The Loves of Leopold Singer (15 page)

The
holy man
had one hazel eye and one blue. Far from being allowed into the ministry, in Marta’s experience such a person should be shunned for carrying the evil eye. A mottled complexion compounded his unfortunate appearance, as if he had once suffered some kind of pox. How would God see that?

“I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Singer.” Dr. Devilliers nodded. “I don’t know how holy I am, but I do serve the good people of Carleson Peak.” How could someone so odd-looking have so utterly pleasing a smile? It was an enchantment all the more potent being so unexpected.

“And you’ve come all the way to London to speak of robbing me of my daffodils?” Lady Branch said.

“My lady, I thank you for your kind invitation. I’ve also come at Mrs. Carleson’s request. She remains at home in her confinement, and she didn’t wish the squire to travel down to London alone.”

“He’s never come before, though he’s invited every year. How is my dear Mrs. Carleson?”

“She is well, and she sends you her compliments.” Devilliers lowered his voice. “But the squire’s habits have been inconstant of late. Mrs. Carleson is concerned for his health.” At normal volume, he said, “I’m glad of any reason to see you, my lady. I brought a paper on the efficacy of culling bulbs to produce a more abundant flowering.” He withdrew a document from his jacket like newly discovered treasure.

“Is that a fact?” Lady Branch’s eyes twinkled as she reached for the pages. “And you mean to appeal to my appreciation of science?”

“Quite so, madam.”

“I will read your paper, Doctor,” she said. “Come see me in a day or two when I’m returned to The Branch. We’ll determine just how many of my flowers will continue their days at your cottage.”

“It is Car-le-son! Not Karlson, damn you!” A commotion broke out across the room at the billiard table with Squire Carleson waving a cue stick. “Have young people no respect these days?”

“I’d better go to him,” said Devilliers. “Excuse me, my lady. Mrs. Singer, Sir Carey.”

“Poor man,” Lady Branch said when Devilliers was gone.

“Hardly,” said Sir Carey. “Devilliers lives in the best of worlds. He’s the son of an earl and the brother-in-law of a duke. He’s taken a doctorate at Cambridge, lives in a lovely cottage on a fine piece of property, and is welcomed everywhere. Indeed, as their rector he is free to visit any number of ladies and not an eyebrow goes up.”

“And that is what you envy. His free access.”

“I do not deny it, old girl.”

“Still,” the baroness continued, “his is a sad story. And a fourth son, so there you are.”

Sir Carey noted Marta’s puzzled expression. “He and the duchess have three older brothers. He will inherit nothing, barring the plague’s return.”

“The duchess?” Marta said.

“He’s the brother of the Duchess of Gohrum,” said Sir Carey. “Your hostess.”

“Robert is the eldest,” Lady Branch said.

“A buffoon,” Sir Carey yawned.

“Gerard, now he showed more promise.” Lady Branch chuckled. “He was sent to the Carolinas to manage the family plantations. When the Americans claimed independence, Gerard declared himself a patriot, severed ties with the family, and kept the plantations for himself. No better than a damned pirate, if you ask me.”

“Professed his undying love of liberty then called for a counting of his slaves, no doubt.” Sir Carey winked at Marta.

Over Sir Carey’s shoulder, Marta saw Leopold and the duchess join Dr. Devilliers and the squire. The duchess touched Leopold’s elbow as if he were hers.

Lady Branch continued. “The third son—oh, what is his name?”

“Louis.” Sir Carey kept his gaze fixed on Marta. She recognized that look; she had seen it on Oktav Haas, on von Beethoven—even the prince.

“Louis, yes. Now there is a bona fide pirate. He had a first lieutenant’s posting. When his captain and half his ship’s men were slain in battle, Louis escaped with the other half and the vessel to southern waters. They say his crew is now part English and part French, he flies whatever flag is convenient and takes what sails by.”

“He’s never touched the
Maenad
,
” Sir Carey said. “Now I think on it, apart from Robert that generation has ambition.”

“Robert.” Lady Branch went on. “He’s always hated Jordan. Jordan is their mother’s favorite. I think she hoped he would end up in Parliament.”

“He would have been a good man there,” Sir Carey said.

“But he chose the church.” The baroness laughed. “Just as well. He’s bound to be made bishop one day, and Robert will have to call him ‘my Lord’ after all!”

His eyes still fixed on Marta, Sir Carey said, “There appears to be no sadness in your sad tale, my lady.”

“I’m getting to it. At Cambridge, Dr. Devilliers fell in love with Lady Caroline Whitley, the sister of one of his schoolfellows, and the girl returned his affection. When the parents discovered the daughter’s attachment, they shipped her off to Amsterdam.

“Any turn with a Whitley brings disaster.” Sir Carey wrinkled his nose and drank more wine.

“I am fond of Jordan,” Lady Branch said, “but in this he was a fool. No family high or low wishes a second son on their daughter, let alone a fourth. At least with the second, the first might die before he gets an heir.”

“Fie, old girl, you are wicked,” Sir Carey said.

“We are neither of us romantic. Eh, my boy? We see the practical difficulty in providing for a wife of good birth.”

“There’s always the sea.” The baroness winced, but Sir Carey pretended not to notice. “At all events,” he told Marta, “Lady Caroline was lost to everybody. She succumbed to the foul Amsterdam air. Six months into her banishment, she was dead of consumption.”

“A disaster all round.”

“Did I not use just that word?” Sir Carey said.

“The Duke of Gohrum asked Carleson to offer Dr. Devilliers the living at Laurelwood. Of course, it was to the squire’s credit to secure a doctor of divinity for the parish.”

“Devilliers is happy enough.”

“Today he is happy enough. At the time we feared for our fine new rector.”

“Mrs. Carleson brought him round,” Sir Carey said, a slight catch in his voice. “She speaks more to him than to … to her husband. And he’s not quite a mere parson. It’s a good living, my lady, even without your frequent presents.”

“My dear friend Mrs. Carleson came up with so many good works for him to perform, he eventually began to see out both colors of his eyes again.” Lady Branch chuckled at her own joke and rose. “I will just go and see if he wants anything for the squire.”

Sir Carey returned to the Fuseli painting. “Sometimes I feel as though I myself were a succubus.” As if the last long conversation had not happened. As if this was a practiced speech he had no trouble picking it up again. “I understand the thirst in the little monster. Like him, I am sure I will be sated only by conquering what innocence I find in the world.”

“Oh.” With a sinking feeling, Marta watched Lady Branch walk away. Even another story about someone she didn’t know was preferable to this. Before the baroness reached the cleric, she stopped and spoke to Leopold and the duchess. Lady Branch moved on, and the duchess whispered in Leopold’s ear. They both laughed. With a flirtatious tilt of her head, her grace walked away from Leopold, and he followed her from the hall.

“No doubt they’ll return in half an hour.” Sir Carey also watched the pair slip away. “Or what time he takes.”

Marta rose to her feet. “I must…”

“Come, m’dear.” Sir Carey touched her elbow and led her out of the hall. “A little fresh air will do you good.”

Anger with Leopold mixed with the effects of too much claret and the sensation of another man’s hand at her elbow. She let Sir Carey take her outside to a tiled veranda.

“You must experience the night jasmine and honeysuckle. An English garden is far superior to those of the French. We let wild nature erupt in our gardens, don’t you know?”

The talk of gardens calmed her. He was harmless, just a fop. He guided her beyond the tiles and down a trail bordered by organized wild flowers. The afternoon shower had cleared the air and the night air was sultry. The gathering had taken on a giddy feel.

“It feels as if everyone here is exhausted,” she said.

“They are,” Sir Carey said. “Depleted. Amazed to have survived another season without being ruined. Now they just want to get out of town, escape the foul air, the politics, the gambling.”

“Is that what you want, Sir Carey?” If Leopold could flirt with the duchess, Marta could flirt with Sir Carey. Apparently this was how refined people were supposed to act.

“All I want to do is laugh, m’dear.”

“There is Venus.” She looked up to the night sky. “So close to the moon they could kiss.” It was becoming too dangerous. She felt she really could let this slippery, arrogant man kiss her. She wanted to punish Leopold, but it was more than that.

That painting haunted her still. The creature on that canvas had seemed to speak to her, an embodiment of desire hovering over the sleeping woman. And who was Sir Carey to her? A knight errant with a chaste offering of wine and the scent of honeysuckle, or a daemon come to sit on her chest and drink her life’s blood?

Why had Leopold brought her to England to witness his affection for the duchess? He must have been desperate to see her one last time. They might even now be locked in an embrace, exchanging passionate farewell kisses—or worse.

“Yes, they could kiss.” Sir Carey whispered into her ear from behind her. His arms circled her waist. “If only the star dare approach
la lune
.”

He kissed her neck, and she felt his hand on her breast. Before she could protest, his other hand clamped over her mouth. Her little flirtatious fear turned to terror. Sir Carey pressed her against a hedge loaded with blooming night jasmine. The fragrance enveloped her.

“Oh!”

“No one will hear you, m’dear. Quite unforgivable of me to lead you so far from the others.” He pushed her face further into the vines and lifted the back of her dress. He spread her legs with a practiced knee and entered her from behind.

“Leopold!”

“Scream,” he hissed. “It increases my pleasure.”

This quieted her out of spite. It was too late anyway. He was inside her, rutting. He finished quickly and pulled away. She vomited with revulsion as he himself back inside his breeches. Still bent over the flowers, she sobbed softly.

“Yes, cry. Tell yourself you were taken unaware, and forget you paraded before me and practically begged for it. You disgust me.”

She twisted and lunged with rage, clawed at his clothing in a grotesque attempt to hurt him, but she only tore open his blouse. “Oh.” She stepped back. On Sir Carey’s chest just above his right nipple was a strawberry-red birthmark, nearly heart-shaped. “A heart.” She uttered a crazed laugh.

The sound of giggling girls echoed from the other side of the foliage.

“Silly woman,” Sir Carey hissed. “Do you
want
everyone to know what you’ve been doing in the honeysuckle? I recommend you compose yourself.”

“It’s jasmine,” she said.

With a few deft movements, Sir Carey worked his cravat into a knot to hide the tear in the fabric and walked away from his victim.

“There you are, Sir Carey!”

“We’ve been looking for you!”

Two young girls on the veranda called the monster to them. Marta watched through the jasmine. She heard them perfectly. “Squire Carleson has challenged you to billiards!”

“Excellent.” Sir Carey was composed and jovial. As if nothing had just happened. “If only I could get him to wager Laurelwood.” The girls each grabbed a hand and pulled him inside, debating whether to wager for or against their catch.

-oOo-

Sir Carey was diverted from the billiards challenge by Millie’s valet. The duke and Leopold Singer requested his presence in the library for a private meeting.

“We’ve been introduced.” Sir Carey bowed to Millie had gave Singer a curt nod. “At Gohrum House two years ago.”

The son had proved no different than the father had been, ever ready to spend the
Maenad
’s profits on men and maintenance. There was nothing more insufferable than the high morality of the middle class. Inwardly, Sir Carey smirked at the thought of Mrs. Singer debauched in the
jasmine
.

Over the years he’d made a good penny on his quarter interest in the
Maenad
,
but because of Augustin Singer’s bourgeois integrity, it was a far lower sum than it should have been. It was going to be amusing to watch Singer’s reaction when Delia exposed his wife.

“Lay it out,” the duke said to Singer.

“It’s just this,” Singer said. “As you know, I am emigrating to America and don’t expect to return. I stopped in London because I wanted to speak to you personally about this matter. I propose we end our partnership in the
Maenad
.”

“We had your letter,” said the duke. “And Sir Carey and I are both agreeable. The question is how much will you want for her.”