The Loves of Leopold Singer (41 page)

“It’s not so far, really,” Marta said. “When I went to school in Vienna, the journey was days from my town.”

“It must have been hard to be so far from your family,” Igraine said.

“I did miss my father.” Marta thought of her school days, how cruel the girls had been because she was not one of them. But this was a new day, a new world. The status of the parents was no longer visited unto the next and the next generation. “Perhaps we could have something hot to drink and then see the school as one party?”

How kind. Igraine felt as if Sisyphus’s stone had rolled away. If Mrs. Leopold Singer approved Sara Adams as a schoolmate for her own daughter, then no one else could object. But could she afford to take the girl? If Mr. Adams would not pay his gambling debts, would he pay the tuition? Then she was ashamed of herself. She was no better than Mr. Mark. “Tea, of course.”

Marta was decided. If she had any influence, Sara Adams would have a place at the academy. While Miss Fiddyment was gone to order the tea, Marta examined Sara more closely. Beneath the extravagant clothes was a girl thin and pale, unremarkable in face or manner. She had hazel eyes and drab honey-blond hair and seemed lost inside her costume. Marta felt a twinge of guilt. Time had passed so quickly, and she had never invited Sara to visit The Farm. Eleanor’s friendship would surely have done the girl some good.

Up to this time, Sara had made no sound. True, she had not yet been spoken to, and she did have impeccable manners. But also she was agonizingly shy. She was afraid to attend school with other girls, and she was beginning to understand that she was to be left here to live, day and night.

“Hello, Sara Adams.”

Sara managed to whisper, “Hello, Eleanor Singer,” quite astonishing herself. It was a relief when Eleanor said nothing further. Sara was shy, not dimwitted. She examined Mrs. Singer, whose gracefulness her own mother lacked. Mrs. Singer was calm from the inside out. It must be wonderful to have such a mother, to be able to feel peace in one’s home. She noticed the brooch Mrs. Singer wore, a tree entwined by a serpent. How bold!
 

Penelope, meanwhile, inspected the small bookcase in the room. There was
The Pilgrim’s Progress
, well and good.
Wealth of Nations
by Adam Smith. What on earth was that doing here? A treatise by Locke. Not too bad.
Lyrical Ballads
by Wordsworth and Coleridge. She adored the
Ancient Mariner
. Sometimes Uncle James recited the thing and they’d recall their former lives.

“I count twenty-four volumes. This cannot be the famous Grasmere library. Still, in my childhood, we owned four books only, and one of those the Bible. Not to discount Holy Scripture, but I do love a rousing novel.” She slipped Maria Edgeworth’s
Moral Tales
back into place. “Girls should be educated as a human necessity, for their own improvement, not merely to the purposing of raising sons. I don’t like this new talk of ‘angels in the house.’ I'll never be an angel. Indeed, I don’t want to be. Do you agree, Marta?”

“I agree girls ought to be educated for their own sakes, and for the sake of their families. I’m sure when my husband wrote those words he meant we have such influence on our children that we must learn to call upon our better angels.”

“I was raised by a pirate and by Uncle James. I had no education, and look how I turned out.” Penelope smiled. “I suppose Mr. Singer has a good point.” Privately she thought,
but if I didn’t have the devil on my other shoulder, Franklin would soon be a dead man
.

This was a day of revelations. Eleanor had never heard her mother speak of life in “the Old World.” And Mrs. Adams, brought up by pirates? She held her breath, hoping to hear more, and looked at Sara Adams anew. This was the granddaughter of a pirate.

After tea, while Penelope swooned over the real library, Marta maneuvered Miss Fiddyment into a private conversation. “Eleanor is quite fond of Miss Sara Adams. My mind is at ease, knowing she has already a friend here.”

“I see.”

To emphasize the point Marta added, “I should mention the scholarship my husband established for the Academy has funds enough for a year’s tuition for any girl who may be in need.”

“That is excellent information, Mrs. Singer.”
She’s as thoughtful as she is lovely
, Igraine thought. “I am very glad to have met you at last.”

-oOo-

April sat. She stood. She paced. Mrs. Singer left with her daughter. April paced again. When Mrs. Adams went upstairs with her daughter, April grabbed Igraine’s hand and pulled her into the office. “There is something you must see.”

“April, you are making me goosey. What is it?”

“I have no idea how you’ll feel about this, so I'll say it straightaway:
The Romancer
in New York has bought
The Maid and the Moonstone
.” April handed Igraine a letter.

“What are you saying?” Igraine stared at the sheet addressed to April.

“Forgive me Igraine, but you know that your stories are good. We needed the money, and I thought if one sold... Well, I sent one in to the magazine. They like it. They want more. You are to be a published author.”

“April, you clever, clever girl.” Igraine hugged her friend. A miracle! “Thirty-five dollars! With the Singer and Adams tuitions, we are saved.”

Penelope closed the door to the bedroom Sara was to share with Eleanor. “Can you believe that library?” Penelope tried to conjure an iota of enthusiasm in her sad daughter. Sara would be sixteen in June, nearly a woman, but she still seemed a little girl. Penelope had bedded three different men by the time she was that age, but in a different world altogether. “Think of the fun you will have reading all those books.”

Sara looked like she would burst into tears.

“Oh, Sara!” Penelope squeezed her daughter’s hands. “This is the hardest parting of my life. I must go with your father. Though you won’t believe me, of the two of you, you are the stronger. He needs me, and you don’t.”

Sara’s eyebrows knit together.

“Miss Fiddyment is a little reserved on the surface, but she’s quite clever and she seems a good and kind person. Give her a chance. And Eleanor Singer will be a friend to you. You will be fine. You are fine.”

“Yes, Mama. I will try to be brave.”

“I will see you again soon, darling. As soon as the Fates allow.”

-oOo-

There was no rain, but the wind was still furious. Penelope sat up beside Uncle James on the ride home. She imagined Franklin waiting for her, sitting defeated beside their packed bags. She had convinced him to leave town rather than fight a duel. Stupid, pointless. There was no honor in dueling, despite what his southern upbringing had taught him. She’d extracted his promise not to meet Reverend Grim’s hotheaded son tomorrow morning, but neither would he stay in Shermer Landing with that disgrace upon him.

It had been a good run, their time in this normal little town. Eighteen years! A good thirteen more than she’d expected. In truth, for a while now she had been restless. Town life was confining, too normal. She longed to stride up to a bar, demand a tankard, and listen to the swaggering stories of sailors and unabashed sinners.

This ordinary life was not for Franklin, either, as it turned out. He thought himself a fake and a failure, financed by her money and put into office through Leopold Singer’s influence. He was sad with self-loathing. Why else would he practically call out that confused boy, Martin Grim? In his right mind, Franklin would have been a friend to him. Her husband needed a quest to restore his self-concept.

The plan was to return to Southampton to reconcile with his father. They would leave their normal life, and for her and Franklin that was to the good.

Sara, however, could live nothing but a normal life. Sara needed stability like she needed air and water, and so for a time Penelope would leave her with Miss Fiddyment. But not Miss Fiddyment alone.

“Uncle James, I have to ask you to do something for me.”

“Anything, Penny. You know that.”

“Yes. I do know that. I need you to stay here and look after Sara for me.” And besides, Massachusetts was a free state.

“Yes, Penny. I reckon that is so.”

Uncle James was her strength, her safe harbor, and her guardian angel. Would she be the same person without him? She wasn’t afraid. She always knew what to do, in crisis or not. The world had never scared her. Even when it nearly broke her, it only made her mad. She didn’t need Uncle James for protection so much as for a touchstone.

A fierce jab of wind blasted down the street. Uncle James steadied the horses in front of the offices of The Post. The building looked empty but for a light in an upstairs window. Leopold Singer must be there. “Uncle James, let’s go into The Post for a moment. I want you to warm yourself at their fire.”

She found Leopold in his upstairs office. “Mrs. Adams, I saw you in the street just now and hoped you would come in.”

“I found I wanted to see you one last time.”

“You will be missed. Both of you.”

Penelope was past her prime, but she still had the bearing of a goddess. She radiated an animal appetite for life, and her psychic force had not waned since the day he first saw her riding up to The Farm. All these years they’d managed to keep the necessary boundaries. They loved their spouses. Now they were likely never to see each other again.

Then she was in his arms, and he felt compelled to accept her by a power greater than himself. She was stronger than he was, and she wanted him. He felt taken out of time and place, beyond consequence, slipping away from propriety into desire. As he had desired Susan Gray.

He pulled away. “I am so sorry. I can’t.” He felt diminished by his refusal; he knew immediately he had made a mistake.

“Of course.” She retreated. “Goodbye, Leopold.”

As she closed the door, the wind screamed against his window; he thought it screamed his name. A sense of doom seized him, and it wouldn’t let him go.

-oOo-

At the house on Franklin Street, Uncle James let Penelope out of the carriage and started, as usual, for the servants’ entrance. “Uncle James, come walk with me.” She motioned toward the front door. “I think at least once in his life a man should enter his own house through the front door.”

At the threshold, Uncle James stopped her. “In all these years, Penny, I have never told you about my father.”

“No, Uncle James. You never have.”

He removed the amulet from around his neck that he had worn for as long as Penelope could remember. “My father was a special man, a priest of Voudon on the island of Quisqueya. He gave me this talisman when I left the island to seek out my mother.”

“My grandmother.”

“Eugenie Sande, yes.”

The symbol looked like a cross resting upon a small tomb. “The loa of this charm has kept me safe these years. He will go with you now, as I cannot.” He put the talisman around Penelope’s neck and touched her cheek. She touched his cheek, too, as if half a century had never passed and she was still a little girl perched on his shoulders.

“You have saved my life,” she whispered, “by being in my life.” Together they passed through the front door of the one property in Shermer Landing whose deed was held by a black man.

May 7, 1828

My dear Gabrielle,

I am shocked how time has passed since I last wrote. I hope this letter finds you and my dear brother and my nieces and nephew well and prosperous.

You will remember Gisela Zehetner of whom I have often written. She passed to a better reality Friday last. My grief is hard to bear. She became the sister I lost when Life separated me from you, though I had not realized it.

Gisela Zehetner was your opposite, quiet, and in her final years rather humorless. But she was a good and faithful friend, steadfast in sorrow and equally delighted in what joy came her way. She had no real illness. She began to fail years ago, now that I think on it, when Willie died. You remember Willie. He was one of the little boys Leopold stopped from fighting on the day I fell in love with him. We were so young!