The Loves of Leopold Singer

by L. K. Rigel

  “Half dozen,” Miss Gray said.

  Mrs. Jones took the shawl and umbrella and sighed as if his troubles were her own, muttering sufficiently loud, “Mr. Leopold being kind again, taking it into his mind to address some situation. The world’s full of sorry tales.”

  The Lost Bee’s tables and even the floors were clean enough so not to repel ladies of quality. There was a window table available, but Mrs. Jones led them to a quiet corner. The scent of Susan’s hair reminded Leopold of springtime at home. He felt a loss of self-control, at once alarming and delightful.

  For so long that it seemed a natural fact of his life, he had judged himself smarter, bolder, kinder, and more capable than most people he met. Susan was the last sort of person he should feel equal to—a foreigner, a servant, a woman – yet he felt at ease in her company as if there were no distinction between them of rank or sex. They’d exchanged but a few words, yet he sensed that she knew him completely.

  A serving girl brought hot bread and butter with the coffee. Susan’s plain features softened as she took in the scent of nutmeg, cinnamon, and cardamom. She wasn’t beautiful or even sweet like Marta Schonreden back home, but she fascinated him. Susan’s eyes were not quite pretty, not quite blue, but a preternatural light gray. An informed intellect shone through, and he wanted to make a ridiculous comment about windows to the soul.

  He liked her self-confidence, her sensual enjoyment of the hot drink, her open demeanor—no sparkle, but intelligent spark. By the time the pot was empty, he had told her all about himself.

  “Thank you, Mr. Singer. I am sure I will badger Cook to introduce spiced coffee to the manse.” She said manse with ironic humor. The more she spoke, the more she seemed too fine for a servant. He laid his hand on the table near hers, but she ignored it and stood up. “I must get those eggs to Cook.”

  He followed her to the street, where she made a slight curtsy which he also suspected as being ironic. “Goodbye.”

  “Wait!” He touched her elbow. “I must see you again. I can’t bear it if you walk away like this.”

  “Like what?” she laughed.

  “When do you have an evening free? Might we meet again, perhaps here?” He had no idea what to do with such a girl. If she were in society, they could arrange to be at the same party or to attend the same theatrical. He only knew he wanted to see her again.

  “Tonight is my free night. I was fetching the eggs as a favor to the kitchen. I’ll have another in two weeks.”

  “Tonight, then.”

  She hesitated long enough to make him doubt success then said, “I will return here in one hour.”

  What a marvelous world! That such a creature, unknown to him all this time, should live in London. He returned to The Lost Bee and placed himself where he could watch the door.

  “You were too kind to that young woman, sir,” Mrs. Jones said.

  “Not exactly. I destroyed her eggs.”

  “All the same, most gentlemen don’t take notice of a servant’s troubles, even when those troubles is caused by themselves.”

  “So you think she is a servant, then?”

  “Her hands looked fine enough, and she speaks well. She’s no scullery maid, I’ll give you that. But if she weren’t a servant, what were she doing with the eggs?”

  At last, the bell on the door jingled and she was there, in a different dress, looking like an ordinary, respectable young lady of meager means. Though it was chilly, the evening was clear, and she suggested they walk.

  They passed by his rooms, and she wanted to see his edition of Reveries of the Solitary Walker. She followed him through the sitting room to his bedroom where the book lay open on a table. With real interest, she turned the pages. She actually began to read, her expression changing with Rousseau’s clever phrases.

  “You astonish me,” he said.

  “A servant should not read French?”

  “Or a woman philosophy.”

  “Hmph. I take it you have not read Wollstonecraft. Thank goodness I was stopped from learning German, or you should be overcome by wonder.”

  She shivered, and he realized her thin shawl was not equal to its task. He added coals to the grate and worked on getting some heat into the room. It felt good to make things comfortable for her while she read. He checked the kettle for water and put it on for tea. “What prevented you, Susan?” He’d call her Miss Gray, except that he feared she would think he was mocking her. “What stopped you learning German?”

  “Say, Singer!” A boisterous rap on the door stopped her answer. “Are you in? Come, man! You are wanted at Lady D’s.” Leopold moved toward the door, but didn’t open it. “She’s asked for you especially!” The caller knocked again, half-heartedly. After another minute, he went away.

  Susan set aside the Rousseau. She came to Leopold and touched his face and traced his cheek. She led him back to the bedroom and pressed her palm against his chest until he sat down on his bed.

  His heart pounded. The lads at school often told stories, exaggerated or imagined, some perhaps true, of their first sex, how sometimes it happened with servants who thought it a lark to deflower the young master. He had urges like any man, but he had not yet indulged them with a woman. To bed any woman, his equal or no, would give her a claim on him he had no wish to allow, not yet. Not until he’d smelled Susan’s hair that afternoon in the rain.

  She kissed him, not the clumsy kiss of a novice, her lips full on his. She opened his mouth with her tongue, teasing him. He reached for her, and she ran her hands over his chest. He helped her to remove her dress and drew her close to him in her chemise. He caressed a precious breast. Such heaven, such heat, such sweet pressure. Loosening herself from his grip, she did seem to take her own pleasure. With the swirl of a finger, she motioned for him to undress.

  Just as he got his trousers off, the kettle began to boil. He nearly stumbled getting it off the hook. “Tea?”

  “Darling Leopold.” She sat on the bed and opened her arms. No tea, then. She swallowed him up until he had no idea who he was. He wasn’t a person. He was an animal, her creature, sinking, down, in, through. He thought he heard her moan, but maybe that was his own voice. He shuddered and felt himself lose everything to her. In a bliss of spasms, he let go.

  He fell into a delicious brief sleep. Through the night, they coupled and slept, coupled and slept. They awoke in the very early morning and loved each other again. If only the world could stand still. But the world spun on, and Susan left his bed.

  “Some people must earn their bread, sir. I am one of those people.”

  “Susan, sir, don’t be cruel.”

  “Tonight, you’ll be with fashionable ladies at the duke’s party. You’ll know then how you have degraded yourself with me.”

  “Never say that, Susan. You are wonderful.”

  “That may be true.” She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. “If after tonight you still wish it, I’ll meet you again at The Lost Bee. My next free night is in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks!”

  “You’ll have time to attend a few lectures.” She kissed his cheek. “Good day, sir,” she eluded his outstretched hand and curtsied. With another ironic grin, she was gone.

  He lay in bed and contemplated the miracle that was Woman. He thought of Marta Schonreden. Of course, Marta was too modest and far too innocent to care for him in the way Susan had done.

  Lovely Marta Schonreden, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and so sweet. If God made Woman for Man, surely He had made Marta for Leopold. He would be twenty-one next spring, as good a time as any to marry. He was sure his father would approve the match, since the whole village admired Marta Schonreden’s exceptional beauty. He imagined himself with her now.

  But a dark thought jolted him from the happy daydream: Someone else might propose while he was gone. Oktav Haas had an eye for her. Or worse, her relatives in Vienna might come upon no limit of suitable men to put in her way. This was very bad. He wouldn’t be hom
e until well after the year’s end. But he knew her brother well enough; they’d shared a few beers at The Green Owl more than once. He would write to Marta’s father through Wolfram, just a friendly letter to put the idea in the man’s head.

  In the meantime, “Susan, sir” would greatly brighten his stay in England.

  The Wrong Lovers

  Lady Delia chose Leopold Singer for her husband in the same way she chose all her accouterments, but with at least a fraction more enthusiasm. It had taken a long time to find her perfect object, and perfect he was. She was now twenty-five. Every year the competition was fiercer, her rivals younger, richer, nicer. This year more than ever, she needed a propitious match.

  Bad luck at the tables was a common disaster. No shame there, of course, but the debts coupled with her dwindling personal assets had affected her self-confidence. She would bring only beauty and connections to a marriage, and one of those was not secure.

  In the last year, she had watched her skin lose youth’s freshness. Her hair had dulled, and there seemed to be less of it. Whether her mouth smiled or frowned, her eyes always showed the same flat expression. Her appearance benefited greatly by the quality of her garments.

  The great mark of her fading bloom was the number of her would-be lovers. This year had brought only one proposal—the one she received every year from Millie. In August she’d accepted his invitation to the country, resigned to accept him at last, when Lady Whitley told her about the young foreigner also visiting Millam Hall. Mr. Leopold Singer was the son of Millie’s Austrian partner, here to attend Oxford—or was it Cambridge? His family had a fortune but no title; he would be hers for the taking.

  When she first saw him, a shock of pleasure had shot through her. He was simply lovely. Earthy, muscular, and brown in contrast to the refined pretty pastel creatures she was used to. To give that man children would be no sacrifice. He’d left Millam Hall before she could secure him, but no matter. Tonight, she’d maneuver Mr. Singer into her net. He’d turn her down no more than a dressmaker would turn down her custom.

  Still. He’d snubbed her own late supper last night, and after she’d invited him particularly. Lady Delia was always honest with herself, if no one else. This seduction was not going well.

  “I’ve discovered the root of your Austrian problem, D.” Sir Carey offered his arm to walk her in to dinner.

  “Whatever can you mean, m’dear?” she said, though each of them knew exactly what he meant.

  “Apparently the object of your affection prefers to dip his oar in less exalted waters.” Sir Carey nodded toward Millie’s housekeeper at the door. She spoke to the butler, but she shot a nervous glance toward Leopold Singer before leaving the room. She was neither young nor pretty. It was vaguely humiliating. “But surely that,” Sir Carey purred, “presents no great obstacle.”

  Lady Delia, not so confident, lifted her glass to Singer, who had taken his seat across and down the table. He returned the gesture politely but without enthusiasm.

  She hated him then. It was all clear. He was one of those horrible, earnest young men of the bourgeoisie, likely a republican, noble in character all out of proportion to his station. Were he fool enough to fall in love with a servant, he might accord to her honors of a lady, even the unthinkable, marriage. You couldn’t count on a foreigner to know what isn’t done.

  “Dear D, I don’t know why you won’t have me instead of that earnest fellow. He could never appreciate you,” Sir Carey said.

  “You don’t like me all that well,” she said. “Anyway, neither of us can afford the other.” She wondered if there would be cards later, and if she might risk a hand or two.

  -oOo-

  Susan Gray went downstairs to arrange for a lady’s maid for the viscountess. She should have been prepared for it. Lady Delia never brought her own servants to Town. At twenty-five, Susan was still young to be underhousekeeper of one of the great houses in London. She did her job well, always aware of the need to prove her merit among the servants.

  The other servants.

  She tried to calm her nerves. Leopold Singer had kissed her in the hall earlier, and she’d felt then just how unbearable her situation was. Sir Carey had passed them, excusing himself to Mr. Singer with an amused smile and completely ignoring her. She didn’t truly belong to the world of service, but would anyone believe she had been a gentleman’s daughter?

  When Sir Carey was gone, she’d admonished Leopold. “Sir, if you do not consider your place, then do think of mine.” Then she’d agreed to meet him again on her next free day.

  In the kitchen, Matthew Peter brightened when he saw her. “Mary.” She ignored Matthew Peter, warming herself at the fire. “Lady Delia has come again without her maid.”

  “Oh, Miss Gray!”

  “Now, Mary,” Susan said. “You know the duke more than makes up for my lady’s failings.” The duke often invited Lady Delia to stay at Gohrum House when she was in town. Not only did she fail to bring her own maid, she never left anything for the maid the duke provided. The duke always gave a generous present to the one, usually Mary, who drew the duty, but Lady Delia was so demanding and critical that it wasn’t really worth it. “She will be with us for the month. I know you will do your best.”

  Matthew Peter followed Susan to the door. “I missed you last night.”

  Had her excellent brain any sway with her unrealistic heart, she would love this man. Everyone always called him by his full name to distinguish him from his father, Mr. Peter, the butler. Matthew Peter wasn’t ugly, he was exceedingly kind, and he adored her. She didn’t love him. She wouldn’t ever love him.

  She had meant to walk away from Leopold Singer as soon as he replaced those eggs and never think of him again. Straight off she had felt his desire for her, and when she really looked at him she saw how handsome he was. How noble in truth if not in birth. He was the kind of young man she had dreamed of loving once, when life permitted such dreams.

  So she had thought, why not? It was unlikely she would ever marry, and it wasn’t as if she were some Vestal virgin. Why should she not have a taste of the happiness Fate had stolen from her? Matthew Peter was in no way stupid, but he wasn’t educated. He didn’t read. No matter how low she fell, Susan could never think of a man who didn’t read. She wouldn’t give false hope.

  She continued to visit Leopold Singer in his rooms on her free days, and on occasion she stole time with him while away from Gohrum House on errands. He became a sickness with her, an addiction as potent as opium.

  In December word came from Bath that her mother was ill. She welcomed the excuse to get away from London, away from Leopold. She sent him a letter explaining her departure. She expected he would be as glad to be rid of her. She suppressed the hope he might miss her, or even follow her.

  He did. He left for Bath the day he received her note and wrote to her from his rooms at the Sidney. Susan visited her mother for three days and came to him for the next ten. As it was midwinter and the weather was frightful, they stayed mostly indoors.

  Once near midnight, a storm punctuated their lovemaking with thunder. Flashes of lightning illuminated their forms. During a lull while he waited to be ready for her again, a clock began to chime. “Why did you not learn German?” he asked, picking up a conversation they had had, it seemed now, so long ago. The last chime faded amid cracks of thunder.

  She was undressed, her arms and legs spread lazily, unmoving as Leopold traveled about her body. He was an artist, she thought, in the way he pressed and pulled, coaxed and demanded. She liked to give over to him this way, to feel like clay in his hands, as if she had no cares, no responsibility but to be, and to be moved by him.

  She was in danger. She was beginning to want what she could not have: this, to go on forever. If only things had been different.

  “My father was a gentleman’s oldest child,” she whispered. Leopold stroked her stomach and breasts; she felt him grow hard against her. “My mother was—no one, but he loved her utter
ly. He married her. The estate wasn’t entailed, and his family disowned him.” It was only partly a lie, and the truth was too complicated.

  Leopold inched down, the warm wet of his tongue on her belly. With a flash of lightning she groaned, her fingers in his hair. “My father died. He was killed, actually.”

  “You are a lady here with me.” His lips were at her ear, and he was inside her and around her, like light and like thunder.

  Let it all go, she thought. Forget about life now, and just feel. Feel him on you now, in you, the luxury of this bed, the rain and the thunder, and him inside you now, there is only now.

  Morning came like a fairy story, with sunshine and flowers, coffee and oranges and hot scrambled eggs. As if the white lady her mother always spoke of had come at last and carried Susan to the other world. For a few days she ate and slept and made love and almost believed she had at last found enchantment.

  But reality makes a cruel mirror. She saw the truth in the knowing looks of the hotel staff. She might have the memory and the manners of a gentleman’s daughter and a better vocabulary than most, but not the clothes and certainly not the conviction of gentle standing. She was one of them, and they knew it; they would not let her go with the white lady.

  On the fourth morning, the sun came out, and the couple took their breakfast in the teahouse. Leopold said, “Today I wondered if you’d like to visit the waterfalls at the gardens.”

  “I’ve never seen them. I’ve been in London these last years. Most of the niceties of Bath are unknown to me.”

  “Of course.”

  She felt him withdraw, as if he’d only just understood what it meant to have to work for one’s living, that she was limited to less than the gods had meant for her. “Ancient as Bath is,” she said, “it yields to change. The place was a shrine to a Celtic divinity before the Romans installed their own goddess at the waters. Seventy years ago, excavators unearthed the carved stone head of Minerva.”