The Loves of Leopold Singer

by L. K. Rigel

  The more she looked, the more she saw until his elegant manliness quite simply captivated her imagination. She’d thought of welcoming him into her bed with a reaction entirely opposite to what she had become accustomed. It made her curious. She had to have him. She said yes. It was too late now to consider whether she’d made a mistake.

  Dr. Devilliers had been a most agreeable trustee. She wondered if he would find her news today agreeable. She passed the church and turned toward the rectory whose front perimeter was framed by Philomela’s daffodils. The trellis over the gate was obscured by a swath of tiny pink roses, the year’s first bloom, and blue wisteria covered the arch over the front steps.

  Between gate and door, a lilac in full bloom made a perfect picture until she noted the rectory roof was in need of repair. There was still so much to do at Laurelwood, and the prospect of all that good work made her happy. Dr. Devilliers stool on a tall stool, nearly buried in purple fronds. He dropped cuttings into a basket on the ground and stopped to breathe in the fragrance of the lilacs.

  She was a fool.

  How could she have missed it? There was more between them than the regard of a cleric for his benefactor’s widow. She felt most at ease in his presence, most naturally herself. Not once did he ever raise an eyebrow or offer a patronizing sigh when she spoke of improving the livestock and the corn or seeing to the welfare of her tenants. If anything, he applauded her efforts and contributed advice where he could. I am a snipped blossom, and gathered by the wrong gardener.

  To Elizabeth, Devilliers was beautiful, though she knew the world would laugh if it heard her say so. His face was scarred, and he had one blue eye and one hazel eye. Oh, but when he smiled! His teeth were even and white. His eyes twinkled with world-weary bemusement. Sometimes, laughing, he seemed almost happy, but he carried a private sorrow.

  She’d heard Philly’s version of his young romance and assumed there was something true in it. All she knew was, this was the one human being whose presence calmed her. The truth was she delighted in his company not because he was a kind and generous clergyman and trustee, but because she loved him.

  “Elizabeth!” He dropped the shears into the basket and jumped off the stool to bring her a cluster of the lilacs. “I thought I might visit your patient this afternoon, Mrs. Carleson.” They both ignored his use of her Christian name.

  “I would be so grateful,” she said. “I don’t think she quite understands her situation.”

  “I was about to have my tea here among the flowers,” he said. “Would you join me?”

  “Yes. There is something I want to tell you.”

  He said what a good match and that Sir Carey was a lucky man, but he let his tea go cold and ate none of the scones. They sat for a while without talking, but there was nothing unusual in that. At last he said, “They say Napoleon is going to make himself emperor, to keep France safe from the Bourbons.”

  She said, “The first time I cut my hair was as a protest against the Terror.” He smiled a little. “Yes, ridiculous, I know. What was the point? Who would see and understand? But I would see. God would see. I couldn’t go on as if everything were normal when the world was falling into madness.”

  “I have always thought that, in your heart, you are a passionate woman.”

  “My father laughed at me.” She couldn’t acknowledge the intimate comment or all would be lost. “Such a cruel laugh. Hair grows, he said. Later, when he engaged me to Mr. Carleson against my will, I cut off my hair again, to spite him.”

  Dr. Devilliers said, “Perhaps you will let it grow now, Mrs. Carleson.”

  Mrs. Peter

  A man with bad skin and a marvelous smile sat beside the bed. Susan thought he had been there before. Her left arm was bound, and it hurt. She wondered if it was broken. The room had wallpaper with birds and flowers, and there was a fire. A wide window with a window seat looked out on rolling fields and a clear sky. “Where am I?”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Peter,” the man said. “Do you feel strong enough to take a little broth?”

  So that was it. She had been mistaken for another person. “Where…”

  “You are at Laurelwood, Mrs. Peter, and you are not to worry. Mrs. Carleson will take very good care of you until you are mended.” He put his hand on her forehead with a gentleness that made her wish she were indeed Mrs. Peter, the guest of Mrs. Carleson of Laurelwood, cared for in a beautiful warm room with kindness and broth.

  -oOo-

  “Is she awake, Dr. Devilliers?” said a woman at the door.

  “She is opening her eyes just now, Mrs. Carleson.” The man was there again, in the chair beside Susan’s bed—though he seemed to have changed his neck cloth and shirt. Wind and rain now beat against the window. How long had she slept?

  “A letter has come for her,” said the woman. “It was enclosed with one to myself from the Duke of Gohrum.”

  The Duke of Gohrum. How good it sounded to hear a familiar name! Mrs. Carleson and Dr. Devilliers helped her to sit up, which made her nauseous. Her left arm still hurt terribly, and she still had a headache. Again, she was sensible of the quality of her surroundings. She stared at the letter in her good hand.

  “Dr. Devilliers,” Mrs. Carleson said. “Perhaps you could read it for Mrs. Peter if she does not object.”

  Susan shook her head, and Dr. Devilliers accepted the sheet of paper:

  My dear Mrs. Peter,

  Please accept my sympathy for your tragic loss. I am sure I will be very glad if the excellent Mrs. Carleson makes you comfortable until you recover. I am almost certain that very soon I will be able to relay that good news we spoke of not long ago.

  Please accept my heartfelt condolences, poor Mrs. Peter.

  Yours &tc,

  Gohrum

  “Well, then.” Mrs. Carleson smiled cheerfully.

  “Indeed,” Susan said. Nothing was any clearer to her.

  “It must be comforting,” Dr. Devilliers said, “to have such a friend.”

  It wasn’t at all comforting, but what could she say? She had been confused with a Mrs. Peter, the equal of these two kind people. How kind would they be when they learned she was only a housekeeper? She was a housekeeper, right? Her head pounded and her arm hurt, and sleep was all she wanted.

  Dr. Devilliers gave up his place beside the bed to the surgeon, Mr. Brennan.

  “I am not married, sir,” she told him.

  “That isn’t important right now.” He checked the dressing on her arm. “What do you remember of the accident?”

  “Nothing. I look for something in my mind and come to a blank, like there is a wall in my brain. I feel certain the answer is on the other side of that wall, but I cannot get around it.”

  “You are in a delicate state, but with rest and quiet I feel confident you’ll recover in both body and mind.”

  He turned to the others. “These are my strict instructions. In my patient’s presence, avoid all discussion of her identity and the accident. Her mind is in a fragile state. She must be allowed to recover her recollection without pressure.”

  -oOo-

  Jordan Devilliers was personally involved in Carleson Peak’s two most-talked-about events that spring: the coach wreck that left its one survivor with amnesia, and the wedding of Elizabeth Carleson and Sir Carey in mid June. Jordan performed the ceremony before a small group of witnesses: the Duke of Gohrum and Jordan’s sister the duchess, Baroness Branch, and little Geordie dressed in a blue velvet suit and bearing rings on a satin pillow.

  Laurelwood’s tenants and household servants waited outside the church, and after the ceremony everyone walked through the park to the house. The duke ordered his carriage to trail behind, declaring that a walk on such a fine day would do him good, and Jordan took the opportunity to chat with his sister.

  “I’m glad you don’t consider walking beneath your dignity, your grace.”

  “I wasn’t consulted,” Delia said.

  The wedding feast was served out of do
ors in the garden. No one thought the worse of Mrs. Carleson—Lady Asher—for this quirk. It was in keeping with her general odd character, her cropped hair and tendency to read Humphry Davy rather than Maria Edgeworth. As the servants ran to put on their aprons, Jordon saw Mrs. Peter on the lawn.

  Mr. Brennan had forbidden Mrs. Peter to go to the church with the wedding party, but he’d agreed to her being taken out to the lawn wrapped in blankets and deposited on a wicker divan. She was reading the Lyrical Ballads.

  “It’s good to see you taking the air, Mrs. Peter.” Jordan sat down beside her and drained a glass of wine in three swallows.

  She closed the book and laid it on her lap. “I’ve just been reading the poem about the wedding guest, appropriately enough.” In a deft motion, she caught the eye of a footman, raised her good right forefinger, and the rector’s glass was refilled. “You had better take another for the speech.”

  Mrs. Peter’s kindness touched him. A woman’s notice and care for such trifles made a man feel seen in the world. Valued. His heart wasn’t damaged by Mrs. Carleson’s marriage. That organ had sustained a far greater blow from Caroline, when he was younger and less able to defend it. He’d long since learned to dissemble. But he wondered if he should take the same treatment for loneliness as he prescribed to others. Perhaps he should marry.

  Even Delia had taken that cure. It was against his sister’s constitution to admit she was happy, but as she fussed over the duke and made him comfortable, she seemed as happy as she’d ever been. She patted her husband’s hand almost kindly and surveyed the party with a bored expression. When she saw Jordan, a flicker of a smile passed over her face, though that disappeared when she spied the invalid in the lawn chair beside him. She frowned disgust and turned away.

  Geordie climbed into Sir Carey’s lap and locked his hands around his new father’s neck. Perhaps the fearful responsibility of the pillow and rings had worn the boy out. He yawned and fought to keep his eyes open. Sir Carey tousled the boy’s hair as Elizabeth sat down beside them. She was indeed letting her hair grow. Sir Carey would have the right to run his hands through that hair now.

  The duke stood up, and everyone started to join him. “Sit, my friends, sit,” he said. “On this best of occasions, we celebrate the marriage of our two dear friends. It is with great pleasure that I raise my glass to Sir Carey and Lady Asher. To the happy couple!” It was a genial party and a beautiful day, most auspicious for new beginnings.

  Jordan took his seat at the table. “This is a pleasant domestic picture.”

  Sir Carey nodded. “Thank you for your promise to stop in to see little Geordie while we’re gone and to watch out for Mrs. Peter.”

  “I am not little!” Geordie murmured.

  “Of course not, my boy. My mistake.”

  “You must dine at Laurelwood every day,” said Elizabeth. “I am sure your company will do Mrs. Peter good. And you will be well fed; Mrs. Johns has done wonders with the kitchen.”

  After all, he adored Elizabeth’s short hair. It was a tragedy to let it grow. She wasn’t at all like other women, and she shouldn’t make herself look like other women. “We shall have a splendid time, Geordie and I. He can ride with me on my calls.”

  He looked for the wine steward and noticed Mrs. Peter. Her eyes were closed, and her brows knit together. He thought she might be crying. He excused himself to go to her.

  “Are you unwell, my dear? Is there something I can do for you?”

  “To the happy couple,” she said, so melancholic that his heart broke all over again. “I am Mrs. Peter. Matthew Peter is dead.”

  -oOo-

  Susan improved in body, but not in mind. These people had such a good opinion of her, and it was so very much unwarranted. She had married Matthew Peter to her own selfish purpose. She’d never thought of his happiness, and now he was dead. It was as if she had killed him herself.

  “If you are feeling well enough today, Mrs. Peter,” Dr. Devilliers said one afternoon, “I could drive you to Millam to visit your brother.”

  For a moment, she didn’t understand that he was speaking to her. “I’m sorry. I still don’t think of myself as ‘Mrs. Peter.’ I wasn’t married for more than a few hours, you know.”

  “Madam,” he said gently. “It’s no great thing to carry misery in your heart. Here I speak as your clergyman, which I expect I am, now.” His smile was like a gift. “Of course you’re devastated to lose your husband before your life together had even begun. But life does go on. The world goes on. And we must live in the world we’re given.”

  “The world we’re given.”

  “I’ll stop my lecture now. Come! You are recovering, it’s a beautiful June day, and you have a brother who would like to see that you are mending. Shall we not go?”

  “Me go too!” Geordie ran into the room, raising his arms to be picked up.

  “Yes, Geordie, you’ll be our chaperon.”

  Susan knew Dr. Devilliers didn’t really see her in the way a chaperon was required. They had been properly introduced during her illness, and he had been attentive and kind, but he was attentive and kind to everyone. Still the damage had been done. Truly against her will, in the space where she usually thought of Leopold Singer, Dr. Devilliers had slipped in.

  It was just as inappropriate, and it hurt in the same way, if not to the same degree. She was to be Laurelwood’s housekeeper, and her marriage of a few hours had lowered her position further. She was an underbutler’s widow. At any rate, she was in mourning, guard enough against their being anything more than friends.

  “Yes, let’s do go.”

  They squashed up in Dr. Devilliers’s curricle with Geordie happy in the middle, grasping a bunch of carrots. It was a sunny, clear day. In the fields new lambs fell over each other playing in the sunshine. The party stopped along the way so Geordie could feed his carrots to a colt.

  Life began to lose its dreamlike feel. Matthew Peter’s dark ghost couldn’t hold its shape against all this sunshine. Dr. Devilliers was right, the living must live. “I spoke with Mrs. Johns this morning,” she said. “She didn’t say it straight out, but I believe she is eager for me to take on my duties.”

  “She will be grateful, I’m sure,” he said.

  It had been a lovely daydream to think of Dr. Devilliers, but Susan was awake now.

  Home Fires Burning

  Sir Carey and his bride went to the wild north coast for their wedding journey of two weeks. He could hardly get her to agree to that length of time. They spent a mere two days with her family. Her father was a boor and a bully and far too impressed by Sir Carey’s title. He made sure the man called Elizabeth “my lady” often.

  The trip had all the appearances of a success. They made plans for more improvements to Laurelwood and to fix the roof at the rectory. They discussed their routine vis-a-vis his trips to London during Parliament. They bought gifts for Aunt Philly and Geordie and a book of Hindoo tales for Dr. Devilliers. For Mrs. Peter, Elizabeth bought a turban of black satin and velvet with jet beads sewn into the folds.

  “That’s rather an elegant gift for a housekeeper,” Sir Carey said.

  “Perhaps. But the duke cares for her. And I must say, so do I. Besides, Laurelwood has been desperate for an honest and competent housekeeper, and you had the bad taste to not come with an unmarried sister.”

  “With my people, an unmarried sister would end up a baroness.”

  “At all events, I hope Mrs. Peter will be happy with us.”

  They made a handsome couple. He was of course stylish perfection, and she had the kind of beauty which radiated outward from her grounded nature. Sir Carey was happy in all things but one. He felt inadequate in the bedroom, with the one charm he had brought to the marriage beyond his landless title. On returning to Laurelwood, he felt the disappointment hanging unexplored between them was mutual.

  It was only seven o’clock, but the August sky was dark with clouds. Geordie had come for his evening visit and gone away again
to bed. Elizabeth sipped warm milk sweetened with honey from Laurelwood’s own hives, but it gave her no comfort. Sir Carey read a book beside the fire while she made the day’s entries in the household accounts.

  Day or night, the marriage was not going well, and when her husband came to her bed, she often closed her eyes and saw another man. She feared she might call out Jordan Devilliers’ name in the midst of it all. The predicament was bewildering. Squire Carleson had enjoyed her body and had been highly put out when denied it. She knew Dr. Devilliers desired her. Sir Carey had most assuredly desired her—until he had her.

  He was a good husband, and a good father to her son. She admired his dedication to the Slave Bill, and she was grateful for the attentions he paid to Geordie. Somehow she had failed to please him. Though he insisted otherwise, she felt that he resented her management of the estate, but to give it up was impossible; she would not do it.

  “Mrs. Peter wrote to me today. She’s ready to return from her brother’s house and assume her duties,” Elizabeth said. “I wish I understood the duke’s interest in her. He took no notice of her at the wedding.”

  “I cannot tell you who she is,” Sir Carey said, not looking up. “But she was with Gohrum for years. Someone’s relation, I think.”

  What a pleasure to have a conversation free of barely suppressed resentment. She’d like to kiss his cheek or offer an endearment, but she would be rebuffed. It was no good. She couldn’t think, and the storm began to crackle and rumble outside. She put away the journal and picked up the lamp. “I’m going up. Good night, my dear.”

  Sir Carey had never given thought to a woman’s pleasure. The fair creatures had always been glad of his company. He resented the pressure he now felt to please his wife, frustration made worse by the sense he was superfluous. Elizabeth ran Laurelwood with manly competence, even if she pretended to defer to him as she issued orders. “Is that correct, Sir Carey?” she would ask. “Do you approve, my dear?” But his response was mere formality.