The Loves of Leopold Singer (19 page)

“No. Grim is the one.” She jerked her head up, her eyes rimmed with tears. “I will see him today.”

When Ezekiel Shermer first came into the valley in July 1660, the last thing he meant to do was found a town. He’d abandoned organized society in general and Boston in particular after the fathers of that town saw fit to hang Mary Dyer for the crime of being a Quaker. Ezekiel had loaded his tools into his wagon and drove west until he saw this valley populated by oak and ash, bordered by foothills on the north and east and a river on the west. He had stopped to rest his horse under an ancient oak whose limbs spread over the river. He stayed there for the rest of his life.

He set up his wheelwright shop under that tree, and custom came to him. The blacksmith who supplied his iron hoops was somewhat of a freethinker, and he soon moved his works “out to Shermer Landing” to escape the righteous Boston air. More people came and stayed, and soon enough God came too. The very Congregational Church that would see George Grim in its pulpit was built in 1685, and Ezekiel Shermer suffered its existence pitifully.

By 1715 the hamlet had grown to more than 500 residents and a second church. A fine boulevard connected the two houses of God, completed just before Shermer died. He suggested the street’s name: Taenarus Boulevard. Years later, a scholar passing through pointed out that Taenarus was the mythological gate to hell.

Grim’s church anchored one end of this thoroughfare. Sunlight splashed over its white walls. Its steeple ascended toward heaven in three straightforward, tapered sections. The town green south of the church had a grandstand and a statue of Ezekiel Shermer at its center. On the north, a small house contained the large Reverend Grim and his negligible wife.

At its front door, Marta put a hand on Leopold’s chest. “Wait for me?”

“You’re not going in there alone.”

“Have a little faith, Mr. Singer.” She disappeared into the parsonage.

Leopold decided that, whatever happened in the interview with Grim, he and Marta would visit the Unitarian church next Sunday. He didn’t like Grim. The fellow was too dark, too full of bleak judgment. Children died, a fact of life. Often, one didn’t know why. But Marta was taking it too hard, as if she had become a shade along with Obadiah. Surely the best cure was to get her with child again.

He was plagued by anxiety on that score. All around were signs of sex. The animals on the farm, Gisela Zehetner’s obvious condition—even the daffodils burst out in a charge along the drive to his front door, and their gusto mocked his inactivity. He wanted to grab hold of Marta and worship her body in celebration of his good life. But there was no worshiping a rag doll drained of joy. If only they could recapture the intimacy they had shared that last night in London.

George Grim nearly knocked his wife over as she offered Mrs. Singer tea. Mrs. Grim was so small and such a nothing that he often didn’t see her.

“Please don’t trouble,” said Mrs. Singer, graciousness itself. She was even more beautiful so close and so sad.

“Nonsense,” George said. “Of course Mrs. Grim will send in tea.” His massive hand trembled on Marta’s shoulder. “Come with me, child.” After he said that, he realized she must be close to his same age.

The sitting room was furnished with a desk and chair and a short sofa. In the small vegetable garden visible outside the window, early peas were in bloom. Grim sat with Marta on the sofa. Their knees nearly touched, and he held her small hands. “Have you come to ask God’s guidance in your sorrow?”

“I have been thinking about the death of my son.”

“But have you been
praying
on it?”

“I believe I have.”

The odd response stopped him for a moment. “And has God answered your prayers?”

“Obadiah was such a sweet angel.”

“The great Jonathan Edwards himself has assured us that children are young vipers, infinitely more hateful than vipers in the sight of…” His great voice filled the small room, but her wide-eyed reaction stopped him. It was physically painful to see such distress blight her loveliness. “But I recall Obadiah, and he was a sweet infant.”

He had never said anything so kind, and the effect amazed him. A torrent of penitential liquid gushed from the pitiful woman’s eyes, and he was compelled to pat her hand. Did these sweet feelings flow as part of his ministering duty? He knew they did not. With all his heart and with all his soul, he longed to kiss her soft, pink fingers.

“I am to blame.” Marta sobbed through tears and phlegm. “God punished me for my pride. This morning, I saw things clearly. I was with my kind husband, my dearest friend who deserves a wife not suffocated by grief.”

“It is a sin of pride to attach to our grief. That is true.” He felt begrudging kinship with Mr. Singer. His own wife lingered in her suspended state and was a trial to him. And yet the loss of that wilting leaf would be nothing compared to the loss of this exquisite flower.

“When the farm was looking so fine and I was with child, I was proud. When I saw little Obadiah, I thought I was the happiest of women.”
 

Why do I lie?
Marta thought.
My real sin is that I am as wicked as Bathsheba.

“I never once thanked God. I blessed my husband for his strength and goodness. I blessed the patriots for making this free country. I congratulated myself on my own labors.”

That much is true. And I blessed the Queen of Heaven.

“When you gave the benediction at The Farm that day, I knew that in my happiness I had forgotten God. He took Obadiah because I’m not worthy. I am wretched. Sinful.”

He took Obadiah because I prayed to a bronze idol.

Grim felt paralyzed by this manifestation of spiritual agony. Mrs. Singer was married to the wrong man. If the world were just, Grim would have the right to caress her cheek and kiss her forehead. He would pet her and reassure her. He most violently wished to fill her with his own seed and watch her grow with it. He squeezed her hands and prayed silently,
Lord, steady me. Help me guide this woman, and do give me continence.

“My dear Mrs. Singer, no one is worthy. Else what would be the meaning of God’s grace? Do you imagine for one moment that you, a wretched sinner, could earn anything from Him?” He let loose his big voice, for his protection more than for her good. “Lord, drive all wretchedness from this woman your daughter. Open her to your purpose.”

Marta felt split in two. She was Marta Singer who lived in the world, baked bread, loved her husband, and might be forgiven. She was also Marta Schonreden, who lived in dark places, who had placed herself in the way of a seducer, been ravaged, borne a tainted child which died. That woman didn’t deserve and could never again receive grace from any quarter.

“Oh, Lord! Hear our prayer,” Grim rolled on. “Make Your face to shine upon our sister in her distress. Soften her sorrow with the assurance that little Obadiah is an angel at Your side, even now, in Your glorious heaven.”

Yes! Heaven was the rock in this tempest, a hope she’d not considered, and she leapt upon it.
Accept Obadiah, God. Do not punish him for my sin.
She had forgotten heaven!

“Let Your daughter in Christ feel the comfort in Your outstretched hand. Let her gather strength from the well of your love as she has repented her sin of pride and shown sincere contrition.”

I do repent my sin of pride. Yes, I must forget. I will forget.

“Enfold her in the blanket of Your loving embrace and return her to the earthly embrace of her good and godly husband.”

About this last, Grim was not so enthusiastic, but there was no arguing against God’s favor. Leopold Singer bore every sign of it. His wealth, his manly good looks and easy way with people—even his amazing fortune in such a bride proved he must be one of the elect.

“I have not been at peace for so long,” Mrs. Singer said.

George often suspected he had made a mistake, that perhaps his true destiny had been the smithy where he had been put in the first place. But with Mrs. Singer’s words he felt his usefulness. He was glad for his calling. With all his heart, he renewed his commitment to his vocation.

Flushed with success, he followed Mrs. Singer outside where Leopold Singer sprang from his carriage with the irritating grace of a panther. “The Lord has been good to us this day, Mr. Singer,” Grim announced. He wouldn’t let the man put him off. Mrs. Singer’s recovery was powerful testimony to his ministry, and he swelled with satisfaction, which he in no way associated with pride.

On the way home, when Marta rested her hand on Leopold’s thigh, he said, “I have new regard for Grim’s spiritual powers.”

But it was no good. All the feeling of renewal had fallen away in the instant she emerged to Leopold’s anxious expression. She felt him warm to her, and she knew he would want her when they reached home. She was trying. She did feel better to think Obadiah was saved. The carriage rolled on through the sunshine, but she slipped back into the darkness.

Leopold didn’t care that it was midday. As soon as they reached the farm, he led Marta upstairs. He kissed her, ignoring her unconvincing half-smile. He inwardly cursed Grim, and he felt irritated by Marta’s passivity. He undressed her nonetheless. The physical act would awaken her. He would pour life, his own life, into her apathetic form. He would love her, and she would love him in return. He would make her be happy.

Susan Gray and Matthew Peter accompanied the Singers to the magnificent new West India docks. They meant to help with the luggage but were made instantly redundant as the
Maenad’s
crewmen swarmed over the stowage and hauled it onto the ship, leaving the lubbers to stare, mute and amazed.

“Thank you, Gray,” Mrs. Singer said. A breeze played with loose strands of her uncovered hair, and her eyes were like green hills in sunlight. She seemed sad, drawn into herself. “Thank you for everything.” She handed Susan a gratuity in an embroidered silk purse that alone was too fine a gift.

Susan thought,
and now two quid from his wife
.

Mrs. Singer joined Leopold on the gangway. He touched his lips to her forehead and never looked back to the dock where Susan stood. She wanted to hate Marta Singer, but where was the fault in simply having been chosen? She could tell that Leopold loved his wife. And Susan had made her choice, too. Already, there was a change in that tender lump of pain that lived in her breast. It was cooling, becoming a hard emotionless knot.

This ship was about to take Leopold Singer away from her forever, and she would do him the greatest violence possible: she would forget him.

“Those Jack-tars are admirable men. They’ve saved us an hour,” Matthew Peter said. “Let’s walk a bit before getting back to the ‘manse,’ as you call it.” He smiled at her the way Leopold had smiled at his wife.

Was there something to be said for love itself, wherever it might come from? She pressed Matthew Peter’s forearm tenderly. There was no thrill in the connection, but she would make herself love him yet. “We had better go back,” she said. “The duchess wants the carriage for morning calls.”

The Gohrum House kitchen was in a state. Amy, the latest girl assigned to bring the duke his coffee, had left her position without notice, and there was gleeful speculation as to the details of her disgrace. Susan felt oppressed by the pettiness of her world. Servants’ gossip and a few hours of freedom every two weeks seemed all she had to look forward to.

“Miss Gray, might I have a word?” Mr. Peter said.

Susan inwardly groaned. Now that the Singers were gone, the duchess had likely devised some fresh torment for her. She should follow Amy and leave Gohrum House, but she caught Matthew Peter looking at her with such compassion that her heart did soften, a little. He was a good man.

“You’re to be under-housekeeper again,” Mr. Peter said. “This comes from his grace, himself.” That settled things. She couldn’t repay the duke’s kindness by walking away.

She and Matthew Peter went on in a kind of stasis for days, weeks, and seasons, until a year and a half just slipped away. He nearly did propose marriage once, but she got away from him before he could get the words out. After much time and no further mention, he seemed to have changed his mind about her. She suffered the duchess’s little tortures and thought of Leopold less and less.

Then the duke’s latest maid Cecily went the way of all the duke’s maids.

Their graces returned from Millam Hall, and the downstairs was busy with kitchen maids chopping and kneading and footmen polishing silver and counting plate. The duchess herself came down to the kitchen and cast her cold gaze over them all.

“Gray,” she said. The raucous clanging and banging stopped. “You will take Cecily’s place with the duke,” she said. “Someone with your experience might be better suited to this task.” She said
experience
with a sarcastic twist.

That afternoon, Susan picked up the duke’s tray in the kitchen. There were two cups. “There you have it,” Cook said. “He likes his coffee with company, if you know what I mean.”

“Susan.” Matthew Peter touched her elbow.

“Don’t say a word or I swear I’ll cry.”