The Loves of Leopold Singer

by L. K. Rigel

“I’m getting to it. At Cambridge, Dr. Devilliers fell in love with Lady Caroline Whitley, the sister of one of his schoolfellows, and the girl returned his affection. When the parents discovered the daughter’s attachment, they shipped her off to Amsterdam.

  “Any turn with a Whitley brings disaster.” Sir Carey wrinkled his nose and drank more wine.

  “I am fond of Jordan,” Lady Branch said, “but in this he was a fool. No family high or low wishes a second son on their daughter, let alone a fourth. At least with the second, the first might die before he gets an heir.”

  “Fie, old girl, you are wicked,” Sir Carey said.

  “We are neither of us romantic. Eh, my boy? We see the practical difficulty in providing for a wife of good birth.”

  “There’s always the sea.” The baroness winced, but Sir Carey pretended not to notice. “At all events,” he told Marta, “Lady Caroline was lost to everybody. She succumbed to the foul Amsterdam air. Six months into her banishment, she was dead of consumption.”

  “A disaster all round.”

  “Did I not use just that word?” Sir Carey said.

  “The Duke of Gohrum asked Carleson to offer Dr. Devilliers the living at Laurelwood. Of course, it was to the squire’s credit to secure a doctor of divinity for the parish.”

  “Devilliers is happy enough.”

  “Today he is happy enough. At the time we feared for our fine new rector.”

  “Mrs. Carleson brought him round,” Sir Carey said, a slight catch in his voice. “She speaks more to him than to … to her husband. And he’s not quite a mere parson. It’s a good living, my lady, even without your frequent presents.”

  “My dear friend Mrs. Carleson came up with so many good works for him to perform, he eventually began to see out both colors of his eyes again.” Lady Branch chuckled at her own joke and rose. “I will just go and see if he wants anything for the squire.”

  Strawberry Red Heart

  Sir Carey returned to the Fuseli painting. “Sometimes I feel as though I myself were a succubus.” As if the last long conversation had not happened. As if this was a practiced speech he had no trouble picking it up again. “I understand the thirst in the little monster. Like him, I am sure I will be sated only by conquering what innocence I find in the world.”

  “Oh.” With a sinking feeling, Marta watched Lady Branch walk away. Even another story about someone she didn’t know was preferable to this. Before the baroness reached the cleric, she stopped and spoke to Leopold and the duchess. Lady Branch moved on, and the duchess whispered in Leopold’s ear. They both laughed. With a flirtatious tilt of her head, her grace walked away from Leopold, and he followed her from the hall.

  “No doubt they’ll return in half an hour.” Sir Carey also watched the pair slip away. “Or what time he takes.”

  Marta rose to her feet. “I must…”

  “Come, m’dear.” Sir Carey touched her elbow and led her out of the hall. “A little fresh air will do you good.”

  Anger with Leopold mixed with the effects of too much claret and the sensation of another man’s hand at her elbow. She let Sir Carey take her outside to a tiled veranda.

  “You must experience the night jasmine and honeysuckle. An English garden is far superior to those of the French. We let wild nature erupt in our gardens, don’t you know?”

  The talk of gardens calmed her. He was harmless, just a fop. He guided her beyond the tiles and down a trail bordered by organized wild flowers. The afternoon shower had cleared the air and the night air was sultry. The gathering had taken on a giddy feel.

  “It feels as if everyone here is exhausted,” she said.

  “They are,” Sir Carey said. “Depleted. Amazed to have survived another season without being ruined. Now they just want to get out of town, escape the foul air, the politics, the gambling.”

  “Is that what you want, Sir Carey?” If Leopold could flirt with the duchess, Marta could flirt with Sir Carey. Apparently this was how refined people were supposed to act.

  “All I want to do is laugh, m’dear.”

  “There is Venus.” She looked up to the night sky. “So close to the moon they could kiss.” It was becoming too dangerous. She felt she really could let this slippery, arrogant man kiss her. She wanted to punish Leopold, but it was more than that.

  That painting haunted her still. The creature on that canvas had seemed to speak to her, an embodiment of desire hovering over the sleeping woman. And who was Sir Carey to her? A knight errant with a chaste offering of wine and the scent of honeysuckle, or a daemon come to sit on her chest and drink her life’s blood?

  Why had Leopold brought her to England to witness his affection for the duchess? He must have been desperate to see her one last time. They might even now be locked in an embrace, exchanging passionate farewell kisses—or worse.

  “Yes, they could kiss.” Sir Carey whispered into her ear from behind her. His arms circled her waist. “If only the star dare approach la lune.”

  He kissed her neck, and she felt his hand on her breast. Before she could protest, his other hand clamped over her mouth. Her little flirtatious fear turned to terror. Sir Carey pressed her against a hedge loaded with blooming night jasmine. The fragrance enveloped her.

  “Oh!”

  “No one will hear you, m’dear. Quite unforgivable of me to lead you so far from the others.” He pushed her face further into the vines and lifted the back of her dress. He spread her legs with a practiced knee and entered her from behind.

  “Leopold!”

  “Scream,” he hissed. “It increases my pleasure.”

  This quieted her out of spite. It was too late anyway. He was inside her, rutting. He finished quickly and pulled away. She vomited with revulsion as he himself back inside his breeches. Still bent over the flowers, she sobbed softly.

  “Yes, cry. Tell yourself you were taken unaware, and forget you paraded before me and practically begged for it. You disgust me.”

  She twisted and lunged with rage, clawed at his clothing in a grotesque attempt to hurt him, but she only tore open his blouse. “Oh.” She stepped back. On Sir Carey’s chest just above his right nipple was a strawberry-red birthmark, nearly heart-shaped. “A heart.” She uttered a crazed laugh.

  The sound of giggling girls echoed from the other side of the foliage.

  “Silly woman,” Sir Carey hissed. “Do you want everyone to know what you’ve been doing in the honeysuckle? I recommend you compose yourself.”

  “It’s jasmine,” she said.

  With a few deft movements, Sir Carey worked his cravat into a knot to hide the tear in the fabric and walked away from his victim.

  “There you are, Sir Carey!”

  “We’ve been looking for you!”

  Two young girls on the veranda called the monster to them. Marta watched through the jasmine. She heard them perfectly. “Squire Carleson has challenged you to billiards!”

  “Excellent.” Sir Carey was composed and jovial. As if nothing had just happened. “If only I could get him to wager Laurelwood.” The girls each grabbed a hand and pulled him inside, debating whether to wager for or against their catch.

  -oOo-

  Sir Carey was diverted from the billiards challenge by Millie’s valet. The duke and Leopold Singer requested his presence in the library for a private meeting.

  “We’ve been introduced.” Sir Carey bowed to Millie had gave Singer a curt nod. “At Gohrum House two years ago.”

  The son had proved no different than the father had been, ever ready to spend the Maenad’s profits on men and maintenance. There was nothing more insufferable than the high morality of the middle class. Inwardly, Sir Carey smirked at the thought of Mrs. Singer debauched in the jasmine.

  Over the years he’d made a good penny on his quarter interest in the Maenad, but because of Augustin Singer’s bourgeois integrity, it was a far lower sum than it should have been. It was going to be amusing to watch Singer’s reaction when Delia exposed his wife.
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  “Lay it out,” the duke said to Singer.

  “It’s just this,” Singer said. “As you know, I am emigrating to America and don’t expect to return. I stopped in London because I wanted to speak to you personally about this matter. I propose we end our partnership in the Maenad.”

  “We had your letter,” said the duke. “And Sir Carey and I are both agreeable. The question is how much will you want for her.”

  “I suggest I take the usual third of this current cargo and an additional payment of twenty-thousand pounds.”

  Sir Carey glanced at Millie. It was a far lower sum than either of them had anticipated. He didn’t like Singer, but he hadn’t thought the fellow that stupid.

  “The Maenad will be yours once she takes me across the Atlantic,” Singer said. “I’ve spoken with Captain Dahms. He’s amenable, and he believes the other officers will stay on.”

  Sir Carey began to mentally hatch the golden eggs that frigate would bring. Many fortunes had been made these past years during the blockades of this or that war. Considering Napoleon’s ambitious bent, it wouldn’t be long before France and England were at it again. The Maenad was a lucky ship, and now his quarter interest would double. If Singer wanted to go build a land of freedom and justice across the ocean, so be it. His contempt for the man only increased.

  Damn! He’d better stop Delia’s mouth. It wouldn’t do now for Singer to discover this evening’s little indiscretion. The man might reconsider or cut Sir Carey out of the deal altogether. Hell, there might be a duel and the attendant mess.

  “For my part, Mr. Singer, I accept.” He offered his hand. He’d never expected to see the five thousand on Delia’s chit anyway. “I’m sure we’ll miss your counsel, as we miss your father’s, but it seems you have a fire in your belly for something new. The United States will be all the richer for having added you to its citizenry.”

  “Fine speech, fine speech,” Millie muttered.

  “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” Sir Carey bowed. “There is something I must attend to.”

  He didn’t have to search far for D. She was just outside the door. “Did you hear, then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Right. There’s been a change in plan. Don’t worry, m’dear. Here is your marker.” He handed her the IOU. “Don’t look so satisfied.” He grabbed her wrist and led her away from the door, out of Singer’s possible hearing. “I want to talk to you.”

  “That hurts.”

  He squeezed more tightly. “You will not, alas, be able to tell your friend about his wife’s amours.”

  “I will tell whoever I want whatever I—ouch!”

  “Mr. Leopold Singer has just made a very agreeable financial arrangement with myself and your husband. Very agreeable. That Austrian is far too honorable. I fear were he to discover his wife’s indiscretion I should have to kill him—and you, dear lady, would be in trouble with your husband all over again.”

  Delia looked furious. This soiree was delivering pleasures of all sorts. “Alas, your triumph over Singer must remain unknown to him, but you’ll get over it.” He chuckled at her impotent glare. “It’s in your nature, D. You’ll let it go. Call it a small defeat and go back to tormenting that housekeeper you hate so much.”

  Frustration played over D’s face. As she ripped the chit to shreds, he almost felt sorry for mentioning the poor servant.

  -oOo-

  In the garden Marta leaned against the fragrant jasmine, too stunned to move. The night sky was muted by the lights of London, but there was Venus and the moon still placid and full. The faint line of a shooting star streaked and faded. The world moved on as if nothing had changed.

  What had she done? What did it matter if Leopold had had an assignation with the duchess? Perhaps it was as he’d said their first day in London. Maybe he didn’t welcome her advances and only meant to set her straight about his feelings.

  Marta’s mind issued muffled commands which her body received in a detached, delayed response. Stand, balance. Look, see. Listen, hear. She had been blasted into parts; she must collect herself. But nothing seemed amiss. Her dress appeared untouched. Even her hair was still arranged atop her head as Gray had fixed it, Greek fashion, pearl braids intact.

  The silence was pierced by the duchess’s satisfied purr. “Out in the moonlight for a

  “Are you ill, my dear?” Leopold said.

  “Oh. No. It is Sir Carey,” Marta said. She put a hand over her flushed throat. “He was…teasing me.”

  “I had thought you rather liked it.” Leopold’s voice betrayed a trace of irritation, perhaps jealousy. She would have been pleased to hear it earlier. Now it was too late.

  “I did not.”

  “Leopold, show her.” The duchess looked directly at Marta with a knowing expression.

  I hate her. Marta had never deeply disliked anyone with such intensity. She knows.

  “Her grace and I committed a little conspiracy today.” Leopold handed her a velvet box. She opened it in slow motion. Did he see her fingers tremble? It held the enamel tree and snake. Mere hours ago, this was what she wanted, a piece of jewelry, and she had chastised herself for her craven taste. If only that were still her worst crime.

  Leopold was proud of himself, full of innocent pleasure. The beautiful serpent mocked her from its branch, a silent witness. “Oh, Mr. Singer.” She must say more. She must appear unmolested. She must be unmolested.

  “Then I can congratulate myself on a successful choice?”

  “Dearest, I am a little tired.” Do not cry. Do not cry. “Do you think we might leave without causing insult?”

  “Yes, by all means. Go.” The duchess sighed. “Sir Carey can be a savage.”

  Marta looked at the duchess sharply. What was she going to say?

  “He’s about to ravage the squire at billiards,” her grace continued, smiling pleasantly. “You couldn’t bear to watch.”

  In her room at Gohrum House Marta turned the brooch over in her fingers, tormented. Did Leopold suspect something? Had he made love to the duchess this evening? The thought was repulsive. At least her encounter had been against her will—no, no. She couldn’t excuse or justify what had happened. Ever.

  Outside the window a line of torchieres flickered against exterior walls. She could still feel that animal riding her, the humiliation. She closed her eyes, only to hear again the sounds of Sir Carey’s desire, to feel his breath on her neck. She recalled Reverend Haas’s disdain for her beauty and Oktav Haas groping her on the cathedral road, moaning “You are so pretty.” And the Madonna in the cathedral. Was this degradation punishment for her prayer to an idol? Then why had she felt so close to heaven when she’d gazed upon that bronze rendition of Mary’s agony?

  She jumped as Leopold put his hands on her waist. She hadn’t heard her door open. “Lovely.” He kissed her ear. “My beautiful wife.” She shuddered. “Forgive me not being there to protect you.”

  He knew! How could he be so calm?

  “Sir Carey is a bit of a cad, I am afraid. In my defense, you’ve shown yourself quite able to hold your own among these people.”

  She could hardly understand him. He apologized as if he had spilt salt. Was the world debauched and she a laughable innocent?

  “If Sir Carey was successful in stealing a kiss from you, as a man I can’t blame him for trying—any more than I blame you for your charms. The fault is entirely my own for not guarding you more jealously. My precious, my beautiful wife.”

  “Oh, Mr. Singer.”

  He opened the top hooks of her dress. “I think Lady Delia will not keep us apart tonight.”

  The door opened, but it was only Gray with tea. “Shall I bring another cup, madam?”

  “We’ll share the one.” Leopold answered for her, standing behind her, kissing her neck as Gray watched.

  Marta had never felt so much like an object as this night. Not when Oktav kissed her, nor Beethoven, nor the prince. She could still hear Sir Carey’s hiss
. And now Leopold—Leopold, whom she loved—touched her this way in front of Gray.

  “Mrs. Singer won’t need you again tonight,” he said.

  Gray’s eyes met Marta’s before she turned away. It seemed as if the maid shared in her suffering, but it didn’t make her feel any better.

  -oOo-

  With no word and no curtsy, Susan fled down to the kitchen. She pulled the letter she’d written to Leopold from her pocket and threw it into the fire.

  Matthew Peter came into the kitchen just as the paper turned to ash. “Are you unwell, Miss Gray?”

  “Dear Matthew Peter,” she said. “I’m merely exorcising an old daemon.”

  “You speak in the oddest way.” He gave her a cup of tea, and his hand trembled a little. She smiled when she accepted the cup, and her eyes stayed with his when she raised it to her lips. She was quite aware that she had called him “dear.”

  -oOo-

  Leopold continued to unhook Marta’s dress. He petted her and kissed her as he removed each piece of her clothing. She stood numb beside the bed, still as a doll. She couldn’t bear to have him inside her so soon after…

  But a new thought burst into her mind, so horrific it drove out all other thoughts. The world went truly black. She saw into an abyss that held a horrific possibility. Leopold might be unable to get her pregnant, but what if Sir Carey had no trouble?

  Everything in her cried out against it. Her knees buckled and she would have fallen, but Leopold caught her up and took her to the bed. He slipped her chemise off her shoulders.

  He didn’t see her, not really. He saw wife, his beautiful prize. He had no idea of her as anything apart from him. She didn’t care. She reached for him, pulled him close. With the deliberate intent of an Ann Boleyn, she opened herself to him. With each of his kisses, she murmured. With each caress, she surrendered another measure. Her response inspired his greater response until his passion washed over her anguish.

  She needed him to cover her with everything that he was. To obliterate the memory of that strawberry red heart.