The Loves of Leopold Singer (51 page)

Sara rocked a stinky sweet bundle in her arms. Her daughter was a wee old and still unnamed. “I think ‘Jane’ for her Christian name,” she said. “It’s plain and strong and easy to wear.”

“May I hold her?” Marta said. She sat down with the sweet darling. “Jane sounds very nice. Gabrielle was almost Eleanor’s name.”

Eleanor and Sara exchanged a look of mock horror.

“After my sister in law.”

“This is beautiful.” Sara turned Reverend Grim’s teakettle in her hands and fingered the bright-cut morning glories. “Really quite lovely.”

 
“I think she needs to be changed,” Marta said. “I'll do it.”

She didn’t want to talk about the kettle. Every woman in Shermer Landing had heard the story of its making from Harriet Grim’s own mouth. When Grim had offered it to her, she misunderstood, thinking he was making another overture. After what he’d done to himself, she felt as if she had committed a sin in refusing. “I’ll see if one of Eleanor’s old gowns fits her.”

“Mrs. Singer, you are too kind.”

“Nonsense,” Marta said. Then she softened, “I’m glad a little girl is in the house again.”
 

After twenty minutes when Mrs. Singer and the baby didn’t return, Sara found them upstairs, Jane on Mrs. Singer’s bed kicking her feet and making her mewling gurgle. Mrs. Singer stood nearby, dazed. She pointed to the baby’s birthmark, a strawberry-red, heart-shaped blotch just above the infant’s right nipple.

“Mrs. Singer, are you ill?” Sara guided her to a chair.

For so long, Marta had worked to atone for that night in the garden, to keep a harmonious home, to create a haven of civility, comfort, and constancy. To what end? Leopold was dead, her boys were gone away, and Eleanor was married and living her own life. And now Sara Adams was here, unmarried, and the child had this birthmark.

All the pain flooded back. The torture of carrying the wrong man’s child. The time lost to dull depression. Her resentment and anxiety over Sara’s situation fell away, replaced by a rush of sympathy. But something made no sense. How could Sara have written in so sanguine a manner about Sir Carey, yet bear a child with that birthmark?

“Sara,” she said, “you are going to tell me everything, and I am going to tell you what to do.”

“Mrs. Singer!”

“Young people think the older generation has never lived and has nothing useful to say on any subject. But you’re in no position to argue.”

Sara wanted to hold onto her secret. As long as she could do that, the truth didn’t seem quite real. But Mrs. Singer had a fierce strength about her, and Sara was truly overwhelmed. In the past, she had felt safe in the sphere of Mrs. Singer’s serenity, and it would be a relief to have someone in the world who knew. “Will you swear never to tell another soul? Not even Eleanor?”

“I swear it.”

So Sara told Marta everything.

“Does Mr. Geordie Carleson still want you?”

“I think so.”

“Don’t be a fool. Does he?”

“He does.”

“Then return to England. Marry this young man and forget your violation. Forget this child was born to you.”

Sara gasped.

“Jane should never have been born, but she was. Eleanor will raise her. Like her mother, she has found it difficult to get with child.” Marta softened. “This isn’t the worst that could happen. I lost my first child to death. This way, you can know her as the daughter of your best friend.”

“I don’t know.” It felt wrong, yet what other choice was there? It would be better for Jane than—than what? The truth was, an unmarried mother had no rights. If Wills ever found out, he might take Jane away. This was indeed the only option.

“You will have other children with your husband,” Marta said. “For his own good and yours, he must never know and you must never remember.”

Before going to the parlor, Geordie washed his face and hands. He worked in the fields with the men because he loved it, but he was careful to act as a gentleman in other matters. He put on a clean shirt and changed his boots, and when he saw who was waiting with his mother, he thanked the guardian angel who’d told him to clean up.

“Geordie, look who has come back to us,” said Lady Asher.

Sara Adams rose with his mother. Geordie bowed, wondering if everyone heard his pounding heart. “Sara—Miss Adams. How wonderful.”

Lady Asher poured out a cup of tea and handed it to him. Luckily, he didn’t shake too much as he set in on the table beside his chair. She caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. “If you will excuse me.” She left them alone, removing all doubt. If Sara was Geordie’s choice, she would accept it.

“Wonderful,” Geordie said again. His feet were rooted to the ground through the planks in the floor. He was aware his grin was too silly. The depth of feeling surprised him. He’d believed he’d learned to no longer care for her. She looked tired, but lovely. “How did you find America?”

“Big. And new. Spread too far apart. And I had forgotten how loud it is.”

He chuckled at her cleverness. She was as delightful as ever. “And your journey,” he continued. “It was not too tiring?”

“It was tiring. I don’t like the sea at all. I'm at Aunt Philly’s, of course.”

“Of course.” They were awkward in the way of two mountain goats separated by a wide stream, sure they want the ground on the other side and unsure exactly how to get to it. But he wasn’t a complex man. He knew what he wanted.

“Sara, Miss Adams—Sara.”

“Yes, Mr. Carleson?”

“I find, upon seeing you again, my feelings are not diminished.” She didn’t appear unwilling to hear him. He took her hand, and his heart leapt. She wore the serpent ring still. “I renew my request. Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

All she had to do was say yes, and everything would be set right.
Say yes, Sara.
It sounded like a prayer in his mind.

Her mouth formed the word, but she stopped and pulled her hand away.

“Oh, Mr. Carleson—Squire Carleson, I mean.”

“I hope you will call me ‘Geordie,’ darling Sara.” His heart sank, but he wasn’t going to give up that easy.

“I want to say yes, Geordie. But I must tell you something…about myself. You have the right to know.”

She turned her back to him, as if she couldn’t bear it if her words were met with disgust.

“A year ago, something horrible happened to me. Something beyond belief. And yet it did happen. I was taken—I was…violated. As time went by, I discovered that I was going to have a child.”

She paused as if expecting him to say something. Do something. He could hardly understand what he’d just heard, let alone respond to it.

“I was delivered of a girl in Massachusetts. Jane is with my friend, Eleanor. Mrs. Zehetner now. She and her husband have undertaken to raise her as their own.” She leaned forward against the chair, her shoulders hunched. “My friend’s mother, Mrs. Singer, learned of my feelings for you and of your proposal. She advised me to return to England, to marry you, to forget, and to build a life with you. She told me that bearing your sons would relieve the pain of losing my daughter. I don’t know if I believe her, but I am willing to try.”

She turned and looked at him again. Her face was red—not with shame, but with grief. “I can’t cover one lie with another. I can’t accept your very kind offer without you knowing. I have no reason to expect that you would still want me. Indeed, you have every right to loathe me now.”

His emotions churned in a kaleidoscopic clash from shock to revulsion to anger to compassion. Compassion was the victor.
 

Enough
, he thought.
Enough of my sex degrading the other
. He was glad she’d turned away. Glad she hadn’t seen his initial reaction.

She added, Only Mrs. Singer, and now you, know.”

“And the man.” He had never understood how a man could want to brutalize another. He’d believed violence in a man marked him as ill-bred and unworthy of rank or admiration. But the rage he felt now was righteous and sublime. He wanted to kill the man who had hurt Sara, and he wasn’t ashamed of it.

“He doesn’t know about the child.”

That didn’t matter. One day, Geordie would avenge Sara Adams. After all, she’d been as good as a guest of his family when she was abused in this despicable way. It was a matter of honor. His heart broke for her. She was so tiny, so fragile, so wounded.

“Sara.” His words came out in a hoarse whisper. “You are as dear and pure to me as ever you were.”

Sir Carey had been happy with his mother though she had first belonged to another man. Men married widows all the time. He didn’t need an untouched bride, and it would please both his mother and Lady Branch if he and Sara should marry. The truth was, he felt tenderness for Sara Adams he had never experienced before. Though he couldn’t be sure that she truly loved him, she surely needed him. He would not abandon her.

“Sara.” He went to her and put his arms around her. “My love.”

Spring came again, but this year the lengthening days did nothing to arouse Elizabeth’s lust for life. Her ewes were ready to burst with this year’s lambs, but it meant nothing. Geordie was married to a girl who never spoke. Wills was inexplicably gone, not just from Carleson Peak but from England. Philomela’s health had again failed, and this time Mr. Brennan offered no hope of recovery.

In the small library, the new Mrs. Carleson sat at the desk where Elizabeth had for so many years kept the accounts. In one thing, the two women were alike. They both watched the ducks on the little lake through the window. In a fit of feeling redundant, Elizabeth had given the room to Sara as a wedding present. In making the gesture, she’d realized: Nothing of Laurelwood had ever in truth been hers to give.

Who was she, really? The names of her adulthood rang false. Since Sir Carey’s death, it seemed ridiculous to be called Lady Asher, and “Mrs. Carleson” was Sara Adams, that wisp of a girl with a pen in her mouth and ink on her fingers. She was the true mistress of Laurelwood. When the squire died, everything had passed to Geordie. For all Elizabeth’s love and dedication to this estate, its land and its tenants, she’d never been more than a custodian. Her own child’s guest.

Lately, if she wasn’t at The Branch with Philly, she kept mostly to her room. Just now, Geordie was gone from Carleson Peak on one of his wild missions. Probably off to look at some new machine he fancied would halve the men’s work. Who could know? Since his marriage, he rarely consulted with her about Laurelwood’s management. As if in Geordie’s mind too, Elizabeth had become superfluous. Old.

Even with Geordie gone, there was no increased interaction with her new daughter. Sara spent her waking hours with her nose in a book or chewing the end of a pen or staring out a window. If she spoke to anyone, it was with Cousin Susan. The two shared a mutual love of books.

Ah! This self-pity didn’t suit. Perhaps a visit to Dr. Devilliers would wake her up to springtime. The daffodils always bloomed first at the rectory. Since Cousin Susan refused his proposal, they’d all remained friends, though perhaps not in equal measure. Susan and Jordan shared more than scones and conversation, of that Elizabeth was certain.

“I’m going for a walk, my dear,” she told Sara. “I’ll likely take my tea with Dr. Devilliers.”

Nearing the front door, Elizabeth caught her own appearance in the hallway glass. A pale old woman in mourning stared back at her.

Susan appeared in the mirror behind her. “Is something amiss, cousin?”

“I’m still in black,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes. And this the second spring since Sir Carey’s death.”

Susan was dressed gaily, in a sky-blue gown covered with tiny pink and yellow roses. Her strange gray eyes were alive with interest in the world. It suited her to be an old lady with a little money and plenty of people to care for. Judging by the basket on her arm, she was going to see Dr. Devilliers herself. Elizabeth smiled. Were they, either of them, really so old? Just into their fifties—there was plenty of life left.

“I might come out of mourning,” she said. Something clicked in her brain, and her plan changed. “It’s been too long since I spent the day exploring Laurelwood.” She’d walk to the other side of the lake. Perhaps she’d see a white heron.