Jephte's Daughter (30 page)

He swallowed hard, aghast. “Jewish beauty. My downfall. Well, then, dear, what would you like to eat?”

“Fresh fruits or vegetables. Cold. With no dressing,” she said with defiance and shame, as if she had shown herself odd and unworthy. She felt his laughter, his contempt, burn into her forehead. And yet, she was still grateful that he reordered for her and sat across from her with quiet dignity. She didn’t know what people did under such circumstances and so would not have been entirely surprised if he had walked out on her.

“My dear, your wish is my command,” he said lightly. But his eyes were a trifle less friendly than before and gleamed with a colder light. That night, he kissed her longer with slightly less tenderness. His kisses began as a quiet question and ended with an answer, without involving her at all. She finally pushed him away. His boyish face turned sour. “I’ve heard about Jewesses,” he said drunkenly.

“Good-night, Robin,” she said wearily. He turned on his heel and left her standing at her entrance. She thought about him long into the night and walked around in a daze the next morning. Each time the phone rang, she jumped. She was impatient with Akiva and hurried through her photo sessions. A week later, when she had finally felt the wound congeal, he called again.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. He sounded thoroughly contrite and miserable. “I miss you. Would you consider going out with me again? I won’t touch you, I promise.”

She held the phone away from her, her heart beating with confusion, pleasure, anger, and a little panic.

“Hello?” she heard his far-off voice murmur. She brought the receiver back to her ear.

“Robin? I…I’m not sure.”

“Look, darling. I won’t blame you if you never speak to me again. I was such a total, bloody fool. But it was all such a shock to me and I was more than a little drunk. I’m learning. And you must know how much you mean to me. Please, don’t cut me off. Try me again. I’ve grown up, really.”

She closed her eyes and saw the glisten of his blond hair, his handsome young face. “I forgive you, Robin.” She was not entirely sure that she did. But she did miss him and the calm, superior world he had introduced her to. He came by an hour later in a small, expensive sports car and cajoled her into finding a babysitter, dropping everything, and taking a drive. At first she refused to get in. “Won’t you get into trouble, Robin? I mean, I don’t need you to do these things for me, renting tuxedos and cars…”

“I’ve a few pennies left,” he said almost seriously, opening the door for her and waiting for her to get in.

They went into the English countryside, through green fields hemmed by ancient bare-branched winter trees and towering lush evergreens, all covered in a silver-gray mist. They passed silver granaries and Tudor farmhouses and glimpsed lovely, solid Georgian homes. Sheep made their slow, playful progress in paddocks, and there was the glisten of trenches filled with fresh rain. Gray birds lifted off the ground in the hundreds, rising smokelike in the gray air.

The people, too, lacked the sophistication of their London counterparts, animated by a country friendliness in their old boots and raincoats. In a country pub, by a roaring fire, served by an able lad and a blushing lass, Batsheva thought with delight, she felt her body slip into a trance of warm, heedless pleasure. How wonderful to forget who you are! How wonderful to shed all the heavy load thrust on one by an accident of birth! She envied the serving girl her red, uncomplicated cheeks, her basic uncomplicated drives for love and food and shelter. The setting sun and the hot flames of the fire turned the icy windows a brilliant red, making her feel as if she were enveloped in a ruby light, like an actress bathed in stagelight. Playacting, she thought uncomfortably, hating herself for honesty. They had hardly spoken and nothing had been resolved.

“I promised the babysitter I’d be home early, Robin,” she said, reaching for her coat.

He rose reluctantly and helped her put it on. He had been very quiet, content apparently to let sleeping dogs lie. Content just to sit with her in the soft, glowing firelight, just to watch her face. She had been both grateful for and resentful of his quiet. He had not tried to order food or drink for her, or brought the subject up at all.

“Can we make one more stop? It will only take a few minutes.” He had been so unpushy, so considerate, she owed him that. “Of course, Robin.”

The small car, expertly handled, took the long winding road with confidence and familiarity. The dark trees swayed, encompassing them on both sides like a dark bower, and then, suddenly, there were massive grillwork gates stopping their way. Robin pressed a button inside the car, and, to her surprise, the gates swung open. They entered a circular driveway and stopped before a magnificent Tudor mansion. Robin jumped out and opened the door for her. She stepped out and almost gasped at the stunning house—a castle in a storybook.

“But won’t the people mind? Really, Robin, shouldn’t we just stay in the car?”

His white teeth gleamed, handsome and wolflike. “But my dear, if we do that, how are you going to meet my family?”

The butler opened the door with stiff courtesy and took her coat. At least she had dressed carefully, she comforted herself, looking down at the soft plaid wool skirt and the azure cashmere sweater. Robin took her cold trembling hand and led her into a large, ornate living room. Its antique charm had a priceless, indefinable aura of quality, of riches cared for and watched over, passed down intact from generation to generation with absolute confidence. It was a huge room with fourteen-foot-high ceilings. Exquisite plasterwork, ornate gilded moldings, covered the ceiling. Two graceful marble columns framed the entryway. Built-in bookcases lined the walls and the light glinted off rare gold bindings.

“My mother.” Robin held his arm out and a short, very thin woman with tightly sprayed gray curls rose graciously from one of several large, comfortable gold-velvet couches.

“How do you do, my dear,” she said appraisingly, a real question. Batsheva took the extended limp hand. Its diamonds glittered from the reflected overhead light of an ornate gold-and-crystal chandelier.

“And my father.” A gentleman in a blue-silk smoking jacket and a pipe, straight out of a magazine ad, got up and patted her hand.

“A pleasure, I’m sure, my dear. Won’t you come sit by me a moment, Betsy? Robin’s terrible about bringing his friends to see us. It’s such a pleasure to actually get up close to one. He’s told us a little about you, but not much.”

“Really, Father, none of your Parliamentary inquiries, please,” Robin interjected. “Anyhow, she has got to get back to her little boy and I wanted to show her the house.”

“Little boy?” Robin’s mother said slowly, with an inquiring nod of the head toward Robin.

“Please, Mother, not a word more. Come help me show her the house. There’s an angel.” He kissed his mother’s hand. His smile was charming.

“Robin, really!” his mother capitulated, leading the way up the staircase.

“It used to be an abbey, you know,” Robin pointed out, “before Henry the Eighth got rid of all the monks. Two hundred and fifty years ago my ancestors lived in the north wing. I don’t know how. Beastly cold in there. That’s all closed off now. Come in here. This is my favorite.”

“There must be thousands of books in here,” Batsheva gasped. Robin smiled. The smile of ownership.

“Look at these tapestries,” Robin’s mother said. “They were woven from designs by Raphael in 1500 for Pope Clement the Tenth to decorate the walls of the Sistine Chapel.” Batsheva did as she was told, an agony of discomfort filling her. The picture showed a Christ-like figure prone, bleeding from wounds. Men in robes with halos surrounded him. She hated it. The whole glorification of suffering, of death.

“A bit gory, what?” Robin laughed. “Come next door then. If you like Disneyland, you’ll love this.”

She smiled, relieved. A Chinese room.

“Of course, two hundred years ago China was so unknown people were entranced by anything they thought was Chinese. The wallpaper is probably more gaudy than anything the Chinese would be caught dead with.”

“It is rather overwhelming,” she agreed. It was full of shrubs, rocks, and colorful birds and butterflies.

“The chairs are Chippendale’s ‘Director’ of 1793,” Mrs Pernell sniffed, offended by the uncalled-for levity.

“The tables are beautiful,” Batsheva offered contritely.

“They’re from around 1800, mahogany with Chinese porcelain plaques for tops and shelves. All the porcelain is Chinese. These blue vases are painted with the marks of the Emperor Chia Chi’ing. We just recovered the chairs in this red silk.” The corridors seemed endless. Like magic mirrors, they took one on and on. There was a sporting room filled with hunting trophies and portraits of dogs and horses. A blue drawing room, covered in blue-damask wallpaper and filled with ornate French commodes and desks (the Yiddish word
ungepatchkaed
came into Batsheva’s head. Overly dressed up, tasteless really). The rich inlaid wood, the thick gilt overlay, would have been described as gorgeous by some. It seemed heavy and boring to Batsheva, who was nevertheless dazzled by the combined magnificence of the setting and perfect condition of the priceless antiques.

“This bedroom was only used by visiting royalty. Charles the Second stayed there and Queen Victoria and Prince Albert slept there when they were newlyweds. They were both delighted with the house and the gardens. It’s recorded in the queen’s journal,” she added, haughtily. Behind his mother’s back, Robin took Batsheva’s hand and squeezed it, pushing his nose up with his finger. She suppressed a giggle. There was something hilarious about the woman’s seriousness. “My father had the design of the old wall hangings copied in a new red-and-gold brocade that was specially woven for the room. I don’t use this very much and the shutters have to remain closed most of the time. Light is the great destroyer of fabrics.” She sighed.

The rooms were endless. Green drawing rooms, a state salon full of gilt and Murillos and Van Dycks, Reynoldses and Caraccis; murals depicting the glorious history of the Pernells: kings served, naval victories achieved. They arrived at their starting point through a museumlike labyrinth of staircases.

“It’s magnificent, thank you so much,” Batsheva said courteously. So this was where Robin Pernell packed his bags with scruffy-looking clothes and old scarves. And I was worried about him spending too much money on me! She was overwhelmed, but curiously unimpressed.

“Now, my dear, you must stay to dinner. Now, now, not another word.” Robin’s father shook his head as she began to protest. “You haven’t really told us a thing about yourself,” he coaxed.

Batsheva glanced into the dining room at the table already set with fine silver and china and looked at Robin a little desperately. He shrugged helplessly.

Before she could think of an answer, the front door slammed and lively footsteps pounded into the room. She found herself face-to-face with a tall, blond teenager in jodhpurs and riding boots.

“Really, Grace,” the mother remonstrated. “Such a racket.”

“Sorry.” The girl tapped her riding crop against her long leg, staring at Batsheva.

“Good Lord, Grace,” her father intoned. “Is that what passes for manners these days?”

“Sorry,” she said, lowering her gaze. She had Robin’s good white teeth, his charming smile. But there was a callousness about her, a cutting sharpness that was almost brutal.

“This is my friend Betsy,” Robin said, looking uncomfortable. “Now, try to behave yourself, Grace. I thought you were away at school.”

“Got back early,” she said. “And so glad that I did.” She held out her hand. “How do you do, I’m Grace Pernell, the sister Robin is so ashamed of. I am blunt, you see. Totally unacceptable. I usually say what everyone else merely thinks. Robin said you were beautiful and you are. Are you going to marry him?”

“Grace!” Robin said, a deep, dangerous growl of protest. Batsheva saw Robin’s parents exchange embarrassed, questioning glances.

“Dinner will be ready momentarily, Grace, so do get changed. In the meantime, Betsy, you must try this wine. Special reserve 1942.” The earl filled a crystal goblet and handed it to her. She took it helplessly, searching for Robin, but he just avoided her stare. He wasn’t going to help her then. She was on her own. She took a deep breath. So be it. She placed the glass carefully on the coffee table.

“But, my dear, you haven’t touched it. You aren’t a tee-totaler, are you?” The earl chuckled. “Mind you, there is nothing wrong with that. I wish some of Robin’s other friends would be able to pass the bottle by as easily. But surely, one little sip before dinner…”

“I’m not a teetotaler and I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you for dinner because…(There were so many things she could say, ‘because my child is expecting me home for dinner, because I am a strict vegetarian, because I promised the babysitter I’d be home early…’ a million excuses she could have made had she been too ashamed to say the truth. As it was, she saw no reason to lie.) because I am an Orthodox Jew and drink only kosher wine and eat kosher food,” she said with simple dignity.

She saw the earl examine his drink with sudden fascination and Lady Haversham shoot an almost imperceptible look of shocked disapproval at Robin, the kind of look a very well-bred mother might give a child who has begun to pick his nose at a dinner table full of guests. “Well, is there anything else we can offer you at least to drink, my dear?” she asked Batsheva with extreme politeness.

“Just some brandy would be fine,” Batsheva said miserably, the woman’s overconsiderate tone making her ill with embarrassment and nervousness. There was an uncomfortable silence. A fine old clock chimed perfectly on the mantelpiece. There was a sense of timeless order in the room, things cared for and in place, Batsheva thought. Even the people—Robin, Grace, the parents—had faces that mirrored those of ancestors that hung in gilt frames along the graceful banister. If only I could disappear, she thought.

She was the eternal outsider. She was the stone thrown into the calm pond that destroys the beautiful reflection, turning it into a turbulent muddle. That was it. She craved the civilized calm, and yet the moment she entered it, her presence seemed to destroy it. She just didn’t fit in anywhere. Except for one place, now lost to her forever.