Read Chapter 3
April 4, 1813
Rachel pressed her head against the cushioned wall and focused on the road outside, watching the urban setting fading into farmland. Green barley sprouts stretched their heads toward the sun. Branches of beeches and hornbeam lined the fields like soldiers. A flock of sheep in the distance reminded Rachel of white pompoms. The squeaking carriage wheels prevented Rachel from relaxing—but she doubted that she could have slept even if there had been silence. Her heart was pounding hard. She grew more and more restless with every mile closer to Brockton House in Somerset. Lady Bustle-Smith’s house party would be her rehearsal for her entrance to the ton and it would set the tone for her season. Her mind trailed off again to her favorite fantasy of swaying in the arms of a handsome gentleman like a princess in a fairy tale.
As she daydreamed, Rachel peered out of the window, evading her mother’s stern gaze. The chestnut trees were budding, and Rachel inhaled the crisp air. She caught her mother’s frown out of the corner of her eye and froze when she saw her wince in pain. Rachel knew what the look meant. Her mother had told her frequently that “memories of pain and loss paralyze the diaphragm.” Rachel knew that crisp air always reminded her mother of that November night when—no, she would not think of it now. She wanted to enjoy the season and knew this house party would be the start. But her heart sank when she saw her mother’s eyes again. The spring’s promise of renewal and new beginnings was meaningless to her family.
Rachel wrung her hands. She did not want to disappoint her mother. There was so much riding on this season. It was also her last chance to feel the sort of excitement she only thought possible in a flirtation. Rachel shrank back at the thought of qualified freedom. Hiding a part of her soul felt treacherous, but it was a small price to pay to feel like a princess at a ball.
“Are you listening to me?” her mother asked. “I am telling you, mark my words!”
Something inside Rachel snapped. “We look like them, dress like them, eat like them, and speak like them,” Rachel enumerated, ticking the actions off on her fingers. “But of course, Mama, I know we are unlike them.” Everyone had their own ideas of how she should live her life: what she could and could not do; how she should carry herself among the ton debutantes; how she ought to speak with the staff at home, pretending not to understand their Yiddish. She lied habitually under the pretense of protecting her family. However, these exhausting lies permeated her every waking moment. She could not betray the secret locked in her mind. Only her parents held the key and only they could tell her when she could unlock her true self. It was a balancing act she loathed.
Just then, Sammy giggled as one of the outriders stumbled into a ditch. Their mother stifled his laugh with a look, and he dropped his gaze to the book on his lap.
“Keep reading,” mother said. That was what their parents had always preached. “Just keep reading,” her parents had told her when they did not want to share their plans to move again from town to town. Rachel looked at Sammy and worried how he would fare growing up with their hidden secrets.
Their carriage reached a hill, and Rachel paused when she saw the beautiful mansion. It was only three stories high and looked hunched down between the tall cypress trees on either side. The façade was dusty brown, but the lower level had charming arched windows. Just as Rachel’s heart fluttered with renewed vigor at the picturesque setting of her first event of the season, the carriage rolled down the hill and around the western side of the estate, and she saw it. Bile leaped to her throat when she noticed a pond on the estate. It could not be. Her father stopped his horse and joined them in the carriage when they saw the pond; it was a sight that all of the Newmans despised. Rachel closed her eyes and fell back against her chair. Only Sammy clung to the window.
“Oh, can I go fishing in the pond?”
“It’s a little lake, not a pond, Sammy,” Rachel said with disgust without opening her eyes.
Her mother's eyes squinted in horror, but she did not say a word. None were needed. The Newmans did not go swimming, fishing, or come too close to water in any way—not since Maya’s death. Sammy had been too young to feel the trauma of their baby sister’s demise, but Rachel’s thoughts flooded with the memory. Lake Geneva’s terror floated like sheets of ice on collision course in Rachel’s mind.
“Look, there’s an orangerie and big stables. I will take you riding, Shmuli,” Ilan used Sammy’s Yiddish last name, and Rachel realized that he tried to distract the young boy with prospects of exciting outings on the otherwise quaint estate.
She had a sinking feeling that she might not enjoy her season as she had hoped. Her parents’ warnings dulled her enthusiasm. Instead of feeling like the belle of the ball like in her dreams, she felt a pang of remorse at her duplicity—a debutante by night, a clandestine soul by day.
