The Loves of Leopold Singer (26 page)

Things hadn’t been going well. She didn’t know if Sir Carey wanted to be more aggressive with her or if he was tired of their sexual play. She felt increasingly degraded by their games, but it was only in the moments when he completely dominated her, when she lost her identity in his will, that she felt loved.

She knew that her desires were craven, but she was lost and couldn’t find her way out of them. She left for London that afternoon, and by that evening she’d settled in at Asherinton and ordered a hack to take her across town.

Sir Carey returned to Commons from his late supper. Only a few more weeks and the session would be over. He could escape Lady Whitley forever. He ached to see Wills again, and Elizabeth and Geordie too. His son’s birth had been both blessing and curse. The boy filled him with a new and wonderful kind of love, but it rekindled the old anxiety about his birthright.

What did he have to leave Wills? All Laurelwood’s wealth belonged to Geordie. On the Asher side of things, The Branch, the pottery works, and the peerage itself would go to Penelope Sande. Sir Carey had only his half interest in the
Maenad
, and that ship was getting on in years. It might well be in dry dock when the time came.

Outside Parliament, Elizabeth stepped down from the hack as another lady was handed out of the next carriage. The two exchanged polite nods and simultaneously ascended the steps, but Elizabeth stepped aside when she saw the Duke of Gohrum. The other lady pulled her cloak’s hood forward and hurried up the stairs.

“Your grace, good evening.” Elizabeth curtsied.

“My dear Lady Asher,” said the Duke. “It is a pleasure to see you.” He took her hand, and didn’t let it go.

“How is her grace’s health? Improving, I hope?”

“Poorly, I am afraid.”

“I shall add her to my prayers.”

“So kind, my dear.” He held on to her still. “And how is the golden child, William?”

In the gallery Sir Carey saw Lady Whitley coming, but he wasn’t quick enough to get away. “My love, why have you not come to see me?” She reached for his arm.

“I’ve been busy with preparations to return to the country.” Sir Carey looked around to see if anyone had noticed. “And with my duties here. As a matter of fact, I am needed at this moment.”

“My love,” she said. “I miss you so much!”

His stomach turned. How could he have been such a fool to become involved with her?

“I long to have you beside me, to feel you inside me again!”

He started to deliver a crushing insult, but stopped cold. Elizabeth stood not five feet away from Lady Whitley, her eyes bright with shock. She looked at Sir Carey without anger, but with acceptance, and he knew his time in Eden had ended. Cherubim with swords of flame took up posts at the gate to Elizabeth’s heart.

Strangely, as his wife turned and walked away, he felt no loathing or anger for Lady Whitley. Only pity—or perhaps nothing at all. She did have the decency to take her hand off him.

On returning to Laurelwood, Elizabeth went directly to her room and cut off her hair. The first night Sir Carey was home, she heard him try her door. He didn’t try again. To preserve her dignity, she withdrew from her marital obligations as she had done with the squire. But it was different this time. This time, she missed her husband’s company.

In some things she turned again to Dr. Devilliers, but the first time he came to tea she realized she was on dangerous ground with him. She asked her cousin to join them.

“Happily, Mrs. Peter has agreed to remain as Laurelwood’s housekeeper despite her good fortune,” Elizabeth said. “I’m the fortunate one.”

“A hundred fifty pounds is a great deal of money to me,” Mrs. Peter said. “But where would I live with it and what use would I be somewhere else in the world?”

“That is very good of you, Mrs. Peter,” Dr. Devilliers said.

“Not at all. I’m happy. I’m close to my brother. And what would you do, dear cousin, without me?”

Dr. Devilliers’s tender expression made Elizabeth a little sick. He was
her
Dr. Devilliers. “I remember when we met,” she said. “We were little girls in the field looking at a frog, I believe, and you ran away to the woods to join the fairies.”

Mrs. Peter laughed uncertainly. Elizabeth had hurt her feelings, yet she pushed on.

“The story in the family was that your mother claimed to be a fairy herself, and that’s how she bemused your father and caused him to lose his inheritance.”

“I remember.” Mrs. Peter rose and said, “Please excuse me.”

Dr. Devilliers looked at Elizabeth with bewilderment, both of them too embarrassed to speak. After an unbearable silence, he also took his leave.

Susan came to the great oak tree at the little lake and stopped to watch the ducks on the water. She heard footsteps. Dr. Devilliers had followed her.

He said, “I’m sure Lady Asher didn’t mean to be cruel just now.”

“She’s been unhappy since she returned from London. You saw?”

“Her hair, yes. I think there must be some trouble between Lady Asher and Sir Carey.”

He stood too close. She should move away, but she liked the sensation of his nearness. He was so kind and so clever.

“Mrs. Peter, I wonder if I might speak to you. You say you wouldn’t know where to live with your hundred and fifty pounds or how you could be useful elsewhere.”

“It’s enough to do a little good with. I’ll send my
nephew
to school when he is older.”

“I know where you might be useful, Mrs. Peter. Susan. More than that, you would be cherished. You would be…”

“No. Please stop, Dr. Devilliers.” Susan’s heart pounded. “Thank you, so very much, for what you were about to say, but please don’t say it.” He was lovely, and she loved him. Not with the lust she’d felt for Leopold Singer, and not with the friendship and practical need she’d felt for Matthew Peter.

This was a different kind of love. She wanted to make him happy more than she wanted him to make her happy. It was wonderful to know that he wanted her too.

“But my dear…”

“No, please. You see, I didn’t love Matthew Peter. I never should have married him. And then he died because of me.”

“You mustn’t think that way.”

“I do think that way. Believe me, Dr. Devilliers. You deserve so much better.”

“Don’t you think you could learn to love me?” he asked.

“That’s not the problem.”

It wasn’t only guilt over Matthew Peter that stopped her. It was the memory of his face just before he died. His disgust when he’d learned about Persey. What if Dr. Devilliers were somehow to learn about her son? She couldn’t bear the same judgment from him. And Persey would be ruined if the secret came out.

Then there was Elizabeth. Susan knew that her cousin loved Dr. Devilliers too, despite her marriage to Sir Carey. She remembered what it had been like to watch Leopold Singer with his bride. She couldn’t cause that kind of pain.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so very sorry.”

She loved Jordon Devilliers, of that she was certain. But she was more certain of something else. Everything that had gone wrong in her life had gone wrong because of men. She must never marry.

1806, Shermer Landing

On George Grim’s first wedding night, the sickly first Mrs. Grim had shrunk from his touch, terrified. He’d tried to guide and encourage her. “Madam, it is your Christian duty to bear children within the blessings of marriage. But nothing can grow where no seed has been.”

“I will try,” she had said.

He never did enter her without suffering her silent tears. One entry in his 1802 journal reads:

The mysterious ways of Our Lord do confound me. I submit myself in all things to Him, even this. I swallow the bitter draught and await His mercy. Yet I do wonder, Lord, why did You give me such Longings only to deny their Satisfaction? Your will must be my master; I instruct myself in patience.

Mrs. Grim’s consumption finally won, and when she passed on to a better reality the robust pianoforte player gave George every encouragement. It was difficult to keep his thoughts unjumbled. Hattie Goodson wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t even pretty. But she was healthy and strong and alive. In his bereavement, she was quick to comfort him with a kind word, a sympathetic squeeze of his hand.

She always stayed after services to help put things in order. One Sunday when the church was empty but for the two of them, he asked her to sit with him in one of the pews. “Perhaps you object to the surname.” His speech didn’t sound as romantic as he’d imagined it, but he plowed on. “Let me assure you it is a blessing, a constant reminder of the Lord’s service to which I am bound.”

“I admire your dedication, Reverend.” She rested her hand on the pew, close to his thigh.

“My dear Miss Goodson...Hattie. I humbly entreat you to become my Mrs. Grim.”

She said, “Make me a pot, sir, and we shall see.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Make me a pot, and we shall see.” Her eyes twinkled as she stood. “That is your answer, Reverend Grim.”

Perhaps she’d learned of the first Mrs. Grim’s wedding present. Otherwise, he couldn’t account for the request. Through the rest of the day and into the next week, thinking about what might please Hattie gave George pleasure in return. The first Mrs. Grim had never enjoyed anything. George suspected that Hattie Goodson enjoyed nearly everything.

Making his tea one morning, he realized the parsonage contained all a woman could desire but a decent teakettle. A glow came over him. In an instant, he knew just the design he wanted.

“In due time, Miss Goodson,” he said later when Hattie wondered aloud if she would ever own a pot made by a local man. The undercurrent of playful tension between them made George hope very much that she would find favor with his “pot.”

When it was ready, he invited himself to dine with the Goodsons one evening and asked to see Hattie alone after the meal. In the parlor he said, “Wait here.” He ventured to stop her questions with a finger to her full, soft, pink lips. She sat down with a dutiful attitude—or mocking; he couldn’t tell. Nervous and excited, he retrieved the bundle he’d left on the porch.

He knelt before Hattie and trembled as he placed the offering on her lap. Her gown was made of a popular flimsy fabric, and the humid July heat made it cling to her skin. For so long, all his thoughts of love had belonged to Mrs. Singer. It suddenly hit him what Hattie’s acceptance would mean to him sexually.

“Oh, my,” she whispered.

The teakettle of hammered copper glistened like bright-cut gold. He had etched a design of wheat and morning glories about the pot’s belly and in a circle on the lid. The spout was covered in delicately etched morning glories, and the handle was dressed in shafts of wheat.

“The wheat represents the prosperity I hope to give to you. The flowers represent the beauty you have already given to me.”

Hattie was quiet, and he began to doubt her answer. Then she laid her hand on his arm. “You great hulk,” she said. “There’s a poet within you. Dearest George, I should be honored to become your wife.”

They were married on a Saturday afternoon by Lyman Beecher himself. After a gay reception at the Goodsons’ grand house, the couple returned to the parsonage. “May I prepare tea for you?” George said. The first Mrs. Grim had enjoyed that.

“You may,” Hattie said with a tone of royal favor and the twinkle in her eye that sent a thrill through him.

The stove was lit, as was the fire in the sitting room. The servants had gone for the balance of the day. Hattie’s kettle simmered. George, too, simmered as his trembling hands collected the best teacups. It was as easy to own a lovely object as a plain one, and he’d found that beauty contributed greatly to his happiness. Within his means, he took pains to collect fine things for his household in the form of plate, rugs, and tapestries. His personal dress was always of good quality.