Marry Me by Midnight

Book 1: Once Upon the East End

by Felicia Grossman

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; Jewish Fiction; Regency Romance

Synopsis

From an author known for her “powerful and passionate” work comes a story with an enchanting twist on Cinderella (Eva Leigh, bestselling author): a charming heiress must marry to save her family’s business, but the man she dreams of is the one she can’t have. ​
 
London, 1832: Isabelle Lira may be in distress, but she's no damsel. Since her father’s death, his former partners have sought to oust her from their joint equity business. Her only choice is to marry—and fast—to a powerful ally outside the respected Berab family’s sphere of influence. Only finding the right spouse will require casting a wide net. So she’ll host a series of festivals, to which every eligible Jewish man is invited.
 
Once, Aaron Ellenberg longed to have a family of his own. But as the synagogue custodian, he is too poor for wishes and not foolish enough for dreams. Until the bold, beautiful Isabelle Lira presents him with an irresistible offer . . . if he ensures her favored suitors have no hidden loyalties to the Berabs, she will provide him with money for a new life.
 
Yet the transaction provides surprising temptation, as Aaron and Isabelle find caring and passion in the last person they each expected. Only a future for them is impossible—for heiresses don’t marry orphans, and love only conquers in children’s tales. But if Isabelle can find the courage to trust her heart, she'll discover anything is possible, if only she says yes.

Release date: August 8, 2023

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

April 1832

Aldgate, London, England

If one wanted to hide, the front row of the women’s balcony in the Great Synagogue at Duke’s Place was not where to do so. But hiding wasn’t part of the plan, no matter how tempting. Staying at the top of London’s Jewish community required a particular type of husband. And to land him, public perfection was required. Or at the very least, expertly feigned perfection.

Luckily, projecting an ideal image was—like for her father before her—Isabelle Lira’s specialty.

With deliberate angling, Isabelle raised her neatly bound, personally commissioned, English-transliterated prayer book. She held the volume high enough that the small metal sequins dotting her sleeves, which sparkled against the light streaming from the giant arched windows, drew every eye to her position.

“Performance time,” she whispered to herself as the murmurs echoed over the cantor’s voice.

Framed between the proud Ionic columns, she adjusted the velvet ribbon holding her bonnet in place, the dark blue chosen to make the black of her hair gleam, highlighting her best features.

Most who attended the Great Synagogue were not in the Liras’ social circle. Except for holidays—when her family made an appearance at Bevis Marks, the congregation long favored by the Sephardi side of the Jewish community—they mainly used the private synagogue in their Mayfair townhome.

But with leadership from the Sephardi and Ashkenazi sides now united, she’d be foolish not to at least give the appearance of considering their men for the husband she currently required. After all, thanks to several Ashkenazi’s rising fortunes, some gentiles were even willing to enter business relations with them now—despite their “newer” presence on English shores.

“Tip your chin a little,” her grandmother hissed against her ear. “Everyone is dying for a glimpse of your face, so let’s show it off to its best effect.”

“A good thing we maximized my physical charms, then.” Such was the purpose of the artfully applied soot and powder, as well as the beeswax she’d donned. Not that she needed to remind her grandmother—they’d already had a row over the enhancements earlier that morning. But given the approving murmurs from below, Isabelle had clearly been in the right.

Isabelle adjusted her ankles behind the metal crosshatched barrier further dividing the women from the men. “Everyone received the invitations for the festivals yesterday, guaranteeing we are at the forefront of their minds. It’s only polite to give people the gossip they crave.” Squaring her shoulders, she gazed over the covered, swaying heads of the men below. “And the gown is flawless.” She smoothed the navy and powder-blue silk stripes.

“We’ll have to work on your modesty.” Her grandmother gave her a pointed nudge.

Oof. Isabelle rubbed her side. How the woman’s sharp elbows always slipped between the whalebone was a miracle. “You taught me to be clever and charming, not modest or sincere.”

“We can still call this off. Work privately—with a matchmaker.” The older woman patted the evenly styled row of gray curls peeking from beneath her lace- and rosette-lined bonnet.

“We’re making a statement, blending gentile culture with our own traditions. The matchmaker you hired already scouted and gave us her thoughts. Our family, and whoever we decide is most suitable, will still come to an agreement, but we will have the façade of modernity.”

At least that was the story they’d woven for the London Commission of Delegates. The organization not only acted as a liaison to the Crown on the Jewish community’s behalf but also decided upon—and carried out—the community’s political objectives, all while assuring its safety, security, and continued legal presence within England.

Not to mention the tight control they exerted over the image the community presented to the outside world.

The Commission’s approval of the Liras’ public endeavors was, whil e not required, important. Especially considering her father’s seat on the Commission had remained vacant since his death. Given her family’s influence—and coffers—the tacit understanding among the delegates was that her husband would fill the role.

Provided he was suitable for such an appointment. All she needed was a man worthy of it.

Isabelle twisted the enormous square diamond buckle on her waist. “Besides, if we cancel now, everyone will be disappointed.”

Or worse, realize how desperate she and her grandmother truly were. How fragile their individual power was without her father. And how easily they could be dethroned, moneyed or not.

“I don’t care about them. I care about you.” With discreet fingers, her grandmother adjusted her own crisp pleated skirts. “You don’t need to rush. Your father’s first yahrzeit isn’t for another three weeks.”

And his death still felt like it had happened yesterday. But time had passed. Enough for the vultures to circle. Or to plot a coup d’état, as the French said.

The threat made by David Berab, the eldest of her father’s business partners, still echoed in Isabelle’s ears, as did his deadline—the day after Shavuot—which loomed now less than six weeks away.

“It’s time that I marry.” Isabelle squeezed the brass railing in front of her, the metal chilling her palm despite her gloves.

And she would. To a man who could force David Berab to accept her as her father’s successor in their company. A man who would assume her father’s communal role in a manner fitting her family’s reputation. A man who would see that none of them fell from their place of admiration and power. A man who’d be unwaveringly loyal to her and her family.

And, best of all, a man she would choose—and in such a way designed to entertain key prominent gentiles. The community’s permitted existence depended upon those people’s favor. Not to mention their interest was the best way to justify holding celebrations between Passover and Lag BaOmer, a period of semi-mourning with a myriad of restrictions.

“Three festivals in three weeks.” Her grandmother scoffed. “The timeline is understandable given the holidays. But inviting every eligible Jewish man in the city to parade before you and vie for your hand? At least the gentiles are more subtle with their Season and balls. One might call this presumptuous—or dare I say greedy?” The older woman’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline.

“The merits of subtlety are greatly exaggerated. Besides, reviewing all my options isn’t greedy, it’s intelligent. The men on the matchmaker’s list are only suggestions. Good suggestions, but it would be foolish of me not to confirm that no one is being overlooked.” After all, why meet only six rather predictable men, when you could meet six hundred surprises? She turned back to her grandmother. “Who I choose must benefit the family, the business, and the community. His power, his contacts, and his loyalty to us must be superlative in every respect.”

“I would hope you’d prioritize his willingness to love and care for you,” her grandmother said with disapproval, as if her own marriage nearly fifty years prior hadn’t been calculated to raise her family’s communal status in exchange for a decent dowry and an uncommonly pretty face. Her fondness of Isabelle’s grandfather had been a happy accident. Until he succumbed to age, leaving sorrow and a deep longing that her grandmother thought Isabelle didn’t notice.

The older woman smoothed the edges of her own yellowed prayer book with her long, slender fingers.

Isabelle gave her best emulation of her grandmother’s vague, noncommittal tut to stave off the brewing argument. She would have a traditional marriage—two strong families pooling their resources and influence, with a common vision for the best future. A union that would enhance her abilities to achieve her goals, instead of subjecting herself and her family to the unnecessary risk of ephemeral emotion.

The ridge of her thick bracelet dug into Isabelle’s fingers as she clasped her wrist, trying to calm herself. She would succeed. Her future husband and his family would be in agreement, and her grandmother would acquiesce, despite her recent uncharacteristic sentimentality.

All too soon, the prayers concluded—unfortunately for her, with the Ashkenazi-favored “Yigdal” and not the rousing “Adon Olam” to which she was accustomed—so when she faced the crowd, she forced the most dazzling expression she could muster as she followed her grandmother through the throng of women, murmuring polite greetings. They spiraled downward, a heavy cloud of perfumes, florals and fruits and powders mixing and latching onto every pore in a nauseating crush. Isabelle clutched the rail in an effort not to swoon and crash into the hundreds of well-dressed ladies.

At the bottom, just outside the main sanctuary, her grandmother placed a hand on her puffed sleeve. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Isabelle asked to avoid a lie. Her skin itched beneath her collar as nerves swirled. Why was it so hard to breathe in such close quarters? “It’s just, I want to leave a little mystery for the festivals, build the anticipation.”

Always the worrier, her grandmother examined her face, searching for any sign she was upset and not merely tired.

“You’re just like your father, always so dramatic,” she said, seemingly satisfied. She pointed over Isabelle’s shoulder. “Stay over there until the majority leaves. I’ll do the greetings and hint at what’s to come—add some ‘anticipation,’ as you call it.”

Isabelle backed away to the outer wall, leaning beneath yet another set of impossibly high arched windows. As the sun trickled in through the glass, the crowd thinned until quite suddenly—she was alone in the stone corridor.

Well, almost alone.

A small wooden door to the side of the sanctuary creaked open. Out stumbled a dark-haired man wearing no coat or vest, merely a dusty shirt and trousers, with a group of small children following in his wake. They hurried past, near enough that the flannel beneath her skirt rustled but oblivious to her position between the massive columns.

The man paused in a nearby alcove, reaching into his pockets. Out came—she twisted to get a better view—lemon drops, deposited into tiny outstretched hands. Mercy, she could use something to settle her stomach. Pity she was no longer a child.

With his head bent, she could view only the stranger’s profile—soft, thick wavy hair; full lips; a firm, sculpted jaw; and a coarse stubble of hair dotting his cheeks and chin that somehow made him more, not less, attractive. He was young too. Most likely around her own age.

Though clearly without her heavy responsibilities.

“Tell us more of the story,” the smallest of the boys demanded in a soft but insistent voice, the early-afternoon sun setting his face aglow.

“I have work.” The man ruffled the child’s hair around his yarmulke. “And you have parents to mind, who will not take kindly to finding you here.”

Why not? Isabelle wondered. They were in a synagogue, for goodness’ sake. Isabelle craned her neck to get a better view.

“Please.” Another child tugged on his rumpled trouser leg. “Just a bit.”

The man glanced at a tatty broom leaning against the stone wall, as well as a large stack of books set haphazardly atop a cart, begging to be reshelved by—ah. A custodian. That was who he must be. This was the best entertainment the Great Synagogue could muster for its children?

“Please,” the tiny chorus resounded.

The stranger brushed a hand through his thick hair and held up a single finger. “Just a bissel more, but then you need to run along. You have real meals to eat.”

Isabelle’s lips twitched as a cheer rose and, in an instant, the small bodies made a circle around the taller figure.

“Where were we?” He crossed his legs and settled on the bare, probably freezing—not to mention dirty—stone floor without hesitation.

“The prince had come upon the tower with no windows and no doors,” a boy with curls so voluminous they nearly swallowed his yarmulke shouted out.

“A good place to start.” The man gave a serious nod, and Isabelle edged closer, despite her low expectations of the man’s tale-telling prowess. After all, who didn’t enjoy a good fairy story?

He beckoned his little group closer. “Just as the prince was about to search for an entrance, he heard footsteps approaching. And”—he scrambled back, crouching down to the level of his audience and lowering his voice—“Quick as a wink, he hid behind a tree. From that position, who did he see but—”

“The witch!” all the boys cried at once before devolving into hoots as the man threw the tail of his shirt over his head like a cloak.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” he called in a warbled, cawing voice that had the boys doubling over. Even Isabelle had difficulty not giggling out loud. The custodian was actually entertaining—magnetic, even. Who’d have thought?

A pity he was performing menial tasks instead of performing on stage. He’d probably be enthralling.

“Morris,” a woman’s voice boomed over their merriment.

“Oh, no.” One of the children shot to his feet, dusting off his garments. “That’s my mother.”

The man gave a gentle nod and raked his fingers through his own hair once more. “Which means it’s time for you all to leave, lest you be found with me.”

The custodian smoothed and retucked his smock into his trousers. “Until next time.”

With the spell broken, the children, including the one called Morris, were off in different directions. Sighing, the storyteller adjusted his garments one last time before facing the broom and books, staring between them, until he hauled a stack of tomes into his arms, readying himself to descend into the cellar or wherever he was supposed to be working.

Which was for the best. She had more important things to do than trifle with a custodian. Besides, her grandmother had probably finished. But dust rose as she shifted forward to exit, tickling her nose until she cried out.

The sneeze reverberated through the domed corridor. The young man whirled, dark eyes falling right on her. Isabelle’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.

Ridiculous. It wasn’t her fault she’d sneezed. Someone should sweep better if he wanted to prevent that.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she was spying. She just happened to be in his vicinity.

“Good Shabbas,” she called, straightening her shoulders, the Germanic pronunciation slightly awkward on her tongue. “How do you do?” she added in her most appropriate tone—polite and friendly but still a touch aloof—to set suitable, modest boundaries. After all, even if he didn’t suit her particular marital needs, who knew whose ear he had?

The custodian took a step forward, his boot catching on a crack in the old stone floor. In an instant, he and his load were airborne, books and tangled limbs all coming straight at her. With a small shriek she threw her arms over her head and ducked as two bound volumes bounced off her back and shoulders, only to teeter off her feet, right into the somehow-still-standing man’s rather firm chest.

Strong arms encircled her waist, keeping her upright, as her heart beat against her stays. Isabelle glanced up to find herself staring at, upon closer inspection, a not merely attractive but extremely beautiful man. Even his unruly hair added an enticing fierceness to his features. Her breath stuck in her throat for a moment as desire stirred throughout her body.

Which was not what she needed. At least not now.

“I’m so very sorry.” Stepping back from him, she lowered herself onto the floor in the most graceful manner possible, kissing each fallen book and cradling them in her lap. “I would put these away for you, but unfortunately, you’ll have to direct me. And perhaps take half?” She gestured to the rising stack that was threatening to render her legs immobile.

“No, it’s all right.” Grunting, he bent and grabbed the entire load from her arms, not even bothering to brush his now filthy clothes. “You’ve done enough. Just tell me what needs to be cleaned or fixed and I’ll get to it right away. Go have your meal.”

“There’s nothing that needs to be done.” With as much dignity as she could muster, Isabelle glided back to her feet, careful not to stumble, her fashionably short hem swishing against her ankles. “Or at least not anything I know about.” She beat her skirts, and a cloud of dust rose off the silk. “Though I have to say, while I’m sure your cleaning abilities are unparalleled, I couldn’t help but notice you were so skilled with the boys, so compelling . . .”

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but there wasn’t anyone else here, only me.” His dark eyes bore into hers from beneath his thick brows, and she shivered, the temperature dropping.

“What?” Isabelle took a step back, shaking her head. “No. I know what I saw.” She gazed around the empty alcove, the scene still fresh in her mind. “There was an entire group of—”

“I don’t have time for this.” He waved a dismissive hand, moving to leave. No—to flee.

Isabelle froze.

Clever, making her question her senses, but Mr. Storyteller-Custodian was an amateur. She saw what she saw. He just didn’t want her to have seen it. He was hiding something.

And suddenly, returning to her plans was not quite as important as satisfying her curiosity. And besting this unexpectedly clever stranger.

At least for the moment.

“Perhaps, but I have a feeling you’re going to make some time.” Isabelle snatched back half the siddurim from his arms, clutching them to her chest. “Now show me where these belong, so we can get better acquainted.” She inhaled, her nerves finally calm at the thought of matching wits with this handsome, rather surprising man. “Unfortunately, I find ladies in towers boring. Witches are far more interesting.”

He gawked at her.

She tapped a finger to her chin as if she were considering the matter and not just delighting in keeping him off balance. “Though you storytellers lack imagination. Why are witches always old and ugly? Even if everyone ages, no one comes out of the womb a crone. I can’t imagine anyone with magical powers not using them for aesthetic purposes. I certainly would.”

The man opened his mouth and closed it before making a low, grumbling sound in his throat, his grip tight. She bit her cheek so as not to giggle.

“Yes, I’m sure there are plenty of powerful, young, attractive women running around fairy-tale forests, making all sorts of trouble.” She snapped her fingers. “Come along—you can tell me what you think while we work.”

She smiled to herself, already feeling a great deal more like the ruler she intended to be—like she would be, once she won.

After all, practice made perfect.

Rebalancing his load against his hip, Aaron Ellenberg narrowed his eyes at the stunningly beautiful woman in shimmering blue silk. What was she about? She might talk of witches, but for now, she just seemed meshuggenah.

Did she really not know who he was? Impossible. He glanced around for the gaggle of friends hiding behind a pillar and waiting to witness whatever prank she was about to play—the only reason her set ever bothered with the likes of him. They’d get him all tongue tied and flustered, proving their superior intellect—well, that, or they’d point out a spill that needed his attention.

And yet they were still alone, and she’d not commanded him to clean any additional messes.

“Are you going to tell me why children shouldn’t accept candies and stories from you, or am I going to have to guess?” As she lifted her wrist to adjust her stack, rings and bracelets covered in twinkling stones glinted in the sunlight. A perfect complement to her impossibly white gloves. “I’m good at guessing.”

She stuck out her rather determined chin, her deep red, shiny lips parting. Oy. What was she playing at? She knew his position. No one who attended the Great Synagogue escaped the gossip, told in hushed tones he somehow always managed to overhear: how sad it was, the orphan with neither a head for knowledge nor talent for a trade, with no prospects, and completely dependent on the community’s largesse.

The least valuable among them. Who parents strove to prevent their children from becoming.

Only one step above those who’d left the community altogether. He shuddered at the memories of the brief time he, tired of the whispers and tuts, had attempted that life, rendering himself vulnerable to the far less forgiving gentile streets.

But that was neither here nor there. She was.

And no matter how she flashed her rather charming dimple or how mesmerizing he found her thick, dark lashes, she was not going to force him to say all his failings out loud. He had some dignity.

“And here I believed witches were above menial labor. I’ll have to note that for future stories.” He kicked at the ground, and a new cloud of dust spotted his already filthy boots. A sharp contrast to her shimmery, polished ones. Foolish rain. He’d be sweeping for hours after the sun set. Aaron cracked his already sore knuckles. “Though I didn’t know witches took the form of aspiring toffs.”

“Aspiring?” She cocked her head. “I thought I managed the full effect. I’ll have to go back to my spell book.” She twirled from side to side, skirts lifting even higher to reveal not only her ankles but bits of stockinged legs.

Not that he was staring.

“All the magic in the world couldn’t make you a real toff in the goyim’s eyes.” Even he knew that, despite his lack of brains. The children probably did too.

With her free hand, she loosened her bonnet’s tie, sliding it back. “It’s getting hot.” Shiny sable hair, parted in the center, glistened in the sunlight, begging to be touched. Not that he could. For a hundred different reasons, not including the fact that they were practically in the middle of shul.

“Though you’ve made me curious,” she continued. “Why don’t you think it’s possible to be accepted by them? After all, the Duke of Sussex intends to introduce a new bill in the next session of Parliament, one which would allow us real rights.”

“If it passes, you truly believe they will make you one of them? That when they need you, they won’t secretly hate you? That when you become expendable or when there’s trouble—when their own power wanes, they won’t strip everything away again? Either by their own hand or by feeding you to the mob in their place? After all, nothing unites disparate goyim more than a quest to be ‘saved’ from us.” A familiar occurrence in their history. It was why his parents had fled Trier after Prussia took the city from the French, along with their people’s newly bestowed rights and access to trades.

Her lips twisted in a wry sort of smile. “What if I intend never to become expendable? What if I intend to amass enough power, inside and outside the community, that no one will ever challenge me, out of fear and respect?” Her clear, high voice echoed against the arched ceiling of the empty vestibule. “Well, out of fear—I have no illusions regarding respect.”

He leaned against the wall as stories from his pilfered collection of books—ones for which he’d always been mocked, for their frivolousness, for their uselessness in both study and business—flitted through his mind. Never mind they were the only type he was ever able to understand—or enjoy.

“You solely addressed the easiest scenario, where only the rich goyim turn on you. But even then, you have no guarantees. You can’t always conform to their definition of a ‘good Jew,’ when it changes on a whim. Your power will slip and fade. And then won’t people rise up and slay you?” He grimaced. “So to speak. Obviously they would be more likely to—”

“Exclude and bankrupt me? I’m sure many of them aimed to do just that to my father and my grandfather before him.” She gave an imperious wave of her bejeweled hand, adjusting the stack of siddurim on her hip with her other. “Though with us, ‘expelling’ and killing is never off the table.” Raising a pristine gloved finger, she tapped her chin, drawing attention to her glossy red lips once more. “As it is with witches when they falter—a group of men always bands together and vanquishes them. I’ll have to take that under advisement,” she said, her tone serious but her eyes sparkling.

Was she putting him on? She had to be. Because this was the most ludicrous conversation he’d ever had. Aaron grunted as he lifted the books higher against his chest.

“Bah” was all he managed to say as he turned to the cellar, away from her and whatever trouble came with her type.

“Oh no, you’re not leaving.” A pattering of feet followed him through the dark, squat passages as he began shelving the siddurim. Why would someone like her traipse about where she’d not been asked, demanding his time and energy, if not for some nefarious purpose? Panting, she tore down the last few steps, clutching the siddurim to her chest. “I’m coming with you. I haven’t discovered what you’re hiding yet. Who are you?”

“Someone marriageable girls shouldn’t talk to,” he said, giving his best impression of gruff annoyance, but his tone, instead of frightening her off, only elicited a giggle. Why did she have to see him with the children? It was much easier to play the big bad wolf when one hadn’t been caught giving out candies. Not that he’d ever pulled such a performance off, but there was something about her that made him itch to appear more substantial than he was.

A foolish notion, no doubt. Probably brought on by a flying siddur to the head. He rubbed a tender spot on his brow, opening his mouth to continue, but she was already speaking again.

“It’s a little late for that. We’ve both done quite a bit of talking. A rarity, as my grandmother likes to tell me. I’m often too enamored with the sound of my own voice to let anyone else get a word in, so you should take my pursuit as a compliment.” Her eyes crinkled. “First, I’m three and twenty, hardly a girl. And second, my ‘marriageable’ days will come to a close in mere weeks.” She twisted a loose lock around her finger, almost nervously. “Provided I find the right match.”

A twinge of disappointment wormed through him. Witch, eh? Since when did they blush and stammer at the prospect of some undoubtedly pompous, rich husband? And wasn’t landing one a rather ordinary goal for a witch? Besides, she didn’t seem like the type who’d need much maneuvering for that. He swallowed, looking back down at the siddurim. After all, who wouldn’t want someone so arresting?

“How big is your dowry?” he asked, working to keep his tone aloof.

The question was fair. The money was what actually counted, wasn’t it? The wealthy and beautiful had every option open to them. Goodness or kindness mattered only in stories.

“Large.” She glanced downward, flicking the plethora of jewels on her wrist. One stone could feed a family of eight for a year.

Well, there was his answer.

A bitter lump settled in his gut. “Don’t worry. T. . .