Holly and Hopeful Hearts

by Caroline Warfield

  No. Not that door. She was opening a door onto the terrace, and in moments, they were outside.

  “I do not want it to end,” she said. “Will you not consent to sit and talk with me for a little?”

  Consent? Did she not know he would consent to the guillotine for her sake?

  “But you will be cold! Here.” He struggled out of his heavy robe and wrapped it around her, but she protested when she saw his arms unprotected by no more than the silk of his shirtsleeves.

  “We shall share it,” she proposed as she guided him through an arch into one of the hedged gardens and then to a hidden stone seat tucked into an arbor that in summer would be fragrant with roses.

  It is a dream. I am asleep in my bed and dreaming of sitting here in the duchess’ garden, sharing a robe with my mademoiselle. It is a dream, and I hope I never awaken.

  She had commanded talk. What could he talk about? “Did the tenants like their gifts, Mademoiselle?”

  They were wasteful, the aristos, with much food left after every meal. Mademoiselle had agreed it should go to those in need, and she and the duchess had asked for some of the finer dishes to be saved for the gifts traditionally given to the poor on St. Stephen’s Day. Marcel had taken great care with the selection and the presentation in baskets.

  For a time, he listened, commenting just enough to keep her talking as she told him about the trip she had made yesterday with the duchess and some of the other ladies.

  “You have a generous heart, Monsieur,” she finished. “That is what my father used to say. Some give reluctantly out of duty. You can tell those with generous hearts because they take pleasure in the happiness of those who receive.”

  He shrugged. “I have been hungry, Mademoiselle. When I was a little boy, after my family fled France, we had very little. I do not forget.”

  “Will you feed the poor of London with the leftovers from your Ordinary once you have it?”

  “Did the excellent Cissie tell you of my plans? But she is wrong, you know. I do not plan a French Ordinaire, Mademoiselle. Say, rather, Extraordinaire. As they have in France. Un restaurant, Mademoiselle, with the finest cuisine listed on a menu from which patrons can choose, an excellent cellar, a quiet setting—perhaps with music playing, prompt and efficient service. A place where gentlemen would be proud to bring their guests or could dine alone without the expense of keeping a kitchen and a chef.”

  Now it was his turn to spin out the words, while she asked quiet questions, her eyes turned up to his in the light of the quarter moon.

  “And so I take work wherever I can find it, Mademoiselle, and one day, I will have sufficient money, and Fournier’s of London will open for business,” he finished.

  Marcel fell silent. The moon would set soon. They would need to go in while it still gave enough light to find their way without falling into one of the moats or ponds. He did not want the dream to end.

  Mademoiselle echoed his thoughts. “We need to go. It will be full dark when the moon goes down.”

  Marcel stood reluctantly, and she stood with him, still in the warmth of his coat.

  “It is cold, Monsieur,” she said. “Keep the robe around us both until we are inside.”

  So he put his arm around her to help them walk in harmony, and—oh, magical night—she put her arm around him. Marcel said nothing as they walked slowly back to the house. He was soaking up the warmth of her, the curves of her, the way she fitted neatly under his arm.

  He could not resist. Even one of God’s saints would have done it, and Heaven knew, Marcel was no saint. As they rounded the corner that concealed the door, he stopped and used his other hand to turn her toward him. Naturally, she looked up.

  Her lips were as sweet as he had imagined, and she did not draw back and slap his impertinent face. Far from it. She pressed herself into the kiss, and though she was untutored in the art, she learned quickly. Marcel was left reeling when at last a burst of noise from inside the ballroom intruded, and they parted.

  “Mademoiselle—” he began.

  “Don’t.” Mademoiselle put up a hand to stop his mouth, and he kissed her fingers. “Don’t spoil it by apologizing.” She stood within his arms, but he could feel she was poised to flee, and he had no idea what to say or do.

  A moment, and it was too late. She stretched up, gave him a swift peck on the lips, and slipped away from under his robe. Marcel watched, his hand touching the lips she had so favored as she opened the door and returned to the party.

  It is over, then, but more, so much more than I ever imagined.

  He would not go back inside. He would find his way to his kitchen and become a chef once more. And this night would be forever a jewel to carry in his heart.

  An Open Heart

  by Caroline Warfield

  Esther Baumann longs for a loving husband who will help her create a home where they will teach their children to value the traditions of their people, but she wants a man who is also open to new ideas and happy to make friends outside their narrow circle.

  * * *

  Is it so unreasonable to ask for toe curling passion as well?

  Adam Halevy prospered under the tutelage of his distant cousin, powerful banker Nathaniel Baumann. He's ready to find a suitable wife, someone who understands a woman's role, and will make a traditional home. Why is Baumann's outspoken, independent daughter the one woman who haunts his nights?

  Chapter 1

  A young lady stepped out of her father’s carriage into the sunshine of Great St. Helen’s Street in Bishopsgate, looked up at a cloudless sky, and controlled the urge to dance with great difficulty. She clutched a cream-colored missive in one hand and her skirt in the other as if to tread a few steps, but dancing would not be seemly behavior. Even though the song in her heart sent music all the way to her toes, Esther refrained, but she couldn’t control the smile that spread across her face.

  Her maid and ever-present companion, Reba, lumbered down behind her. “Miss Esther, you look fit to explode. Remember your mother’s words.”

  “‘Ladies do not run. Ladies do not skip. Ladies walk with grace and…’ Oh, please, Reba. I know it by heart. Today, you can’t dampen my joy.”

  For once she cared not a whit that her family home, elegant and sumptuous though it may be, lay inside the city walls and near to commercial enterprises. An actual duchess had given her—Esther Baumann, banker’s daughter—an invitation to a country house party that would culminate in a ball. Her Grace had handed it to her personally, and a warm smile went with it. Mama might fret, but she believed Papa would allow her to accept. She would not only visit Hollystone Hall but also dance at a ball. Her day seemed almost too perfect to be true.

  Esther skipped up the steps to the massive front door with Reba scurrying behind her muttering warnings.

  “Good afternoon, Smithers. Isn’t it a lovely afternoon?” she chirped to the butler as she swished by him. “Where is my father?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. This time of day, Papa would be home, and he would be in his study. She strode down the hall without heeding the butler’s, “Miss Esther, you might not want—”

  Silence met her when she swept into the study. Papa was not alone, and his frown boded ill. Esther stood rooted to the spot, momentarily speechless.

  Two gentlemen surged to their feet immediately. The tallest, with hair so blond it appeared white in the afternoon shadows, looked down his aristocratic nose with ice blue eyes and made a perfectly correct bow. She knew the Marquess of Glenaire on sight. His sister, a horrid girl, had been at school with Esther, albeit a few years younger. The other gentleman appeared to be Glenaire’s equal in class, breeding, and refinement, and yet he looked at her with kind eyes the color of warm coffee. She believed he fought to contain a smile. Esther let out the breath she held, smiled back, and curtseyed politely.

  Behind the two of them, a third man rose, and Esther’s smile fled. This one she knew well. Her heart gave a stutter as it always did at the sigh
t of Adam Halevy, her father’s protégé. She devoutly wished it did not. His coal black hair, magnificent form, and piercing eyes never failed to affect her. Usually, they left her breathless. Today, those eyes were neither icy, nor warm. They looked furious. “Miss Baumann,” he said through clenched teeth with the slightest bow. “This is unexpected.”

  A shift of her shoulder cut Adam and his disapproving frown from her line of sight. “I apologize, Papa. I didn’t know you had company. I'll leave you gentlemen to your business.”

  Her father rose to his feet, and Esther felt the surge of pride she often did. In his mid-forties, Baumann radiated intelligence and power. Even his genial manner, and the habitual twinkle in his eyes, didn’t disguise the single-minded intensity with which he had built his business. Straight as an arrow and only slightly silver at the temples, Nathaniel Baumann had become in maturity every inch an English gentleman. His boyhood in a German ghetto disappeared behind his English looks and voice, and, more so, behind his very real dedication to his adopted country.

  “Gentleman, I believe our business is complete. Allow me to present my daughter, Miss Esther Baumann. Esther, may I present the Marquess of Glenaire and Viscount Rochlin. You know Mr. Halevy, of course.”

  Esther demonstrated her perfectly correct curtsey to the gentlemen. “I’m honored, my lords,” she murmured while curiosity raged through her.

  The two gentlemen made polite responses and began to take their leave.

  “I think your daughter has a message of some importance for you, Baumann,” Viscount Rochlin said, nodding at the folded vellum in Esther’s hand with a smile.

  Papa sighed. “It would appear so. What is so important that you had to interrupt my meeting, daughter?” He held out his hand.

  Mortification sent heat up Esther’s neck. Suddenly, she wanted to hug the invitation to herself, but all four men looked at her expectantly, so she handed it over meekly.

  When her father unfolded the heavy vellum, everyone in the study could see that it was a formally printed notice of some sort. “An invitation, Esther?” he murmured.

  “Yes, Papa. The Duchess of Haverford gave it to me personally,” she replied.

  “The Charity Ball,” Glenaire observed flatly. “Her Grace is not taking no for an answer on that one.” He looked at Viscount Rochlin. “You’ll have a lucky escape at least. The matchmaking mamas are already on the hunt.”

  Rochlin waved the teasing away. “I’d rather be back in the saddle in the Pyrenees than in dancing slippers, even at a Haverford ball.”

  “Then you’d best get packed, Will, if you and Halevy plan to leave today,” Glenaire said to his friend, shocking Esther with his use of the man’s first name.

  In a matter of moments, the men had retrieved their hats, made their polite goodbyes, and left, and Esther, mystified by the gentlemen's presence and the meeting she had interrupted, stood in the elegant foyer between her father and Adam, who glowered at her under lowered brows.

  Esther ignored Adam and looked at her father with so many questions she didn’t know where to start.

  Baumann tapped the invitation against the palm of one hand. “Interesting event. I’ll discuss it with your mother,” he said pointedly.

  “I thought you would be pleased!”

  “With the Haverford connection? Of course, but this is a country house party. I can’t leave London, and your mother is too weak to travel.”

  “I have Reba,” Esther said, heart sinking. She knew a maid would not be a sufficient chaperone. A quick glance at Adam confirmed his disapproval of that idea.

  “Perhaps your Aunt Dinah…” He shrugged. “See Adam out, would you?” he asked with a twinkle. He started up the stairs toward her mother’s sitting room and left her alone with the one person who both attracted and infuriated her.

  “Why are you leaving? Why did the viscount mention the Pyrenees?” she demanded, as much to forestall any comments about her plans to attend the duchess’s ball as to satisfy her roiling curiosity.

  “Your father is sending gold to Wellington,” Adam replied, running a hand across the back of his neck. “The government is temporarily unable to fund their war in Spain.”

  She rose on the balls of her feet. “Papa can arrange this?” Pride and excitement pushed other emotions away.

  “With the help of his contacts in France, yes. We’re taking it across the Pyrenees.”

  Esther knew better than to ask how they would arrange it. Cousins across Europe would be involved. One thought overrode all others.

  “It will be dangerous.”

  He looked for a moment as if he wouldn't answer. His face, when he did, touched her heart. “Probably, but the viscount and I will watch out for each other. You aren’t to worry about me, Esther.”

  At the use of her name, Esther smiled. She ought to correct him for presuming, but in truth, it pleased her. For a moment, they looked at each other in perfect harmony.

  “Be careful,” she whispered.

  “I will.”

  The moment grew awkward, and Esther thought she should say something. “You’re going to safeguard Papa’s interests?” she asked.

  He nodded. “And the viscount will safeguard England’s.”

  “They don’t trust you because you’re French.”

  “They don’t trust me because I’m Jewish,” he replied bitterly.

  “Viscount Rochlin looked friendly enough.”

  “Looks can deceive, Miss Baumann. You shouldn’t trust them, either. Your father should not be encouraging your association with these aristocrats.”

  “Why ever not? The duchess is kindness itself, and a number of my schoolmates will be there. It is my first ball and—”

  “—I don’t understand how your father could have sent you to that school. Your parents are entirely too secular in their outlook. The Talmud suggests—”

  “I wouldn't know what your precious books suggest. I’m excluded from that kind of learning.” There. She had given voice to her greatest resentment. Let him make what he would out of that.

  “Your mother—”

  “Leave my mother out of this. My mother taught me what I need to know about Shabbat and the holy days. And who are you to criticize?”

  Adam colored, red blotches staining his cheeks. “Of course I have no right. I had hoped before I left—”

  Esther felt light-headed for a moment. Had he spoken to Papa? Breath rushed back into her lungs, but she raised her chin. “What is it you hoped, Mr. Halevy?”

  Adam’s eyes softened, and Ether found herself leaning slightly toward him. A moment later, he stiffened and took a step back.

  “My wife will respect our traditions and keep a traditional home,” he announced.

  “I wish you luck finding such a paragon, Mr. Halevy,” Esther responded, pulling herself up as tall as she could. “My home will respect tradition and the people we meet.” When he simply glared at her outburst, she went on, “And my daughters will know as much about our faith as you do!”

  “Good luck to you in that endeavor, Miss Bauman,” he said with a jerky nod. He tapped his hat on his head with more force than needed.

  When he stepped out the door, Esther couldn’t control the urge to dart out after him. “Adam—Mr. Halevy—wait!”

  His frown looked more puzzled than angry when he turned to her.

  “Where you’re going—it will be dangerous.” Her lack of breath made the words sound uneven.

  Adam nodded.

  “I—” The expression on his face stopped her before she could continue. “I'll pray for you,” she finished at last, “and the success of your journey, of course.”

  A sad smile transformed his face. “I would be grateful for your prayers, Miss Baumann.”

  She watched him walk down the street, biting down on her lower lip to hold back tears.

  Chapter 2

  I’ll pray for you.

  The words followed Adam to the coast, across the Channel to a secluded cove on t
he French homeland until they became a sort of talisman, as if his safety depended on Esther Baumann far away in England.

  He stepped onto a pebble-strewn beach behind Viscount Rochlin. The vessel that brought them, the marquess’s private yacht, had been luxurious beyond Adam’s experience, even among his wealthy relatives. “Trust Richard,” Rochlin had said, “To send us into Hell in style.” The viscount seemed more amused than impressed. Adam had to admit every effort had been made to see to his comfort. Once they landed, however, they were on their own, and arrangements were up to Adam.

  By the time they rested in Abram Baumann’s house in Paris and began their trip south, he had to admit Rochlin was agreeable company. The viscount rested amiably enough in a Jewish banker’s house; he made only practical suggestions regarding the use of a false-bottomed and battered old carriage to hide gold; he found the plan that included his role as “Monsieur Delacroix’s” deaf mute cousin amusing. Still, the man was heir to the Earl of Chadbourn and, if gossip proved correct, soon to inherit. People like that put their personal interests first. Adam viewed him with great caution.

  The two men rode side by side in front of the carriage, matching their pace to the lumbering vehicle’s maddening slowness. On the road between towns, the viscount could at least speak. Their driver, loyal to Abram Baumann, kept his own council.

  “Next time, don’t forget to imply I am deaf as well as mute,” the viscount remarked on the third afternoon. “It will loosen tongues when I’m around.”

  That made sense. Adam had realized very quickly that, terrible though his accent may be, Rochlin understood French perfectly well. He listened and missed nothing.

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Rochlin rolled his eyes. “That’s another thing. You call me Guillaume in front of others. Call me Will when we’re alone. You’ll drive me mad my-lording me.”