Page 74 of Dearest Beast
“Cicero,” she said instantly.
“Wonderful,” he told her, his smile widening at the choice. One of his favorites, after all. Though he’d been a touch older when he discovered the man. Eleven or twelve. At least Miss Pardo managed to teach them something.
“And you, Michael?” he inquired, glancing at the boy, who stared back, a questioning expression in his serious eyes.
Right. What did the boy enjoy? He’d seen him play… dominoes. Well, one had fallen on his head once when he’d been on the staircase with his son playing above. But Michael was familiar, at least.
“Mathematics, perhaps?” he suggested, turning back to his son, who was now sucking on his thumb. He’d have to remind the new nurse to make sure he washed his hands after the meal as well as prior. And between.
“He’s too stupid for that,” Fannie cut in before her brother could respond. “He can’t even add two and three.”
“I can so,” Michael retorted.
“Then do it,” his sister taunted. There was a pause. “See? He can’t,” she gloated.
Roger stared at his daughter. How had she become so, well, angry, so quickly? And for no reason?
Yes, he and Louis had had more than their share of quarrels but not with this intensity. Grimacing, he recalled several of Louis’s rages. Fine, but he was far older. Not to mention, his daughter was nothing like his brother.
Perhaps she was tired. She had been awake inordinately late the past night.
Patience. He needed patience. Roger inhaled.
“Fannie, that’s unkind,” he admonished. He turned back to his son. “Michael, you don’t have to—”
“Baby,” Fannie snapped, leaning forward in her seat.
“I am not,” Michael returned.
“You are.” His daughter slammed a hand down and rose. “You’re a baby. A worthless baby.”
Before he could stop her, she rounded the table and shoved her brother off his chair. Michael landed with a hard thud on the ground, bursting into tears.
And his patience was gone.
“Fannie,” Roger snapped as he scooped the sobbing boy into his arms, cuddling him against his chest. “This is unacceptable. Please apologize to your brother now.”
“No.” Folding her arms across her chest, Fannie stamped her small foot against the ground. “No,” she repeated.
“Yes,” he returned as firmly as possible. “You will,” he told her. “Now.”
“No,” she screamed, tears now rolling down her cheeks. “This isn’t your house. It’s Mama’s house.” She stomped her foot again andpounded her small fists against her thighs. “I hate you,” she hollered. “And I hate him, too.”
Roger blinked at the scene. This was not how matters were supposed to be. Not in the slightest. He glanced at Miss Adler, who gazed back at him, her expression curious, as if she was wondering what he was going to do.
If only he knew. He was not a child minder. He was a diplomat, an example for the community of how one was supposed to comport himself to be rewarded by those in power while maintaining his Jewish soul. He grimaced again at the memory of his earlier attempts at refreshing his Hebrew. But that was neither here nor there. No, this moment was only about him, his children, and his obligations to them.
He glanced around, but no one stepped in to assist him.
Setting his son back in his chair, Roger stepped around the table, grabbed his daughter around the waist, and threw her over his shoulder.
“Pardon us, Miss Adler, Michael,” he said to the two and strode out of the room, ignoring the wildly swinging fists against his back.
Yes, he most certainly should’ve stayed in bed.
Rebecca could only stare after Berab as he exited with his kicking and screaming daughter. It was not the scene she expected that morning.
Well, Fannie’s behavior was not particularly a surprise. But Berab’s personal involvement, instead of delegating it to poor Lopez or Marguarite—that was quite unexpected.
