Alvaro had wished, of course, that she break her isolation. He’d taken her once to a London coffeehouse famed for attracting philosophes. There she’d cradled her cold tankard of bitter liquid for hours, listening to the small sparks of light generated by some speakers, and to the foolery of others. But the few women who essayed to enter the conversation pained her, for they spoke rarely, and seemed so conscious of their own figures and attire that they arrayed themselves artfully in their seats as they spoke, mingling coquetry with hurried bursts of talk—and she saw, for all this, that they were not heeded as the men were, and that their ideas ventured only into the terrain of women’s concerns, and even there were diffident. Nonetheless she rose twice, leaving Alvaro dozing gently against the wall, to attempt speech with these other women. Yet she was not dressed in fashion as they were, and they seemed to think her strange. She could not fault them; had a creature ever approached her in such hunger as she approached them, she too might have balked. Finally, leaning forward in her seat and straining to be heard above the men’s joustings, she herself essayed to enter her voice into a debate about the ideal political order—but when she’d finished her short speech, her lingering Yet is that not the sum and purpose of man? was answered with a gaping silence, and then a few uneasy laughs.
When she’d woken Alvaro to go, she’d thanked him. Did you learn anything? he’d asked as they stepped from the overheated coffeehouse into the cool, enveloping evening. Yes, she’d said, I heard some new thinking and will consider it. Yet I learned too that I’m an ivy twined so long against a tower of strange design that I cannot now assume any other shape. And Alvaro had taken her arm and said, I understand.
Yet now here he stood before her, insisting.
“Today!” Alvaro repeated. “I won’t be put off anymore.”
Again, that soft, lit-from-the-inside smile. He was the most maddening of men—or perhaps it was she who was maddening, for she could not hold steady in her estimation of him. He was a fool and she wanted him to leave her be. He was her friend, and she wanted him to stay in her room, with his smell of fresh air and his grass-stained shoes, and his collar loose at his throat—a brother who could be counted on to tease and forgive.
She spoke, her face stern. “Your cherub maker comes today?”
Alvaro’s brows rose high and stayed there. “He’s a master carver!”
She laughed in his face. “Who carved every last cherub in Petersham and Richmond.”
Alvaro blushed. “His carvings are incomparable,” he said. “Admit it.”
She pretended to consider.
He pressed his case earnestly. “The king’s residence at Windsor has invited him to carve three lintels. He’s been asked to carve for the French. My father was fortunate to have him make the cherubs on our stair before his work was in so great demand as it is today.”
She bit her lower lip, conquering a smile. “They’re . . .” She paused, watching him await her verdict. “They’re agreeable.”
Alvaro was still waiting.
And suddenly she could no longer be stern. “Yes, all right. He’s agreeable as well,” she said. “I’m sure.”
His face broke into a broad smile.
“His name is Richard. And we’ve agreed there’s no need to keep such discreet distance when he visits. I’ve told him you understand.” Alvaro looked at her now, a request in his eyes. “Richard hopes to make the acquaintance of the noble lady of the house.”
She could not help the dark mood that enveloped her at these words. Her eyes returned to the table before her. “This house has no noble lady,” she said.
He said nothing for a moment, obedient to her mood. “Perhaps he’ll meet you another day, then?”
She lifted her head. She was too moved by his hopeful face to be jealous of the earnest love written there. “Yes,” she said. “Of course I’ll meet him.”
He was smiling with such gratitude that she had to smile as well. His eyes were bright. “No one but you knows of our love,” he said.
She very much doubted if half the countryside around Richmond and Petersham didn’t know of their love—even Rivka couldn’t quell the servants’ talk.
“To the river, then?” he said.
But she shook her head. Some obstinacy was pulling her back to their earlier conversation. “You’ve a promise to make to me first.”
“What promise?” His brow furrowed. Then he remembered. “Still that?” he said, his surprise genuine. “But it’s absurd.”
She pressed her lips.
“No,” he said. “I’d no more do it than break your arm. I’d no more do it than”—he gestured, words failing. “I simply won’t.”
She couldn’t allow his affection, or hers, to rule this moment. She gave him her most severe look. “Promise.”
He shook his head, stubborn.
His betrayal blinded her—what a fool she’d been to trust him. And yet how could he not understand? She half stood from her desk, the anger breaking in her voice. “Have I asked anything else of you?”
He shook his head, more slowly.
She steadied herself. She’d mulled the matter, and though she couldn’t separate the strands of her fears, she’d declared them sound nonetheless. She was a woman, and she’d written heresies. Even Spinoza and Hobbes feared to make direct statement of their disbelief in God.
Yet after her death, as Alvaro argued, she’d have nothing to fear. Why not allow him to preserve her papers, then?
Because her writings made a mockery of the rabbi’s suffering.
But though she’d never forgive herself this, shouldn’t she leave her writings intact so others might consider them? Wasn’t the cruelty in the world, and not in her words?
She couldn’t explain her choice, even to herself—no more than she could explain the terror she still felt at the most unexpected of moments: hands grabbing and tearing at her hair, her sex; diseased faces straining to spit in hers. She pressed on, speaking steadily as though the words cost her nothing. “I want you to burn my papers when I die. That’s my request, and it’s a simple one, and I won’t rest until I’ve secured your promise.”
He rose from her table. “Burn them yourself!” He strode toward the door.
A single thought took her: Don’t leave me alone in this room.
As though hearing, he slowed, and stopped halfway through her bedchamber. After a moment, he returned to stand before her.
“I can’t do it myself,” she said. She gestured at the hearth. “I can’t bear to. Not while I can still read and think and write.”
He opened his palms, showing her he meant no harm. “I know you’re”—he hesitated. Then continued firmly, “You’ve had to hide so very long.”
Her anger had vanished, leaving her confused. She wagged her head slowly in apology, before realizing she ought to say it aloud. “I’m sorry.”
“Ester,” he said. “There’s none left alive to be hurt by what you’ve done. Not the rabbi, not your family. I won’t be unhappy if your work comes to light and stirs trouble. What might anyone do to harm you after your death?”
What, indeed? She was concentrating with all her strength on his words.
“What might they do?” he repeated.
She couldn’t control her voice. “Not listen,” she said. “Because of what I am.”
His hand was on her shoulder. He persisted. “So you’d have me burn your papers, and in doing so ensure they’ll never listen?”
She hated to cry before him. Yet he, who idolized her strength, should see the truth: the small, weeping creature she was, beneath all.
He paused to let her gather herself. “You say it’s enough that your ideas will be visible in the writings of others,” he said softly. “But Ester, none will know they’re yours.” He waited a moment, then continued. “At the right time, the truth ought be known.”
Slowly, she shook her head. “Let the truth be ash.”
He stood for a moment. Then his long fingers loosened on her shoulder. After a moment, he nodded in something like defeat.
Yet when he raised his head and nodded again, squeezing her shoulder gently before letting go, there was something else in his manner. She wasn’t certain it had been defeat, after all.
He’d reached the door between her closet and her bedchamber. With one hand he gripped the doorframe as though to swing himself through. “The river is calling,” he said.
She stared at him. Had it been defeat? At length she nodded. “Thank you,” she said.
He left. She settled back at her desk. The page before her was only just begun.
She’d finish it later. She stood now and, after a moment’s uncertainty, opened the window wide to admit the fresh sounds of the river. Birdcalls, the hush of the moving current. The sun was stronger than she’d expected and she leaned out to feel it on her face, its warmth as shocking as laughter. Blue and blue and blue swam in her vision. A bright bewildering sky: a riddle she couldn’t guess how to solve.
29
April 6, 2001
London
She’d known immediately that she needed to read it alone. So she’d lied. When, laying out Ester’s precious letters one by one in that pub in Richmond, she’d reached the final pages in the folio, her eyes had fallen on the date—June 8, 1691. 11 Sivan of the Hebrew year 5451. The week before Ester’s death. The writing was Ester’s. But even in the dim light of the pub, she’d been able to see that the familiar hand had been shaking.