The Loves of Leopold Singer (46 page)

October 10, 1829

My Dear Eleanor

Or, should I write ‘Mrs. Zehetner’—how odd that looks. Your letter arrived yesterday, and I was happy to read all your news.

I wish I could have been at your double wedding, you and Jonnie and Miss Westerman and her dashing Captain. You and Miss Westerman are now sisters!

I laughed to hear of Miss Fiddyment taking a room at Reverend and Grim III’s boardinghouse and Mr. Grasmere metamorphosed into the ardent suitor. Mrs. Fuller must live in perpetual consternation.

I do like to think of Miss Fiddyment as a free-spirited lady novelist. Perhaps she will remove to Boston and take up German philosophy.

Eleanor, your letter has lifted my spirits, but I don’t mean to imply I’m unhappy in my new life. It’s a wonder to think I’ve been here four months. My old great aunt is trying to like me. I look like the baroness’s younger sister who died ages ago. There is a portrait of her as a girl in my aunt’s room. I get an eerie feeling when I look at it. I admit the likeness is uncanny.

In a way it’s comforting to see real evidence I am linked to a family, to see my own plain features echoed in another person. Or am I the echo? You and I joked this house might be haunted, and now I suspect that I am the ghost. This house, by the way, is called “The Branch.” I have no idea why, and I am not yet brave enough to ask. The branch of what, I wonder? The family name is Asher.
I could ask Wills. Nothing bothers him
.

I have found no portraits of my own grandmother, Circe, and I intuit she is not mentioned here. It is all very mysterious and interesting.

In spite of the mystery and talk of ghosts, my days are quite dull. I rise, I am dressed, I eat, I walk about the property, eat again, either visit or receive visitors, take tea. There is more eating and eventually bed.

My aunt did have a ball in my honor when I first arrived, which overwhelmed me. I am sure the neighborhood thinks me a terrible snob, but I could not speak before so many new people. There is another dance tomorrow night, the harvest ball. I'll do better this time, I hope.

My aunt suggested I take up embroidery, which, as you will guess, was a disaster. When Lady Branch saw my first production, she laughed! She said you poor dear child go back to your reading and think nothing of it. I was greatly relieved, as you can imagine.

My greatest difficulty here has been with English manners. I fear I will never understand the niceties.

Oh! I nearly forgot. Your prediction about the squire and the baronet has come to pass. Squire Carleson owns Laurelwood, the property that borders The Branch. He’s a good master who well cares for his estate and the people who live on his land. He is thoughtful and kind. I think you would like him. I like him too, despite that he is a little too eager to please. I may be damning him for his virtues, but I think it unmanly to care so much for everyone’s good opinion.

The baronet is not really a baronet, though his father is so he will be one day. His father is Sir Carey, my great aunt’s ward. Wills, the son, is never referred to as ‘sir.’

(I will never understand the English aristocracy. We Americans are fortunate our founders eschewed the scheme. We can call our President ‘Mr. Jackson’ and not be in the wrong.)

At all events, Wills is Squire Carleson’s younger half-brother, and he most definitely fits my idea of a Sir Something. He is a dream of a person, all air and philosophy. He’s physically the most beautiful human being I have ever seen. Looking at him is like looking at a work of art.

He is a great lover of poetry. He says he adores Coleridge, though I suspect he likes Byron better. I am sure he would swoon upon hearing Uncle James’s rendition of The Mariner.

Uncle James! I’ve heard nothing of his whereabouts, and I am worried. Nor, for that matter, have I had a letter from my mother or father.

I will write soon to tell you about the rest of the characters with whom I keep company these days. Write to me! Let me know if Mr. Grasmere has any success with Miss Fiddyment. (I miss her. I wonder if she will earn enough from her ‘scribbling’ to permit a visit to England?)

Till then, I remain your dear friend, and etc.,

Miss Sara Adams,

The Branch, Gohrum England

Sir Carey reluctantly went up to the Peak to attend the harvest ball. He didn’t care to see the usurper, as Wills called Sara Adams, but Philly had written personally to invite him. The old girl was getting on, and it would be cruel to deny her.

It was a shock to see his wife there. He always thought of Elizabeth at home, writing in her journal or consulting with the land agent about stock. He didn’t feel jealousy watching her leave the dance floor with Devilliers. Nor did he feel relief when Devilliers led Mrs. Peter out for the next dance. He felt pain. He should have stayed in London.

In the corridor on his way out to get some air, he saw a familiar face. “Abby. What are you doing at The Branch?”

“Sir Carey.” The maid curtsied. “I’m extra help in the kitchen for the ball.”

She had never been pretty, and she was no longer young. As she circled her finger on his chest over his birthmark, he wished she’d go away. “I heard that you were here,” she said seductively. “Why didn’t you come to see me?”

“You have long made clear your preference for Wills.”
 

“I never.” She looked up with mock hurt feelings. “And besides, Wills would rather stick his oar in loftier waters, but she won’t have him.”

“Who won’t have him?” This was yet further proof of his estrangement from his family. He had no idea of Wills being interested in any woman at all.

“The American.” Abby snorted. “But she’s too stuck on herself to notice. Will I see you later then?”

“Not this time.” In remembrance of old pleasures, he pressed a coin into her hand. “But thank you for the kind invitation.” He turned back to the ballroom.

“Leave Wills be,” she called after him. “The squire will get there before he does.”

Wills stood beside Geordie with a group near the punchbowl that included Miss Adams. Daphne Asher’s portrait hung on the wall behind the refreshments, and seeing her living copy was unnerving. There was no denying Asher blood ran in the girl’s veins. Adding to the effect, she wore the very gown Daphne wore in the painting.

Damn it all
. This was Philly’s way of acknowledging Miss Adams as her heir’s daughter. She had abandoned him, as had everyone. He’d demand an explanation, but why offend the only person left who cared for his company these days? He and Wills had never repaired their breach.

For once Geordie was the center of attention, but not to the lad’s advantage. Miss Adams stared uncomfortably at the cup in her hand, and Wills stared at Miss Adams with something like his old compassion.
Good lord
. Wills wasn’t merely interested in the girl.
He’s in love
.

Geordie said, “They say American children are plied with a political education at the expense of a moral one. When asked ‘Who killed Abel?’ they answer ‘Colonel Jackson.’ When asked ‘In what state were mankind left after the fall?’ they answer ‘The State of Vermont’!”

The poor fool thought his little story was a success. He was blissfully unaware of his audience’s distress. He continued. “England may not be as mechanically modern as Massachusetts, but we are making headway.”

“A fine feat of faultless alliteration,” Wills said drily, giving Miss Adams a sympathetic look.

The next dance was announced, and Geordie said, “Miss Adams, I believe my name is on your card.” Wills smiled as the pair moved to the dance floor, but Sir Carey saw the longing in his son’s eyes.

And then it came to him. The solution to everything.

He moved to his son’s side. He and Wills watched Geordie and the American come together, touch hands, separate, encircle each other, separate, cross to another, return to each other.

“She is quite tolerable for an American,” Sir Carey said. There was no response, but he wasn’t hoping for a conversation. He merely wanted to put an idea into Wills’s head. “Not likely much fun in the boudoir, but that isn’t the end of the world.”

Wills uttered a growl of disgust and turned away, but Carey grasped his elbow. “Marry her,” he said quietly. “The Branch will be yours, and the title will be your son’s.”

“Good lord.” Wills looked at him with renewed loathing. It didn’t matter.

“Don’t give me your superior look. Despite everything, you’re my son. I know you. I can see you love her.”

Wills shook loose. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

The music stopped. “Where are you going?” Sir Carey said.

“Not that it’s your concern, but I’m bored. I’m going home.”

“Wills, what are you saying?” Geordie and Miss Adams returned from the dance floor. He protested, “It’s far too early to go.”

Sir Carey said, “My son admires your dancing, Miss Adams.” Wills glared at him, but he pushed on. “I wonder if your card isn’t too full to give him a turn.”

“Please do,” Geordie said. “I’ll give up this next waltz to you, Wills, as I’ve also been promised the one next.”

As ever, Geordie was gallant to his own detriment, and Miss Adams agreed to the switch. There was nothing for Wills to do but to lead her onto the floor. That was enough. Having planted the seed, Sir Carey left the vine to sprout.

“I don’t know this dance, Mr. Asher,” Miss Adams said.

“Never fear, Sara. It’s easy to learn.” One day she’d asked him to call her Sara, vowing that if she heard
Miss Adams
one more time she’d scream. He’d promised to oblige her for the day but found that once begun he couldn’t go back. She would be Sara to him forever.

He placed her left hand on his shoulder. He was angry with his father, but he was frustrated with his brother. Geordie was too good for his own good. Maybe he needed to be taught a lesson.

“The secret,” he placed his right hand securely at the small of Sara’s back and pressed her close, “is to let go, and be guided.” Had she worn a fashionable dress, they would have been separated by its skirt and endless supporting petticoats. Daphne’s high-waisted gauzy gown offered no such barrier.

“You might even close your eyes in my embrace,” he murmured, “as I won’t be handing you off.”

He was a head taller than Sara. Her forehead reached his chin. Once or twice, lips nearly grazed her skin. Or perhaps he only imagined it. As he guided her around the floor, she held her head erect but kept her eyes cast down. When he pressed her close to his chest, she trembled. He may have trembled too.

She did close her eyes. She did let go to the three-quarter beat. It was all he could do not to lose control himself.

Geordie was at the refreshment table on their return, as cheerful as ever, betraying no sign of jealousy. He moved to the next subject he’d memorized for tonight. Poetry. “The new generation of poets is simply better than the old guard. Wordsworth has outlived his talent.”

“But Coleridge is beyond equal,” Wills said. He’d noticed Sara’s
Lyrical Ballads
the first day she came to Carleson Peak. “If you could hear his lectures on Shakespeare, you wouldn’t deny it.”

“You’ve heard Coleridge speak?” Sara said. “How wonderful!”

“I know his doctor, James Gillman. Coleridge lives with him in Highgate. Let me make a suggestion. Gillman gives dinners famous for their table talk. I’ll procure an invitation for the three of us. Then, Geordie, you can see for yourself what you think of the old guard.”

Geordie smiled broadly and led Sara away for the next dance. Wills had never seen his brother so happy. Suddenly, he was ashamed of himself. He retrieved his overcoat and went out to call for his horse. The next day he rose early, before even his mother, and left Laurelwood for London.