Jephte's Daughter (35 page)

Batsheva filled Thursday with appointments for client sittings. And then she canceled them. She took all the clean clothes out of the closets and washed them and ironed them. She rearranged all the cans in the kitchen cupboards. She cleaned out the refrigerator and scrubbed the inside of the stove, in a panic of nervous energy. Ten times she packed her weekend case and ten times she unpacked it.

Thursday dawned bright and clear and warm. A perfect spring day. One could almost see the tender new grass shooting up through the soft, moist earth, the light-green buds lifting their heads toward the radiant sun. She put her head outside her bedroom window and breathed in the fresh, fragrant, sun-warmed air. Everything seemed to her to be softening and sending out new shoots, sure they would be nourished and allowed to grow strong and beautiful. On such a day, she thought, it was so good to be alive. Anything was possible on such a day, she told herself, packing again. She packed light summer dresses in bright flower colors. She packed her Sabbath candles and a bottle of kosher wine for Friday-night
kiddush
.

The wind blew through her hair and Akiva squealed in delight in the back seat as the convertible tore up the highway. There was still a strained silence between the two women. Elizabeth, feeling the full weight of her accumulated guilt, did not presume on the tentative reconciliation Batsheva’s presence next to her represented. Who knew why she had agreed to come? She wisely decided not to probe, but to make believe everything was all right.

Batsheva leaned back, enjoying the fresh air, the freedom of rushing swift and windlike through the countryside in the little topless sports car. Just being out in the open, after so many days holed up in her bedroom, made her feel that something positive was already happening. She looked gratefully at Elizabeth and reached out impulsively to pat her hand.

“Thank you.”

“For what, Batsie?”

She had meant just for the ride, the excursion, but now she remembered that she would have never come to London, never have met David, without Elizabeth. She gave it a moment’s swift thought—never to have met David! “For everything, Liz. For opening up my life. For letting me experience it. For David.”

Elizabeth let out a deep sigh and glanced at her cautiously. “Do you mean it? Even after everything that’s happened? All this misery?”

“When I was in the last year of high school, I remember we had a discussion on whether or not it was worthwhile for man to have been created at all, since he is bound to sin, to fail, and to be punished. At that time, I thought it would have been better never to have been born. But I don’t think that anymore.” She returned Elizabeth’s smile. “I’m glad I’m alive. I’m glad I’ve met him. I used to think that love was a fiction. A lie. But it isn’t, Liz. I know that now.”

“But I feel terrible, seeing you suffer like this!”

“I can’t see any possibility of peace of mind ahead, that’s true. I can see hopelessness, pain for both of us. But I can also see happiness, such incredible happiness, if only things were different.”

“Is it really so impossible?” Elizabeth asked softly.

Batsheva didn’t answer, but gave her a look filled with terrible despair, terrible hope. But then an idea, almost a joke, occurred to her and she was glad to say it, to lighten the atmosphere. “There is a saying that since God created the world, He has lots of time on His hands and He spends it playing matchmaker.” It was not such a joke, she thought. It really was God, His laws, the love they both felt for Him, standing in their way. “He will either bring us together or keep us apart. It is in His hands.” And once she had said this, she felt her heart grow lighter. She had given the whole package of insoluble puzzles back to God. She must stop trying, straining for the answers. She would be quiet now and wait.

It was a long drive, but a beautiful one. Still, they were both grateful to enter the big iron gates of the Hope mansion. It was not as large or as ostentatious as Robin’s house, Batsheva thought, or as her own back in California. But it was far more homey and comfy looking. A servant opened the front door and took their luggage. Batsheva looked around, delighted. It had such a warm, elegant charm. There were period antiques, fine paintings, and fresh flowers everywhere.

Ian came bounding down the stairs and Batsheva watched his eyes fill with excitement and tenderness as he caught sight of Elizabeth’s curly blond head.

“Liz,” he called.

She watched Elizabeth turn and saw her eyes widen with serious pleasure, her face light up with uncomplicated happiness. Batsheva felt her stomach ache with unworthy envy.

“Batsheva, I’m so glad you could make it.” Ian’s voice reached out to her, opening the circle of warmth and friendship to let her in. She took his hand gratefully. “Come out to the garden, both of you. My parents are waiting for us. We’ll have some tea.”

David’s father, she thought, looking into the bright familiar blue eyes of the tall man who got up and grasped her hand firmly. But he was so light! Blond like Ian. Ian’s mother too, was light-haired, light-complexioned. She saw nothing of David in the woman. David was not there. The realization hit her like a stone full in the soft center of her body. It was not so easy to give problems back to God, she thought wryly.

They drank hot tea out of translucent bone china with a delicate rim of gold. The table was generously full of delicious little cakes and sandwiches and puddings. Batsheva drank the tea and gave Akiva some cookies she had brought with her, amusing and distracting herself by watching Akiva stuff the cookies into his mouth. But then when everyone laughed at him, he became shy and came to her shamefacedly, laying his head in her lap. She stroked his hair gently, feeling some of his discomfort at being the center of attention. She was relieved when the conversation shifted to Elizabeth. Batsheva remembered that this was her friend’s first meeting with Ian’s parents. From the uncharacteristic way that Elizabeth was nervously answering the friendly questions, she realized, too, how serious an occasion her friend considered this to be. She said a silent prayer for her, but was relieved that this was the case, hoping it would mean that no one would bother much about her and she would be able to deal with whatever feelings were in store for her this weekend without constant scrutiny.

And as she watched Elizabeth, she did not feel the eyes that were carefully inspecting her, inch by inch. She did not realize that Ian’s parents were extremely aware of who she was, and terribly concerned about the turmoil she was bringing David. Ian had not gone into detail, but they knew she was a married woman of a different faith.

Lord Hope, who was as concerned as his wife about this puzzling, and—to all appearances—unsavory relationship, was shocked at the reality of the girl. He scrutinized her carefully from under half-closed lids even as he bantered with Elizabeth. He had expected to find someone coarse and grasping. Instead, he found her refined, sensitive, and shy. Her long, slender body was as graceful as a dancer’s and her face radiated an incredible spiritual and physical beauty. There was something familiar about this girl, something he had experienced once long ago…he could not put his finger on it.

“Come with me, my dear,” he said in an offhand way when they rose from the table, tucking her arm comfortably under his. “I’ll give you a guided tour.”

Batsheva noticed the deliberateness of his steps, which belied the impression of a random stroll through the house. He led her through the lovely high-ceilinged living room, the large, light and flower-filled dining room, opening a side door that led into what must have been a music room. It was a romantic room, she thought, admiring the old, polished upright piano with its brass candlestick holders. She was about to say so when he stopped and looked up at a large oil painting above the fireplace mantel. He glanced at her and back again, as if making some kind of comparison. His eyes flashed as if with a sudden, remembered passion. Her eyes followed his, confused. She studied the painting carefully. It was a young woman, with black hair and eyes and a dark complexion that was certainly not English. She admired the skill of the painter who had captured the singular expression—neither smiling nor stern, but questioning. Her eyes shone with a clear, fine intelligence, but not the kind that can turn to cunning even if forced to. They were wide with a trusting simplicity that seemed to leave her defenseless against deliberate cruelty of any kind.

The rich, red fabric of her dress fell over her long, slender fingers, which held a book. Batsheva strained to see what kind, but the letters were indecipherable. Then her eyes were drawn to the curious jewelry that hung around the woman’s neck. Was it a cross? She peered closer, straining. Then she smiled to herself, a sad, wry smile, acknowledging the manipulations of one’s heart on one’s mind as the little brush-stroke of gold suddenly transformed into a
hamsah
—the little golden hand worn by the Sephardic Jews of Israel, as common a Jewish good-luck charm as the Star of David.

“Something amusing, my dear?”

“No, nothing.” She felt foolish and embarrassed. This kind of thing had happened to her numerous times: seeing the back of her father’s proud gray head on strangers in the street; seeing signs in the distance that she could have sworn were in Hebrew. It was, she supposed, no different from a man dying of thirst in the desert who conjures up mirages of waterfalls.

“Who is she?” Batsheva asked quickly, wanting to change the subject.

“Gracia Mendes Cresas, my first wife and David’s mother. Ah, you didn’t know David and Ian are half-brothers?”

She shook her head, trying to hide her shock. “I wondered at his dark complexion, his black hair, after meeting you and Lady Hope. Now I understand. What happened to her, David’s mother, I mean?”

“She died in childbirth.” His clear, calm brow furrowed. “She was a very special, very lovely woman, with a rare mind. David takes after her so much.” He gave her another one of his strange, searching looks. “Forgive me, my dear, for hurrying you off into here. It’s just that I wanted to be sure who you reminded me of.”

Startled, she looked up at the picture again. There was no physical resemblance between them, yet he was right. Their faces were suffused with the same elusive spirit. Something of what stared back at her from the mirror looked back at her from the portrait. They could have been distant cousins, or members of the same extended family.

“She was from a very old, noble Spanish family. She came to England as a refugee from Germany during the war. She had been a student and then a teacher at the University of Heidelberg and had even managed at her very young age to complete a remarkable book on philosophy. Her death was so sudden.” His voice thickened. “David is so like her. The coloring, but also the intelligence, the reflectiveness.”

He turned to her, his friendly face full of unhidden discomfort. “I must be honest. My wife and I are both very upset by his relationship with you.”

She felt the blood rush to her face. “David and I have no relationship. I am not free to have any relationship with him, or any man, as a married woman, an Orthodox Jew.”

Lord Hope was taken aback by the simplicity and directness of the honest answer, which earned his immediate respect. He felt confused as the scenario he had built up in his mind of the conniving, exotic stranger suddenly dissolved, leaving only blank pages in its place. “But surely,” he protested, “you must know David was seriously considering leaving the priesthood because of you!”

She looked at him wearily. “You don’t, you can’t, understand. I love David, and I believe he loves me. But I asked him to go away some weeks ago because we have no future. I haven’t heard from him since and I know nothing of his feelings or plans. I have no right to.”

“But surely you’ve considered divorce, conversion…”

She winced. “It has taken me a long time to recognize who I am and to come to terms with it. We can’t do anything, become anything, that we want. There are certain limitations, boundaries, to each of us. Going beyond them is like jumping out of the window or under a train—it just destroys the self. To change my faith, I would have to deny and betray everything I believe in. It would kill me. It would kill whatever love I have.” This, too, surprised him and again he felt an unexpected surge of liking and respect for her.

“I have to be honest, too. I never wanted David to be a priest, but neither did I want to see him involved in a sordid, demoralizing affair, or to throw his future away on a…”

“Designing Jewess,” she interrupted coldly, turning away, suddenly sick with anger and mortification. Pernells, everywhere. And she had liked this man so much.

He took her shoulders gently and turned her around. “You have no idea how incredibly mistaken you are…” He seemed to want to say more, but stopped himself, glancing up painfully at the portrait. He took a deep breath. “I was going to say, on a whim. And having met you, I know now that, too, was wrong.”

The stiff resistance in her body relaxed. She felt comforted. “Forgive me. I’m so sick of people’s prejudices that I just anticipate them.”

“No, we aren’t prejudiced. But we are very concerned about the damage this is doing him and—as I can now see—doing you. He will tell you himself, no doubt, when he comes home.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “You expect him to come, then?”

He hesitated. “He knows that you’re here. I expected him to come
because
of that. But now that I’ve spoken to you, I hardly know what to think.” He watched a visible dejection contort her features and his natural good-heartedness and hospitality asserted themselves. “Now, no more of this depressing talk! What a terrible host I am! My dear, I’ve promised you a tour and you shall have it!” He tucked her arm under his, patting it with real affection.

The tour confirmed her first impressions: It was an elegant, charming home of real quality. She was delighted with the guest room, all delicate lilac flowers from the wallpaper to the ruffled bedspread. There were fresh lilacs in a vase on a dressing table that was covered with little crystal decanters of perfume. From the bay windows, one could see miles down the flat meadows and newly plowed farmlands. She looked out anxiously into the distance, feeling the familiar straining, the terrible anticipation, grip her heart like a vise.