The Loves of Leopold Singer (14 page)

“I think anything is possible.”

After more time passed, Josef thought to ask Willie about his dreams.

“I want to be like Leopold Singer,” Willie didn’t hesitate. “I will marry the most beautiful girl in the town and do great things for people.”

“You will do that, Willie. I know you will.”

As they talked, Josef worked his little section of rope.

“You should get some sleep, Josef,” Willie said.

“I will.” Josef’s fingers practiced on.
           

The next morning dawned with the grace which continually amazes those who go to sea. The wind was steady and favorable. The sea was smooth, and a school of dolphins played along the larboard side. Neither summer folk nor winter folk could complain about the temperature.

Mr. Mills walked on deck contemplating his good fortune. He was first officer to a successful captain on a lucky ship with a decent crew. The ship’s former owner, Mr. Augustin Singer, had always parted out fair shares of the profits on peacetime cargoes and wartime prizes. His son looked to be of the same mind on that score.

“Good morning, sir.” Young Willie Zehetner yawned at Mr. Mills on his way below.

“Morning, Zehetner.”

Mr. Mills was confident that in seven years’ time, provided the
Maenad
avoided British pressmen and French guns and the Spanish altogether, Captain Dahms would be rich enough to retire to his home in Devonshire. Then Mills would make captain, and it would not be too many more years before his own retirement. God had indeed smiled in his direction.

Then—what? Had he heard a noise? Or not? A kind of kerplunk and then nothing. A couple of the dolphins aside ship cackled, a distressful noise, not at all their usual amiable conversation. Mr. Mills’s heart seized. Next to the screaming dolphins, two others held something up to the surface, the ship pulling fast away.

“Man overboard! Man overboard!” Mr. Mills added his screams to those of the dolphins, ripping his coat, hat, and shoes from his body. He plunged into the sea toward the group and their precious object with its bright, orange-red top.

As if they understood all, the sea mammals released Josef to Mr. Mills. Treading water with the small, limp form, he continued to sputter, “Man overboard!”

“We hear you, Mr. Mills!” He heard Janson’s distant shout.

“We’ve got you, sir!” The crewmen had flung themselves into action. A boat and ropes were thrown over the side and the
Maenad
began to come about. They soon handed the boy up on deck and laid him out. Mills swung himself up and over the rail and searched Josef for signs of life.

“What goes on here?” Captain Dahms rushed to the limp boy. As the ship’s physician cleared Josef’s airway and pressed on his lungs, the captain pried loose an object clasped in Josef’s right hand, a small section of rope tied to perfection in a sheepshank man o’ war. Captain Dahms tugged at both ends, and the knot held secure. He turned and grasped the rail, tears on his cheeks.

“Confound it! Confound it all!”

It was a sublime sound, the strangled, hacking sputter of a soul come back from the deep.

“Three cheers for the doctor!” Janson cried, and huzzahs poured out from the men.

“My boy! My boy!” Mr. Mills hugged the coughing Josef much too tightly.

“All right, all right!” Janson hollered. “Back to work! The squeaker lives!”

The men dispersed, arguing whether it was dolphins or mermaids saved the boy, but all agreed either way was more good luck for the
Maenad
. Captain Dahms dismissed Mr. Mills with an emotional nod and sat down on the wet deck beside the shaky boy.

“Josef,” the captain said after a while. “When a man captains a ship, his first duty is to keep any passengers aboard alive. To do this, he must keep his crew alive. And to do this, he most certainly must keep himself alive.” He patted the boy’s hair and handed him the knotted rope. “This is good work, son. Now also work on keeping yourself alive.”

And when Josef managed to make a not-quite-sharp salute, this time Captain Dahms returned the gesture.

Marta’s fear of embarrassing Leopold proved unfounded. She was welcome everywhere. Their last day in London, the duchess took her and Leopold to see a Fuseli exhibit and a Chinese jeweler who was all the rage.

It seemed her grace’s intent wasn’t so much to see as to be seen. Marta had been pronounced delightful and enchanting throughout all London. According to her grace, the prince’s kiss had made it impossible to declare any event a success if Mrs. Singer wasn’t in attendance. Fortunately, the invitations had quickly dwindled. With Parliament ended, society had begun to remove to the country away from the town’s summer stench.

Getting away would suit Marta perfectly well. She hated the attention and scrutiny of London society. Their home in Massachusetts was on hundreds of acres, Leopold had said. Once there, she’d gladly never go to town again.

Fuseli had been painting for at least thirty years but his work was modern and provocative. One particular canvas showed an ugly little monster perched on a sleeping woman’s stomach. The creature stared back at the viewer with a defiant and hungry look that made Marta instinctively take Leopold’s arm.

Her grace scoffed. “My dear Mrs. Singer,” she said. “It ain’t going to bite you. Come now. I fear we must brave a shower to get to Piccadilly.”

They drove through a light drizzle back to west London to the Chinese enameller. He was set up at the back of Newman’s shop so that customers had to pass through the rest of the baubles on offer to get to the popular novelties.

Marta noticed a delicate brooch in the shape of a seven-branched tree. It was worked in copper-colored metal with bright green enamel filling in the leaves. Something silver wound around the trunk of the tree and onto one branch. A snake: Satan and the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden.

With a guilty thrill, she fingered the brooch. The serpent was languorous, relaxed. Its tiny face blended reptilian and human features with a seductive expression that promised something known but unfamiliar, real but long lost.

“You like the cloisonné.” The exotic artisan nodded. “Good, yes? From your holy book. English ladies are always drawn to these scenes. The snake and tree are very popular.”

“I’m not English.” Marta put down the brooch. She felt it would be wrong to own something like that. Such a depiction of female power and promise of satisfaction seemed taboo. She purchased instead a red silk purse embroidered with gold and green lotus flowers.

“Best to be safe.” The duchess smiled sweetly, but Marta knew the comment wasn’t meant as praise. “Shall we go on to Long’s?”
 

The bookshop was well-stocked and smelled of leather. Marta instantly relaxed and felt even calmer as she browsed through the stacks. Leopold said, “Choose as many as you like, my dear. I am not sure they have books in America.”

He was joking, but everyone knew the Americans were short on cultural refinements, whatever the New World’s other virtues. Marta chose an edition of something called “Lyrical Ballads” by two poets new to her. She hesitated over two novels,
Clarissa
and
The Monk
. The bookseller assured her even the finest ladies read them, but the books were clearly scandalous. After her cowardice with the serpent pin, a hint of scandal was a recommendation. She was determined to show some backbone, and they went into her selection.

She also chose Mary Wollstonecraft’s
Letters Written During a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark
for Leopold. He’d once said that his father had met the author on the very journey she chronicled in this book. He might enjoy reading about places Augustin had visited.

The little bell at the shop door rang, and she looked up to see Leopold and the duchess returning. Marta hadn’t noticed they had been gone. Leopold slipped something to the duchess who handed it to the footman who carried their packages. Her grace was as cool as ever, but Leopold’s face was flushed, even guilty. And happy.

One obligation remained this last evening in London, a summer supper given by Leopold’s third partner in the
Maenad—
more precisely, by Baroness Branch. After they’d eaten the guests dispersed into groups, and Marta was imposed upon to recount a story she’d told about the thunder of Napoleon’s guns. Lady Branch was not impressed.
 

“It is all because the world is run by men, and men are dogs!” the baroness declared. Her guests lifted their glasses and said
hear, hear
with cheerful indulgence.

“But my lady, if you please,” Marta said, “men are the builders, the discoverers, the protectors of us all.”

“I don’t please, Mrs. Singer. I know, I know. I have a reputation for disliking men.

“A slander spread by the ones you wouldn’t marry, I’ll warrant.” This said by the man who’d been dressed in green at Devonshire House that first night in London. His eyes traveled over Marta, and she had the sense he found her wanting, perhaps not in beauty but in fashion.

“Beware my ward, m’dear,” Lady Branch said. “He’s Irish, and every bit of him a rake. Nevertheless, Mrs. Singer, may I present Sir Carey Asher. Sir Carey, Mrs. Leopold Singer.”

“Charmed,” said Sir Carey, with no mention of their previous encounter. This was Leopold’s third partner in the
Maenad.
Marta was glad Leopold had decided to sell out. Where
was
Leopold, anyway?

“I give you one point,” the baroness continued. “It is the men who build and discover and protect. And I thank them for it. But you must allow the point that it all comes from self-absorption. They do it for power and fame, and when things go badly—as they always do—building and discovering and protection turn to destruction and dissembling and abandonment.”

“Hold, my dear!” said Sir Carey. “That is a gloomy blanket for this happy picnic. Give us a kiss, old girl, and let me refresh your claret.” He bent down to the gray-haired but clear-eyed old lady.

“You see, my dear? This is how they do it.” Lady Branch pecked at the offered cheek. “They are such charming articles we forgive them everything.”

“They are that, my lady,” Marta said.

In this setting, Sir Carey seemed no danger to any living thing. He carried himself with self-conscious precision. He wore the only powdered wig Marta had seen in London outside the Devonshire House fancy dress affair. His clothes were exquisitely tailored: fawn pants breeched just below the knees, a light pearl pink silk coat, a small bit of lace at his wrists. He carried the silver-tipped walking stick she had seen before. She couldn’t imagine him engaged in any effort which might cause a wrinkle or contact with a speck of dust.

She laughed with her hostess and accepted a glass of claret from him. “You hardly seem a rake, Sir Carey.”

Across the room, she saw Leopold. He was in earnest conversation with the duchess who looked dazzling tonight. Her dress was a shimmering pale mauve. Her eyes almost shone. Leopold looked happier than Marta had seen him since they had been in England.

She realized that her own dress was not quite right. Sir Carey had not hidden his ill opinion of it. It was strange to be unsure of her appearance and startling to discover she didn’t like the feeling.

“I’m the worst kind, m’dear,” Sir Carey said with a sing-song lilt. “You won’t know you’ve been raked until it is too late.” He followed her gaze. “I understand your lord and master is taking you from the decadent hills of Europe to the barbarous idyll of the rebellious colonies?”

“I agreed to accompany my husband to the United States, yes.” She’d follow Leopold past the gates of Hell, but she didn’t like Sir Carey’s implication that she was a mere object in his possession. Even if in almost every way that were true.

“Ah. You are one of the so-called educated and independent modern ladies we are forced to suffer these days? Been reading Wollstonecraft, no doubt.”

“You smirk, Sir Carey. But can you really think half the human race, half of God’s favorite creation…”

“And the favored half, to be sure.”

“…was born subject to the other?”

“If you was my Missus, you’d find your lovely self subject to me quite often, I assure you.” He was so close she felt his breath on her neck. He backed away. “The duchess tells me you saw the Fuseli exhibit today.”

“And a wonderful jeweler as well.” She didn’t want to discuss Henry Fuseli’s work with Leopold, let alone Sir Carey.

“The Chinese enameller? The ladies of London have made his life’s fortune in one season. Then you prefer the safety of a brooch at your throat to the danger of a goblin at your heart?” This conversation was danger enough.

“Doctor! Dr. Devilliers!” Lady Branch broke the spell. Marta had quite forgotten her. A man responded and crossed the room to join them.

“Baroness.” The man kissed Lady Branch’s hand. “What a delight. Tell me, are you ready to let me dig up a portion of your abundant daffodils for my poor, sparse garden?”

“I suppose I’d better if I wish to keep on good terms with Our Maker,” Lady Branch said. “Mrs. Singer, may I present The Honorable Reverend Dr. Jordan Devilliers, the holy man at our little church.”