by L. K. Rigel
Penelope, meanwhile, inspected the small bookcase in the room. There was The Pilgrim’s Progress, well and good. Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith. What on earth was that doing here? A treatise by Locke. Not too bad. Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth and Coleridge. She adored the Ancient Mariner. Sometimes Uncle James recited the thing and they’d recall their former lives.
“I count twenty-four volumes. This cannot be the famous Grasmere library. Still, in my childhood, we owned four books only, and one of those the Bible. Not to discount Holy Scripture, but I do love a rousing novel.” She slipped Maria Edgeworth’s Moral Tales back into place. “Girls should be educated as a human necessity, for their own improvement, not merely to the purposing of raising sons. I don’t like this new talk of ‘angels in the house.’ I'll never be an angel. Indeed, I don’t want to be. Do you agree, Marta?”
“I agree girls ought to be educated for their own sakes, and for the sake of their families. I’m sure when my husband wrote those words he meant we have such influence on our children that we must learn to call upon our better angels.”
“I was raised by a pirate and by Uncle James. I had no education, and look how I turned out.” Penelope smiled. “I suppose Mr. Singer has a good point.” Privately she thought, but if I didn’t have the devil on my other shoulder, Franklin would soon be a dead man.
This was a day of revelations. Eleanor had never heard her mother speak of life in “the Old World.” And Mrs. Adams, brought up by pirates? She held her breath, hoping to hear more, and looked at Sara Adams anew. This was the granddaughter of a pirate.
After tea, while Penelope swooned over the real library, Marta maneuvered Miss Fiddyment into a private conversation. “Eleanor is quite fond of Miss Sara Adams. My mind is at ease, knowing she has already a friend here.”
“I see.”
To emphasize the point Marta added, “I should mention the scholarship my husband established for the Academy has funds enough for a year’s tuition for any girl who may be in need.”
“That is excellent information, Mrs. Singer.” She’s as thoughtful as she is lovely, Igraine thought. “I am very glad to have met you at last.”
-oOo-
April sat. She stood. She paced. Mrs. Singer left with her daughter. April paced again. When Mrs. Adams went upstairs with her daughter, April grabbed Igraine’s hand and pulled her into the office. “There is something you must see.”
“April, you are making me goosey. What is it?”
“I have no idea how you’ll feel about this, so I'll say it straightaway: The Romancer in New York has bought The Maid and the Moonstone.” April handed Igraine a letter.
“What are you saying?” Igraine stared at the sheet addressed to April.
“Forgive me Igraine, but you know that your stories are good. We needed the money, and I thought if one sold... Well, I sent one in to the magazine. They like it. They want more. You are to be a published author.”
“April, you clever, clever girl.” Igraine hugged her friend. A miracle! “Thirty-five dollars! With the Singer and Adams tuitions, we are saved.”
Leaving Normal
Penelope closed the door to the bedroom Sara was to share with Eleanor. “Can you believe that library?” Penelope tried to conjure an iota of enthusiasm in her sad daughter. Sara would be sixteen in June, nearly a woman, but she still seemed a little girl. Penelope had bedded three different men by the time she was that age, but in a different world altogether. “Think of the fun you will have reading all those books.”
Sara looked like she would burst into tears.
“Oh, Sara!” Penelope squeezed her daughter’s hands. “This is the hardest parting of my life. I must go with your father. Though you won’t believe me, of the two of you, you are the stronger. He needs me, and you don’t.”
Sara’s eyebrows knit together.
“Miss Fiddyment is a little reserved on the surface, but she’s quite clever and she seems a good and kind person. Give her a chance. And Eleanor Singer will be a friend to you. You will be fine. You are fine.”
“Yes, Mama. I will try to be brave.”
“I will see you again soon, darling. As soon as the Fates allow.”
-oOo-
There was no rain, but the wind was still furious. Penelope sat up beside Uncle James on the ride home. She imagined Franklin waiting for her, sitting defeated beside their packed bags. She had convinced him to leave town rather than fight a duel. Stupid, pointless. There was no honor in dueling, despite what his southern upbringing had taught him. She’d extracted his promise not to meet Reverend Grim’s hotheaded son tomorrow morning, but neither would he stay in Shermer Landing with that disgrace upon him.
It had been a good run, their time in this normal little town. Eighteen years! A good thirteen more than she’d expected. In truth, for a while now she had been restless. Town life was confining, too normal. She longed to stride up to a bar, demand a tankard, and listen to the swaggering stories of sailors and unabashed sinners.
This ordinary life was not for Franklin, either, as it turned out. He thought himself a fake and a failure, financed by her money and put into office through Leopold Singer’s influence. He was sad with self-loathing. Why else would he practically call out that confused boy, Martin Grim? In his right mind, Franklin would have been a friend to him. Her husband needed a quest to restore his self-concept.
The plan was to return to Southampton to reconcile with his father. They would leave their normal life, and for her and Franklin that was to the good.
Sara, however, could live nothing but a normal life. Sara needed stability like she needed air and water, and so for a time Penelope would leave her with Miss Fiddyment. But not Miss Fiddyment alone.
“Uncle James, I have to ask you to do something for me.”
“Anything, Penny. You know that.”
“Yes. I do know that. I need you to stay here and look after Sara for me.” And besides, Massachusetts was a free state.
“Yes, Penny. I reckon that is so.”
Uncle James was her strength, her safe harbor, and her guardian angel. Would she be the same person without him? She wasn’t afraid. She always knew what to do, in crisis or not. The world had never scared her. Even when it nearly broke her, it only made her mad. She didn’t need Uncle James for protection so much as for a touchstone.
A fierce jab of wind blasted down the street. Uncle James steadied the horses in front of the offices of The Post. The building looked empty but for a light in an upstairs window. Leopold Singer must be there. “Uncle James, let’s go into The Post for a moment. I want you to warm yourself at their fire.”
She found Leopold in his upstairs office. “Mrs. Adams, I saw you in the street just now and hoped you would come in.”
“I found I wanted to see you one last time.”
“You will be missed. Both of you.”
Penelope was past her prime, but she still had the bearing of a goddess. She radiated an animal appetite for life, and her psychic force had not waned since the day he first saw her riding up to The Farm. All these years they’d managed to keep the necessary boundaries. They loved their spouses. Now they were likely never to see each other again.
Then she was in his arms, and he felt compelled to accept her by a power greater than himself. She was stronger than he was, and she wanted him. He felt taken out of time and place, beyond consequence, slipping away from propriety into desire. As he had desired Susan Gray.
He pulled away. “I am so sorry. I can’t.” He felt diminished by his refusal; he knew immediately he had made a mistake.
“Of course.” She retreated. “Goodbye, Leopold.”
As she closed the door, the wind screamed against his window; he thought it screamed his name. A sense of doom seized him, and it wouldn’t let him go.
-oOo-
At the house on Franklin Street, Uncle James let Penelope out of the carriage and started, as usual, for the servants’ entrance. “Uncle James, come walk with m
e.” She motioned toward the front door. “I think at least once in his life a man should enter his own house through the front door.”
At the threshold, Uncle James stopped her. “In all these years, Penny, I have never told you about my father.”
“No, Uncle James. You never have.”
He removed the amulet from around his neck that he had worn for as long as Penelope could remember. “My father was a special man, a priest of Voudon on the island of Quisqueya. He gave me this talisman when I left the island to seek out my mother.”
“My grandmother.”
“Eugenie Sande, yes.”
The symbol looked like a cross resting upon a small tomb. “The loa of this charm has kept me safe these years. He will go with you now, as I cannot.” He put the talisman around Penelope’s neck and touched her cheek. She touched his cheek, too, as if half a century had never passed and she was still a little girl perched on his shoulders.
“You have saved my life,” she whispered, “by being in my life.” Together they passed through the front door of the one property in Shermer Landing whose deed was held by a black man.
Correspondence
May 7, 1828
My dear Gabrielle,
I am shocked how time has passed since I last wrote. I hope this letter finds you and my dear brother and my nieces and nephew well and prosperous.
You will remember Gisela Zehetner of whom I have often written. She passed to a better reality Friday last. My grief is hard to bear. She became the sister I lost when Life separated me from you, though I had not realized it.
Gisela Zehetner was your opposite, quiet, and in her final years rather humorless. But she was a good and faithful friend, steadfast in sorrow and equally delighted in what joy came her way. She had no real illness. She began to fail years ago, now that I think on it, when Willie died. You remember Willie. He was one of the little boys Leopold stopped from fighting on the day I fell in love with him. We were so young!
He was killed fighting with Colonel Jackson—President Jackson, some would wish—in Louisiana. It is strange to think of Willie as a mature man with children of his own, but that is what he would be now had he lived.
I am so morbid today!
Leopold is well, as am I. Samuel completed his studies at Harvard and has continued at their school of Divinity. Leopold is beside himself knowing that he has spawned a preacher! We have a freethinking Unitarian minister whom Leopold loved up to the day Samuel announced his vocation. Now my husband cannot forgive Reverend Lightfeather. He holds a grudge against the man for doing his job too well! I confess I am ambivalent about my son’s choice of profession, but he did not consult me about it, nor did I expect him to.
Harry is at Harvard in his last year. I suspect he has political leanings. And what would be the surprise in that, the way his father meddles! The only question is who will run the farm? Had Eleanor been male, she would be the choice. There is nothing she loves better than inspecting her gardens for flowers and vegetables, chasing the pests away and making what she calls “a triumphant soup” of her own produce.
She is away at school now and curious about the world, but she will want to settle down soon enough. I suppose she will marry the Zehetner’s son Jonnie and they will run the farm together. I am gruff about the match, just to keep the young people on their toes. But I must say I am happy in her choice. He is a fine young man.
I miss you still, dear Gabby. My life is fuller than I could have imagined it would be, and I have no complaints. But I do wish I could see you one more time on this earth. Give my brother and your children hugs and kisses from their Aunt Marta and Uncle Leopold.
Your loving sister,
Mrs. Leopold Singer
NB: I have enclosed miniatures of all of us that I had painted for you. I believe the likenesses are quite good. You will notice Eleanor looks a little like Wolfram, had he been good-looking ha-ha.
Marta.
The Chaperone
Igraine passed through the kitchen on her way to the mudroom to ring for the girls’ free time, an important part of the Academy’s happy routine. Soup simmering on the stove gave off a delicious aroma and filled her with contentment. After The Maid and the Moonstone, The Romancer bought three more stories. Soon after, the editor sent a plea for anything else Igraine might offer. Crisis averted. There was money to pay bills and indulge in a few extravagances. Yesterday, April arranged for a side of beef with the butcher, and Cook was ecstatic.
At the mudroom door, Igraine reached for the bell pull but was interrupted by a commotion in the garden.
“I’ll slug you, Miranda, I will!” Eleanor Singer dropped her spade and gave chase after Miranda Goodson.
That Goodson girl again! She never left off teasing poor Sara Adams. Sara grabbed Eleanor around the waist and held fast.
Miranda stopped when saw she was safe. She said, “It’s true. Mrs. Adams does voodoo, and her driver is a voodoo man.”
“Let me go,” Eleanor said, but Sara held on.
“It is true,” Grace Grummond said apologetically. “Everybody says it’s why she only ever had one child. She knows how to stop babies with voodoo.”
Igraine sighed. Girls could be so cruel.
“Watch out,” Sara said. “My mother taught me everything she knows.”
Igraine chuckled and rang the bell. Sara was as shy as ever, but once in a while she let out a real humdinger. The girls had discovered the old brass ship’s bell in the attic on one of their expeditions. At its sound, they all looked toward the mudroom door.
“Oh, please, Miss Fiddyment,” Eleanor Singer said. “Say it!”
“Free time! Free time!”
“Hurray!” The girls put away their tools and bounded from the garden into the mudroom carrying baskets of the early beans they’d picked.
“Eleanor, your soup smells wonderful,” Miranda said by way of apology, looking at Sara.
“It’s triumphant,” Sara said by way of acceptance.
Everyone relaxed. All was well with the world. And it was free time!
Igraine and April remembered with no small fury their schooldays when there had never been any time for thinking or dreaming. They made it a practice to have some free time every day. Today was Saturday with the entire afternoon free from the end of gardening until dinner at four o’clock. There were no lessons on Sundays, but they were full of the obligations of church and visits with relatives or letter writing.
The Saturday free time bell also signaled the day off for Mrs. Fuller and Cook. The two usually stayed at Grasmere House, but the girls prepared their own meals and cleaned up after themselves.
Igraine started to follow the girls inside, but an eerie feeling took hold of her. She saw something, someone moving beyond the garden. A strange man—no, not strange. “Hello? Hello there! Uncle James?”
It felt strange to call someone else by that name. She hadn’t thought of her aunt and uncle in years. Penelope Adams’s driver emerged from behind a tree. They met halfway into the garden.
“I’m Sara’s teacher.”
“Yes, Miss Fiddyment. I know you.”
He seemed embarrassed at being caught, but Igraine was glad to see him. Sara had seemed sad and lonely since her parents abandoned her. “Did you come to visit Sara?”
“I would like that.”
“Lovely.” Igraine led Uncle James in through the kitchen. He couldn’t hide his interest in the pot of soup on the stove. Without asking, she poured out a bowl full and set it on the table. “Eleanor always makes more than enough. Please have some.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I have been my own cook this past while. I’m not so good at it.”
This he said as if it had come as a great shock. He did have an air of competence about him. “Have you been taking care of the Adams place, then?”
“Something like that.”
When Igraine and April peeked into the kitchen half an hour later, Sara was smiling.
“Look at t
hat,” April said as Sara laughed at something he said.
“Wonderful to hear.” Igraine pushed the door open wide, and they joined Sara and her visitor. “Uncle James, Miss Westerman and I have a proposition for you. Would you be insulted if we asked you to come and work at the Academy? We couldn’t pay much, I am afraid, but you and Sara could see each other more often.”
“Uncle James doesn’t mind about money,” Sara blurted out. Her face turned red, and she turned to him. “I mean, please say yes. I wouldn’t be so lonely. I mean…”
Igraine squeezed Sara’s hand in sympathy. “Don’t worry, dear. Your feelings are entirely understandable.”
Uncle James became the school’s chief driver and an entertainer too. One evening, Sara persuaded him to recite Rime of the Ancient Mariner. With his exotic looks and melodious accent, it was a marvelous success and fostered many a nightmare about sea-snakes and woeful specters.
Uncle James also provided a great service as chaperon during the daily walks. Igraine believed in the benefits of exercise, so every afternoon the young ladies marched two-by-two through Shermer Landing with Igraine and April at the lead. These walks quickly became the daily highlight for the young men in town, but it took longer and longer to accomplish the exercise.
Would-be beaux found it convenient to run errands on Hamilton Street as close to three o’clock as possible, tipping their hats to certain someones. When they engaged a young lady in conversation, it slowed the parade and ruined the point of the exercise, which was exercise.
