Chapter 8
Wind and tides in their favor, Rochlin and Adam reached London at dawn on December twenty-fourth and dashed up the stairs of the War Department sooner than either dared hope to deliver receipts, reports, and gratitude to Glenaire. Adam left them then, the two friends to make their grim errand to Chadbourn Hall and he to deliver one final report.
Nathaniel Baumann looked on his protégé with astonishment. “I expected two more weeks at least! Come, come, sit. You look exhausted—and none too tidy, let me say.” The older man viewed the receipts with satisfaction. His obvious relief surprised Adam. The man rarely showed doubt or insecurity. “Found the man himself, I see, and delivered every crown and pence. Good, good,” Baumann said, rubbing his hands. “How did you find Rebbe Nahmany?”
“As wise and shrewd as ever. Happy to strike a blow to the Corsican.”
“And the War Office?”
“Satisfied. More than satisfied. Glenaire sends his personal thanks.” Baumann appeared pleased at that, but Adam leaned forward before the older man could launch into further discussion. “Is Miss Baumann in?” he asked.
The banker sank against the back of his chair, brows raised. “My Esther?” His lips twitched. “Hundreds of miles through hostile territory into a war zone, sharp doings with the War Department, and your first concern is to ask after Esther?”
Adam squeezed his eyes shut. Not well done. He had thought of little else for days.
“My daughter is a guest of the Duchess of Haverford at Hollystone Hall this week, Halevy. Is there something you wish to discuss with me?”
“You let her go?” Adam exclaimed, eyes wide.
Baumann made his face stern with apparent effort. Adam might have worried but… The old man has a twinkle in his eye. That bodes well, doesn’t it?
“My daughter has very influential and gracious friends. The event is for a good cause. Why would I not allow her to attend?” Baumann leaned forward confidentially. “She has her aunt to lend her countenance, and I have had assurance from Her Grace that the proposed Jewish Free School will receive some support.”
Astounding. Adam wondered how the rabbis would react to that support. Before he could ask, another implication hit him. “Does Esther know the school is intended for boys only?”
His employer looked discomforted. “She should,” he said. He waved a hand as if to dismiss the matter. “Change will come with time.”
Adam had no time to debate issues, religious or secular. Esther is at Hollystone in any case, probably absorbing the duchess’s well-known progressive views. He shook off disappointment. “It is Esther—Miss Baumann—I wish to discuss.”
Baumann’s amusement broke into the open. “I thought you might. What is it you want?”
Two hours later, Adam left in the Baumann’s carriage. He refused shelter for the night, changed to another set of clothes only slightly less rumpled from travel than the ones he wore, packed the best he had, and agreed to several conditions, one of which he planned to ignore. He would go through the motions of accepting a matchmaker’s services only after he knew Esther’s heart. If she would not have him, he would not force tradition on her.
Hollystone lay one long day by carriage from London or at most a day and a half. Adam planned, insofar as he thought it through rationally, to travel through the day in spite of his late start, to change horses, travel through the night on the main road, and to arrive the following morning. He forgot the rest of the world celebrated Christmas, he forgot he lacked an invitation, and he forgot to consider the roads made soft by days of rain and crowded with holiday travelers. The pace of the Baumann carriage, lurching slowly along rutted and pitted roads, gave him ample time to reconsider.
By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon and a posting inn loomed ahead glowing in the orange light of sunset, Adam had had enough.
“Two horses, sir?” the innkeeper whined. “I be hard pressed to find you one good saddle horse.” Behind him, the sound of drunken revelry and ribald songs filled the air. “I kin offer you a good meal tonight an’ a feast to break your fast tomorra’, but you may have to sleep in th’ taproom.”
A wise man would take the offer. After a good night’s sleep, the horses would be rested. He could make Hollystone by nightfall, barring a broken axel or mired wheel. He glanced toward the taproom. Hollystone Hall’s revels would surely be more refined, but he wondered what sort of English customs Esther would be part of. Worse. What sort of English gentlemen has she met? He would go on.
Standing on the brick pavement in front of the solid stone walls of the Haverford Orphan Asylum, Esther listened to her friends and fellow guests serenade the young inmates with Christmas carols but did not join in, much though she admired them. She wondered if anyone serenaded the inmates of the Jewish orphanage in London on their holy days and felt a frisson of guilt. Her parents were patrons of the place, but she had visited it only once. When she watched Her Grace distribute little gifts, pat heads, and inquire about each child’s wellbeing, she realized how important personal touch was to those poor unfortunates and vowed to do better.
“I could teach you the words,” a voice hissed in her ear. The Weasel sidled up to her. Many of the gentlemen, Hythe included, had found reasons to be elsewhere, but the Weasel had happily announced he would, “Protect the ladies. Have ’em almost to myself, don’t you know.”
She forced a smile. “I know many of them, Mr. Winderfield for I’ve heard them often, but they aren’t my songs.”
He looked momentarily taken aback. “Why, they are everyone’s—but of course! Not your tradition. I see. Do your people have Christmas songs, Miss Baumann?”
Esther narrowly avoided rolling her eyes. “We have music for all our holy days,” she replied.
“Holy days.” The Weasel chuckled. “Different ones, right? Stands to reason. Clever that.” He winged an arm. “Her Grace is ready to return to the Hall. May I?”
She took his arm, hiding her reluctance. Honestly, Esther, the man is harmless. Merely foolish. Foolish and insensitive.
The Weasel kept up a steady stream of chatter that required little of Esther other than nods and the occasional, “Why, yes, it was exciting.” The hunt. Lord Tipton's victory at billiards. Miss Cedrica Grenford’s victory at charades. It didn’t matter. He seemed more enthralled with his own commentary than Esther’s reaction.
“I say, did you hear?” he asked at last, bending toward her.
Esther sent a swift prayer of hope that he hadn't realized her inattention or noticed her heating face. “I apologize, Mr. Winderfield. I missed what you said.”
“I asked what you planned for tomorrow. Not going to the church service, I’ll warrant.”
“No. I’ll attend my aunt while the rest you go off to Saint Agnes in the Holly. We plan some quiet time. Perhaps we’ll peruse some improving tracts.”
“I say, do Hebrew girls get those horrid tracts as well? My cousins loathe the things.”
Luckily, Hollystone Hall loomed in front of them, their fellow guests let out a cheer, and no response seemed necessary. Esther turned her bonnet and cloak over to Reba, who met her in the front entrance, suddenly missing her mother more than she might have credited a week before. At Reba’s frown of concern, she managed a wan smile.
A disturbance in the hall and murmurs of interest from the guests caught her attention, however. “Unexpected guest.” “Uninvited more like.” Other comments in speculative tones were unintelligible.
Uninvited guest? A surge of hope almost upended Esther. Has Adam come? Did he have a change of heart? She tamped down her foolish thoughts. Adam was in France. Adam didn’t approve of house parties.
“Good gad, m’cousin’s come!” the Weasel exclaimed.
As high as her heart had soared, so it sank low. Esther took dejected steps up the stairs, determined to seek some solitude. She said a swift prayer for Adam, asking the Almighty to keep him safe, wherever he might be.