The Loves of Leopold Singer

1796, Carleson Peak

Mama was missing again. While Susan was in the kitchen consulting about the evening meal, she must have slipped away from her maid. Likely she was already deep into the woods west of Millam Cottage. Susan passed her hat and gloves left on the front hall table after church, and rushed out the front door.

She followed the path into the trees Mama had worn over the years. A breeze played on Susan’s face like a cat’s paw, cold for early autumn, and she picked up her pace. Mama was frail enough. It wouldn’t do if she caught a chill.

A faint sigh carried on the wind, and Susan stopped to listen. Sometimes Mama sang when she danced through the trees in her search for the white lady, but it was only the wind in the branches overhead.

When Susan was a little girl, she believed in the magical creature of Mama’s imagination: a noble fairy queen who stole human babies from their nurseries, leaving whorls of oak in exchange beneath their blankets. Mama’s fascination with the white lady was bewildering—until Susan grew up and realized Mama was not quite right in the head.

The white lady had long ceased to be a romantic figure and had become instead the harbinger of Susan's fate: to be housekeeper for a busy father and nursemaid to a wretched, delusional mother. Susan wouldn’t marry. She would never know a man’s love.

She didn’t mind. She really didn’t. Better to answer to a kind papa than a cruel husband.

A line of stamped-down wild grass ran off the path past a fine large ash. “Ah,” Susan said aloud. “I’ve found you now.”

“I didn’t know you were looking.” The voice from the other side of the tree was a low baritone, definitely not Mama’s.

“Oh.” Susan struggled to suppress her delight. “It’s you.”

Morgan Baker sat on the ground leaning against the tree, one long leg stretched out straight and the other bent, a novel balanced on his knee. His hat lay on the ground beside him, and he peered up at her through wild blond curls.

“Yes.” A broad smile spread over his face, and his blue eyes lit up. “It’s me.”

Her heart leapt into her throat, as it did every time she saw the brilliant young engineer who worked for Papa. He dropped the book and jumped to his feet. Without words he took her into his arms and pressed her close, one arm around her waist and a large hand on the back of her neck.

“I’m looking for Mama,” she protested, but without much vigor.

Mr. Baker put his finger to her lips and looked into her eyes. His gaze dashed past her heart to her very soul. This was madness. She should be angry at his impudence. She should stay away from the bold, brash man who’d come into all their lives like a whirlwind, impressing her father with his knowledge and skill and thrilling Susan with…with his impudence.

“I just spoke with Mrs. Gray.” He let go of her neck and lifted her hand to his lips. Oh, why hadn’t she worn her gloves? “Not ten minutes ago. She’s surely returned to Millam Cottage by now.”

“I’m so relieved.” The words came out in a whisper as Mr. Baker’s lips caressed the back of Susan's hand. A fire spread up her arm and over her body. She should stop him. Pull away. Say something to show how him furious she was. If only she were furious.

“Oh, Susan.” His voice broke, deep and tender. “You weren’t meant to be someone’s daughter. You were meant to be someone’s woman.”

Woman
, not
lady.
She pushed the word out of her mind as Morgan’s mouth found hers. He opened the top button on her dress, and she didn’t resist. She was twenty-one and still a maid. The only kisses she’d ever experienced were those she read about in books. He opened another button and another. When he kissed her neck his long hair brushed over her throat and raised chill bumps on her skin.

He pressed her against the tree. Her arms hung useless at her sides as if she’d lost her mind. Perhaps she’d been enchanted by the white lady. She denied him nothing.

And he took everything.

“I am ruined,” she said afterwards. She should be devastated—and she was. But she wasn’t sorry. She was twenty-one years old. Other girls she knew had been married four, five, even six years. Already had more than one child.
Married
was the operative word. What was wrong with her? “I’m a...a…”

“A slut?” Morgan said.

The word hit like a slap across the face, but there was a twinkle in Morgan’s eye. “My love, our feelings are transcendent. You’re beautiful and pure. What we have is more powerful than social custom. You could never be a slut.”

He was wrong. As he put her buttons back together, she watched his fingers make quick work over her breasts. All she could think was that she wanted him to take her again.

“Nevertheless,” he said. “I want to make you mine forever. Properly. I have to go to Manchester on the afternoon coach. When I return Saturday, I’ll speak to Mr. Gray.”

All week she could barely keep her composure. Her feet never touched the ground. She was reborn. Morgan loved her. She smiled for no reason. But there was a reason. Soon the world would call her Mrs. Morgan Baker. They could announce their engagement at The Branch harvest ball, as Morgan had been invited as Papa’s guest. She couldn’t wait to be in his arms again.

Morgan worked with Papa on the duke’s canal. His trip to Manchester was to do with the canal lock mechanism. Papa had said boat lift was giving the navvies fits, and they needed a replacement part. It made her happy and proud to know Papa appreciated Morgan’s abilities.

From the beginning, she’d treasured Morgan Baker’s visits to Millam Cottage—mostly for his informed conversation, but it didn’t hurt that he had broad shoulders, a ready smile, and blond curls that fell over his bright blue eyes. Company was rare in the Gray household, and that first evening she hadn’t thought to leave the gentlemen alone with their brandy and cigars.