The Loves of Leopold Singer (23 page)

The duke stood up, and everyone started to join him. “Sit, my friends, sit,” he said. “On this best of occasions, we celebrate the marriage of our two dear friends. It is with great pleasure that I raise my glass to Sir Carey and Lady Asher. To the happy couple!” It was a genial party and a beautiful day, most auspicious for new beginnings.

Jordan took his seat at the table. “This is a pleasant domestic picture.”

Sir Carey nodded. “Thank you for your promise to stop in to see little Geordie while we’re gone and to watch out for Mrs. Peter.”

“I am not little!” Geordie murmured.

“Of course not, my boy. My mistake.”

“You must dine at Laurelwood every day,” said Elizabeth. “I am sure your company will do Mrs. Peter good. And you will be well fed; Mrs. Johns has done wonders with the kitchen.”

After all, he adored Elizabeth’s short hair. It was a tragedy to let it grow. She wasn’t at all like other women, and she shouldn’t make herself look like other women. “We shall have a splendid time, Geordie and I. He can ride with me on my calls.”

He looked for the wine steward and noticed Mrs. Peter. Her eyes were closed, and her brows knit together. He thought she might be crying. He excused himself to go to her.

“Are you unwell, my dear? Is there something I can do for you?”

“To the happy couple,” she said, so melancholic that his heart broke all over again. “I
am
Mrs. Peter. Matthew Peter is dead.”

-oOo-

Susan improved in body, but not in mind. These people had such a good opinion of her, and it was so very much unwarranted. She had married Matthew Peter to her own selfish purpose. She’d never thought of his happiness, and now he was dead. It was as if she had killed him herself.

“If you are feeling well enough today, Mrs. Peter,” Dr. Devilliers said one afternoon, “I could drive you to Millam to visit your brother.”

For a moment, she didn’t understand that he was speaking to her. “I’m sorry. I still don’t think of myself as ‘Mrs. Peter.’ I wasn’t married for more than a few hours, you know.”

“Madam,” he said gently. “It’s no great thing to carry misery in your heart. Here I speak as your clergyman, which I expect I am, now.” His smile was like a gift. “Of course you’re devastated to lose your husband before your life together had even begun. But life does go on. The world goes on. And we must live in the world we’re given.”

“The world we’re given.”

“I’ll stop my lecture now. Come! You are recovering, it’s a beautiful June day, and you have a brother who would like to see that you are mending. Shall we not go?”

“Me go too!” Geordie ran into the room, raising his arms to be picked up.
 

“Yes, Geordie, you’ll be our chaperon.”

Susan knew Dr. Devilliers didn’t really see her in the way a chaperon was required. They had been properly introduced during her illness, and he had been attentive and kind, but he was attentive and kind to everyone. Still the damage had been done. Truly against her will, in the space where she usually thought of Leopold Singer, Dr. Devilliers had slipped in.

It was just as inappropriate, and it hurt in the same way, if not to the same degree. She was to be Laurelwood’s housekeeper, and her marriage of a few hours had lowered her position further. She was an underbutler’s widow. At any rate, she was in mourning, guard enough against their being anything more than friends.

“Yes, let’s do go.”

They squashed up in Dr. Devilliers’s curricle with Geordie happy in the middle, grasping a bunch of carrots. It was a sunny, clear day. In the fields new lambs fell over each other playing in the sunshine. The party stopped along the way so Geordie could feed his carrots to a colt.

Life began to lose its dreamlike feel. Matthew Peter’s dark ghost couldn’t hold its shape against all this sunshine. Dr. Devilliers was right, the living must live. “I spoke with Mrs. Johns this morning,” she said. “She didn’t say it straight out, but I believe she is eager for me to take on my duties.”

“She will be grateful, I’m sure,” he said.

It had been a lovely daydream to think of Dr. Devilliers, but Susan was awake now.

Sir Carey and his bride went to the wild north coast for their wedding journey of two weeks. He could hardly get her to agree to that length of time. They spent a mere two days with her family. Her father was a boor and a bully and far too impressed by Sir Carey’s title. He made sure the man called Elizabeth “my lady” often.

The trip had all the appearances of a success. They made plans for more improvements to Laurelwood and to fix the roof at the rectory. They discussed their routine
vis-a-vis
his trips to London during Parliament. They bought gifts for Aunt Philly and Geordie and a book of Hindoo tales for Dr. Devilliers. For Mrs. Peter, Elizabeth bought a turban of black satin and velvet with jet beads sewn into the folds.

“That’s rather an elegant gift for a housekeeper,” Sir Carey said.

“Perhaps. But the duke cares for her. And I must say, so do I. Besides, Laurelwood has been desperate for an honest and competent housekeeper, and you had the bad taste to not come with an unmarried sister.”

“With my people, an unmarried sister would end up a baroness.”

“At all events, I hope Mrs. Peter will be happy with us.”

They made a handsome couple. He was of course stylish perfection, and she had the kind of beauty which radiated outward from her grounded nature. Sir Carey was happy in all things but one. He felt inadequate in the bedroom, with the one charm he had brought to the marriage beyond his landless title. On returning to Laurelwood, he felt the disappointment hanging unexplored between them was mutual.

It was only seven o’clock, but the August sky was dark with clouds. Geordie had come for his evening visit and gone away again to bed. Elizabeth sipped warm milk sweetened with honey from Laurelwood’s own hives, but it gave her no comfort. Sir Carey read a book beside the fire while she made the day’s entries in the household accounts.
 

Day or night, the marriage was not going well, and when her husband came to her bed, she often closed her eyes and saw another man. She feared she might call out Jordan Devilliers’ name in the midst of it all. The predicament was bewildering. Squire Carleson had enjoyed her body and had been highly put out when denied it. She knew Dr. Devilliers desired her. Sir Carey had most assuredly desired her—until he had her.

He was a good husband, and a good father to her son. She admired his dedication to the Slave Bill, and she was grateful for the attentions he paid to Geordie. Somehow she had failed to please him. Though he insisted otherwise, she felt that he resented her management of the estate, but to give it up was impossible; she would not do it.

“Mrs. Peter wrote to me today. She’s ready to return from her brother’s house and assume her duties,” Elizabeth said. “I wish I understood the duke’s interest in her. He took no notice of her at the wedding.”

“I cannot tell you who she is,” Sir Carey said, not looking up. “But she was with Gohrum for years. Someone’s relation, I think.”

What a pleasure to have a conversation free of barely suppressed resentment. She’d like to kiss his cheek or offer an endearment, but she would be rebuffed. It was no good. She couldn’t think, and the storm began to crackle and rumble outside. She put away the journal and picked up the lamp. “I’m going up. Good night, my dear.”

Sir Carey had never given thought to a woman’s pleasure. The fair creatures had always been glad of his company. He resented the pressure he now felt to please his wife, frustration made worse by the sense he was superfluous. Elizabeth ran Laurelwood with manly competence, even if she pretended to defer to him as she issued orders. “Is that correct, Sir Carey?” she would ask. “Do you approve, my dear?” But his response was mere formality.

He lost interest in the correspondence on his lap. Elizabeth insulted him, going over the accounts for all to see, and now she was gone to bed alone as she had done every night since their return to Laurelwood. But not tonight. He had rights.

He traversed the stairs in threes, lit by the flash of lightning, and entered her room just as she placed the lamp on a bedside table. “You!” He grabbed her wrist and twisted it, pulling her close. She made a small sound of pain, and he was pleased to see the shock on her face. “You mock me in front of the household, doing a man’s work, with no care for your position or mine.”

“Sir Carey, I…”

“Don’t speak.”

“My dear, if I have offended…”

“
My
dear, when I say do not speak, that is what I mean. I suppose I shall have to teach you a lesson.” She remained silent. “Better,” he said. “But I see that I cannot trust you.” He pulled a cord from the bed curtains and bound her wrists to the bedpost above. What was he doing? He felt reckless, powerful.
 

Elizabeth was motionless. From her father, she had learned that reason only inflamed irrational rage. When Sir Carey sat down, she saw he was aroused. Strangely, this excited her. She was only a little afraid. He was no brute. She mostly felt a bizarre curiosity. For a few minutes, he only looked at her. Then he knelt on the floor and buried his face against her stomach, running his hands up to her breasts over her thin muslin gown, making her feel naked.

Without a word, he untied her and undressed her, kissing her neck and biting her earlobe. He put her at the edge of the bed and knelt before her and played with her breasts, then put a hand between her legs. She was humiliated and yet set aflame. When he put his mouth on her, she was overwhelmed by shame and pleasure. His tongue and his fingers explored unspeakable places, and she moaned.

“Now I shall punish you for making a sound,” he said. He placed her face down on the bed and came into her from behind. She felt like an animal. His animal. She was his object. He could do anything to her, and it would only make her more his own. He covered her back with kisses, and she no longer existed apart from him, her far-away moan an odd variation of her own voice.

She shivered, though they were both sweating. He shuddered inside her and collapsed upon her. She cried a little, silently, from a kind of relief; she felt so oddly happy. They fell asleep above the bedclothes with the curtains still open, serenaded by the summer storm.

Night gave way to morning, outlines of the world of things just becoming visible. Sir Carey heard noises from somewhere in the house, the small sounds of the lowest maids who rose hours before anyone else to light the fires and open the curtains to the new day. He pulled up the blankets and gathered Elizabeth into his arms, taking care not to wake her. Of all he had ever longed for, he had not thought to want this. He had not known it was possible.

Elizabeth met Dr. Devilliers and Mrs. Peter at the door, as eager to see the rector as to receive her housekeeper at last. Her feelings were entirely churned up by last night’s lovemaking. She felt bound to Sir Carey in a new way, excited to think of the night to come, and yet she still cared for Devilliers. In fact, as she watched him hand Mrs. Peter out of his curricle, she resented it that they should find it necessary to touch each other. She was disappointed when he didn’t stay for tea.

“My lady,” said Mrs. Peter. “You’re very kind to keep the position for me. I had thought I might stay with my brother and his family, but it wouldn’t do.”

“I’m the fortunate one.” Elizabeth withdrew two leather notebooks from her desk, one blank and one stuffed with loose papers and tied up with a leather cord. “The larger estate consumes so much of my time that I neglect the housekeeping. Shocking to admit, but there it is. Mrs. Johns does her best, but the kitchen is her true province and more than enough work for her. She was not made for these things.”

Mrs. Peter didn’t offer why it wouldn’t do to stay with her brother, and Elizabeth did not ask. She would hate to live with her own brother. Thomas had become the silly and self-indulgent rascal their mother and uncle warned against. Elizabeth’s mother had said that Thomas took no interest in the ironworks. He lived in London and borrowed against his expectations, and had been delighted when their grandfather died. He wasn’t married. Mama had said he was holding out for an advantageous union. Elizabeth suspected that any woman in a position to improve him wouldn’t have him.

“Here are the keys,” Elizabeth handed Mrs. Peter the chatelaine and the two notebooks. “And a new memorandum book for you. This one I have kept. You’ll have your own manner of doing things, of course. My pocket memorandum is merely for your information.”

This was her record of everything to do with the household, from how many flitches of bacon were on hand to the details of the servants’ contracts, what taxes had to be paid, a list of day servants who might be available to supplement the labors of the seven who lived in, and countless other details incidental to running an efficient and comfortable household.