The Loves of Leopold Singer (39 page)

“Mr. Singer?”

“I have a daughter who will want to come to you eventually.”

“Of course. I shall be delighted.” Would he not stop talking?

“And I like to see Grasmere House prosperous.”

“Mmm?” Did he have to touch her elbow?

“You know, of course, that I bought The Post from Mrs. Grasmere when Mr. Grasmere died.”

“I must go. Good day, Mr. Singer.”

“Good day, Miss Fiddyment.”

“Good day, Miss Fiddyment,” the others called. “Very nice to see you!”

She finally made it out the door and sploshed back to Grasmere House.

-oOo-

On opening day a month later, thanks largely to The Post editorial, the Academy had enrolled twelve students between ages eleven and seventeen, eight of whom lodged. Parents and students gathered in what was once the ballroom.

“This came for you,” Old Kate set a large box on the table in the kitchen where Igraine, April, and Mrs. Fuller were going over last-minute details of Igraine’s welcoming speech. The box contained a pair of boots and a pair of shoes that looked as if they had been made by the gods. The soft low-heeled shoes were feminine, pale pink leather and decorated with carved daffodils.

And the boots! The women gasped when Igraine lifted them from the package. They were blackest black, with rust-red heels. A rust-red dragon was carved on each boot, winding around, brandishing claws, mouth open and spouting flames onto the toes. The boots were fantastical objects, works of art.

“Beautiful,” April barely whispered.

“There is a note,” said Mrs. Fuller. April snatched it up and read aloud:

Dear Miss Fiddyment:

You must have guessed something was up by the way I accosted your feet when you came to the newspaper office.

“Oh, do not ask. Please!”

It was the only way I could think to take your measure and still surprise you with these humble gifts. As you can guess, Mayor Adams and my men were in on the conspiracy. You might know that my hobby is working with leather.

Please accept these as tokens of appreciation from a grateful citizen of Shermer Landing for the contribution you make by opening your Academy.

Yours, &tc.,

Leopold Augustin Singer

“Well,” said Old Kate. She opened her mouth to say more, but no more came out.
 

“Think of that, Miss Fiddyment,” said Mrs. Fuller. “A gift of leather from Mr. Leopold Singer is a coveted honor in this town.”

For three months all went well, until one day Igraine and April came down from lessons to find a pale Mrs. Fuller in the study now used for the Academy office.

“A letter,” Mrs. Fuller said. “From him.”

The three women shared a stricken look, each suddenly aware how much they did not want to lose the Academy. Solomon Grasmere had written, and the letter had reached them—so soon! Igraine read aloud:

Dear Miss Fiddyment,

Your letter has arrived which tells me my mother is dead. I am sorry for that. Please receive my gratitude for all you have done. I approve of your proposal to open a school for girls at Grasmere. Mother would have liked that. I will return when I can. Till then, I remain,

Your servant.,

Solomon Grasmere.

“This is no help at all!”

“What is wrong?” Mrs. Fuller said. “It’s what I’d hoped for.”

Everything was wrong with it. “Mr. Grasmere shows no compassion for his poor mother. His manner is terse and ungracious. And—no small matter—he says nothing as to whether his approval extends to material support.”
 

“You must not suppose he has no feelings, Miss Fiddyment.”

“I must not suppose...”

“Mr. Solomon was never a talker, not like you.” Mrs. Fuller was gentle, but insistent.

“Yes, Igraine.” April added her good sense. “Mr. Grasmere isn’t accustomed to think of practicalities regarding Grasmere House. He’s never cared for it himself.”

“I hope I’ve done him a disservice. I see you like him, Mrs. Fuller, which counts for much.” Igraine searched the letter again. “He approves of the school. We can be grateful for that. We must be diligent in our accounts. He gives no authority to use Grasmere’s resources. The school must pay for everything. Our salaries, expenses. Everything.”

April left to teach a class, and Mrs. Fuller had business elsewhere in the house. Igraine looked out the study window, the letter still in her hand, hardly thinking at all. On Hamilton Street, Leopold Singer walked by with the mayor.

Lovely Leopold Singer! His hands flew about as if to illustrate his conversation. Surely this was the man God had made her for. Why had she been born in a time and place that separated her from him? She stretched her toes inside her beautiful boots.

She hated as much as she loved Leopold Singer’s gift. He had no right to give it. Every day, the flawless fit and the welcome comfort was a reminder of that perfection in male form which she could admire only in silence. And she had to wear them; not to would be an insult.

When he contrived to expose her feet, however innocent his intentions, Igraine had felt violated, confused, and humiliated by her aroused response to his warm hands on her cold bare feet. It was unbearable to think of him, intelligent, handsome, active, thoughtful—and married. He had no right to touch her feet and send her presents.

She wasn’t a pillar of the community. She wasn’t a masterful organizer and savior of the household. She wasn’t a loving and generous teacher. Igraine Fiddyment was a woman alone who cared for other women’s children, kept another man’s house, and improved someone else’s town. She was also a woman who didn’t wallow. She put away Solomon Grasmere’s letter and went up to her room to write a story about a pirate, a princess disguised as a lady’s maid, and the boots of Spanish leather which brought them together.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Fuller reported to Cook that all was going according to plan. Surely Mr. Solomon would return soon to form a most favorable impression of their Miss Fiddyment.

The Academy was a success. Igraine was able to pay wages to everyone but herself and keep Grasmere properly maintained. They ate well. April oversaw the expansion of the garden. Igraine bought another dairy cow, and they kept chickens.

Igraine was aware Bronson Alcott fed his students only vegetables, but it was a discipline she could not abide. She’d never forget the near starvation Mr. Mark inflicted upon his unfortunate charges. Her girls had plenty of chicken with their vegetables and bread with butter and jam, and Cook made beef stew once a week. All who lived under Grasmere’s roof thought themselves prosperous and content.

The contentment was real. The prosperity tenuous.

They made it through the summer, but Igraine used every penny of tuition. At their rate of consumption, they were slipping behind. There were fewer chickens in the coop, and it was time to re-order wool for the spinning and weaving classes. The cold weather was not far off, and there was nothing extra in the event of disaster or nonpayment. In one horrible moment, Igraine actually considered asking Cook to take frugality measures.

She wished there were someone she could turn to for advice. April was a great friend, but it would be nice to talk with someone whose shoulders bore similar responsibilities, someone like Leopold Singer. Unfortunately, Igraine was stuck in the lie that she was personally connected to Mrs. Grasmere. If she turned to Mr. Singer, she’d have to admit the truth: that she was merely an orphan and paid companion. The school would be disgraced. She’d let down everyone who depended on her. She had put herself in this position, and she would find a way out of it.

Marta was surprised when Leopold resisted sending Eleanor to Miss Fiddyment. “Do you want her to be an ignorant young lady a good man can’t bear?”

Leopold said, “I think Jonnie Zehetner likes our daughter just as she is.”

Marta couldn’t hide the tell-tale blush on her throat.

“I see,” Leopold said. “You want to separate them.”

“A while longer.”

“I supported Miss Fiddyment partly so there would be a proper school near home when the time came. I just did not think...”

“I understand you now,” Marta said. “I'm not ready for our youngest to grow up, either. But she was fifteen in December. Jonnie is eighteen. If Eleanor is to go to school, she must go now.”

“I might have to speak with that boy.”

“He is a young man, dear. They are the exact age we were when we fell in love.”

“Were we ever that young?” He pressed her hand to his cheek and turned her palm to his lips.

Eleanor listened outside the sitting room door. Her mind raced with what she had overheard. Jonnie in love with her! No. He was the kindest and best person she knew. They had been bosom friends forever. This was dreadful!

Well, not dreadful. But she wasn’t ready. She hadn’t seen Europe or London. True, she’d always assumed she and Jonnie would marry. That any other man would be the father of her children was unthinkable. But she wasn’t ready to quit being a person and become a wife and mother. Her mother was right. She must go away to school.

Just as she went through the door, her parents broke off a passionate kiss. She pretended she hadn’t seen, but then smiled broadly enough to show she had.

“And what is so wrong when a man loves his wife?” Leopold said.

As soon as Eleanor agreed to the plan for school, she realized what she’d leave behind. “Will I come home often?”

“Any time you like, you can ride home from town with me,” said Leopold.

“I remember when I went to school,” Marta said. “I was happy to get away.” That seemed like someone else’s life now.

“Mother, are you all right?”

“Yes, dear. I’m feeling my age. I’ll write to Miss Fiddyment, and tomorrow we’ll go to Boston to purchase a coat. You’ve outgrown yours, and there is no time to make another. Besides, I have wanted to see the new Market.”

-oOo-

The next morning, Leopold met Jonnie at the usual hour. The boy—young man, as Marta had reminded him—had begun to learn leather work from him. Jonnie Zehetner had an artist’s eye and a steady hand and was a pleasure to teach. He was working a design of sweet peas into a piece of tanned scrap.

“Daffodils are much easier,” Leopold said. “Or roses.”

“Ellie—Eleanor likes sweet peas.”

“She does, at that.” Leopold examined the work. “Don’t forget the tendrils, the little supports that allow the stalks to grow tall.”

“How is that?” Jonnie showed the result to Leopold with a satisfied expression.

Leopold felt suddenly sentimental. This babe was so soon a man, ready to marry his own babe. They could be put off for a few years. But once life started calling to a man, it didn’t stop. He couldn’t remember when he ceased being a boy, when manhood unfolded before him with all its promise and excitement. Here he was, after years of work, with a grand home and farm, a respected newspaper, a fine wife and wonderful children. He had a trusted partner and friend in Jonathan Zehetner. There was nothing to look forward to but more progress in the land and the people.

And the work was not only for his generation to do. This new crop was ripe. Leopold sighed to realize he really was no longer a young man. He decided there was no need for a “talk” with young Zehetner after all. He couldn’t imagine a better son-in-law—in a few more years.

-oOo-

At Boston Harbor the screams of seagulls mixed with the salt sea air to create a sensual potpourri of sound and smell. Hundreds of people jostled hundreds others. Boston Market was a great success and the town was bursting with activity.

Marta and Eleanor passed the Common on their way toward the harbor. Eleanor was past her worry about leaving home and excited to be going to school. She’d heard that Miss Fiddyment was a transcendentalist. She had read her father’s editorial about the lady and was eager to meet her.