Page 102 of Dearest Beast
Truly, this was the best of all worlds. Yes, meals with Roger and his children had not been the worst experiences as of late—the conversation had been lively, and watching Roger attempt to find additional ways for his children to learn a broad range of subjects in creative manners had been amusing. She enjoyed the way he invented games, testing their spelling with food or sending them on “treasure hunts,” to the library to search, in Fannie’s case, for books on various subjects or in a certain language and, for Michael, books with a particular word in the title. But those were their lives, not hers.
And she certainly wasn’t going to miss it. Not at all. Not even a little.
No, this was better. Much better. After whispering her Birkat, she exited the room to ready herself for bed. Her makeshift workshop had already been packed, as had her books and most of her belongings, so, unless she had a call, there was nothing to do but sleep. A good thing, as it would permit her to rise early in the morning and leave as quickly and efficiently as possible. Yes, the best—
“Miss?” a voice called, halting her progress on the staircase.
“Yes, Marguarite?” Rebecca asked, turning to face the woman, half hoping for and half dreading whatever news she had.
“You have a visitor,” the housekeeper explained. “Says it’s urgent,” she continued before Rebecca could remind the woman that she had closed her workshop. “She’s in the burgundy parlor.”
Rebecca frowned as she followed the Marguarite into the room to find not a customer but her friend once again sitting on a large chair, swathed in cheerily colored velvet.
“Hello, Isabelle,” she said.
The woman leapt forward and gave her a rather enthusiastic embrace. It would usually annoy her, but oddly, did not quite irritate her as much that night.
Oy, she must really be tired.
“What are you doing here?” Rebecca asked as they each sat back down.
“Aaron told me that your house was finished, so I’ve come to assist with travel arrangements,” Isabelle explained, glancing around at the décor once more.
“This room is all Berab,” she told her friend with a laugh.
“Obviously.” Isabelle sniffed. “Far too dark and old-fashioned for you.”
Perhaps, though, actually, she’d become a touch fond of the styling. Well, not fond, but she’d grown accustomed to it. She could even imagine using some of the colors herself.
If she had the money to waste on such frivolous things, which was highly unlikely. She turned back to her friend. “As for the arrangements, already finished,” Rebecca confirmed. “My trunks and bags are packed, and I’m ready to leave tomorrow, most likely in the afternoon.”
Isabelle’s dark eyes grew large. “Without telling me first?”
“I was going to send word when I was settled,” she assured her. “That or surprise you on the balcony on Shabbos.”
Her friend’s smile widened. “You’ll be there?” she asked with so much excitement in her voice that Rebecca’s throat grew tight.
Oy. What was wrong with her? Why was she so, well, irrational? Everything was returning to normal, which should render her relieved and happy and not out of sorts. She cleared her throat. “If I don’t have a call.”
“Thank goodness,” Isabelle declared. “Do you know that I was nearly alone the other week? My grandmother had been at Bevis Marks with the guests, and Hannah has been too ill to make it up the staircase. I’ve had to sit with Tamar and no one else.” She wrinkled her nose.
“You’re fond of Tamar,” Rebecca protested with a laugh.
“She’s a child,” Isabelle scoffed.
“She’s only a year younger than you,” Rebecca reminded her. A few months older than Miss Teres, who was going to be the lady of this house in less than a month—Isabelle’s actual peer.
A thought that shouldn’t feel so bothersome, as it was a fact, and facts were just that—reality. Something accepted, managed, and assimilated into one’s life.
Not that Roger’s upcoming nuptials were part of her life. They had nothing to do with her.
“Tamar is nearly two years my junior,” Isabelle corrected. “You know I’m an old soul. Like you. That’s why we get on so well.” She swiped an imaginary speck of dust off her perfectly pressed, fashionably full sleeve, then peered at Rebecca, her dark eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Rebecca told her, as therewasnothing. She wasreturning to her life made whole, as their law promised. Really, she was happy. “I’m merely a touch tired. There was quite a bit of organizing necessary.”
“Which is why you should’ve sent for me,” Isabelle told her, shaking her head. “I can’t believe Roger and his staff didn’t assist you better. Well, I can believe it, considering how thoughtless he can be about anyone he isn’t charming for his own purposes.”
Rebecca frowned at the statement even if she’d have wholeheartedly agreed with it a few weeks ago. It would probably be better in certain ways if she still agreed with it, no matter how strongly she believed that denial of the truth was always the wrong course of action.
