The Loves of Leopold Singer (40 page)

“Ma’am.” Yet another man tipped his hat as they walked by and took his sweet time looking away. For the first time, it struck Eleanor that her mother was beautiful. She saw the admiration and even wonder on the faces of those who passed them, both men and women. It was unsettling.

Screams on the street ahead mixed with boisterous laughter. Some horrid boys were tossing pigs onto the pathways of ladies walking to the Market. A piglet landed at Eleanor’s feet, squealed as it righted itself, and scampered off.

“Oh, no.” said a familiar voice.

“Jonathan Zehetner, Jr.!” Marta said. “Does your father know what you are about? Are you not a bit old for these games?” Eleanor laughed behind her glove. Wasn’t it just like a parent to say you are too old for one thing but not old enough for another.

“I apologize, Aunt Marta, Ellie—Eleanor—Miss Singer. I was trying to catch the pig, truly. We’re taking a load to the docks today.”

“The shipment to Liverpool. Well, get on with your business.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Jonnie, would you like to ride home with us?” Eleanor made the offer more to tease her mother than to offer any kindness to her friend.

“Thank you, Miss Singer. I’m with my father. But I appreciate the offer.”

They parted.
Soon, Jonnie
, Eleanor thought.
But not yet
. And he really must leave off calling her Miss Singer.

They found the haberdasher and easily agreed on a full-length coat of dark green wool with simple lines. As Marta made the purchase, the shopkeeper said, “Excuse me, Madam. I couldn’t help but notice your boots. I’m looking for a line just like that. Do you know how I might contact the maker?”

“My husband makes them as a hobby only.”

“More is the pity,” he smiled. “Such talent limited to a fortunate few.”

“I will give my husband your review. He’ll be quite puffed up.”

Back on the street, Eleanor said, “My one sorrow is that my boots pinch my huge feet now. I won’t be able to take them to school with me.”

-oOo-

All the Zehetners who were home came to Eleanor’s going-away dinner. When Mr. Zehetner gave her a hug she started to cry. “It feels like I'm going to London, and not a mere seven miles.”

“How was Boston?” Mrs. Zehetner asked.

“We saw so much! There was a whipping post and pillory in the Common. But no ne’er-do-wells were in them.”

“Oh, dwat!” Harry joked, using one of the household’s favorite phrases.

“The docks were so romantic. Seagulls flew every which way, and pelicans, too. And the smell of fish was disgusting. God’s grace, I don’t know how Josef can stand to be at sea with that smell!”

“I don’t think it smells so bad once you get out of port,” Jonnie said.

“The last time I saw a whipping post was back in ‘17 in Connecticut,” her father said. “Your mother was with me. Do you remember, Mrs. Singer?”

“I do.”

“There were two rascals tied to it. As we came upon the scene, the sheriff had finished lashing the second offender. What came after was the worst of it.”

“I have never forgotten it.” Mama shuddered.

“The preacher gave a great lamentation over the wayward natures of the two scoundrels, and then the sheriff poured whiskey over the wounds raised by the whipping. Those men were in agony. But what do you think? Neither let one sound emerge from his terrorized body. Each wore a look of bitter hatred. I wouldn’t be surprised if the punishment had the opposite effect of its intention.”

Eleanor admired her father’s sense of injustice. He was so transcendental.

When the dinner had been eaten and everyone was served with cake and coffee, Leopold rose in his most solemn speechifying manner. Harry nudged Eleanor’s ribs and motioned toward Jonnie, whose face was tragic. She rolled her eyes. Only a few days ago, she would have teased him without mercy. But now she was frozen in her chair. Did love ruin friendship?

“Friends and family,” Leopold began. “In the last several years, I have had the great pleasure of seeing my two sons, Samuel and Harry, off to Harvard. Tonight, with equal pride I bid farewell to my only daughter, Eleanor, who sets off on her own educational adventure. We will miss your sweet disposition and diligent assistance every day that you are away.”

“To Ellie—Eleanor—to Miss Singer!” Jonnie sputtered. His discomfort brought on the jeers of Harry and Samuel who shared a look. They knew which way the wind blew.

“When my sons went off to school,” Leopold regained the floor, “their mother and I outfitted them with new suits of clothes. I find that my daughter, being the modern and spoiled young lady I raised her to be, has more apparel than she will wear in this lifetime.”

“Not true, Papa!”

“Still, I have come up with something that I hope my very particular daughter will find to her liking.”

Marta produced a package wrapped in colored paper and tied with satin ribbons.

“I guess this means I am really going,” Eleanor said. She was careful not to tear the paper. “Oh, my!” It was an exquisite pair of boots. The leather was soft and a light cream color, with a carved pattern that looked like lace and small pastel roses of pink, blue and green. The pattern was familiar. “Mother’s veil!”

“To remind you that your parents love you,” Leopold said.

“These are the most
beautiful
things I will ever own,” Eleanor said.

Leopold kissed her
forehead
. “There’s my good girl.”

The lady waiting with her daughter was breathtaking. Her skin was flawless, though a few faint laugh lines played at the corners of her eyes and mouth and her chestnut hair showed a bit of white at the temples. On her, simplicity was elegance, enhanced by an aura of wealth and stability. Miss Fiddyment could not ignore the prick of envious pain she felt upon seeing Mrs. Leopold Singer.

The daughter lacked the beauty of either of her parents, but she had an intelligent expression and a healthy complexion. She had something more, a quality new to the world and not yet fully recognized, a quality uniquely American. Miss Fiddyment saw in Eleanor Singer a mix of confident enthusiasm and kindness. She had the generosity in spirit and curiosity in nature that came from abundant security in the present and genuine interest in the future. These attributes would generally inform the unfolding century.

“Mrs. Singer, I was very happy to receive your letter. Eleanor, it is a pleasure to meet you.” There was no question of application. Had Igraine not desperately needed the tuition, she would have welcomed any daughter of Leopold Singer into her school without charge.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Were you named for King Arthur’s mother?”

“Why yes, I was.”

“I was sure of it. That’s why I asked my father to decorate your boots with dragons—for Pendragon.”

Mrs. Singer said, “My daughter is a lover of Malory and Scott. I only wish she liked geography and languages so well.”
 

“At the academy,” Miss Fiddyment said, “we practice French, German and Latin. I don’t hold with the notion Latin is the sole province of males. In fact, I would like to add Greek to that list. As to geography, in these modern times we couldn’t claim to offer an education without geography.” A sentimental smile flickered over her face. “I’m afraid novel reading is not a part of our curriculum. Of course, we study the great poets. We practice handwork and the domestic arts as well as gardening…”

“Flowers?” Eleanor’s face brightened after the disappointing news about the novels.

“Vegetables for the body, and flowers for the soul. Our aim is to turn out well-rounded young women who will be superb wives and mothers. But beyond all that,” Miss Fiddyment said “all that” with unconscious dismissiveness, “I believe an education gives a girl a reliable path to a life of virtue and personal satisfaction in her own right.”

It was a speech only a spinster could make. Miss Fiddyment gave it during every interview and in every interview received the same response: polite incomprehension. Today, however, she saw understanding where it was not expected, in Mrs. Singer’s nod of agreement. The daughter wore the inevitable blank expression. No girl envisioned her future devoid of husband and children. None believed personal satisfaction was a worthy goal, and most thought it an immoral one in a woman.

“I must be completely candid, Mrs. Singer. In the evenings before the girls retire, we do enjoy a little light reading—to practice erudition. The young ladies in the final form read aloud to the other girls. In fact, we are just coming to the end of
Ivanhoe
.”

“Ivanhoe!” School was going to be wonderful, wonderful! Eleanor could tell the schoolmistress wanted to impress her mother and was putting on a show of being competent, learned, and stern. But Eleanor read people the way she read plants and animals and the weather, and in Miss Fiddyment she saw a kind and enthusiastic soul, not at all stern. There was something missing, something sad or just out of place, about Miss Fiddyment. Eleanor loved her immediately.

The front door flew open and banged against a wall, and a blast of wind delivered an exquisitely dressed woman over the threshold. She failed to grab the door, and it again slammed into the wall. Her untied bonnet had blown from her head to reveal a massive agglomeration of blond and silver curls. Her overcoat was sky blue with white piping, expensive and fashionable, and her confidence came easy. Penelope Adams was a natural force, the mistress of all she surveyed.

An elderly black gentleman, half a foot shorter than Mrs. Adams, followed close behind with her hat caught in his hands. “Penny, don’t mess your gloves. Let me get that door.” He looked no match for the wind, let alone the heavy door, but he was a strong man whom age had not weakened.

“Thank you, Uncle James. Sara, come in, dear. You are about to blow away.”

A frail wisp of a girl, dressed as impressively as her mother, appeared in the doorway. Her hair was blond, but dull. In comparison, the mother’s locks looked spun by fairies. The daughter was so thin, and her face so lacked expression, that she did indeed seem likely to blow away in the wind.

“The carriage, Miss Penny!” Uncle James said, now focused on the welfare of the animals outside.

“Oh, Uncle James. You go out first.” Mrs. Adams was like a strange and elegant enchantress conducting some grand magic to do with the wind, the door, the old man, and the girl. She whisked her silent daughter into Grasmere House and shut the oak door with a thud.

“We’re in!” She looked as if she expected an ovation.

“Mrs. Adams, how nice to see you.” Igraine suppressed her dismay a quarter of the way into its sigh, but Mrs. Singer noticed. Igraine scolded herself. It betrayed a lack of breeding to let her opinion of anyone show.

Very few people knew, and Igraine was one of them, that Mr. Adams was on the verge of pubic disgrace. The Academy could afford no scandal. Penelope Adams had always been kind to Igraine, but she wished with all her being that these two had not just come through the door. She badly needed three new students—but she needed them to be paying students.

And who was this “Uncle James”? How dare any other human being be called that—especially this frail, strange-looking old creature? His hair was grizzled white and cut close. His costume was a kaleidoscope of color: bright blue breeches, white silk blouse, cherry red waistcoat, and an emerald green gentleman’s overcoat. His boots were well-made. In his right ear, a large gold hoop flashed beautifully against his dark skin. Of course, she knew about Penelope’s driver; but hearing that beloved name applied to any man but her own Uncle James added another tiny heartache to Igraine’s day.

“I trust all is well with you, Penelope?” Marta knew all the gossip and more. Some had seen the mayor intoxicated. Worse, he’d gambled at cards and refused to make good his losses. Just last night, Leopold had extracted Franklin from a row with Martin Grim which had nearly ended in gun play.

“Yes. Thank you, Marta.” As ever she stood tall and held her shoulders square, as if she dared anyone to spit in her eye, but she seemed grateful for Marta’s use of first names.

“I’m afraid I was about to conduct Mrs. Singer and Miss Singer on a tour,” Igraine said tentatively.

“Did you come in all the way from The Farm in this weather?” Penelope flashed a brave smile. “Dreadful.” As if she weren’t the one in need of sympathy.