by LK Rigel
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 everything changed. Lady Whitley told her about the young foreigner also visiting Millam Hall, Mr. Leopold Singer from Austria, here to attend Oxford—or was it Cambridge? His family had a fortune but no title; he was a ripe plum. She resolved to pick that plum the moment she saw him.
A shock of pleasure had shot through her. He was simply lovely. Muscular and earthy 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 wouldn’t turn her down any 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.” Delia’s friend Sir Carey Asher offered his arm to walk her in to dinner.
“Whatever can you mean, m’dear?” she said, she knew exactly what he meant.
“Apparently the object of your affection prefers to dip his oar in less exalted waters.” Sir Carey nodded toward one of Millie’s servants speaking with the butler at the door.
Miss Gray. Delia knew her name. She wasn’t even the head housekeeper, but she carried herself in a manner above her class. She shot an angry glance toward Mr. Singer, across from Delia and down the table. He saw and answered with an apologetic expression, following her fondly with his eyes as she left the room.
Sir Carey was right; something was going on between the two. She was neither young nor pretty. It was vaguely humiliating.
“But surely that,” Sir Carey purred, “presents no great obstacle.”
Lady Delia was not so confident. She lifted her glass to Mr. Singer. He returned the gesture politely but without enthusiasm.
She hated him then. She saw him with new eyes. He was one of those horrible idealistic 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,” Sir Carey said. “I don’t know why you won’t have me instead of that earnest fellow. He could never appreciate you.”
“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.
***
Susan Gray went down the servants’ stairs, trying to calm her nerves. She never should have gone upstairs during the duke’s supper. There was no call for her to be there. She just wanted a glimpse of Leopold Singer. It had only brought her grief.
He’d followed her into a hall and kissed her, and she’d felt then how unbearable her situation was. Lady Delia’s friend Sir Carey had passed by them, excusing himself to Mr. Singer with an amused smile and of course ignoring her.
She didn’t truly belong to the world of service, but would anyone believe she was a gentleman’s daughter? When Sir Carey was gone, she’d admonished Mr. Singer. “Sir, if you won’t 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, but she avoided him. She asked Cook for a pot of tea and took Mary aside to speak to her near the kitchen fire. “Mary, I’ve spoken with Mr. Peter. You’re going to have to continue on as Lady Delia’s maid.”
“Oh, Miss Gray!”
“I’m sorry, Mary. But you know the duke makes up handsomely for her ladyship’s failings.” Susan never thought of the duke as Millie now. He was no longer a family friend and benefactor. He was her employer.
He often invited Lady Delia to stay at Gohrum House when she was in town. Not only did she fail without fail to bring her own maid, she never left anything for the one the duke provided. He always gave a generous present to the maid, usually Mary, who drew the duty, but Lady Delia was so demanding and critical that it wasn’t really worth it.
“She’ll be with us for the month. I know you will do your best.”
When Mary left, Matthew Peter took her place. “I missed you last night. You were out late.”
“I was visiting a friend in Highgate,” she said. “Not that it’s your business.” Her tea was ready, and she took the tray to her room. She didn’t like to be unkind, but it would be worse to encourage him.
Had her excellent brain any sway with her unrealistic heart, she would forget Leopold Singer and love Matthew Peter. Everyone called him by his full name to distinguish him from his father. He was good-natured and very good-looking. He was exceedingly kind, and he adored her. She didn’t love him. She would never love him.
She’d meant to walk away from Leopold Singer as soon as he replaced those eggs and never think of him again. Straight off she’d 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 mama 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.
Bath
Leopold wrote to Susan from his rooms at the Sidney. He’d left London the day he received her note. Susan stayed with her mama 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.
“I told you that so long ago,” Susan said. “I’m surprised you remember.”
“I remember everything you’ve said to me, Susan, sir.”
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 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, if only. 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 utterly. 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 and didn’t matter.
Leopold inched down, the warm wet of his tongue on her belly. With a flash of lightning she groaned. “My father died. He was killed, actually.”
“You are a lady here with me.” His l
ips 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 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, but she’d heard the white lady’s song.
On the fourth morning, the sun came out, and the couple took their breakfast in the teahouse. Leopold said, “Today I wonder 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 suddenly 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.”
He warmed to her again.
“Not ten years ago, the old Roman foundations of her temple were uncovered. The local worthies have been building this tourist attraction ever since.” She chuckled. “Now a shrine to Mammon, I suppose.”
“Before we leave, you will see it all,” he said.
The last day, they breakfasted on their room’s balcony as a group of players gathered on the grounds below. Amid a cacophony of instruments being tuned Leopold said, “This is a nice send-off.” He offered her a section of orange. “Whenever I have oranges and coffee, I will think of Miss Gray and the pleasures of Bath.”
There it was. He was leaving her. He had already done so in his mind.
She expected as much, sooner or later. Oh, why could it not be later? The wedge of orange in her mouth became a flavorless lump. She studied the acrobats and musicians below. “That is how I will always think of you,” she said.
“As a street player?”
“As a musician. You are the man who plays while the world pays rapt attention.”
She hadn’t meant to do it. She wanted only a diversion, a temporary escape from her fate. But she had fallen in love with this young man who quoted philosophers and tyrants and made sense of them all.
“I don’t think of you in Europe,” she said. “The new century is coming. You belong in England, where your qualities are prized. Or America, perhaps.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.” A hotel footman brought a letter on a tray. As Leopold read the message, his face drained of color.
“My father is very ill,” he said. “I am called home.”
He hired a private post-chaise, and they changed horses rather than stop to rest on the flight back to London. He’d already slipped away. He didn’t touch her hand or inquire after her comfort. He looked at the landscape, or at his own hands. When he slept a little, he leaned away from her into the corner. Awake, he didn’t allow even his foot to stray near hers. Well before they reached St. James Square, she asked to be let out.
“I will have your things sent to you.” He motioned toward her large bag.
“Hm-mm.” She forced the refusal in a grunt, unable to open her mouth. She couldn’t get out of the coach soon enough.
He stopped her. “Susan, sir.” He attempted levity now, now she was going. “I won’t ever forget our time together. I am so very glad to have known you.”
He’d never made a declaration. Indeed, she had been the aggressor. He had treated her with respect, even kindness. He had never said the word love.
“I’ll never forget your…your generosity to me.” Odd that he had to search for the right thing to say.
“It was necessary.” She choked on the words. “It was necessary to my happiness.”
She understood then why he would never love her. He couldn’t see her in his world. He might have stretched out his hand to her, and she might have taken a step up. But he did not, and so she could not. Her heart gave way at last, compressed with pain within her chest wall, and left her breathless.
“I nearly forgot.” He was still talking. Still holding her hand. It hurt, how good his touch felt. She knew she couldn’t bear it when he let go. If only he would kiss that hand, hold it to his cheek. If only once more.
He turned her palm up and placed a book in it, a beautiful leather volume by Mary Wollstonecraft. A Vindication of the Rights of Women.
A rueful sound escaped through her nose.
“Susan. Dear Susan. I hope you will remember me fondly. Please take this.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Singer.” She choked the words out, barely breathing. Somehow, she got out of the coach with her bag and into the street. The clop-clop of the horses receded. She could cry now, a silent torrent of wet pain.
Her heart, her heart. She had believed a broken heart to be a mere saying, a poet’s way of putting something. Now hers would never beat free again. Bound to him, even after parting, she searched the book’s leaves for an inscription. Surely he would not be so cruel to deny her that?
A note fell from the book, but it wasn’t a letter. It was fifty pounds. Fifty pounds! The insult was a blunt trauma against her sorrow. Was she his whore, then? But there was an inscription after all:
To my dear friend, Susan, sir, who taught me how dignified and noble a woman can be. Lpld S.
But not noble enough to marry. She tucked the money into her satchel. She would need it for the apothecary.
Let Me Die
March snow blanketed Carleson Peak. The valley sparkled like diamonds in the afternoon sunshine and was cool blue-gray in the shadows. A jam of conveyances waited near Laurelwood Church. Amid pealing bells, a group of well-dressed people spilled out of the chapel.
Lady Delia had just become Her Grace, the Duchess of Gohrum. The happy duke led her through the cheering onlookers to his carriage. Those invited would caravan to The Branch, where the baroness was to host a wedding feast.
Delia considered this marriage a defeat. In the weeks after accepting Millie at last, she’d indulged in scattered bouts of self-pity. Yet from the moment of her engagement her every circumstance had improved.
Her papa the earl, who had forgotten her existence these past five years, was so pleased by the match he started paying her allowance again. Then Millie paid her debts, cheerfully, as a wedding gift, so when he wanted to be married in the country she felt she could not refuse.
Even this proved no sacrifice. The process had been pleasant in every respect. The local families admired her without artifice. None were at all grand. Even Lady Branch was provincial, for all she was a baroness in her own right and a woman of independent means. But Delia found it gratifying to be celebrated, especially not having worked to deserve it.
“Let me make you snug, my dear,” Millie spread a blanket over her lap and tucked her hands inside a fur muff. “We’ll be at The Branch in no time.”
This was entirely satisfying. She had lost the man she wanted. So be it; she was a duchess. How could she have thought that an undesirable thing? She was suddenly so pleased with herself, she purred, “I wonder what a bride must do to receive a kiss from her husband?”
Millie brightened like a puppy.
Cold gruel. His kiss was soft and impotent and grateful, and all the goodwill in her trickled away. Regret clamped down like an iron maiden. When she could breathe again,
she couldn’t breathe free.
The rest of her life rolled out before her in a vision, like a narrow carpet running to an uninteresting vanishing point. She would be ordinary. She would be cruel. She would not respect her husband. Not all the fortune and deference bundled with Gohrum could disguise the utter lack of power in that kiss.
Gohrum wasn’t Leopold Singer, and her chest hosted a jagged, ravaged wound where a heart could have been. Leopold could have made her happy, and she had lost him not through any mistake on her part. That whore servant of Gohrum’s had somehow bewitched him, though she couldn’t keep him either. The last Delia heard, Singer had returned to Austria.
Well, the wretched Miss Gray would pay. It was a shame to have to wait, but when Delia returned to London in May after her wedding trip, she would have that slut housekeeper thrown out.
***
At Mrs. Bead’s boarding house, Susan came downstairs to post a letter. She’d left Gohrum House before the duke’s wedding with the excuse of her mama’s worsening illness, but she couldn’t have stayed in any event. She’d been in Bath several months now, and Mrs. Bead never looked at her expanding belly without shaking her head sadly.
“Is that for the post?” She indicated the letter in Susan’s hand.
“The doctor has instructed me to write to my brother,” Susan said. “Mama may not last the night.”
John was nineteen now and married, to Susan’s regret. He arrived too late, the day after she buried their poor mama. He took one look at Susan’s swollen shape and said, “My Meg is in about the same way as you.”
“Oh, John. You are so young.” This was too much to bear. “Is there no hope for our family?”
“None, I think.” John laughed. He had been a kind and sweet boy, and he looked to become a generous and good man. “Come home and meet my bride. She’s a good girl, and we’ve got a nice little farm on Gohrum’s land with extra rooms that will do for you two.”
