He tipped his head toward her, eyes still fastened on hers. “Would you like it to be?”
Her throat was tight. “Don’t young men woo with talk of love? Or am I so outside the world of love that I’ve failed to note that men in this land propose like actuaries?”
“Perhaps others do,” he chuckled. “I can tell you only what I propose. I would, in marrying you, promise you neither fidelity nor obedience, nor any part of my heart but that which you earned through a change in your own demeanor—and your demeanor, I need not tell you, alarms all men who are not of intrepid constitution.”
She spoke past her confusion. “My demeanor, as you call it, will not change. Nor will I marry you.”
He nodded briskly. “Yes, I understand that’s your belief. But time will press you to marriage, and that time will come soon. HaCoen Mendes hasn’t much more life to live.” At her sound of protest, he raised his voice, insisting. “You know it. After he dies, you’ll be left without money or protection. You’re a quick student, I’m certain. You’ll marry, and the man you choose will be me.”
His smile maddened her—how lightly he sported with her fears, with the precariousness of her position. “Do you expect me to be a gull for this prank of yours? Why would any believe that Manuel HaLevy, son of one of the wealthiest Jews of London, has no greater dream for himself than to marry a woman whom he does not love, and who is, besides which, without wealth or any desire to please a husband? Or can it be that you, alone among mankind, enjoy plunging your face into thorns, rather than roses?”
“Roses,” he said, “die.”
And thorns endure the winter. It struck her for the first time that he might be serious.
“My mother was a weak woman,” he said, “though in my childhood I thought her kind. Nonetheless she slipped from this world with hardly a struggle.” His eyes were hard; there was no room in them for contradiction. “Women die easily,” he said. “I’m sure it can hardly have escaped your notice. They die of the everyday rough use of the world, they die in childbed, they die because they have not the endurance or the taste for this world that men do. They die, and they do not resist dying, like sheep. No. Less than sheep.” His voice quickened, like a student philosopher rehearsing a disputation. “It vexes the mind that God would create a creature and give it so little will. Even a flea argues more strongly for its life than a woman. Perhaps when a rabbi can explain God’s purpose in making women thus, he will earn my admiration. If even a priest could explain it, I would give him my allegiance in an instant. And don’t pretend surprise at my blasphemy, Ester, because I’ve seen your face as the rabbi recites his prayers and I know you share it. The rabbi’s words don’t explain the way women die.” He stared, for a moment, at the low clouds. “It vexes the mind,” he repeated.
But she saw it was not his mind that was vexed, but his heart. A thing that might, like an animal, prove docile or dangerous.
A scrap-metal vendor pushed his rattling cart past; two housemaids walked by, giving curious glances. He paid them no mind.
“Such weak womanly souls,” he continued, “are deemed desirable. But in truth they’re cowardly, betraying all promises of life and sustenance. The promise of a weak woman,” he said, “is worthless. I seek a woman who will not murmur the Lord in his wisdom and gently expire, but fight with clenched fist and jaw to remain in the world and in my household and raise my children. I want no faint woman for my wife, though such I may seek for pleasure.” He was silent a moment, then stepped nearer. “I’ve seen your face set against all of London like a rock set against the sea.” She was shocked to see true pleasure on his face. “You make no effort to mask how little you care for the opinion of others.” He raised his hand; she couldn’t fathom its motion toward her. At the touch of his fingertips on her cheek she flinched, but he only gave a low laugh. “When you come to marriage, you’ll come with gratitude, and you’ll apply to it the strength you now apply to scorning it. Affection will follow on the heels of marriage.” He spoke sternly but his eyes were watchful. “When you cease your scribing and bookish pursuits, and turn from the unnatural to the natural, you’ll bear children. And even your essence will bend, your temper will ease to that of a mother. Nor will I tolerate”—one eyebrow rose as his voice lowered—“a difficult woman.”
“Then,” she said, “let us spare you that fate without further discussion.” She turned to leave, her thoughts in disarray.
“No,” he said. “I’ve set my mind. You wield your puny might like”—he laughed—“like a child’s fist cocked at a man’s world. It pleases me. I said so, unthinking, in the company of the widow Mendoza, but I wasn’t displeased that she took it as profitable business to make inquiries. Though”—he twisted his lips—“you drew a conclusion that was comic, don’t you agree?”
Tears rose in her eyes, though she couldn’t have named what drove them there. “You can’t want me,” she murmured.
He spoke to her gently—for the first time she saw that he had in him a great store of gentleness. “You’ve spent too many days with Mary’s petty criticisms as your only mirror. Look again. You’ll see there’s no blemish in you.” His words trailed as he considered her. “Once you’ve done what women do to their hair” . . . he gestured at her head . . . “and erased this false augur of age that you wear” . . . reaching up, he tugged at a lock of her hair, then released it softly. “There is life hidden there.”
She wished to flee but could not.
“You have a beauty of a sort,” he said. “But more important than that, you have enough manly strength in you to match me.”
She found her voice. “Do you love men, then, like your brother?”
He laughed at the taunt. His large frame loomed before her, commanding. “My brother and I could not be more opposed in temperament or desire.”
She did not doubt him.
All amusement was gone from his face. His jaw was set. Fear mixed in her with an unfamiliar longing for protection. What would it mean to stop fighting for what none other than she believed in, and accept the shelter that was offered?
“I’m not a selfish man, Ester. You see me standing here before you.” For a moment his face bore a wistfulness strange for one so accustomed to the fulfillment of his wishes. Then he raised both hands, palms up, in a gesture so emphatic it could not be submissive. “I want your ferocity for myself. That’s true. But I want it also for my sons. I want,” he said, “a woman of will.”
On the corner of Bury Street and Creechurch Lane, carts trundling past now and again on the uneven stones, he waited for her answer.
She said softly, “You won’t have me.”
“What are you, then, if you refuse to be a woman?”
She faced down the narrow street, a darkened strip beneath overcrowding balconies. “An empty vessel,” she said, though she knew not whether the words were meant to spite him or herself.