The Loves of Leopold Singer (24 page)

“Sir Carey will soon be away to Parliament,” she said. “I’ll be glad of your company as well as your industry.”

Mrs. Peter held the journals to her chest. As she turned to go, she glanced through the window at the view. She seemed to search the trees beyond the pond, as if she expected someone to emerge.

Long after Mrs. Peter had left the room, Elizabeth was still searching her memory. She’d seen those light gray eyes before and with that same wistful expression. For the life of her, she couldn’t think where.

-oOo-

Once Sir Carey knew he truly dominated Elizabeth, all his resentment evaporated. He was content to spend his time on matters of Parliament and fashion and horses and dogs. Happily, Elizabeth and Philly grew closer, developing a bond over the thrill of land management. He developed an appreciation for the finer points himself. Occasionally he’d added a thing or two to the conversation between the two women.

“We should conduct an experiment,” he once suggested. “Bring over a ram from Massachusetts and give it a couple of ewes, see what coats the lambs give us.”

“My boy, you are becoming a philosopher of science.” Philomela approved. It was all quite satisfying.

His new life made him a better MP, for just as he belatedly shed his adolescent skin, the nation as a whole set upon a painful wrench toward a new maturity. Reform was closer than ever to a real possibility. As his reputation for competent good sense grew, other Members sought his opinion.

During an evening break one night when he dined at his club, Whitley of all people came to his table. “One doesn’t think of your support when proposing acts of Christian charity.” Sir Herbert was a sponsor of the current sanitation bill. “But I’m nonplussed. I hear reports that Sir Carey of Carleson Peak is considering a vote in its favor. I had to hear it with his own ears.”

“Charity?” Sir Carey returned. “No, m’dear. It is merely investment. Good sanitation breeds good health. It’s the cholera costs money. Good health breeds efficient workers, which make money. I really don’t know why your bill shouldn’t pass with the support of dreamers and practical men alike.”

“Then I hear correctly. You do intend to vote in favor?”

“Certainly.”

“Have I your permission to publish that fact?”

“Men don’t hesitate to spread false rumor; why should you ask permission to broadcast the truth?” He was delighted by the turn his life had taken. At Parliament he was overheard to say, “I confess I am that rarest of ducks, a man who loves his own wife!”

He had joked that perhaps the right woman could tame him. The joke turned out to be that she had. He had been a cad and a lecher. He had not cared for the welfare of Lady Branch’s tenants. His talk of banning slavery had been solely to please her. Now, his care for the tenants and his rage against the trade were sincere. He was respectable as much as respected, a faithful husband, a worthy MP, if from a rotten borough, a dependable nephew, and loving father to his wife’s son.

When he made his offer of marriage, his aim had been the happiness of Lady Branch and himself. Now, he took care to make Elizabeth and Geordie happy, too. He began to think of Asherinton as Philly’s house in town. For himself, home was now Laurelwood. He delighted in devising new ways to play with Elizabeth. By day, she was his best friend, partner and counselor. At night, she was his object and his shrine. God truly had a sense of humor.

On a Sunday in February, Susan walked to church ahead of the family so she could stop at Matthew Peter’s grave. It had a simple wooden marker carved only with his name. There were no clouds in the sky, and the chill of the wind cut through her shawl. Carleson Peak was colder than London.

“Mrs. Peter, what a pleasure to see you.” She hadn’t heard Dr. Devilliers approach. They had said nothing of significance to each other since the drive from Millam back to Laurelwood last August. He hadn’t stayed to tea that day, and she had noted Lady Asher’s disappointment.

She believed it was true affection her employer felt for the rector, and she had come to suspect the feelings were returned. She was sorry for them both. She knew too well what it was like to love where love was forbidden. She herself didn’t love Dr. Devilliers. At least, she wouldn’t risk it. When he visited Laurelwood, she found duties to keep her elsewhere in the house.

“Pardon my intrusion,” he said now, indicating Matthew Peter’s grave.

“Not at all,” she said. “I was just thinking I would like to give him a stone marker someday.” They walked toward the church. “This is a lovely church, even in winter. You must enjoy your position.”

“Laurelwood has been very good to me.” He said Laurelwood, but she thought he meant Lady Asher. “I’ve become an amateur historian of the place. A Carleson ancestor built the parish church long ago, before the Normans came, even before Branch was a barony. The tower was used as a lookout back in the time of the Danish threat. The site itself has been sacred as far back as memory goes. They say the white lady still walks in the ash grove.”

“My mother would have liked that story.”

“The country people are sure to avoid the trees at both dawn and twilight.”

“When the white lady’s fairies transport mortals to the enchanted world.” Once she’d believed the white lady could solve all her problems.

“Roman priests built on top of the site thinking to obliterate the magic.”

“You are a scholar, Dr. Devilliers.” She meant it as a polite but meaningless compliment. But then she realized, as a doctor of divinity, he really
was
a scholar. “Oh, I meant . . .”

“You are kind. I do tend to go on when I find an intelligent audience.”

“But I am truly interested,” she said. “Please, do go on. About the magic.”
 

“Only that the priests didn’t understand. People really can hold more than one idea in their heads at the same time. They can believe in the magic of fairies as well as the miracles of Jesus. One supposes it mere fashion for young ladies to wear crosses around their necks. But when they pass through the ash grove, I see them whisper prayers and kiss those crosses as talismans.”

Susan touched the cross at her own neck, and they both smiled. “I see my employer has arrived.” She left to join the family in their box. She had the feeling Dr. Devilliers’s gaze remained on her a little too long, and with a far fonder expression than was proper.

-oOo-

Sir Carey, home from London, sat between Elizabeth and Philly.

“Do you think we might get a short one today?” the baroness said to no one in particular.

“With Devilliers, one never knows,” he said. “I’m in no mood for a treatise.”

The rector climbed up to the pulpit. “Today, let us reflect on the upcoming harvest.” He launched into a sermon about responsible husbandry mixed with the story of the prodigal son.

Hard to tell how long this one will take
. Sir Carey surveyed the church. The chancel, the area cared for by Dr. Devilliers, was plain and in good order. The nave, where the parishioners sat, could not be admired by anyone with taste. Why did Elizabeth, so fastidious in her care for her demesne, ignore this little building?

There had once been biblical scenes painted on the walls in bright red, blue, green, and gold. Those were destroyed during the Reformation when Puritans ravaged the poor place, obliterating anything of beauty or ornament. The rood screen between the chancel and the nave, once an elaborate thing of carved ash, had been hacked to bits and burned. Of the doom, only the anguished face of one damned soul remained near the floor at an angle seen by no one who didn’t know where to look. The entire building needed restoration. Even the tower was a danger with its stairs rotting through. This didn’t reflect well on Laurelwood.

It was a Eucharist Sunday, and the parishioners began to anticipate their share of the Body. Sir Carey felt a strange, vibrating glow creep over him. The skin on his forearms tingled, and he felt supernaturally awake and alive. Something, someone, was calling to him. Though he discerned no words, he was certain of an intelligent presence beckoning.

As with most educated men in The Enlightenment’s afterglow, Sir Carey’s god was more ideal than real, his religion practical rather than transcendent. He participated in the forms and as a responsible landlord set the example. It would be courting chaos, after all, for the lower orders to question the existence of the very deity which sanctified society’s ranks. Let the fashion of atheism rage among poets, but leave the servant and the farmer and the baronet their God.

His mind flitted from image to memory to scheme, picking up bits of the sermon. Was he not like the prodigal son, come home from debauchery and loneliness, from being fatherless to being a father? In the wafer and the wine before him was the consecration of his good fortune. The tingling increased; he was acutely aware of his own body.

Everything rational said this was a sentimental, meaningless ritual. Still the mystery confronted him: he felt a presence, something. And a like something in him responded with the Great Yes. He devoured the Blood and the Body and felt instant and thorough peace spread through his being. His mind raged against the experience; his spirit sang “holy, holy, holy.”

Outside, shaken, he kissed Elizabeth, “I’ll walk ahead, dearest.” All the way to Laurelwood, he saw things anew, beautiful and perfect. When Norwood met him at the door with the usual brandy, Sir Carey waved it off. “I’ll take tea today in Lady Asher’s sitting room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this.” He handed Norwood his walking stick. “Put it away from me.”

He stared out the glass-paned doors, not seeing the lawn or the lake. Why was he, the most undeserving of men, the recipient of such peace? Elizabeth came in with the tea and sat in the chair beside his. “Elizabeth,” he finally said. “Is it not lovely today?”

“I hope my news will make it lovelier still.”

He looked at her kindly. Nothing could surpass his experience of this morning, but he wanted to hear anything that pleased her.

“I am expecting a child.”

Two years later, London

Fog forced the cold night air through to the bone as Sir Carey returned to Parliament from his evening meal. He pushed through the gallery full of the saints come to see the speeches for the Slave Act. If not for the speeches, he’d have left London earlier today. He longed to be home again, to see his son.

The evangelicals weren’t the only ones caught up in Sir Herbert Whitley’s speech. The insufferable bore’s passion for the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act had lifted him in this instance to the stratosphere of oratory. Sir Carey stopped for a moment with the auditors, mesmerized. Not by the speech. By the fact Whitley delivered it so well.

Euphoria crackled in the air. “Your efforts may bear fruit very soon,” a woman purred into his ear. Lady Whitley.

She touched his forearm and leaned forward as if to tell a secret. He should go this instant. It was two months since he’d been home, and he was weak.

“I fear my husband will go on another hour. I wonder if I might prevail upon you, Sir Carey, to escort me home?”

Why did he do it? For an hour it felt good. He had missed variety, and to be honest not all was right in the marital relation with Elizabeth. It was never enough to caress her, to love her gently. It had become a chore, really, to constantly devise fresh scenarios in their games.

Lady Whitley wasn’t the answer. Now that he’d had her, everything about her irritated him. She was ugly in her sleep. She would tell. He was doomed. He left her snoring into her pillow and took a hack to Asherinton, but when morning came he didn’t go home to Laurelwood.

She was like opium. He didn’t want her, but he took her all the same. She had an uncanny sense where he would be. She found him in museums and parks, alone where he couldn’t deny her. She knew the places to touch, the sounds to make. She could raise an eyebrow, and he was hers. He didn’t love her. He didn’t like her. He began to hate her. He couldn’t stop.