Dearest Beast

Book 3: Once Upon the East End

by Felicia Grossman

Genres: Jewish Fiction

Synopsis

Felicia Grossman continues the "revolutionary storytelling" of the Once Upon the East End series with an enchanting retelling of Beauty and the Beast set in Regency London's Jewish community, in which a single father finds himself entranced by the same woman he once rejected (Entertainment Weekly​).

Despite an unhappy first marriage, Roger Berab always took pride in being a good father. When his daughter's reckless behavior, however, damages both their neighbor and her home, he's forced to reconsider. To pay reparations, he agrees to provide lodgings until the repairs are complete. Unfortunately for Roger, the victim is the same woman with whom he foolishly once shared a night of passion . . . and then scorned for her lack of status. 

With her sharp tongue and and disdain for fashion, Rebecca Adler is not exactly a community darling. What she does have, however, are her skills at midwifery. That is, until she injures herself saving Roger Berab's daughter. With her profession at a halt and her haven in disrepair, she has no choice but to accept Roger's offer of shelter . . . but never again will she believe a man of substance lies beyond his pretty face. 

Trapped in the same house, neither Rebecca nor Roger can avoid each other—or the passion still burning between them. But their time together has a deadline, and Rebecca no longer trusts Roger: can he convince her his feelings are true? Or is their tale doomed before it's truly started?

Release date: June 30, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

Whitechapel, London, England

January 1833

Every muscle and bone in Rebecca’s body ached—along with the roots of her hair and seemingly the blood in her arteries, even if the latter wasn’t physically possible. Between two long deliveries with new mothers who required extra assistance, as well as a special call from the Commission of Delegates—the body that internally governed and externally represented both parts of the Jewish community—she’d not slept in almost three days.

Yet, despite being currently tucked into her own warm bed, with a roaring fire protecting her from the outside snowy chill, she could not fall asleep. True, it was late afternoon, but midwives rarely kept regular hours, and she’d adjusted to her mother’s routine in infancy. But with her mother in Brighton for the next two months, her home was unusually quiet, hindering rather than helping her insomnia. With a groan, Rebecca spun onto her stomach, throwing a pillow over her head to block the light from the setting sun.

She needed this rest. At least if she wanted to maintain her profession.

Her profession was who she was. What gave her both purpose and value. Without it, no one wanted to see, let alone talk, to her, no matter how correct and wise her opinions were. At least as a midwife she had gravitas, not to mention, could maneuver herself into the right circumstances and force people to at least hear, if not listen. Thankfully, more often than not, they conceded. Just without giving her credit.

Which she didn’t need. No. She just needed to maintain her place.

And thus, she needed to coerce herself into slumber.

Why that was so hard as of late, she had no idea.

Yes, her world was a shade emptier, what with her mother away and the only people she could even possibly consider friends—Isabelle and, since November, Hannah—both recently married. But neither had abandoned her, even if the newly pregnant Hannah now spent most of her waking hours over a bucket.

Rather, Rebecca had been filled with the urge to avoid them. Strange. It wasn’t as if she disliked their husbands. Both were unusually kind men and quite loyal. Moreover, she was happy for them. Both were suited for marriage. Wanted it. Something she most certainly did not.

Besides, while she wasn’t immune to the physical charms of men in the community, she’d not met one with whom she’d want to share her life.

And I’m sure you recognize that it would be completely inappropriate for us to marry.

Groaning again, Rebecca placed her head over her pillow as blasted Berab’s words rose in her mind.

Schmuck, schmuck, schmuck. She was supposed to have forgotten it and him.

And she had.

Mostly.

Even if she was privy to gossip about him and his family due to her communal position.

Even if they were often thrown together during events where she could not ignore his existence.

Even if she might have occasionally recalled a few of the sensations she’d experienced with him.

Truly, she’d mostly forgotten the entire affair and would again. This time for good.

If she could just get some sleep.

With a yawn, Rebecca forced her eyes closed. All she needed was to permit her body to relax. Keep her mind completely blank, let her limbs—

Crash.

Rebecca pushed herself upright in bed, now completely awake. Sliding her spectacles over her nose out of habit, she stared into the dim light, as another series of bangs and thuds vibrated from below—from the workroom where they kept all their supplies. Rebecca’s throat grew tight at the thought of an already-upsetting burglary joining forces with a number of chemical compounds that could be dangerous in the wrong hands. Especially combined. She shuddered. She kept the most unstable combinations far apart, but…

Not even bothering to throw a dressing gown over her chemise, she grabbed a poker from the hearth. In her bare feet, Rebecca crept down the stairs as her mind searched for a plan to confront a thief who could be endangering his own life. The noise continued as she approached the door, which was still ajar.

Peering in, Rebecca had to rub her eyes twice to convince herself the scene before her was real and not a dream. Rather than an adult thief befouling her space, it was a young girl and her cat. The creature, a thin tabby, danced along the upper shelves, coming precariously close to several jars of dried condoms, its hair raining down on the newest additions, waiting to be stretched on molds.

Dressed in a bright red pelisse with fur trim and no hat, the girl’s half-pinned golden-brown hair bounced messily around her shoulders as she poked about in Rebecca’s cabinet, removing and sniffing bottles, before lining the worktable with everything she touched.

Without their lids.

There was something oddly familiar about the pair, but Rebecca didn’t have time to force her bleary mind to think. No, the dratted cat spotted her. With a hiss, the animal leapt into the air and down onto the table full of open jars.

It was at that precise moment that Rebecca noticed the instruments she’d used on her last outing still soaking in the eau oxygénée she’d re-created using Mr. Thénard’s methods. A marvelously effective disinfectant but highly unstable. She glanced back at the girl, whose activity had ceased.

The human trespasser returned her gaze, her light brown eyes wide in surprise. A pretty child, with an expression and posture younger seeming than her height suggested. Familiar. Very familiar. The eyes, yes, but also the nose and the set of the chin.

But before she pondered more, Rebecca caught sight of a stream of liquid from a felled jar making its way down the table toward the uncovered bucket.

The now glaring girl had opened her mouth and was probably speaking, but Rebecca could hear nothing but the pounding of panic in her own head.

Well, that and a few phrases of warning in the pamphlet she’d read prior to learning to synthesize her own solutions.

It was as if her muscles reacted of their own accord even as her overtired mind remained deeply sluggish.

Releasing the poker to the floor with a clank, she grabbed the girl with both arms and bolted down the stairs toward the front of the house. Rebecca held on, even as the child struggled against her, kicking and biting and scratching and yelling a variety of foul words that would make a street urchin blush.

“Get out now,” she screamed as she ran. “Everyone, out, now!” Nearly colliding with their cook, who’d been making use of their front parlor with the rest of their small staff, she called to them, “Leave. We need to leave immediately.”

Fortunately, their staff was competent enough to listen, and the group ran toward the door, alongside Rebecca and the girl who was screeching threats at the top of her lungs—something about her father and how they’d all be sorry for their treatment of her when they found out who he was. It was too fast and too high-pitched for her to comprehend, especially with her heart pounding so intensely and the blood pumping in her ears.

As the crowd filed out, there was a loud boom from behind them, followed by a rush of heat. Something hard and hot pressed against Rebecca’s back as she was thrust forward. Turning to her side to protect the girl from her weight, she hurtled to the ground, colliding painfully with the cobblestone.

For a moment, she believed she saw a flash of light in the darkening sky.

Then she saw nothing at all.

Once, Roger Berab believed himself a prince.

But as he grew older, he learned that instead, he was a showman at best. A master of funambulism, constantly upon his wire, crossing a very narrow bridge, the possibility of death with one wrong step. His voice, manner, apparel, coiffure, and most importantly, his words, all carefully chosen to conform to the image that best protected himself, his family, and his community from doom.

His skills as an ambassador to the gentile ton and its intellectual favorites, the ones who could expel even Jews as wealthy and useful as he, like their old king had done years before—like his counterpart had to his family in Portugal even more recently—were unparalleled.

However, despite his efforts and phenomenal successes, no one was ever satisfied with him. At least no one who mattered.

Just know, I have high expectations for my life. I intend to rule the community and be admired beyond.

His late wife Lucy’s words to him on their wedding night echoed in his ears. As did his own.

Is that a challenge? Because I’ll have you know, madam, I can rise above any, beyond your wildest dreams.

And he had.

Well, he’d believed he had.

After all, he’d repaired and refurnished her family’s crumbling home until it was among the stateliest in the community. He’d given her all the gowns, jewels, and connections money could buy in addition to the ones he’d already forged from careful calculation.

Those, in turn, allowed them to become the community’s unofficial emissaries to the ton, acquiring invitations galore to the most glittering gentile events and entertainments.

But none of that protected her in the end. Not from the slow-moving disease which took his mother-in-law the prior year. Nor the quick fever to which his wife succumbed a month later.

It’s not fair, Lucy had sobbed as she struggled to take her last breaths. It’s just not fair.

Those had been her final words. Eyes staring at him accusingly.

Not unlike those of his oldest brother, David, the man who headed the family. The man who, when not showing him silent disappointment, treated him as if he were still the child he’d been when their father passed.

Or worse, as if he were their other brother, Louis. Angry, selfish, and reckless. His recent banishment to America was no loss. That they’d permitted his brother to operate in the community for so long was sheer lunacy.

But due to irrational sentiment, his family ignored his opinions on the subject. Not that he hadn’t made mistakes of his own.

Why he’d attempted to remarry back in June, he had no idea.

Well, he did. He’d been past sheloshim and while gentiles waited longer periods before replacing a spouse, he’d never known them to pay particularly close attention to any of their familial traditions.

Not to mention the marriage presented an opportunity unlikely to be matched later: the potential bride had inherited half their business. The strategic union would’ve been both a boon for their coffers—something to which his family had certainly not objected—and a personal victory for him: a guaranteed seat on the Commission of Delegates, the august body that both internally governed the Jewish community and acted as its emissaries with the British governance, the ton, and anyone important.

The thing that could finally guarantee him the respect he deserved.

And now, after months of diligent work, a possibility once more. Narbonne—a friend of his late father’s—was soon to retire, and who else could possibly take his seat?

Roger smiled to himself, even as snow pelted his hat and overcoat, a strong gust of wind rippling through the streets, eliciting frustrated whinnies from workhorses straining against the bluster.

Perhaps when he returned home, he’d have Lopez, his man of affairs, draw him a nice warm bath, where he could soak with his new periodical. He’d been waiting days for the thing, a discussion of various soil additions to assist in the care of roses.

His favorite vocation. He’d eschewed most hobbies in favor of less frivolous endeavors but was never able to quit the fickle flower, which required research, care, and patience—his specialties—to receive a true reward.

He should start pruning the first group in the hothouse so they could yield early flowers. He’d chosen his varieties, inside and out, to schedule consistent blooms for a decent part of the year. Yes, perhaps after dinner he would spend some time there.

But there was another task higher on his list, wasn’t there? Frowning, he strained to recall precisely what Lopez had reminded him of earlier. Something regarding the staff… Oh, he was supposed to hire someone. The nurse.

Yes, that needed to be accomplished. Especially as he’d been forced to bribe his friend Sol Weiss and his wife to mind his children while he was attending a tea to assure one of his least favorite former schoolmates—a baron—and his cohorts, that the young, ambitious former Jew—Diaharoni or some such name—who’d run and lost a seat in the House of Commons was not a threat to them and theirs. Remind them of the good among their people and convince them that those like himself were the majority—true, even if most of their “good” were not actually of his caliber. A challenging task for many but one he’d brilliantly executed.

As a Jew, I can assure you that we do not seek to decide your affairs, let alone supplant you in representation of the people. Like my true brethren, I understand my position. The man is an exception, and now that he’s lost, highly unlikely to be a bother again.

An excellent line if he didn’t say so himself. And assuredly true. The man, who held no background of distinction, and no true talent, would tire of losing and fade into the milieu.

Roger trudged up the stairs to his house, the door opening without him needing to turn the knob. He lifted his chin, ready to greet Lopez, only to stop short as Sol, still dressed for the winter weather, stood in the vestibule, the children at his side.

Notably, none of the trio met his eye. Roger’s heart started to beat in his ears.

“Good afternoon,” he said, working to keep his voice calm. “What’s happened?”

There was a long pause and more fidgeting. Roger turned to his son, who, at barely five, was both the least likely to give him any useful answers and the greatest impediment to his friend speaking freely. He bent so he could meet the small boy’s dark eyes. “Perhaps, Michael, you can go to the nursery with—” Frowning, he searched for the name of the youngest maid.

“Rachel,” Lopez supplied from the hall in a stage whisper.

“Rachel can assist you in preparing for your dinner,” he finished.

His son did not need to be told twice, as he turned and raced through the hall, presumably to find the maid who’d been splitting her regular duties with that of nurse since their last one had up and quit with no notice. He turned back to his daughter and friend.

“What has happened?” he repeated.

Sol shifted on his feet, but his daughter’s expression became distinctly belligerent.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Fannie declared, folding her arms across her chest. “Not really.” She glanced at the ground, her lip quivering.

Roger knelt by the girl, who, at nine, was in the throes of some rather mercurial moods, the sort that accompanied children of sophisticated intellect and speech who had been through a terrible ordeal and demanded a certain amount of deference.

“I’m sure it was not your fault,” he said, before shifting his attention back to his friend as he rose to his feet. “What happened?”

Sol rubbed the back of his neck, his top hat slipping down his forehead. “I was attending evening minyan, and I had always planned to bring Michael, but, well, Hannah has been ill, and Tamar was assisting her, and—”

“It stank,” Fannie cut in, wrinkling her little nose.

His friend pursed his lips before resuming. “I permitted Fannie to come with us and, well—”

“It was dull and there was no one else on the balcony,” his daughter said with a flounce. “I just went outside for a moment, but Rose saw a rat and got loose.”

Rose? Roger stood agape. “You permitted her to bring the cat?” he asked, glancing around for the little beast, the tom he’d mistakenly brought home as a pet. A creature who regularly destroyed everything from curtains to bedding, to chairs, his claws far stronger than the thorns of his namesake.

“I didn’t notice,” his friend said with a guilty cough.

“He was under my pelisse, so he could be warm,” Fannie explained. “I only entered the house for a moment, just to fetch him, and nothing would’ve happened if she hadn’t frightened him.”

“Who?” Roger managed to ask, his mind racing to make sense of his daughter’s words. Had she entered someone’s home without their permission? Had her governess not discussed such etiquette? Possibly, as both his children were likely quite advanced in their academic endeavors, she might have made an unfortunate assumption. Something to keep an eye upon, though later. He still had to make sense of the current circumstances. He turned back to the child.

“The angry lady.” Fannie scowled. “She was wearing nightclothes in the afternoon, can you imagine?” After giving a derisive sniff, his daughter smoothed her little skirts, reminding him of his late wife, even though the child favored him in appearance. “Anyway, she frightened Rose and made him jump, and he knocked over some jars and, well, she became very cross and grabbed me.” Her light brown eyes flashed.

“Did she hurt you?” Roger asked, panic now flooding his senses as he assessed his child for evidence of harm.

“I hurt her,” his daughter pronounced with not a small amount of pride. “I bit and kicked her, but she wouldn’t let go. She was hollering something awful too. Until she tripped on the cobblestones.” His daughter paused for a moment, staring up at him.

“After that, there was a loud crash, and the house caught on fire. Uncle Sol came to fetch me and told me to stay put, near a trough. It was very cold,” his daughter added, rubbing her little arms.

After counting to ten twice in his head, Roger turned back to his friend. “Sol?”

This time the other man removed his hat before bending his neck for a moment. “That’s more or less a decent summation of this afternoon and early evening’s events, though some might quibble with a few of the details.”

“Quibble?” he repeated, halting his glare at the oddly serious and resolute look in the younger man’s eyes. Roger resisted a sigh before turning back to his daughter. “Fannie, why don’t you wash up for your meal as well?”

And, like her brother before her, his daughter happily skipped down the hall, leaving them alone. He returned his attention to his friend. “Explain, now,” he commanded.

The man took a deep breath. “Fannie caused an explosion in the Adler house.”

Of all the words that could’ve sprung from his friend’s mouth, those were not the ones Roger had remotely imagined.

“Pardon?” he asked, as his mind stuttered over the word “explosion.” And the name “Adler.” A wave of dread washed over Roger.

“From what I’ve gathered, after she snuck in through a window, she spent some time in the workroom,” his friend explained, now gesturing with his hands rather rapidly. “The Adler women are midwives who render their own supplies. They—well, Miss Adler primarily—creates various tonics and devices for the practice, so the room contained a decent amount of chemicals—”

“Which were clearly stored improperly,” Roger retorted, now beginning to picture the scene. And the players. Really, one of the players. He’d made the mistake of—for lack of a better word—fucking Miss Adler seven months ago. The night of his brother Louis’s exile.

He’d not been himself, filled with regret, as well as the fear he was not and never would be quite what he should.

It had been a hot and angry joinder, the kind that could only be accomplished by two people who absolutely despised each other.

Thus, naturally, the best sexual intercourse of his life.

Fortunately, except for that singular lapse in judgment, he’d always been able to transcend his baser inclinations and would continue to do so. Because it could not, under any circumstances, be repeated.

While their law did not require marriage after such an act between two unattached people, if certain members of the community learned of the incident, there’d be pressure for them to bind themselves all the same.

Which would be a disaster. Yes, Miss Adler had proclaimed such would be an inconvenience for her and her profession, but it would be a catastrophe for him and his children. Apart from their business partners—and, there only out of obligation—no one on his side of the community invited Miss Adler anywhere. Rumor had it that her own also avoided her whenever possible due to both her sour disposition and unremarkable features that she made no attempt to ameliorate through decent dress or enhancements like anyone with common sense did.

Not to mention, permitting her anywhere near the ton… He shuddered at the concept. She’d probably use the wrong fork while correcting the host’s grammar, then conclude with a lecture on the wrongness of their political opinions. Thus, she was the last woman to whom he should be connected.

“Not based on my information,” Sol said, interrupting his thoughts. Roger frowned—was his friend actually suggesting Fannie could be at fault? She was a child.

Though it’d be just like Miss Adler, blaming his daughter for a problem of her own making.

“That remains to be seen,” Roger said, before catching at his friend’s worried expression. “What?”

“The consensus is that the primary fault lies with Fannie,” Sol said, his eyes serious.

“Whose consensus?” he asked, even if he could guess, given the location of the house and the synagogue his friend attended. The Ashkenazis. The newer, coarser, troublesome additions to their community, who brought with them a host of provincial customs, unbecoming habits, and discordant language, not to mention inferior scholarship.

“Strauss and Friedland, among others,” Sol affirmed.

Roger stifled a groan. The worst of the lot. Or close to it. Two of the newer members of the Commission of Delegates. Neither of whom deserved their seats. Neither of whom cared for him.

While some Ashkenazis, like Sol, had decent sense, far too many, Strauss and Friedland, chief among them, were arrogant arrivistes who believed a few lucky advances in business, and more freedoms than they’d dare to dream of in the hovels from whence they came, gave them the ability to navigate British society without properly learning its customs and, more, their vulnerabilities.

Ingrates, all of them.

“Strauss and Ricardo have recently become friendly,” his friend added, breaking his thoughts once more.

Ricardo? Roger grimaced. The man hated his family ever since his daughter—like more than a few others in the community—developed an unhealthy infatuation with Louis. God only knows why. His older sister, Maria, theorized that certain women had a mania for brooding men who might turn their passion to them alone.

Fortunately for them, considering who his brother was, except for their business partner’s daughter back in June, the man never showed interest in anything or anyone beyond his own obsessions. Though even that pursuit lacked a romantic je ne sais quoi.

But Ricardo, instead of being relieved, took matters personally and had developed a near vendetta.

Blasted Louis.

“Fine.” Roger took several deep breaths to calm his temper. What was done was done, and right or wrong, he now apparently needed to mend matters. “Fine,” he repeated, his mind settling on the proper courses of action. “I’ll send the funds to replace and repair whatever was damaged.” Make the Adler family whole, as was proper under Jewish law.

Not a hardship given his family’s fortune. Though really, how expensive could it be to repair a little charring or replace a few bits of furniture? What could a decent chair cost these days, anyway? Two pounds? Three?

Yes, matters should be easily resolved. Though, as his older brother’s employee, Sol had more experience in such matters. “How long will that take? A week or so?”

“I’ve heard six given the weather and the fact that half the roof and the entire center staircase require replacement, but you’ll have to discuss that with whatever foreman you hire.” Sol shrugged.

Roger boggled at the suggestion that he become so involved. “Wouldn’t providing the funds and permitting the Adlers to do as they pleased suffice?”

“It’s a large job,” Sol returned. There was a pause, as if he was choosing his words very carefully. “And while it would be possible for the Adler women to handle their affairs on their own… matters would go a great deal faster if someone with certain connections was able to assure the job ran smoothly.”

“Perhaps,” Roger conceded. “Though perhaps not, as often when someone with my rumored funds is involved, invoices have a funny way of being padded. With delays to justify the same.” Which would make his involvement a net negative for all.

Sol gave a thoughtful nod. “True. And that could be an issue for certain families. But fortunately, you have those famous Berab instincts, not to mention a sharp mind of your own to easily overcome the same.”

Roger rolled his eyes. “Flattery doesn’t work on me.”

A large grin brightened Sol’s face. “See?” He wagged a finger at Roger. “You can’t be fooled.” As if such proved his point.

Or made any difference. “I don’t have time for that, not in the slightest,” Roger muttered.

“Perhaps you should make time,” his friend said, his voice quiet but firm. And ominous.

Roger swallowed. “What do you know?”

“Just an overheard conversation.” Sol pressed his lips together. “As I said, Strauss has recently become friends with Ricardo, who you know is close to dei Rossi and Nieto, who is close to Almosnino and Teres, and—”

“Sol?” he asked, interrupting the rapid torrent of words. Excuses, really.

His friend sighed. “They’re a touch disquieted by the messiness with your broth—”

“This has nothing to do with Louis,” Roger snapped in frustration. He tugged at the collar of his heavy coat as his body heated with annoyance. “This was an accident. A single accident. Which could’ve happened to anyone.” And it was not. . .