Bambina’s gaze snapped toward her. “Why would you know that?”
“I had a broad and liberal education, and beyond that, we have family friends who are Jewish. I have students and colleagues who are Jewish. Sophie’s mentor is Jewish.”
“I still don’t see the comparison.” Her expression was chilly.
“Have you ever seen your mother being cut or openly insulted because of her religion?”
“No. Should I have?”
“And that’s why your parents decided to leave Italy, so you wouldn’t experience what it’s like to have someone you love insulted or demeaned openly,” Anna said. “But I would hope you could imagine a thing even if you haven’t experienced it personally.”
There was a moment of fraught silence, and then Celestina came into the room, breathless.
“They all want to meet you,” she said. “But they don’t want to come into the house in their work clothes. Aunt Philomena wants us to walk down to their house, at the end of the block.”
Anna stood and smoothed her skirts. “Well, then, that’s easy enough.” She smiled at Bambina. “Will you come along?”
But Bambina disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen, without another word.
19
THE NEXT DAY Anna explained it to Sophie in simple terms. The daughter of a well-to-do and prominent Jewish family and the son of Livorno’s biggest landowner fell in love, defied their parents, and married.
“Bambina made an excuse to get away from me and disappeared upstairs,” Anna said. “But Celestina told me the whole story. The key point is, Rachel Bassani became Rachel Mezzanotte, and her father disowned her. But her mother didn’t.
“Her mother refused to be cut off from Rachel. She was their best ally and support. On Ercole’s side things were a little better. He had five brothers and they all supported the marriage. The two oldest of the brothers were already here and the other three followed. The Mezzanottes have been busy populating New York and New Jersey ever since.”
“And how did this subject come up?” Sophie wanted to know. Her expression said she had certain ideas, but she wanted Anna to confirm them.
“Jack thought I should talk to her.”
“Ah. Do you think it did any good?”
“It gave her something to think about.”
“It gave you a lot to think about too,” Sophie observed.
“It does make sense,” Anna said. “If he had grown up in a traditional Italian family with strong ties to the Catholic Church—”
“We wouldn’t be sitting here talking about him.”
There were a dozen other issues that hung in the air, unvoiced, unanswered. But Sophie was yawning in the helpless way of the truly exhausted, and she was still planning on going to see Cap today, though she had been out most of the previous night treating a seven-year-old with meningitis. When Anna asked her about it she woke up a little, as if it was something she needed to share.
“On the Bend,” she said.
Mulberry Bend was the very worst of the tenements. Hundreds of rooms, airless, lightless, no larger than closets, overrun with vermin, where whole families slept in shifts. The place where the most desperate and violent kept each other warm.
“Seven children in the same room. The hardest part was convincing the parents that the boy was contagious and had to be isolated. I finally sent for an ambulance and admitted him to Women and Children’s. Jenny Fairclough agreed to put him on her patient list, though I would guess he has already died.”
It was on Anna’s tongue to ask Sophie why she was still taking calls. She had already resigned from the hospitals and dispensaries where she saw patients, precisely because all her time was taken up with the preparations for a wedding and a long journey. And with Cap, who didn’t want to let her out of his sight, now that he finally had his way.
“You have done so much, Sophie. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”
Sophie made a low humming sound, one that said very clearly that she did not agree and did not care to argue this subject they had gone over so many times.
From out in the hall came the sound of Lia climbing the stairs, singing to herself in time to the thump of her doll’s head as it met each step. Then a small face appeared around the edge of the door frame, eyes wide with anticipation.
Anna got up. “Lia, is it time to go?”
“To Lilliput,” Lia told Sophie. “To eat ice cream.”
“Errands first,” Anna said. “And then if you are not too tired after errands, Lilliput. And ice cream.” She reached toward Lia, who jumped away, giggling.
“Cap’s sent the carriage,” Sophie said. “And I’m running late, but I can take you as far as Madison Square.”
• • •
AT THE LAST minute Margaret decided that Anna could not be trusted with decisions about petticoats and footwear and hats, and so three women and two little girls climbed into Cap’s fine carriage with the help of taciturn Mr. Vale for the trip north to Madison Square. For a moment Anna considered retiring and leaving the whole endeavor to Margaret, who liked visiting shops, after all. But the little girls were so excited to have her along. Anna realized with something like guilt that she had rarely been out of the house with them.
And of course, at home in the quiet of an almost-empty house she would have nothing to distract her from thinking about Jack, who was on a train headed this way. Rather than watching the clock she would concern herself with little girls and the Lilliput Children’s Emporium.
• • •
ANOTHER SET OF doubts rose up for Anna when they waved good-bye to Sophie, as the carriage bore her away to Park Place. On her way to spend the afternoon with Cap and whatever visitors came to call, overflowing with curiosity and, in some cases, malice. Even if no one called, Cap would take joy in arguing about every detail of the events to come.
“Because he can’t touch me,” Sophie said. “The next best thing is to make me mad.”
It was entirely possible, Anna thought, that the joy of having Sophie nearby would be eclipsed by the reality of not having her close enough. Even illness could not banish sexual desire completely, though she had doubts that Cap would find the strength even if the possibility presented itself. And thus the anger, which must have an outlet. It had been terrible to see them both so unhappy in the year of Cap’s self-imposed separation, but in some ways this resolution—together but not together—was just as hard.
• • •
ONCE THE ENGAGEMENT had been publicly announced, Cap put his plans into action in anticipation of visitors—the curious, the gossip mavens, the disgruntled relatives—who would come to call. The Astors and De Peysters and the rest of the old Knickerbocker families would not come; Cap had effectively removed himself from their understanding of the world, and they would not see him if he were to meet one of them face-to-face on the street. Cap didn’t care, of that Sophie was sure. She herself had no interest in formal visits with the commodore’s widow, but she did resent the rejection of Cap, who was going away and would not be back again.
The parlor had been transformed since the formal announcement of the engagement. Most of the furniture had disappeared, leaving just two seating areas: one for Cap on the farthest wall between two windows, and the other twenty feet away. The heavy draperies had gone the way of the missing furniture and all the windows stood open, so that the parlor was filled with soft spring light and a tripling breeze. It was unorthodox and alarming and utterly pleasing to Sophie, not in the smallest part because it reminded her of New Orleans, where houses were built to welcome fresh air rather than keep it out. She thought of all that heavy, valuable fabric and at the same time of Jack Mezzanotte’s sisters, who would know how to put it to good use. She wondered what the gossips would say if she were to make a gift of Mrs. Verhoeven’s silk and brocade drapery to Italian needleworkers.
; “Something for them to focus on other than your pretty face,” Cap had said when she asked about the missing furniture and finery.
“Something more to be outraged about,” she came back.
“Don’t begrudge Aunt Undine her only source of entertainment.” He said it with a grin, but Sophie knew he was worried about his mother’s sisters, or at least, two of them. The less difficult of the two was Eugenie, who believed that because she had married a first cousin and retained the family name, her son Andrew should be Cap’s heir. Undine was more difficult. She objected to everything, it seemed, on principle. And she never conceded.
Sophie might have simply forbidden visitors and given the importance of rest as her reason, but she was choosing her battles carefully.
“And it’s hard to censure him when his spirits are so much improved,” Anna pointed out, voicing that exact thought Sophie had not wanted to contemplate. The fact was that Cap overflowed with renewed energy at least in part because of overindulging in laudanum. When she confronted him he assured her that all would be well as soon as they were married and on their way; he would put himself in his wife’s care, and follow every direction.
At that she snorted a laugh, and he returned a lopsided grin.
And so sitting apart they received visitors: his Belmont aunts and uncles and some cousins, many old enough to be his parents. With the exception of Bram and Baltus and Cap’s uncle Conrad, most of the family members who visited were ill at ease or suspicious or both. None of them had the nerve to come out and say what they were thinking, or even why they had come. There were no congratulations to Cap, though most of them managed to greet Sophie politely.
Undine had not yet called, but Conrad had predicted that the day had come; he had suggested that Sophie find something else to do. Undine would not hesitate to say what she believed must be said, and she would not spare anyone’s feelings. When her fiancé fell at Spotsylvania some twenty years before, Undine Belmont had put on mourning and had yet to give it up. She held on to her memories, her pennies, and every slight, real or imagined, with grim intensity. The twins called her Aunt Costive behind her back.
As Sophie reached the front door, Undine’s carriage pulled up. So, Conrad had been right. She slipped in with a nod to Mrs. Harrison and made straight for the parlor, where Cap had settled for the afternoon.
“She’s on the doorstep,” Sophie said.
“Oh good,” said Bram. “I was afraid we were going to miss the fun.”
Cap said, “A half hour and you need never again deal with Undine Belmont.”
When Undine came into the parlor, Bram and Baltus leapt to their feet and offered their aunt every comfort with exaggerated proper manners and good cheer, which only made her shiver with annoyance. Then she turned her gaze first to Cap, and then to Sophie, who she regarded as she would a serpent curled on a silk pillow, a calculated insult, dangerous and odd at the same time. It was true that she would have objected to Sophie if her skin were white, Sophie being overeducated, overopinionated, and unworthy on general principles.
The twins finally retreated to the card table in the corner and Conrad shifted so that he was facing the sofa where his sister had taken a seat. She maintained a chilly composure in Conrad’s presence, even when he set out to provoke her. And he was so very good at it, in part, Sophie was sure, because he had been blinded in the war and did not hesitate to use that fact to his advantage. And these two had grown up together and knew each other’s secrets.
“Sophie,” Conrad said, holding out his hand until she came to sit beside him. “Cap’s aunt Undine has come to welcome you into the family.”
To Sophie it was obvious that Undine feared and resented her eldest brother, just as she disliked the twins and disapproved of Cap and was horrified by Sophie. She wondered if anyone met with the older woman’s approval, and thought not. It was sad, but it wasn’t enough to make her put down her guard.
To her brother Undine said, “Conrad. This is a serious matter.”
“It is indeed,” said Cap from across the room. His voice was reedy with effort, but he produced his grimmest smile. “We’re about to travel halfway around the world.”
“Undine has never been to Europe,” Conrad supplied smoothly, cutting his sister off before she could reply to Cap’s willful misunderstanding.
Sophie, tired of being ignored, stepped in. “Neither have I. But I’m looking forward to it.” Truly, she was mostly looking forward to the end of the turmoil that would dog them to the altar.
Undine said, “Conrad, I hold you responsible for this entire debacle.”
Surprised, Sophie raised a brow at Cap. He gave a curt shake of the head that told her it would be best to stay out of the discussion.
“If you had done your duty and married and produced a son, we would not be sitting here facing social ruin. As the head of the family you should know this without being told.”
Conrad pursed his mouth thoughtfully. “Cap is my dearest sister’s only child, the first of his generation, and as much as a son to me. In my opinion—and that is all he need take into account—he has chosen well.”
“It is not just your concern.” Her voice began to wobble with anger and her tongue darted to touch her thin upper lip. “It is family business. It is this family’s shame.”
“Undine,” Conrad said with a chilly edge that Sophie thought was more at home in a courtroom. “If you cannot be civil and ladylike, you must leave.”
“I am the only lady in this room, and I’m not finished,” she said stiffly. “I have more to say.”
“Pardon me,” Sophie said. “While I see what’s holding up our tea.”
As she closed the parlor door behind herself, Sophie heard Undine Belmont say, “What kind of lawyers are the two of you; have you never heard of miscegenation laws? I quote: ‘If any white person intermarry with a colored person he shall be guilty of a felony and shall be punished by confinement in the penitentiary—’”
“Congratulations,” Cap interrupted. “You can read, but you should always start with the title. That is the law in Virginia, I believe. We find ourselves in New York State. Is your mind wandering of late, Aunt Undine?”
Sophie knew very well what was coming; Cap would twist his aunt into knots challenging her understanding of history, geography, law, ethics, and medicine until she got up and stormed out of the house. None of it was new and so she took her time visiting with Cook, went outside to talk to the gardener about the health of his rosebushes, and then went to the room that had been set aside for her use.
She washed her face and considered herself in the mirror. Her family history was there to read, in her bones and skin and hair, in the blue-green eyes that identified her as redbone in the south, a term some thought as offensive as anything Undine Belmont could come up with. But Cap didn’t care about any of that, and Cap was the only thing that mattered.
Sophie took her time, and still managed to cross paths with Undine as she came into the hall, righting the veil over her face. She stopped and turned.
“Miss Savard,” she said.
Sophie inclined her head, acknowledging both the greeting and the denial of her medical degree. “Miss Belmont.”
“Very cleverly done,” Undine said.
Sophie smiled at her, her best manners on display. “Yes,” she said solemnly. “Cap has done very well for himself.”
Then she ducked around Undine and into the parlor, where Conrad was laughing silently, his whole long thin shape contorted with pleasure. Cap’s smile was quieter, but he looked at her with all the love and affection he had to offer. And that would be more than enough to put all the Undines of the world out of her mind.
• • •
ANNA HAD SET out on this expedition determined to hold on to her sense of humor and patience both, and found it easier than she had imagined. It was the little girls who made the
difference, in part because they were amazed by everything and in part because shopkeepers seemed to be drawn to them, and in equal part because their presence kept Margaret from starting conversations sure to cause a disagreement.
They picked out lace and bonnets and summer-weight stockings, stopped by the seamstress to have pinafores and skirts pinned up for alteration, retrieved purchases Aunt Quinlan had ordered from a jeweler. At four they had come as far as the Lilliput Children’s Emporium, where the girls were allowed to look at toys and dolls as long as they did not touch. They finished up in the shoe department, where both of them were fitted with buff-colored leather half boots suitable for both summer outings and a small wedding.
Lia was beside herself with joy; Rosa, still somber, expressed her thanks and appreciation and fell back into silence. Anna fought still with the impulse to tell her about the upcoming trip to Staten Island and the hope that they would find her little brother, wanting so much to see some hope in that small serious face. But Jack and Sophie and Aunt Quinlan were united in the belief that it would be worse to raise her hopes only to dash them yet again, and so she had to content herself with small gestures instead of fragile promises.
As a last stop they went to the confectioner’s just two doors down, a place that smelled of caramelized sugar and yeast and cinnamon, French pastries filled with cream and drizzled with chocolate, layer cakes and tortes and little petit fours crowned with fruit as bright as jewels. They were shown to a table while Lia expressed her wishes in very concrete terms, waving the menu as if it were personal standard.
“Chocolate ice cream,” she said. “With wafers and cherries and whipped cream.”
“After something more substantial,” Anna said. “Sandwiches and a pot of peppermint tea, I think.”