The Loves of Leopold Singer (20 page)

“I will.” He took the tray and set it aside and put his hands on her shoulders. “I will say a word.” She had forgotten how good it felt to be touched by a man who cared for her. “I have watched him, Susan. The duke is not a grasping sort. I think he will not force you. Be strong, as I know you are.” He put the tray back into her hands, and she went upstairs. She would remind Millie who she was. At least, she would remind him who her father was.

“Thank you, Fenton.” The duke dismissed his man as Susan set the tray on a table near the fire and poured his coffee.

“Pour a cup for you too, my dear,” the duke said. “Sit. Sit here by the fire. It must feel good against the chill.”

The heat was indeed lovely, and the coffee smelled of nutmeg and The Lost Bee. She thought of the good fires Leopold used to keep for her.

“Cecily has left us, I understand.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“I have never thanked you, Miss Gray, for bringing Cook this coffee. I do so enjoy it.” He knew her name, and that she had told Cook about the coffee. He chuckled. “I see you believe the stories, that I am an old debaucher who has his way with the upstairs maids.”

“Your grace, I…”

“Now you know my secret. I indulge the duchess and pretend to be pleased with the girls she sends my way. We enjoy our coffee and gossip about the inmates of the house. It’s how I find out what goes on around here. Fenton does his best, but I find a female perspective is more, oh, complete.”

“Your grace.” She was so stunned, she wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“I am not unaware of my wife’s faults. Her gambling, her dalliances with other men, her intrigues. It is my great failing.”

“Your failing.”

“I have never been able to relieve my dear Delia of her fears. I watched her grow up, you see. I think I’ve loved her since she was a child. But I am too old for her. I was wrong to marry her. I thought I could save her.”
 

Over the next few days, the duke told Susan more about the duchess’s wonderful qualities. She was put so at ease that she confessed in her case those virtues were not so easy to see.

“Why don’t you marry our Matthew Peter and go back to Carleson Peak?” he said.

“I suppose for the same reason I haven’t accepted a coronet.” she smiled. “Neither the proposal nor a position in the country is on offer.”

“There you may be wrong—on both counts.” He paused as if debating whether to tell her something. “I remember your father, you know. Wasn’t he someone’s son?”

“Estranged son.” How she missed Papa still! Had he lived, her life would have been entirely different. “His family objected to my mother.” She wouldn’t have met Leopold Singer. But then, there would be no Persey.

“Yes, well. You see to your young man.” There was mischief in the duke’s expression. “And very soon, you might be receiving some other good news.”

Apparently the duke put a good word in one or two ears, and a few days later Matthew Peter asked Susan to marry him. This time she let him complete his proposal, and she said yes. She and Matthew Peter were to take positions in Carleson Peak at Laurelwood, Squire Carleson’s estate, and live in the great house there.

It was a mere five miles from John’s cottage, and Persey.

This opportunity came to Susan the old-fashioned way, through random events. Someone she didn’t know made a casual, thoughtless remark to another person she didn’t know who passed it on as a matter of chit-chat to someone she did know and who happened to think of her.

Mrs. Carleson of Laurelwood had been widowed and left with a young son. She had recently told Lady Branch that she wanted a new housekeeper and that she wished to find a woman of good character with a brain in her head. The baroness had thought brains an odd requirement and mentioned it to the duke as a bit of amusing gossip. The duke knew just the person.

Susan and Matthew Peter were married at St. James Church in April after the Banns were satisfied. The duke himself came to stand up with Susan, as ostentatious a gesture as one could imagine. “I’m not sure his grace isn’t having a laugh, Susan,” Matthew Peter whispered just before the rector started.

“It is rather grand for us,” Susan said, “but he is quite the romantic, I’ve discovered.” She loved being married at the exquisite, small church, reportedly Wren’s favorite design. She stole glances at the ornate wood carvings and the stained glass windows. This was exactly the kind of place where she would have been married had her father lived.

As the rector cited the gravity with which one should enter into the holy estate of matrimony, she inwardly shuddered then gave her word before God and everybody to love and obey Matthew Peter.

They went back to Gohrum House to collect their belongings, and Mr. Peter went with them to The Lost Bee where they’d catch the coach to Carleson Peak. Susan had never gone into The Bee without Leopold. There were only a few other customers, and Mr. Peter ordered a round of drinks for everyone.

“To the happy couple!”

Mrs. Jones joined the salute with no sign she recognized the bride. When the coach came, their boxes went up on top, but Susan carried her rosewood secretary on her lap. Once out of London, away from the noise of the city, a sense of dread crept over her. She kept thinking of the miniature of Persey in the secretary. The rain grew heavier, and a real storm came up with wind and thunder and lightning. The driver urged the horses on, but they weren’t happy about it.

Everything was going wrong. The idea seized her that she must tell Matthew Peter about Persey. If she wasn’t honest about this from the beginning, their marriage had no hope of success. The further they got from London, the fewer were their fellow passengers, until at the last stage they had the coach to themselves.

Her heart pounded in her throat. “There is something about me you should know.” She uttered the fatal words just as a blast of thunder shook the coach, but she knew he heard, for his face changed. The kindness, the enduring sympathy, every aspect of love in him drained away. She saw the shock of betrayal wash over him, replaced by loathing. All was lost.

The coach lurched sideways. The rosewood secretary fell to the floor, and Matthew Peter bent over to pick it up. The driver cried out something as the coach rolled. Susan flew up to the ceiling, and the back of her head slammed against an iron bar. She fell to the seat, and a sickening pain shot through her left arm. A horse bleated with unnatural terror. The cracking sound of splitting wood mixed with another flash of lightning, followed hard on by too-close, body-shaking thunder.

Then nothing but a horse’s eerie, faint moan and the drum of thick and steady rain.

At his club in town Sir Carey found his favorite chair empty and the fire nicely burned down to embers.
Like the fairy tale
, he thought.
Not too hot and not too cold.
He took a sip of his favorite brandy and settled in with the new Gentleman’s Magazine, but halfway through the first story he heard his name spoken behind him.

“He seems an intelligent sort.” Sir Carey recognized the Irish accent. “We might bring him round.” It was Ciaran Gallagher.

Hostility to Philly’s story about his birth colored Sir Carey’s feelings toward all things Irish, but he admired Gallagher. Otherwise, he took no great pains to associate with the Irish MPs let into Commons by the Act of Union.

“Sir Carey is intelligent enough, but it’s all wasted.” Gallagher’s companion was all-too-familiar. Sir Herbert Whitley. “Sir Carey’s talent is for keeping the Members’ wives happy. They say he is a divided man, the top part enslaved to his Duke and the bottom part to the ladies.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

Inwardly, Sir Carey scoffed at Sir Herbert, but it stung that Gallagher’s opinion was influenced by that man.

“Someone should inform the fellow that his youth has flown. A lad’s ‘natural high spirits’ are ridiculous in a man. No, don’t waste your efforts, Gallagher. He’s not serious. He’ll hear no one on the Slave Bill, I’d wager.”

Untrue and unfair! Sir Carey tossed the magazine aside rose from the chair.

“Sir Carey. I…I didn’t see you there.”

“Obviously not.” Sir Carey downed the last of the brandy and nodded to Gallagher. To Whitley he said, “If you need help with Lady Whitley, I’d be happy to give you instruction.”

A weak riposte, but it would do. He walked back to Asherinton. The encounter stayed with him, but he couldn’t put a finger on why. Whitley had no business commenting on someone else’s intelligence, and he was considered a bore among the considerable number of ladies Sir Carey knew. But neither of those remarks had carried the sting.

Two weeks later he was back at The Branch for Philly’s spring ball. He came down late and found the old girl at her usual post near the fire.

“Carey, my boy, you are a feast for our eyes,” she said as he kissed her cheek.

The dowagers and wallflowers sitting with Philly murmured their approval. His ensemble boasted the latest French influences replete with lace and silk and brocade. “I say never let matters of war interfere with matters of fashion.” He thought of the thinning spot he’d discovered in his hair while dressing. A wig would have done nicely, but these days they just weren’t the thing.

Lady Branch said, “We’re all dowdy beside you. Still, tonight there are several pretty things at play.” She waved her fan at the dancers.

“A very pretty picture. Who is that by the punchbowl?”

“You know Clarissa Whitley. She and Lady Whitley are visiting Martin Park.”

Whitley’s daughter, all grown up. He caught the girl’s eye, and she smiled and whispered to her companions who giggled in the delightful manner of elegant young ladies. Very nice. He’d see what he could do with her, and she was comely enough to make a debauch all the more enjoyable.

“Excuse me, ladies. Lady Branch.” He took the circuitous route, aware of the eyes upon him, admiring and friendly. As he approached Clarissa, she squealed some girl’s name and brushed past him. She hadn’t seen him at all. He walked on as if the punch had been his destination always.

The episode at his club came back to him, Sir Herbert’s offending words now in focus.
Someone should inform the fellow that his youth has flown.

For the first time in his life, he felt detached from it all. He observed the mating ritual acted out around him. The charming and young Miss Whitley verbally parried with the equally charming, equally young Mr. Martin. Miss Whitley had selected the boy whom she allowed to woo her, and other young ladies made similar choices. So much was done with the eyes. A glance, a glance away—rejection. A glance turned into a brief gaze before the lashes were lowered with a demur smile—invitation.

In the eyes which did fleetingly light upon Sir Carey, he saw respect, even friendliness, but no invitation.

On the wall, the mothers and aunts evaluated each nod, every look, any smile. It took no time to understand that he was regarded a catch, but not the best catch. Good enough for third-best, but not the best or even second-best young ladies. These were reserved for men—of any age, it must be said—whose claims to inheritance were secure. His future wife might be called Lady Asher, and thanks to the
Maenad
she’d be provided for comfortably. But the barony and The Branch would never come to him.

The baroness caught his attention, and he brought her a glass of punch. “Baroness.”

She grunted. “I like it better when you call me
old girl,
my boy
.
”

An unexpected dart of love struck his heart. Her affection for him was genuine. He had to let go of his childish suspicions about his birth. Philly had no reason to lie. She hated the fact that Penelope Sande would inherit as much as he did.

It was time to face real life instead of dwelling in the life he imagined. Time to grow up He was thirty-two. Many would scoff and assure him of his youth, but he would never again be twenty-seven. Nothing could alter that woeful fact.

That evening he had a deliberately fine time. He was witty. He was thoughtful. He was generous. He danced with every unpartnered lady. He persuaded the baroness onto the floor for a turn, to the delight of all.

“That was lovely, my boy,” Philly said when it was over.

“I believe the Whitleys will soon have an engagement to announce.”

“I meant it was lovely of you to see the guests out.”

It had been a capitulation, his sign of surrender to his aged state. His habit was to retire from these things early. How lonely she must have been all these years. He kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, old girl.”

He dreamed of women who took no pleasure in his touch and of young ladies who looked on him as they did their fathers. He relived Whitley’s criticism and Gallagher’s surprised disappointment. The image of
The Nightmare
invaded his brain, that painting he had teased Singer’s wife about. Behind the incubus, the horse’s flared nostrils and wild eyes threatened him.

“Ha! Now you’ve come for me!” He sat up and yelled into shadows. The mocking images dissolved. He remembered where he was, remembered the ball and bidding the guests farewell. He resolved to do more to please Philomela. At last, he fell into restful and dreamless sleep.