The Loves of Leopold Singer

by L. K. Rigel

  He half guided, half pushed her backwards to his bed. She couldn’t lie down. Her body just wouldn’t do it. He looked at her quizzically, as if she were a dog who’d failed to heel for unknowable reasons. Thoughtlessly, without anger or meanness, he pushed her onto the bed.

  In that moment, she understood her position perfectly. He would treat her as kindly as he treated his dogs—which was very kind indeed. He would express his will, and it was hers to obey whether she wagged her tail or not. He lifted her skirt and thrust his hand between her legs. She gasped and her heart pounded. She wasn’t afraid; she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. But he smelled so awful.

  “I’ll get a boy on you soon enough, I expect.” And he began to go about it.

  It only took a few minutes. She started to get up, but he put his arm around her waist and anchored her to the bed. “We’ll go again as soon as I’m ready,” he said.

  She lay on her back, staring at the forest green canopy overhead. Carleson fondled her breasts and pinched her nipples beneath her dress. She’d never harbored a romantic notion about marriage, and thus far hers promised none. At least he didn’t seem the hitting sort of man.

  “You’ll have no troubles with the stores or the stock or the kitchen,” he said. “You’re Laurelwood’s mistress now, and I’ll see to anyone who don’t treat you right. Just give me a son to keep Laurelwood safe from Sir Carey.”

  Before she could ask who Sir Carey was, Carleson had her again.

  Ladies Love a Title

  The canal works murders were the talk of The Branch harvest ball. Sir Carey grieved for the marquess. Of course he grieved. It must be dispiriting to lose one’s father, especially considering Millie had actually known the man. Carey never knew his father. Or mother, for that matter. His parents died of typhus before he was a month old.

  In Ireland, gawdsake.

  Eighteen years ago when Baron Branch was still alive, his daughter Lady Philomela went to Ireland to nurse her ailing younger sister, Lady Daphne, who’d married the seventh son of an Irish gentleman, a painter with no money and no prospects. The typhus wiped out the entire household but for Philomela and Carey. He was but a few months old, son of an Irish gentleman and lady unlucky enough to be visiting just as the typhus hit.

  The old baron objected to bringing an “unfortunate Irish brat” into his household, but Lady Philomela wouldn’t let him go. “God made me this child’s protector,” she said, “and with that you will not interfere.” From what little Carey had learned over the years about the baron, Philly had hated him as well as she hated most men.

  When the baron died with no male heir, Philly was made baroness in her own right. She made Carey her ward and raised him to be a proper English gentleman. And now she had got him a title. Newly created, and he wasn’t a lord, but Sir Carey Asher, Baronet would have to do. Sorely lacking in land and fortune, but a respectable, hereditary title.

  And there was the rub. He’d expected to be the center of attention at this ball, fielding congratulations and juggling dance partners. Instead, he was forced to listen to the insufferable Sir Herbert Whitley tell tales of the canal murders. Even now, Whitley entertained a group of ladies with the details, ladies who should be flirting with Carey.

  “He was caught by the navvies,” Sir Herbert said. “They would have murdered the devil themselves if the marquess hadn’t stopped them.”

  “Was he French, Sir Herbert?” said Lady Delia. “A Jacobin?”

  “An agent of Napoleon, perhaps,” Carey offered, knowing his sarcasm would be lost on all.

  Lady Delia smiled behind her fan. She had a brain. She understood. Gohrumshire was landlocked. She knew the suggestion was ludicrous. But Whitley’s other female audience hyperventilated at the thought of revolutionaries infiltrating to the heart of England.

  “Nothing so romantic,” Whitley said. “The man was a common miscreant.”

  “Sir Herbert sent his agent to evict a few tenants to make way for a canal.” Whitley’s young wife looked sideways at Carey. “My husband had not yet procured an Act, but—”

  “Yes, yes, Lady Whitley,” Sir Herbert said. “I wasn’t going to actually evict anyone, not yet, but one miserable fellow misunderstood. He went to Millam to stop the engineer from building a canal. Mr. Gray was killed by one blow of a shovel that drove his nasal bone into his brain.”

  The fool seemed surprised, and pleased, by the gasps his account drew.

  Lady Whitley said, “Poor Mr. Gray had already declined to build Sir Herbert’s canal.”

  Carey accepted her smile with a raised eyebrow, promising her good things to come. She seemed satisfied that her hooks were well planted in him and turned back to her husband. Carey rather enjoyed Lady Whitley’s attentions—so long as Whitley remained in the dark. The man was just the sort to raise a stink over being cuckolded, and Carey wouldn’t want to upset the baroness.

  “The duke intervened,” Whitley said, “but the murderer was wild and strong. Another blow from the shovel knocked his grace to the ground unconscious. He drowned in a shallow ditch before the navvies found him.”

  “You’d think Sir Herbert had caught the blackguard himself,” Sir Carey whispered in Delia’s ear.

  “That’s the spite I love in you.” Lady Delia took his elbow and led him away. Good. Lady Whitley was always more ardent when she was jealous. “Let’s talk of pleasanter things,” Delia said. “What does Lady iBranch think of your new title?”

  “In her words, she’s glad Gohrum did something right before he got himself killed.” He picked up two glasses of champagne from the refreshment table, and they left the ballroom for some air. “But she’s not happy about the ship.”

  Along with the baronetcy, Carey now had a one-third interest in a merchant ship called the Maenad. Millie had the duke’s share, and the other third belonged to the Maenad’s original owner, an Austrian.

  “Why unhappy? Lady Branch is as eager as anyone to see you in Parliament. You’ll need the income.”

  “Philly hates all things to do with the sea. In her view all sea captains are pirates. Even His Majesty’s officers of the Royal Navy are pirates to her.”

  “Because her sister Circe ran away with that American.” Delia shook her head. “She should be grateful, not angry. Typhus eliminated one sister, the sea claimed the other, and she ended up baroness in her own right. It’s a shame Circe’s daughter, who has never set foot in England, is heir presumptive to the Branch. To bad she didn’t drown before she produced her brat.”

  “You are truly mercenary, D.”

  “I’m practical. And so is your aunt, as you insist upon calling her. She set out to make you into a fine English gentleman, and she’s done better. Now you’re a baronet. She may grumble about the Maenad, but you do need a private income. Your share will more than pay your London expenses. Millie says if you manage well, you might buy an estate somewhere in Gohrumshire.”

  “I thought Millie was unhappy about my share in the Maenad.”

  “You’re wrong there,” she said. “He also wants you for Parliament.”

  “Millie tells you quite a lot, D.” Carey motioned to a footman to bring more champagne. “I suppose you’re in love with him.”

  “Hardly.” Delia snorted. She detested the prospect of marriage, and he liked to tease her about it.

  “You’re twenty-one, D. Even the daughter of an earl can’t make her suitors wait forever. Don’t you want to be a duchess?”

  “I want to be free, like Baroness Branch.” She brushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. “What do you want, my young friend?”

  The question startled him, and he turned away. He stared into the darkness beyond the veranda. “I might do some actual good one day, you know. Philly and I were in the gallery a few years ago during Wilberforce’s speech. That man has a real fire in his belly.”

  “You for abolition.”

  “I have ideals. Besides, the only men who favor the slave trade are those who profit by it. I have no p
lantations in the Carolinas.”

  “Don’t look at me. Neither does my father since Gerard turned patriot.”

  “Lord Devilliers was a fool to put anyone but the rightful heir in charge of his holdings in the colonies. At all events, when I’m an MP, Wilberforce will have my support. In the meantime, I do fancy owning the Maenad.”

  “A small fortune takes some sting out of not having a larger one. A third for you and two-thirds for Millie?”

  “No, there’s a third partner. An Austrian, of all things. There must be enough money somewhere to buy him out.”

  “You should be happy with what you have.” Delia finished her second glass of champagne. “Let’s go back before we’re missed. Mama is in a fit because Millie didn’t attend.”

  Carey followed his friend. “I hope the Maenad continues as profitable as she has been. Millie will go on about how she’s a fast ship with an excellent captain.” As they returned to the ballroom, the music stopped and dancers began to change partners. Lady Whitley caught Carey’s eye and shot an angry glance at Delia.

  Carey laughed. She was a silly piece of muslin. Perhaps he should drop her before things went too far. “Who knows?” he said to D. “If Carleson don’t get himself an heir on that new bride of his, I might work it out to get hold of Laurelwood. He’s mismanaging the place into ruin, and he’s too suspicious to renew the tail on it until he has a living son. I could take it off his hands.”

  “Sir Carey of Laurelwood.”

  “It sounds very fine. Circe’s brat will have The Branch one day, so I’ll have to come by some other property.”

  “I’ve never seen it,” Delia said. “Is Laurelwood worth your effort?”

  “With decent management, it could be a very pretty place. The Maenad could provide the means. The East India Company can’t have all the money. With Napoleon threatening the world, the price of sugar will continue more dear. Let’s hope Boney’s ambitions are as great as they seem. War is a godsend.”

  “As long as you don’t have to do the fighting.”

  They found D’s mother, the countess, with Lady Branch in front of a well-built-up fire. “My dear,” said Lady Devilliers, “it must be difficult for you to take any pleasure in tonight’s affair, as the duke could not attend.”

  “Not at all, Mama.” Delia rolled her eyes. Poor D. Millie had been in love with her forever, but he was as old as her father.

  “But surely the duke—” The countess wouldn’t let it go.

  “Mama, there is no understanding between me and Millie.” Delia flashed her eyes—a rarity, for they were quite dull, unpretty eyes. “I want no duke for a husband. You and your friends are always in a frenzy to marry your daughters up, but I’ve observed it’s ladies who marry down—and into money—who are happiest.”

  “Touche, D.” Carey applauded. The baroness didn’t smile, but her periwinkle eyes brightened. Unsurprising, for she was hard on men.

  “My darling,” the countess said. “Gohrum is one of the richest estates in England. The shares in the East India Company alone—well, one can’t imagine.” Lady Devilliers waited for sympathy from her audience. Receiving none, she continued. “And we really must stop referring to the Duke of Gohrum as Millie.”

  Delia stamped her foot. “I daresay a husband grateful for his wife’s good connections would be far easier to manage than one secure in his own greatness.”

  Aunt Philly laughed at that. “Lady Devilliers, don’t you think a woman is as likely to be miserable with one kind of husband as another?”

  “What care I for her misery? We’re all miserable.” Lady Devilliers wouldn’t give in. “The Duchess of Devonshire’s first party of the season is next month, but I suppose Millie won’t attend that, either.” She looked very sad, but then brightened. “Georgiana is going to have tableaux!”

  “Lady Delia.” Carey took pity on D. “I believe this is the dance you promised me?”

  “Oh, yes, it is.”

  “Ladies.” With a bow, he led Delia to the floor. “I don’t think your mother will relent,” he said as the music began.

  “Perhaps I’d better find a husband after all,” Delia said. “But not the Duke of Gohrum.”

  Carey stopped talking—or listening, for that matter. He went through the steps and smiled at all the right people at all the right times, but his imagination had taken flight. Images of Laurelwood crept into his fancy and whispered their wonders to his heart.

  Laurelwood

  “Pitman, you’re a saint.”

  The maid helped Elizabeth out of her dress. She ripped off her shift and submerged her naked body in the hot water up to her throat and ears. She wanted to wash away every trace of that man.

  Every night he came to her room. He didn’t speak. He bent her forward over her bed and lifted her skirts over her back and rutted from behind like an old bull. He seemed to take no pleasure in the act. He stayed long enough to fill her with seed, slapped her lightly—affectionately—on the bottom, and went away.

  It had rained since she came to Laurelwood, and she felt like a prisoner in the huge, dark old house. Each night he tapped lightly on her door, entered her room, and placed his candle on the table. She’d lie face down over the side of the bed and he’d lift her skirts or robe and plow into her, finishing after four or five thrusts. She didn’t mind. It was better than kissing that mouth.

  After two and a half months her nausea began to hang on even when Carleson was out of her presence, and the doctor was summoned. After an examination that was worse than her husband’s attentions, the doctor assured Carleson the deed had been accomplished.

  When the doctor left them, the squire patted Elizabeth’s hand tenderly. “My dear, I want you to know you’ve made me very happy. Do not take umbrage when I fail to visit you at night these next months until after your confinement. It doesn’t mean I feel any less for you, but we must not endanger our son.”

  It was sweet, actually. And the first time he’d said our son instead of my son.

  The next the morning the sun came out. After breakfast, she slipped away from Pitman and left the house to explore the grounds on her own. If she didn’t have some solitude soon she was going to go mad. She fairly raced out into the morning sunshine.

  It must have been the same glory Persephone felt on her return from Hades to the world of the living. The blue sky was dotted with puffy white clouds, and the sun was warm on her face. There were signs of spring everywhere, wildflowers and a distant sound of bleating lambs. To be out in the world filled her with euphoria.

  She walked to the far side of the little lake. Wild grass still wet with morning dew drenched her hem, but no matter. It was all so beautiful. Passing a cluster of birch trees, a faint sound of footsteps stopped her. She heard it again, hard to place and amplified by echoing off the lake surface.

  She crept to a weeping willow whose branches formed a curtain to the ground just at water’s edge. Parting them, she spied a white heron not ten yards away, perfectly still, its feet in the water, surveying the lake with a stern look. The bird lifted a long skinny leg and stepped deeper into the water without sound, then extended its neck a supernatural length over the surface.

  She heard nothing; the lake surface didn’t even break, but suddenly the heron’s head stretched toward the sky, and the bulge of a squirming fish slipped down its long skinny neck. The bird tilted its head and focused its black eyes straight at Elizabeth. Its gaze burned into her, and she caught her breath at the feeling of communion with the wild creature.

  From behind her, the snort of a horse broke the spell. At the sound, the heron stretched his wide white wings and lifted off the ground. Majestic. Overflowing with wonder, Elizabeth watched the bird soar above the water and disappear into the glare of the sun. “Oh!” she cried out to no one¸ perhaps to heaven.

  “Mrs. Carleson, I presume?”

  Elizabeth whirled around toward the voice. A man on a blue roan gelding tipped his hat to her. She nearly gasped. He was the
most beautiful person she’d ever seen, male or female, never mind the ginger hair. His manicured good looks were in perfect counterpoint to the natural beauty of the bird his horse had frightened away. Every exquisite article he wore coordinated to every other, from the tailored riding coat and breeches to the polished black boots and fawn kidskin gloves.

  How soft his hands must be, protected by those gloves. Fleetingly, she imagined his touch compared to Mr. Carleson’s rough-skinned groping.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.” He really was quite good-looking. So young and vital.

  “An oversight, I’m sure,” he said. “Though I can understand the squire wanting to keep you to himself. We’re neighbors, Mrs. Carleson. The Branch borders Laurelwood.”

  “You’re Sir Carey.” Elizabeth felt doubly guilty. This was the man Squire Carleson detested. “Ward of Baroness Branch.”

  “I see my reputation precedes me.” Sir Carey shifted his weight and smoothed his jacket where it draped his thigh. He hugged the horse, displaying his well-muscled legs to advantage.

  He was as vain as the squire had described. He’d certainly chosen the false-blue mount to emphasize his strawberry blond hair. “I have heard your name mentioned.”

  “In a flattering context, I hope.”

  “Not really.” What impudence!

  He laughed and leaned forward on the pommel, examining her. He rested his gaze on her cropped hair and raised an eyebrow in admiration—not in a flirtatious way, but with true regard. As if he understood. Again emotions stirred which made Elizabeth feel disloyal to her husband.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced, sir,” she said. “I must bid you good day, no disrespect intended.”

  “None inferred,” Sir Carey said good-naturedly. “Forgive my bad manners. I was charmed by your beauty.”

  “Ha!” The involuntary laugh perfectly expressed her opinion of such insincere flattery. Elizabeth was full aware that beauty was not among her virtues.