by Carola Dunn
“But I do so want to marry him!” Miriam gazed apprehensively at the gilt-framed mirror, where dark red ringlets were taking shape under Hannah’s skilful hands. “And soon. After all, I’m seven and twenty--most people would say I am on the shelf. I want children.”
“God willing, I’ll be taking charge of your nursery yet, Miss Miriam.”
“Oh Hannah, do you think he has really forgiven me? I could not bear it if he turned and walked out, or sent the matchmaker to say he has changed his mind.”
“Hold still now, child. How can you think such a thing of Mr. Isaac? You know him better than that. He’s not the sort to cry off after raising expectations.”
“No, of course not. I do love him so.”
“You should be thanking God for the chance to change your mind. There now.” With a last twirl of the hairbrush, Hannah stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“Thank you, Hannah dear.” Miriam stood up and smoothed the skirts of her new morning gown. Of moss-green cambric, it was plainly trimmed with a lighter green ribbon around the high waist, tied in a bow beneath her bosom, and rosettes of the same ribbon around the hem. She knew Isaac did not care about her fortune, but she wanted to avoid any appearance of trying to dazzle him with riches. Her mother had tried to dress her in the finest silks money could buy. Inevitably Miriam won, and now her elegant simplicity gave her confidence.
“And no need to carry a shawl to hide any worn spots,” the abigail observed with satisfaction. “To think we spent nine years scrimping and saving! Just the jade earrings, now, and you’d best be off to show the mistress.”
Miriam had deliberately chosen to wear the same delicately carved jade as on that long-ago day. Not that Isaac would recognize the earrings. She regarded them as a symbol of how much everything had changed, though outwardly the situation seemed so much the same.
As she crossed the hall to her mother’s dressing room, she wondered what would have happened if she had accepted her parents’ choice then. Would the naïve, expectant girl she had been ever have found happiness with the dedicated religious scholar? Had she wasted nine years, or saved herself from a life of regret and discontent? She could never know.
She knocked on her mother’s door and entered. “I am ready, Mama.”
Mrs. Jacobson, seated at her dressing table in a rose silk wrap, turned to inspect her daughter.
“Well enough. At least you have preserved your figure, my dear, and your face is unlined, only you are a trifle pale. You had best pinch your cheeks.”
“No, Mama.”
“Perhaps the tiniest dab of rouge--you are of an age where it may be considered permissible.”
“My complexion is naturally pale, Mama, and Isaac is well aware of it. I will not paint for him.”
“I hope you mean to behave with dignity, Miriam,” said her mother sharply. “Your disgraceful behaviour last time is still talked of. There is no need for anyone to discover that you have been on intimate terms with Mr. Cohen in such improper circumstances.”
Miriam shuddered at the possibility her relatives might suppose that Isaac had been coerced to wed her. “I have no intention of telling anyone, you may be sure.”
“I am relieved to hear it. The rest of the family will arrive shortly. I must dress.”
Miriam went downstairs and wandered into the library. Uncle Amos’s battered box stood in a corner. Suddenly she missed him desperately, overwhelmed with longing for his support. What would Isaac say when they met again? What was she going to say to him, in front of parents, uncles, aunts, and cousins to whom the last such occasion was a never-to-be forgotten family scandal?
She went through into the hatefully red drawing room, crossed to one of the tall windows, and gazed out at the early roses blooming in the garden. If only she could meet Isaac out there, the two of them alone together.
Her father came in. Joining her by the window, he patted her shoulder. “Beautiful as your mother,” he said awkwardly. “Isaac Cohen is a lucky young man.”
“Oh Papa, I hope he thinks so.”
He smiled at her. “Mind you, I don’t say you are not lucky too, my love. I have talked to him this week, and to Rothschild also. Young Cohen is a fine fellow, with a future ahead of him in politics, we hope.”
“I don’t care what he does, Papa, as long as he is happy and he wants me to share his life.”
“You need have no fear of that,” he assured her.
Her nervousness began to abate, but it turned to irritation when, a few minutes after her mother’s arrival, the butler ushered in a dozen relatives. Her unmarried female cousins flocked about her, giggling and offering congratulations just like last time. Only this time they were all considerably younger than Miriam and their glances were not envious but sly. Their sparrowlike twittering almost drowned the butler’s next announcement.
“Mrs. Weiss and Mr. Cohen.”
The matchmaker’s buttercup-yellow pelisse and the fruit bowl of lemons and oranges on her extraordinary bonnet eclipsed the man who entered behind her. As she started to speak, sounding excited but somewhat anxious, Isaac stepped to one side and looked at Miriam.
The uncertainty in his face was more than she could bear. She sped across the red Turkey carpet into his arms. He caught her to him and she flung her arms about his neck, raising her face to him with a little sigh of content. He kissed her with all the love and longing and passion so long pent up.
Her mother, her aunts, and all the cousins, not to mention the matchmaker, exclaimed in scandalized horror. Miriam did not hear a word.
Copyright © 1992 by Carola Dunn
Originally published by Walker & Company (0802712150)
Electronically published in 2001 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
