The Loves of Leopold Singer (45 page)

She wouldn’t miss him, not yet, because she felt his presence in every moment. They had been linked for so long, body and soul; she could not exist apart from him. Perhaps he had not died, not really, even if he had left his body. Surely his soul was vibrant still, and she would be its vehicle. Through her, he could still see his farm, his flowers. Leopold could witness Eleanor’s marriage and all the years of his children’s life, as long as Marta lived.

“One might think this was one of Leopold’s picnics.” Reverend Lightfeather and Harry had come to talk to her.

“I think we should keep up the tradition,” Harry said, already the politician, looking for his mother’s reaction.

Marta grabbed her son’s arm. “You must know, Harry. What country do I belong to now?” Leopold had become an American citizen, years ago, but there had been no reason for her to go through the bother and the expense. Would she be sent back to Austria?
 

When Harry and Lightfeather understood Marta’s question, they both assured her that no one could make her leave her home. Neither man said aloud that he actually had no idea what her status was.

Igraine Fiddyment sat on the top step of the verandah with a plate of potato salad on her lap. She thought of getting the recipe from Mrs. Lightfeather, but then remembered that she did not know what turn her life was about to take. The school might well be a thing of the past. She may have no need of potato salad recipes.

Likely she’d soon be looking for a way to earn her keep. She should be sad for Leopold Singer, for his wife, for sweet Eleanor. And she was. But she was also sad for herself. And angry. Angry with her self-centered worry. Angry with the unfairness of life.

“May I join you?” Solomon Grasmere, looking grave and uncomfortable, stood towering above her on the first step, holding a plate. “I see you’ve chosen the potato salad, too.” He sat down. “It is very good.”

“Yes.”

“I think my captain might accomplish his mission today.” Mr. Grasmere motioned toward Josef and April, sitting very near one another on a bench.

April was more beautiful this afternoon than she had been in years. That was what being loved did to a woman. The captain took one of April’s hands and spoke earnestly. April answered, and he kissed her.
Here is to the captain’s mansion
.

Igraine remembered her stories. These past two years, she had sold more than enough to earn her own keep! She hadn’t thought of it because the money had all gone to the keep of so many. She would be fine. She would stay in Shermer Landing, rent a room, perhaps. She would write. She would remain a member of the Philosophical Society. Free of teaching and the school, she would have the time to be more involved in the Society, help arrange speeches and such. She could write more, a novel, maybe. She could write under her own name.

It could be wonderful. She could remain friends with April and see how Eleanor turned out. She would correspond with Sara Adams in England, perhaps one day visit her there.

“That is a pleasant thing to see,” said Mr. Grasmere.

“Yes,” Igraine agreed. “I am sure they will be very happy.”

“I am sure they will. Josef Zehetner is the best man I know. But that’s not what I meant.” Grasmere set his empty plate aside. “I meant it is a pleasant thing to see you smile. I do not believe I have seen you smile before this.”

“I see.”

“It is my fault.”

“What can you mean, Mr. Grasmere? I am quite sure you’ve done nothing to keep me from smiling.”

“I have watched you, Miss Fiddyment, with the utmost admiration. I’ve seen how you kept my household together when I paid no attention to it. You comforted my wretched mother in her last months. You’ve cared for the happiness and well-being of others with no thought to your own.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Mr. Grasmere.”

“In short, Miss Fiddyment, I feel ashamed. I haven’t given you needed support these past years. I was consumed by grief when my father and sister died, and grief made me selfish. I come home to find love all around, and in the middle of it the solid, good, and selfless woman who has made it all possible. You have bowled me over, Miss Fiddyment. I feel awakened from a long and deep slumber to be given a second chance. And I wonder if you might…if you could possibly consider doing me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”

The baroness arranged for Sara to travel on the
Maenad.
At Boston Harbor, Uncle James said goodbye to her in her cabin. “You’ll be safe in England with your Great Aunt. I can’t go. I am an old man, and there is something I must do before I die.”

“Please don’t speak of dying.”

He gave her a leather bag heavy with gold coins. “Let no one know you have this. It’s the best of cures for trouble.” He touched her cheek, kissed her forehead, and was gone.

Never, never again would she believe Josef Zehetner or her mother or Uncle James. How many times had she been enthralled by the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, captivated by the romance of the sea? Reality was entirely another thing. On the voyage she was sick half the time and scared out of her wits all of the time.

Finally the ship reached its destination, announced by the inhuman squeal and mechanical grinding of the deploying anchor. The next leg of the journey was a horrid stage-coach ride. The driver swore most sincerely the coach had springs. A dastardly lie.

She was relieved to be let off at Carleson Peak in front of a tavern called The Leopard and Grape. No one was there to greet her, so she sat on her trunk and paged through the
Lyrical Ballads,
which Mrs. Singer had given her as a remembrance, but her head ached so intensely she couldn’t read.

Someone was having a joke when this hamlet was named. It was rather a dark valley. She was to be met by one Squire Carleson, her great aunt’s neighbor. She supposed the baroness too old or too important—or too uninterested—to come herself. Sara was hungry and lonely and scared. Her feet hurt. She little cared what first impression she would make. She wanted a bath.

A carriage approached driven by a rather pleasant-looking young man.
Please let that be him
.

“Good afternoon.” The driver got down from the carriage. “Might you be Miss Sara Adams from America?” He was tall and muscular with kind brown eyes. His hair was a mass of dark brown waves cut just at his collar in no particular style. He had the air of prosperous competence. He reminded Sara of Eleanor.

-oOo-

Geordie Carleson was running late. As he drove out, Wills rode into Laurelwood’s courtyard still dressed in dandified splendor from last night’s revels. “Where are you going, good brother, and do I want to tag along?”

“I’m not as good as you believe.” Geordie stopped the carriage. “Nor are you as bad.”

“Where are you going?” Wills repeated.

Geordie shook his head and smiled. Curiosity would be the key to Wills's redemption. Geordie refused to give up on his brother, despite his deserved bad reputation. For ten years Wills had been angry at the world, his once-noble soul in abeyance. One day it would return.

“Down to the Peak,” Geordie said. “Miss Sara Adams is due. I’m to fetch her over to The Branch.”

“The legend comes!” Wills slid off his horse and handed the reins to a stableman. “I long to see the usurper.”

“Not a wrinkle in your trousers.” Geordie told the horse to walk on as Wills sat beside him on the driver’s bench. “You’re up all the night and come home with smooth trousers.”

“Perhaps I was up, as you say, but my trousers were not.”

“As long as you take care, Wills. Remember what happened to the squire.” Geordie never called the man who had fathered him
father
. He couldn’t recall a thing about the man. As a child, the neighborhood boys had taunted him with the real facts of the squire’s wasting illness, and he swore early on he’d be different. Worthy of his mother’s good regard. She’d had disappointment enough from the men in her life. Wills might be the worst of it.

“I should like to make you proud of me one day,” Wills said. “But you’re the only person whose good opinion I desire, so I fear it will never happen.”

“Find something that arouses your passion, Wills, something that grabs you and inspires you to do the great things that I know are in you.”

“You think too highly of me. The only thing I have a passion for is the finer sex.”

“Then I suppose headmaster at a young ladies’ school is out of the question.”

Wills yawned. “Gads, I’m thrashed. I’m going to grab a few winks before we greet the hegemon.” In the back of the carriage, his face fell. “After all my care, there will be wrinkles after all.”

Wills must have fallen asleep, for suddenly they were down at the Peak. Geordie was standing on the side of the road talking to a mousy-looking snip of a girl. He made a short bow, but the girl—an American, Wills—had already put out her hand. She pulled it back and gave an awkward curtsy, but then Geordie extended his hand. They both laughed and shook hands. Ridiculous.

Geordie said. “We haven’t brought a chaperon. We were told your servant would accompany you.”

“He couldn’t make the journey.”

She sounded too forlorn for words. Wills couldn’t stand it. “I can serve as chaperon.” He jumped out and landed at her feet. “We are related, after all.”

The girl swayed. She looked quite done in by her journey.

“Miss Adams, you’re unwell.” Geordie, ever gallant, took her arm.

“I’m tired. I want a bath.”

“She’s an American, all right,” Wills said. “Speaks her mind.”

Geordie loaded her trunks and strapped them to the back of the carriage while Wills handed her in. “I’m your cousin by marriage,” he said, “in some roundabout way. I am William Philo George Asher. But I hope you’ll call me Wills. That good man is my brother, Mr. Geordie Carleson. But he is not your cousin.”

Miss Adams thanked Geordie for handling her luggage, but not Wills for handing her in. In fact, she practically ignored him. She did appear to be exhausted, which might explain it. “It’s all right if you grab a few winks before we arrive at The Branch,” he said. “You won’t hurt my feelings.”

It was amusing, if disconcerting, to be dismissed in favor of his hopeless, straight arrow half-brother. Wills doubted Geordie, at twenty-six, had even lost his virtue. If so, he’d been damned discreet about it. As for Wills, he usually got satisfaction from Abby. On his seventeenth birthday, she appeared at his door with bowl and towels. Sir Carey had sent her to give his morning shave. A birthday present, she said. That day she threw the father over in favor of the younger model.

Abby lived at the old hunter’s cabin on the border of Laurelwood and The Branch. Wills often visited her there. He neither knew nor cared if other men did. Once, he suggested Geordie go to the cabin, but his brother didn’t take the suggestion kindly.

-oOo-

Philomela considered her image in the glass. She rather liked her white hair. The dull blue of her eyes had never been appealing, but now that her hair had gone white the blue was almost pretty.

“Nature will have her laugh, eh?” she said, not to her reflection but to that of her sister, Daphne, whose portrait hung on the wall behind. How would things be if her sisters had stayed home? Circe might be living still. And poor Daphne too.

After all these years, the loss of her little sister was still a great sorrow. It left a hole that even Carey couldn’t fill. Elizabeth filled it. She loved Elizabeth. She liked Wills—everyone did, despite his dissolute ways. She thought highly of Elizabeth’s son Geordie. He was the most dependable of his generation, was most like his mother. Wills was like his father.

What would this girl be like, daughter of Circe’s daughter, the pirate’s granddaughter?

A mix of human chatter and barking dogs announced her arrival. The Branch was too empty since Carey had gone over to Laurelwood. Perhaps Sara Adams would fill it a little. Penelope’s letter, so unexpected and so unwanted, begging her to receive this girl, might prove a good thing after all.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, her heart contracted and she gripped the banister.

“Daphne?”

“That’s it!” Wills said. “From the moment I saw you, Miss Adams, I’ve been sorting through my brain for who you remind me of. It’s the portrait in your room, Aunt Philly. Miss Adams, you are the very image of Daphne Asher!”