The Loves of Leopold Singer

by L. K. Rigel

  “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.

  “Ma’am.” Yet another man tipped his hat as they walked by and took his sweet time looking away. For the first time, it struck Eleanor that her mother was beautiful. She saw the admiration and even wonder on the faces of those who passed them, both men and women. It was unsettling.

  Screams on the street ahead mixed with boisterous laughter. Some horrid boys were tossing pigs onto the pathways of ladies walking to the Market. A piglet landed at Eleanor’s feet, squealed as it righted itself, and scampered off.

  “Oh, no.” said a familiar voice.

  “Jonathan Zehetner, Jr.!” Marta said. “Does your father know what you are about? Are you not a bit old for these games?” Eleanor laughed behind her glove. Wasn’t it just like a parent to say you are too old for one thing but not old enough for another.

  “I apologize, Aunt Marta, Ellie—Eleanor—Miss Singer. I was trying to catch the pig, truly. We’re taking a load to the docks today.”

  “The shipment to Liverpool. Well, get on with your business.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Jonnie, would you like to ride home with us?” Eleanor made the offer more to tease her mother than to offer any kindness to her friend.

  “Thank you, Miss Singer. I’m with my father. But I appreciate the offer.”

  They parted. Soon, Jonnie, Eleanor thought. But not yet. And he really must leave off calling her Miss Singer.

  They found the haberdasher and easily agreed on a full-length coat of dark green wool with simple lines. As Marta made the purchase, the shopkeeper said, “Excuse me, Madam. I couldn’t help but notice your boots. I’m looking for a line just like that. Do you know how I might contact the maker?”

  “My husband makes them as a hobby only.”

  “More is the pity,” he smiled. “Such talent limited to a fortunate few.”

  “I will give my husband your review. He’ll be quite puffed up.”

  Back on the street, Eleanor said, “My one sorrow is that my boots pinch my huge feet now. I won’t be able to take them to school with me.”

  -oOo-

  All the Zehetners who were home came to Eleanor’s going-away dinner. When Mr. Zehetner gave her a hug she started to cry. “It feels like I'm going to London, and not a mere seven miles.”

  “How was Boston?” Mrs. Zehetner asked.

  “We saw so much! There was a whipping post and pillory in the Common. But no ne’er-do-wells were in them.”

  “Oh, dwat!” Harry joked, using one of the household’s favorite phrases.

  “The docks were so romantic. Seagulls flew every which way, and pelicans, too. And the smell of fish was disgusting. God’s grace, I don’t know how Josef can stand to be at sea with that smell!”

  “I don’t think it smells so bad once you get out of port,” Jonnie said.

  “The last time I saw a whipping post was back in ‘17 in Connecticut,” her father said. “Your mother was with me. Do you remember, Mrs. Singer?”

  “I do.”

  “There were two rascals tied to it. As we came upon the scene, the sheriff had finished lashing the second offender. What came after was the worst of it.”

  “I have never forgotten it.” Mama shuddered.

  “The preacher gave a great lamentation over the wayward natures of the two scoundrels, and then the sheriff poured whiskey over the wounds raised by the whipping. Those men were in agony. But what do you think? Neither let one sound emerge from his terrorized body. Each wore a look of bitter hatred. I wouldn’t be surprised if the punishment had the opposite effect of its intention.”

  Eleanor admired her father’s sense of injustice. He was so transcendental.

  When the dinner had been eaten and everyone was served with cake and coffee, Leopold rose in his most solemn speechifying manner. Harry nudged Eleanor’s ribs and motioned toward Jonnie, whose face was tragic. She rolled her eyes. Only a few days ago, she would have teased him without mercy. But now she was frozen in her chair. Did love ruin friendship?

  “Friends and family,” Leopold began. “In the last several years, I have had the great pleasure of seeing my two sons, Samuel and Harry, off to Harvard. Tonight, with equal pride I bid farewell to my only daughter,
Eleanor, who sets off on her own educational adventure. We will miss your sweet disposition and diligent assistance every day that you are away.”

  “To Ellie—Eleanor—to Miss Singer!” Jonnie sputtered. His discomfort brought on the jeers of Harry and Samuel who shared a look. They knew which way the wind blew.

  “When my sons went off to school,” Leopold regained the floor, “their mother and I outfitted them with new suits of clothes. I find that my daughter, being the modern and spoiled young lady I raised her to be, has more apparel than she will wear in this lifetime.”

  “Not true, Papa!”

  “Still, I have come up with something that I hope my very particular daughter will find to her liking.”

  Marta produced a package wrapped in colored paper and tied with satin ribbons.

  “I guess this means I am really going,” Eleanor said. She was careful not to tear the paper. “Oh, my!” It was an exquisite pair of boots. The leather was soft and a light cream color, with a carved pattern that looked like lace and small pastel roses of pink, blue and green. The pattern was familiar. “Mother’s veil!”

  “To remind you that your parents love you,” Leopold said.

  “These are the most beautiful things I will ever own,” Eleanor said.

  Leopold kissed her forehead. “There’s my good girl.”

  Each Has Her Thoughts and Reasons

  The lady waiting with her daughter was breathtaking. Her skin was flawless, though a few faint laugh lines played at the corners of her eyes and mouth and her chestnut hair showed a bit of white at the temples. On her, simplicity was elegance, enhanced by an aura of wealth and stability. Miss Fiddyment could not ignore the prick of envious pain she felt upon seeing Mrs. Leopold Singer.

  The daughter lacked the beauty of either of her parents, but she had an intelligent expression and a healthy complexion. She had something more, a quality new to the world and not yet fully recognized, a quality uniquely American. Miss Fiddyment saw in Eleanor Singer a mix of confident enthusiasm and kindness. She had the generosity in spirit and curiosity in nature that came from abundant security in the present and genuine interest in the future. These attributes would generally inform the unfolding century.

  “Mrs. Singer, I was very happy to receive your letter. Eleanor, it is a pleasure to meet you.” There was no question of application. Had Igraine not desperately needed the tuition, she would have welcomed any daughter of Leopold Singer into her school without charge.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Were you named for King Arthur’s mother?”

  “Why yes, I was.”

  “I was sure of it. That’s why I asked my father to decorate your boots with dragons—for Pendragon.”

  Mrs. Singer said, “My daughter is a lover of Malory and Scott. I only wish she liked geography and languages so well.”

  “At the academy,” Miss Fiddyment said, “we practice French, German and Latin. I don’t hold with the notion Latin is the sole province of males. In fact, I would like to add Greek to that list. As to geography, in these modern times we couldn’t claim to offer an education without geography.” A sentimental smile flickered over her face. “I’m afraid novel reading is not a part of our curriculum. Of course, we study the great poets. We practice handwork and the domestic arts as well as gardening…”

  “Flowers?” Eleanor’s face brightened after the disappointing news about the novels.

  “Vegetables for the body, and flowers for the soul. Our aim is to turn out well-rounded young women who will be superb wives and mothers. But beyond all that,” Miss Fiddyment said “all that” with unconscious dismissiveness, “I believe an education gives a girl a reliable path to a life of virtue and personal satisfaction in her own right.”

  It was a speech only a spinster could make. Miss Fiddyment gave it during every interview and in every interview received the same response: polite incomprehension. Today, however, she saw understanding where it was not expected, in Mrs. Singer’s nod of agreement. The daughter wore the inevitable blank expression. No girl envisioned her future devoid of husband and children. None believed personal satisfaction was a worthy goal, and most thought it an immoral one in a woman.

  “I must be completely candid, Mrs. Singer. In the evenings before the girls retire, we do enjoy a little light reading—to practice erudition. The young ladies in the final form read aloud to the other girls. In fact, we are just coming to the end of Ivanhoe.”

  “Ivanhoe!” School was going to be wonderful, wonderful! Eleanor could tell the schoolmistress wanted to impress her mother and was putting on a show of being competent, learned, and stern. But Eleanor read people the way she read plants and animals and the weather, and in Miss Fiddyment she saw a kind and enthusiastic soul, not at all stern. There was something missing, something sad or just out of place, about Miss Fiddyment. Eleanor loved her immediately.

  The front door flew open and banged against a wall, and a blast of wind delivered an exquisitely dressed woman over the threshold. She failed to grab the door, and it again slammed into the wall. Her untied bonnet had blown from her head to reveal a massive agglomeration of blond and silver curls. Her overcoat was sky blue with white piping, expensive and fashionable, and her confidence came easy. Penelope Adams was a natural force, the mistress of all she surveyed.

  An elderly black gentleman, half a foot shorter than Mrs. Adams, followed close behind with her hat caught in his hands. “Penny, don’t mess your gloves. Let me get that door.” He looked no match for the wind, let alone the heavy door, but he was a strong man whom age had not weakened.

  “Thank you, Uncle James. Sara, come in, dear. You are about to blow away.”

  A frail wisp of a girl, dressed as impressively as her mother, appeared in the doorway. Her hair was blond, but dull. In comparison, the mother’s locks looked spun by fairies. The daughter was so thin, and her face so lacked expression, that she did indeed seem likely to blow away in the wind.

  “The carriage, Miss Penny!” Uncle James said, now focused on the welfare of the animals outside.

  “Oh, Uncle James. You go out first.” Mrs. Adams was like a strange and elegant enchantress conducting some grand magic to do with the wind, the door, the old man, and the girl. She whisked her silent daughter into Grasmere House and shut the oak door with a thud.

  “We’re in!” She looked as if she expected an ovation.

  “Mrs. Adams, how nice to see you.” Igraine suppressed her dismay a quarter of the way into its sigh, but Mrs. Singer noticed. Igraine scolded herself. It betrayed a lack of breeding to let her opinion of anyone show.

  Very few people knew, and Igraine was one of them, that Mr. Adams was on the verge of pubic disgrace. The Academy could afford no scandal. Penelope Adams had always been kind to Igraine, but she wished with all her being that these two had not just come through the door. She badly needed three new students—but she needed them to be paying students.

  And who was this “Uncle James”? How dare any other human being be called that—especially this frail, strange-looking old creature? His hair was grizzled white and cut close. His costume was a kaleidoscope of color: bright blue breeches, white silk blouse, cherry red waistcoat, and an emerald green gentleman’s overcoat. His boots were well-made. In his right ear, a large gold hoop flashed beautifully against his dark skin. Of course, she knew about Penelope’s driver; but hearing that beloved name applied to any man but her own Uncle James added another tiny heartache to Igraine’s day.

  “I trust all is well with you, Penelope?” Marta knew all the gossip and more. Some had seen the mayor intoxicated. Worse, he’d gambled at cards and refused to make good his losses. Just last night, Leopold had extracted Franklin from a row with Martin Grim which had nearly ended in gun play.

  “Yes. Thank you, Marta.” As ever she stood tall and held her shoulders square, as if she dared anyone to spit in her eye, but she seemed grateful for Marta’s use of first names.

  “I’m afraid I was about to conduct
Mrs. Singer and Miss Singer on a tour,” Igraine said tentatively.

  “Did you come in all the way from The Farm in this weather?” Penelope flashed a brave smile. “Dreadful.” As if she weren’t the one in need of sympathy.

  “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!