The Loves of Leopold Singer (37 page)

“Don’t bother with the teapot,” Mrs. Fuller said at the door. “Old Kate will take those things in the morning. Good night, dear.”

Igraine enjoyed the second scone at a more leisurely pace. It felt so good not to be cold, not to be hungry. And the bed was big enough to really stretch out in. Under the covers, the thunder was far away.

What was that banging? Igraine was surrounded by babies who spoke with the intellect of ten-year-olds. “Miss Fiddyment!” they cried. “Tell us a story!” “Miss Fiddyment!” They grabbed at her frantically, disappearing into the ground as if it were quicksand and only her skirts to save them.

Bang, bang, bang
.

“Miss Fiddyment.” Mr. Mark’s bony fingers poked at her shoulder. Hadn’t she escaped that creature? “Miss Fiddyment.” He turned her face to his. “Igraine.” He kissed her. She was repulsed and yet drawn to him. She felt love. Loved.

“Igraine.” The voice changed. She pulled back from Mr. Mark to see April smiling at her.

Bang, bang, bang
.

“Miss Fiddyment?” A teeny tiny lady stood at her open door, knocking. “Mrs. Fuller has sent up your breakfast.” The tiny woman laid a marvelous-smelling tray right on the bed. Igraine sat up, confused. Was she supposed to eat right there? The woman reached behind Igraine and fluffed the bed pillows, then poured coffee into a large mug.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Thank you. Yes.”

The lady appeared to be in her fifties. She wore a scowl on her face like a well-earned resentment. “I’ll not pour for you every day, you understand. I am Old Kate. I take care of Mrs. Grasmere. I’ve done so well enough these thirty years.”

“I see.” Igraine wondered if there was a Young Kate somewhere in the household.

“I mainly take care of Mrs. Grasmere.” Old Kate emphasized her point. “If I could read them books, she wouldn’t need you.”

“Of course.”

Old Kate drew open the curtains and let in an invasion of golden light. The multiple-paned windows occupied half a wall, and there was a window seat. Bluish-purple wisteria framed the window and reflected in the mirror above the fireplace opposite. The room seemed bedecked with flowers.

“We take coffee here in the morning, but Mrs. Fuller says you are to have tea if that is your preference.”

“Oh, no. Coffee, yes. Thank you.”

“Mrs. Grasmere will want you as soon as you’ve finished.” Igraine must have shown her alarm, for Old Kate said, “Half an hour from now will do. She’s is a good old lady.”

A good old lady
. The phrase sounded homey, even as Old Kate grumbled out of the room. The smell of the breakfast gave Igraine hunger pangs. There was ham steak, eggs scrambled with cheese, biscuits with butter, and more of the jam she’d had last night made from unknown fruit.

She leaned back into the pillows with the covers up to her armpits, munching a biscuit. The bed was firm and comfortable. The linen sheets and pillowcases were embroidered with oriental dragons that looked like crazed laughing dogs. The quilts were thick and warm.

I died. I died on my journey to Shermer Landing, and I am in heaven
.

A fairy-like chime of a delicate bell sounded, then another…ten o’clock. She had slept half the day away.

Half an hour later she met her new employer. Mrs. Grasmere’s bedroom had none of the cheerful coziness of Sheba’s room. Dark brocade drapes covered the windows. The room was lit by the glow from the fireplace and a lamp near a bedside chair. “Mrs. Grasmere, here is your reader.” Old Kate motioned to the chair then left and closed the door.

“This.” A weak hiss came from the four-poster bed and a white-haired woman propped up by at least six pillows. “Read this.”

“Yes, madam.”

Igraine accepted a worn sheet of paper from Mrs. Grasmere’s trembling, bony hand.

17 April, 1810

Dearest Mother,

You know that I am not much for words, so I will just tell you that I have gone to sea.

Mrs. Grasmere sobbed and motioned for Igraine to continue.

I cannot bear to be at home now, though I am truly sorry for any pain my absence may cause—

“Oomm.” The sobs became quieter and more tragic.

I think of you every day with tenderness. My fondest hope is that I might one day be able to make Grasmere House my home once again.

Your loving son,

Solomon Grasmere.

“Lovely, dear.” The lady tenderly folded the precious treasure and slipped it among her pillows. “Are you happy?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Mmm.” Mrs. Grasmere slipped into sleep. Thus ended Igraine’s first day of work.

At dinner that afternoon Mrs. Fuller said, “Did she ask you to read the letter?”

“From her son. Yes.”

“She has it read to her once a week. I wish he would send another. Packages come from around the world—linens and silks, sacks of sugar and bags of coffee—but in fifteen years never a good, long letter. The most she gets is a note signed
your loving son, Solomon
.”

“Why doesn’t he come home?”

“You must understand how things have changed. I came to Grasmere House just after Solomon was born. In those days, this place was filled with visitors, from town and from abroad. Mr. Grasmere loved a dinner or recital or a dance—anything that brought people together.”

“It must have been wonderful.” Igraine imagined the house lit up, with people arriving in fancy carriages and musicians playing a waltz. Likely that man who’d brought her from the station would attend. What would it be like to dance in his arms?
 

“The influenza took Mr. Grasmere and poor Sheba—and nearly myself as well, if anybody is asking.”

“It took my aunt and uncle in Boston,” Igraine said, and Mrs. Fuller patted her arm kindly.

“Solomon escaped. He was on holiday in New York. I think survivor’s guilt keeps him from returning.”

Or simple selfishness. “Did Mrs. Grasmere also escape?”

“In a manner of speaking. She came through, but with a broken heart. Husband and daughter gone, son not likely to return. And now with blindness coming on, she’s robbed of her one last pleasure.”

“Poor Mrs. Grasmere.” Igraine would be pleased to read Solomon Grasmere’s inadequate letter every day if the lady wished.
 

“You came to the right place to read, Miss Fiddyment.” Mrs. Fuller smiled. “Grasmere surely has the library for it.”

Among Igraine’s duties she was to attend meetings of various societies and report back to Mrs. Grasmere. “The lecture tonight is on Wordsworth and Coleridge. They both lived for a time near the Lake District in England.” Mrs. Grasmere was having a good day, talking more than usual. “Some of my husband’s family live there still.”

“I taught Mr. Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner to my girls at school.”

“Ah, well. But you are young. You likely prefer Shelley and Keats and Byron. Atheists, every one of them! But that is neither here nor there. The poet thinks he’s sees a blank while God laughs and moves his pen. I admit I am pleased with Byron.”

Mrs. Grasmere closed her eyes, and Igraine waited for the short nap to end. She was happy. All the poets Mrs. Grasmere had mentioned and more were here. The library contained hundreds of volumes, some inherited by Mr. Grasmere, many collected over his lifetime and added to with books Solomon Grasmere sent from all over the world. Novels and poetry, history and philosophy—and the 1810 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica.

“So you’ll tell me all about it.” Mrs. Grasmere started up again. “Shermer Landing may not be as sophisticated as Boston, but we do have our own Philosophical Society.”

“It will be a pleasure, Mrs. Grasmere.” Igraine had seen
Lyrical Ballads
in the library. She’d look through the collection by Wordsworth and Coleridge before going to the lecture.

“It’s best you not reveal that you are in my employ, my dear, unless it cannot be helped. You can with honesty say that you are visiting me. People are much less apt to tell servants anything. In fact, you must take my carriage. Let them assume you are a relative.”

Servant. Igraine had gone from daughter to niece to teacher to servant. Well, if she was to be a servant in these circumstances, she had no complaints.

“Let us have Byron today, then,” the old lady chuckled. “Perhaps the
Manfred
. Do you know it was inspired by his all-consuming guilt over his love for his sister!”

Igraine suspected that wasn’t true, but Mrs. Grasmere’s cackle of daring pleasure made her wish it were true. It made Byron even more the quintessential dark hero.

That evening she felt like Cinderella on the night of the ball. Her fairy godmother, Mrs. Grasmere, objected to her one good dress and put her in one made for Sheba, though never worn. Igraine was so thin she easily fit the garment made for the 15-year-old girl.

She’d never worn such fine fabric, a delicate pale green. She could almost think herself elegant, until she caught a glimpse of her shoes. Her sorrowful feet were larger than Sheba’s had ever grown. In fact, a quick survey ascertained that Igraine’s feet might be the largest in the household, unless they measured those of the handy-man.

“Don’t let anyone see your shoes,” Old Kate advised.

Elegant or no, Igraine felt the cold through her dangerously thin soles on the steps to the lecture hall. This was not so grand as the one in Boston, but its architecture was interesting nonetheless. The interior evoked a Greek amphitheater with faux columns in the corners and marble floors.

“Hello.” A tall blonde woman in sky blue silk offered Igraine her hand. She wore jewels in her curls, and her lace gloves had the fingers cut out. “Are you from Grasmere House? I recognize the carriage. I’m Penelope Adams.” She said it as if everyone knew who Penelope Adams was and would be grateful to know her.

“I’m Igraine Fiddyment. I am staying at Grasmere House.”

Penelope Adams seemed satisfied with that information. “You came in alone. Shall we sit together?”

A young man strolled through the assembly and struck a brass bell eight times. Conversation subsided and all were seated with anticipation. It seemed it was a treasured ritual among these people. A short, square man approached the lectern.

“My husband,” Penelope Adams said.

Franklin Adams was the mayor of Shermer Landing, convivial, a bit too familiar, an awkward politician. The theme of his speech seemed to be what a good mayor he was. For some reason, Igraine had not thought of Penelope Adams as a married woman. Now she looked the part, in thrall to her husband’s speech, nodding approval of his wisdom and smiling at his jokes.

Mayor Adams said, “So it is with great pleasure that I give you our own Mr. Leopold Singer.”

Igraine’s heart jumped so that she was newly aware that she had a heart, that she had a rib cage which had become too small. Though she was seated, she steadied herself. What a figure! He was Manfred himself. He was Adonis made flesh. He was the man who had delivered her to Grasmere from the coach station. Far beyond her, both in age and in class.

“We can think of Wordsworth and Coleridge as Apollo and Dionysos...”

When the address was complete and the audience rose to applaud, Igraine had retained nothing of the substance. She was simply full of the man himself. She had failed Mrs. Grasmere and herself. Such loss of self-control was frightening.

She said to Mrs. Adams, “It was nice to meet you.”

“You’re not going, Miss Fiddyment. No, here is my husband.” With her stacked-heel half-boots and all that hair piled on top of her head, Penelope Adams was a foot taller than her husband. Surely a wife should not emphasize such a thing. “Mr. Adams, this is Miss Fiddyment. She’s visiting Mrs. Grasmere.”

“Miss Fiddyment.” Mr. Adams kissed Igraine’s hand and gave her a short bow. “You must be a comfort to the dear lady.” She smelled spirits on his breath. The mayor moved on to glad-hand his public, and Mr. Singer took his place.