by L. K. Rigel
“They’re not my friends.” Leopold kissed her forehead. “We might have gone straight to Massachusetts with the Zehetners, but I thought you’d like to see London.”
Marta was glad to escape Napoleon’s cannons, but she dreaded the coming encounters with Lady This and His Grace That. Her mother’s voice goaded her: Who do you think you are? You’ll never be more than a draper’s daughter. Marta was twenty years old, a married woman, and her dead mother could still make her feel like a worthless girl.
Leopold said, “You conquered Vienna. London will be easy.”
But Vienna hadn’t been easy, and there she could follow her aunt’s lead.
Leopold read the note and passed it to her dismissively. “It seems Lady Delia has snagged herself a peer.”
My Dear L,
How delightful to welcome you and your bride to the home of my husband, the Duke of Gohrum, during your stay in London. D.
“You know this lady’s handwriting so well?”
“I know that ‘D’. I met Lady Delia—her grace, now—when I was in London last. From the time she was informed of my father’s fortune, I found myself invited to every dinner she attended. I politely misunderstood her overtures, but on my last night in town when I was desperate to get away, she came to my rooms and suggested we marry.”
Marta didn’t want to hear about Lady Delia’s desire for Leopold. Of course he’d been with women before he married her. He was a man, after all. Besides, he played upon her body as if it was an instrument with which he was well-practiced. Still, she didn’t like knowing where he had gotten that practice, no matter how fine a musician it had made of him. She had long believed he’d had a lover in London. It must have been this duchess.
“I told her then my heart was already spoken for,” he said. “So she married the duke. Perhaps her new status has made her generous.”
“Or she wants to show you what you could have had.”
He kissed her hand and held it to his cheek. “My love, there is no comparison.”
At Gohrum House they were put in separate rooms. While a maid aired her clothes and arranged her things, Marta sank into the bedroom window seat and looked out on the garden. An earlier rain had left it sparkling with reds, pinks, oranges, and yellows. She stretched and groaned and wished she could sleep for a week.
“What is your name?” she asked the maid.
“Gray, my lady,” the maid said. “I wasn’t sure you would speak English.”
“My husband and I have spoken only English to each other since we decided to emigrate to Massachusetts. Still, I can hear it better than I can speak it.”
“I ordered a bath when I saw you had arrived.”
“Ausgezeichnet.” Marta let out a sigh of relief, and they both laughed.
The maid led Marta to the adjoining room where a tub of perfumed hot water sat on a patterned Turkey carpet. “I am not noble, Miss Gray,” Marta said. “’Mrs. Singer’ will do.”
“Yes, madam. And just ‘Gray’ will do for me.”
Marta eased into the water. She murmured a sensual purr as the warm liquid rolled over her breasts and soothed her shoulders. As her eyes started to close, the door flew open and a grand personage nearly knocked over the curtsying Gray. The grand person’s laugh made a brittle, crystalline sound as Marta tried to sit up without exposing herself.
“Sink back down, madam,” the grand person said. “Don’t let me take you from your bath. Does Gray meet your approval? This is her first time as a lady’s maid. We’re giving her a go.”
Delia fixed on the beautiful, simple creature Leopold Singer had chosen and glanced sideways at his slut. Though Gray had been away an unacceptable time with her dying mother, the duke had accepted her back into the household. It had proved better than turning her out. There was no end of ways to make her suffer.
Gohrum’s only requirement of Delia had been that she produce an heir. She had submitted to his pathetic groping, and before the year passed the marquess had been born. She turned the boy over to a wet nurse and placed a pretty, motherless girl as a maid-of-all-work in the duke’s suite. Now she was free to do as she pleased and be called “your grace” in the bargain.
Today, it pleased her to make Susan Gray attend to her lover’s sweet bride.
The insult of being given an inexperienced maid passed Mrs. Singer by. “Gray must have natural abilities,” she said. “I have been well cared for from the moment—”
“Pardon my loathsome manners, bursting in on you.” God, she was going to be a bore. “I simply could not wait another minute to meet the girl who captivated Leopold’s heart.”
“Your grace is very kind.”
“No one has ever accused me of that. Well, stand up, m’dear. Let me see your figure. Stand, stand!”
A fragrant breeze raised chill bumps on Mrs. Singer’s skin. The embarrassed naïve creature kept her eyes on the vines that clung to the open window, loaded with red and white roses.
Neither Delia nor Gray could help but stare at Mrs. Singer’s body, every curve graceful, lovely round hips, a hard, flat stomach, and full firm breasts. “That is sufficient. You can lower yourself again,” Delia said. “There is a late supper at Devonshire House tonight. You and Leopold are to attend. It’s fancy dress. I’ll send up something for you to wear.”
“Your grace is too kind.”
“That word again. You mustn’t think so, m’dear.” Delia turned to Susan. “You’re still here?”
-oOo-
Hot with impotent fury, Susan carried Mrs. Singer’s traveling clothes down to the laundry. This is how it was. This is how it would be. That beautiful, doll-like creature in the perfumed bath was Mrs. Singer. She had the right to call Leopold “my husband.” And though Susan might read a hundred philosophical tomes and understand every one, she would always be merely Gray. The scullery would be better than this mental cruelty.
She’d been back at Gohrum house for a week. The duke was not yet arrived from Millam Hall, and the duchess singled her out daily for some fresh humiliation. Now Leopold had come back, and she was to be lady’s maid to his wife. She felt like a fox surrounded by dogs; nothing good could happen here.
And yet, she couldn’t return to her brother and live in the room he offered. It would be too painful, for one thing, to watch her darling boy call another woman mama. More than that, she was determined to do all she could to give Persey the life she and her brother had lost. She had to be in the world to find her opportunity, not hidden away in a room, a nurse to her own child with no money, no power, no dignity.
Gohrum House wasn’t the place for her, but at the moment it was the best on offer. She could earn a little money to set aside for Persey’s education and in the meantime look for something better.
Ah, but none of what she told herself now was the truth. Of course she should never have accepted the demotion to lady’s maid. Of course she should walk right over to The Lost Bee, take the next coach back to Carleson Peak, and go to her brother. Of course she stayed, for the perverse reason that she had to see him. She had to know what kind of woman he had chosen. She stayed to hear his voice just one more time.
-oOo-
At last alone, Marta relaxed in the warm bath. The duchess was elegant, but Marta didn’t understand what Leopold saw in her. But then, that woman had been able to give her husband a child. Marta had seen the baby with his nurse. She thought of her last day in the village. Going home from seeing Gabby, she’d noticed the cathedral towers stark against the sky, and on impulse she had told the driver to take her there.
To that day, she had never gone inside, and as they were leaving the village forever it appeared she never would. She wasn’t sorry to leave Austria. The peace was fragile, dependent on Napoleon’s will. She wanted to give Leopold children, and she had come to believe she would never have them with war on her doorstep.
Every month she had watched for signs of pregnancy, but there was no good news. As she assured Gabrielle, Leopold was attenti
ve and passionate. Indeed, she was happier than a woman was supposed to be in that way. But still no baby.
The carriage had stopped on the road near the massive building that had become dear to her, a touchstone. Like friends who sensed her need, the bells had rung, sending brassy vibrations through the air to wash over her. She had stepped out of the carriage. Mutti is dead; she cannot touch me. Her heart had almost pounded out of her breast as she glanced about then slipped through the door.
Inside she had been bombarded by the lush sensuality of carved wood, lighted candles, and gold statues. The walls were covered with paintings of sacred scenes. A very pregnant young peasant girl passed her, followed by an older well-dressed woman who knelt, crossed herself, and moved to a pew. A scattering of people knelt in the pews, moved their lips, and worked strings of beads with their fingers.
Where was the priest? Reverend Haas would not like so many people muttering in his church, and this not even a Sunday. There were marvelous high ceilings compared with the undecorated, whitewashed little hall Haas presided over so importantly. Even the quiet had a thickness to it, pushing ordinary thoughts into a back corner of her mind. It was so grand. Maybe God was big enough to help her after all.
The pregnant girl lit a candle and entered a door tucked away near a wall. Marta moved closer, hoping to get a look inside the magical closet. While she waited, something else caught her eye, a bronze statue of a woman with a young man draped over her lap and an angel standing at her shoulder. It was Mary, holding her dead son.
Marta felt the Madonna’s agony, her longing and sorrow. The angel looked on the mother in her grief, its arms outstretched. Mary cradled the dead carcass of the incarnate god, oblivious to the god’s messenger. “Madonna,” Marta whispered like an incantation the only prayer in her head, “Give me children, or I will die.”
A noise from the other room brought her out of her reverie. The bath was going cold. She got out and put on the wrap Gray had left. No one was in the bedroom, but there was a note from Leopold:
Dearest—
I learn we are to attend a dinner tonight given by the Dss of Devonshire. I am assured you will be properly dressed. Business detains me for the afternoon. I shall meet you tonight at Devonshire House. Try to get some rest before then.
Yours, etc., L
She lay down on the bed, but her mind wouldn’t let her sleep. He usually signed his notes with Lpld, not L. He moved easily in this upper crust where she would never, could never belong. And he had already found time to see the duchess.
She woke hours later after the candles had been lit. Gray was at the foot of the bed holding a massive agglomeration of blue and buff silk. Marta was aware enough to suspect this gown was hopelessly out of fashion, and Gray’s demeanor confirmed her suspicion. “I am sorry, Madam. It’s what the duchess wants you to wear.”
“Then I shall, with pleasure,” Marta replied. What did it matter, these games the duchess played? Two facts would not change: She was married to Leopold, and together they would soon be on the other side of the world away from autocratic wars and aristocratic games.
The white brocade mantua was a tight fit that showed off her figure. The wide skirt made her waist appear even tinier. The old-fashioned white powdered wig conspired with her dark lashes and brows to set off her eyes like sparkling emeralds.
“You’re beautiful,” Gray said. It was not a compliment, but a statement of fact. “I’m told this gown was worn by her grace’s mother at a Whig party at Devonshire House years ago. They are all Whigs around here. Her grace must want to remind the Duchess of Devonshire of old times.”
“Old times,” Marta absently repeated.
“Yes, madam. You seem young, if you don’t mind my saying so, to have any old times to remember.”
“I am nearly twenty-one, but I do feel young.”
“Have you been married long?”
“Just past two years.”
“How did you meet your husband?” Susan forgot her place asking such things, and it was self-torture, but she couldn’t stop.
“I cannot remember a time I did not know Mr. Singer.”
Mrs. Singer obviously loved Leopold, though Susan found it difficult to gauge the depth of her passion. “You have no children as yet?”
“No.” Mrs. Singer seemed hurt by the question. She started to say something else, but just said no again, like an admission of failure.
Susan felt wretched satisfaction; and yet she felt pity too. “I wouldn’t worry,” she said. “It’s probably on account of the chaos of war. They say cows go dry and hens refuse to lay when the guns are near. When you get to America, things will be different, so long as the French and the Indians—and the British, for that matter—keep to themselves.”
“Do you really believe this? It is my great hope. I was afraid there might be something wrong with me or even…”
“Your husband unable to get a child? Not likely,” Susan said. “And you appear healthy enough. I am sure you will find yourself blessed as soon as you’re secure in your new country.”
“That is kind of you, Gray.” Mrs. Singer examined herself in the glass. “And as for tonight, I hope they are pleasant memories my costume will recall.”
Marta was glad to have Gray’s help with the awkward dress as she went down the stairs. The butler waited at the front door, agitated. “The duchess has had to depart early, Madam. She ordered a rig for you.”
Marta was stunned. She was to be taken unescorted in a tiny exposed cart out into a city she didn’t know to a house she didn’t know and with no idea of protocol. She stepped aside with Gray.
“What do I do?”
“Do not fear. Devonshire House isn’t far. First, you must know you are beautiful, truly, and beauty is a charm in any company. At the door give your name, Mrs. Leopold Singer. You will be announced. Enter as if you had been there a hundred times. Believe me, someone will be quite sure he knows you and come to your rescue.”
“You have rescued me already, Gray.”
“Now, say to me ‘that will be all’ so the others think you’ve been giving me instructions.”
The instant the rig pulled away, Susan rushed upstairs, anxious to evade Matthew Peter. She collected her writing desk and hurried back down to Mrs. Singer’s room. She laid out a dress that needed mending and sat on a stool behind the bed. She cradled the wooden writing desk, the finest thing she had ever bought for herself. It was made by a Bath artisan from Brazilian rosewood, decorated with carvings of Minerva, her sacred owl, her helmet and shield. Its hardware was polished brass, and Susan wore its brass key around her neck always.
Inside the desk were her most precious things: the Wollstonecraft book, a pen and a small bottle of ink, a few sheets of writing paper, and a miniature hand-carved frame which held the likeness of an infant. Susan set the picture where she could see it and wrote:
Mr. Singer:
You have a son. He is a darling boy, as good and as clever as his father, with the same dark brown eyes and lovely cornsilk curls. His name is Perseus Gray.
When I was sure of my condition, I resolved to rid myself of the child. But my mother’s illness grew worse, and I had to leave Gohrum House to care for her. Too much time passed, and no apothecary would help me.
He was born on 12 May of 1800, an early baby. It was a dreadful birth. I nearly died, but I had to live for little Persey’s sake; Necessity will have her way. Your son is healthy.
I write you now because I have come to believe you have the right to know you do have a child in the world. Persey does not know who his true father is and shall not. When he is older, I will send him to school.
I have no regrets. Persey was conceived in love. I wish you only happiness,
Susan Gray.
She told herself it was for Persey she wrote the letter. Who was she to deny him to a father that could provide a future if it came to that?
Fancy Dress
Leopold circulated through the guests at Devonshire H
ouse, listening for the announcement of Marta’s arrival. It would have been better to stay at St. James Square and get some sleep. He hadn’t been able to see Sir Carey, and the duke wouldn’t be in town for another few days. Well, there was time yet. He was just relieved to be gone from Austria at last. Amiens wouldn’t hold. Napoleon was too ambitious. Surely daffodils bloomed in American valleys, and very likely more cheerfully.
Before leaving Europe forever, he’d decided to satisfy his mother’s last wish and rid himself of his father’s “English business,” as she had put it. Haas had been right. Leopold owned half of the Maenad, a vessel which was indeed engaged in moving contraband. That didn’t bother him so much, but he didn’t like one of his partners. Sir Carey Asher, the dandy with the dragonhead stick.
The Maenad had a reputation for luck—once his father had got her, she had never been taken for a prize—and she had made them all several fortunes, but he wanted out of it. He had an aversion to the sea. Indeed, being near a body of water of any consequence always filled him with illogical dread.
With the current peace had come a window of opportunity. He had originally meant to dispose of the ship, buy a country estate, and start a new life in England away from war. All that had changed this spring when he chanced upon the farmer Zehetner walking in the village with Reverend Haas.
“Did my wife not tell Mrs. Singer?” Zehetner had said. “The Zehetners are going to America! With the peace, the trip is worth the hazard.”
“That is amazing news,” Leopold had said, though Haas had just clucked and shaken his head. “Have you yet taken leave of The Green Owl?”
Inside the tavern, the barman had asked Zehetner, “How is it the Lady is letting you go? Does the new Lord have his own man?”
“As things go, he does,” Zehetner answered without sadness. The owner of the land he managed had died three years ago, leaving him with even more responsibility running that large estate. But recently the widow, called “the Lady” outside her hearing, had married her neighbor who brought his own man to the joined properties, making Jonathan Zehetner redundant. “I was so compliant when she told me I had no place, she gave me this as a by-your-leave!” He held up an unimpressive coin. “It won’t book passage to America, but I think we can get a bit wet on it!”
