Both spines cracked. More restringing, more expense.

  “But she’s responsible. She prefers accounting to dancing. She frowns on frivolity.” Her father’s voice was more bewildered than angry.

  She’d be humiliated if her soul wasn’t torn asunder.

  Uncle Bernard’s eyes twinkled a smidge. “My dear brother-in-law, you truly are the most naïve man to ever live, even after—”

  Dash it all—Rachel and Isaac. Her cousins were less skilled at holding their tongues than, well, she was.