The Lost Bee (8 page)

“Then I shall,” Mrs. Singer said. “With pleasure.”

Susan liked her timid defiance, but it wouldn’t be the weapon to match her grace.

But Leopold’s bride was the weapon. Susan had never seen a more beautiful creature. Her youthful skin was as perfect as a porcelain doll’s. She had emerald eyes and dark hair. The dress was tight, and its wide skirt made her waist appear even tinier. The accompanying powdered wig set off her eyes like sparkling emeralds.

“You’re beautiful,” Susan said. “I’m told this gown was worn by her grace’s mother at a Whig party at Devonshire House years ago. They are all Whigs around here. Her grace must want to remind the Duchess of Devonshire of old times.”

“Old times.”

“Yes, madam. You seem young, if you don’t mind my saying so, to have any old times to remember.”

“I am nearly twenty-one, but I do feel young.”

“Have you been married long?”

“Just past two years.”

“How did you meet your husband?” Susan forgot her place asking such things. It was self-torture, but she couldn’t stop.

“I cannot remember a time I did not know Mr. Singer.”

She loved him then. But she was so placid it was difficult to gauge any depth of passion. “You have no children as yet?”

“No.” She started to say something else, but just repeated
no
, like an admission of failure.

Wretched satisfaction flooded into Susan. But for some reason she took pity.

“Do not worry,” she said. “It’s probably on account of the chaos of war. They say cows go dry and hens refuse to
lay
when the guns are near. Napoleon can’t hurt you now. When you get to America things will be different, so long as the French and the Indians—and the British, for that matter—keep to themselves.”

“Do you really believe this?” Mrs. Singer grabbed Susan’s forearms. “It is my great hope. I was afraid there might be something wrong with me or even…”

“Your husband unable to get a child? Not likely,” Susan said. “And you appear healthy enough. I am sure you’ll find yourself blessed as soon as you’re secure in your new country.”

“That is so kind of you to say.” Mrs. Singer examined herself in the glass. “And as for tonight, I hope they are pleasant memories my costume will recall.”

Another sting
awaited
at the front door. Mr. Peter said, “The duchess has had to depart early, Madam. She ordered a rig for you.”

“I’m to go alone? What do I do?”

Susan assured Mrs. Singer all would be well. Gallantry never appeared so quickly as to rescue a distressed and beautiful young lady.

The instant the rig pulled away, Susan rushed down to her room beyond the kitchen and closed the door. She collected her writing desk and sat on her bed, leaning against the wall.

Inside the desk were her most precious things: the Wollstonecraft book, a pen and a small bottle of ink, a few sheets of writing paper, and a miniature hand-carved frame which held the likeness of an infant. Susan set the picture where she could see it and wrote:

Leopold:

You have a son. He is a darling boy, as good and as clever as his father, with the same dark brown eyes and lovely cornsilk curls. His name is Perseus Gray.

When I was sure of my condition, I resolved to rid myself of the child. But my mother’s illness grew worse, and I had to leave Gohrum House to care for her. Too much time passed, and no apothecary would help me.

He was born on 12 May of 1800, an early baby. It was a dreadful birth. I nearly died, but I had to live for little Persey’s sake; Necessity will have her way. Your son is healthy.

I write you now because I have come to believe you have the right to know you do have a child in the world. Persey does not know who his true father is and shall not. When he is older, I will send him to school.

I have no regrets. Persey was conceived in love. I wish you only happiness,

Susan Gray.

She told herself it was for love of Persey she wrote the letter.

***

Lady’s maid was more prestigious than housemaid, and the work itself was not so physically onerous. Susan would acknowledge that much.

After that lady’s maid was a terrible job, the maid at her lady’s call every hour of the day without notice. It was past midnight, and Susan wanted to be in bed asleep. Instead she was in the kitchen with Randall, her grace’s maid. They were making trays to bring upstairs to their mistresses just home from the ball.
 

“You’ll want to hurry,” Randall said. “Yours has been home for half an hour.”

When Susan entered Mrs. Singer’s room, Leopold was there. He stood behind his wife, his arms around her waist, kissing her neck. Susan remembered the feel of those lips on her skin.

“Shall I bring another cup, madam?”

“We’ll share the one,” Leopold answered without looking at her. As if she wasn’t a person. “Mrs. Singer won’t need you again tonight,” he said.

Susan’s eyes met Mrs. Singer’s. It seemed Mrs. Singer was also in distress, but it didn’t make Susan feel any better. With no word and no curtsy, she fled downstairs to the kitchen. She pulled the letter from her pocket and threw it into the fire.

“I was just talking with my father. I thought I heard someone.” Matthew Peter came in as the paper turned to ash. “Are you unwell, Miss Gray?”

Something clicked in Susan’s brain. Everything was clear to her now. To think of Leopold Singer—to think of her old life at all—was the path to madness. Matthew Peter offered her reality. He offered her happiness.

“Dear Matthew Peter,” she said. “I’m merely exorcising an old daemon.”

“You speak in the oddest way.” He gave her a cup of tea, and his hand trembled a little. She smiled when she accepted the cup, and her eyes stayed with his when she raised it to her lips. She was quite aware that she had called him “dear.”

Susan and Matthew Peter accompanied the Singers to the magnificent new West India docks. They meant to help with the luggage, but they were instantly redundant. The
Maenad’s
crewmen swarmed over the stowage and hauled it onto the ship, leaving the lubbers to stare, mute and amazed.

“Thank you, Gray,” Mrs. Singer said. A breeze played with loose strands of her uncovered hair, and her eyes were like green hills in sunlight. She seemed sad, drawn into herself. “Thank you for everything.” She handed Susan a gratuity in an embroidered silk purse. The purse alone was too fine a gift.

Susan thought,
and now two quid from his wife
.

Mrs. Singer joined Leopold on the gangway. He touched his lips to her forehead and never looked back to the dock or to Susan.

She wanted to hate Marta Singer, but where was the fault in simply having been chosen? She could tell that Leopold loved his wife. And Susan had made her choice, too. Already, there was a change in that tender lump of pain that lived in her breast. It was cooling, becoming a hard emotionless knot.

This ship was about to take Leopold Singer away from her forever. Like the Duchess of Gohrum, Susan would have her own revenge. She would do Leopold Singer the greatest violence possible: she would forget him.

“Those Jack-tars are admirable men. They’ve saved us an hour,” Matthew Peter said. “Let’s walk a bit before getting back to the ‘manse,’ as you call it.” He smiled at her the way Leopold had smiled at his wife.

“We had better go back now,” she said. “The duchess wants the carriage for morning calls.”

At Gohrum House the downstairs was in a state. Amy, the latest girl assigned to bring the duke his coffee, had left her position without notice. There was gleeful speculation as to the details of her disgrace. Oh, the oppressed pettiness of Susan’s world! Servants’ gossip and a few hours of freedom every two weeks seemed all she had to look forward to.

“Miss Gray,” Mr. Peter said. “Now that his grace’s guests are gone, your services as a lady’s maid are no longer required.

Susan inwardly groaned. The duchess had likely devised some fresh torment for her. She should follow Amy and leave Gohrum House, but Matthew Peter patted her shoulder and looked at her with such compassion that her heart softened.

“You’re to be under-housekeeper again,” Mr. Peter said. “This comes from his grace, himself.”

That settled that. She wouldn’t repay the duke’s kindness by walking away. She suffered the duchess’s little tortures and thought of Leopold less and Matthew Peter more.

She and Matthew Peter went on in a kind of stasis for days, weeks, and months. He nearly did propose marriage once, but she got away from him before he could get the words out. After a year and a half with no further mention, she assumed he’d changed his mind.

Then the duke’s maid Cecily went the way of all the duke’s maids.

Their graces returned from Millam Hall, and the downstairs was busy with kitchen maids chopping and kneading and footmen polishing and counting plate. The duchess herself came down to the kitchen and cast her cold gaze over them all.

“Gray,” she said. The raucous clanging and banging stopped. “You will take Cecily’s place with the duke. Someone with your experience might be better suited to this task.” She said
experience
with a sarcastic twist.

That afternoon, Susan picked up the duke’s tray in the kitchen. There were two cups. “There you have it,” Cook said. “He likes his coffee with company, if you know what I mean.”

“Susan.” Matthew Peter touched her elbow.

“Don’t say a word or I swear I’ll cry.”

“I will.” He took the tray and set it aside and put his hands on her shoulders. “I will say a word.” She had forgotten how good it felt to be touched by a man who cared for her. “I have watched him, Susan. The duke is not a grasping sort. He won’t force you, I don’t believe. Be strong, as I know you are.”

He replaced the tray in her hands, and she went upstairs. She would remind Millie who she was. At least, she would remind him who her father was.

“Thank you, Fenton.” His grace dismissed his man as Susan set the tray on a table near the fire and poured his coffee.

“Pour a cup for you too, my dear,” he said. “Sit. Sit here by the fire. It must feel good against the chill.”

The heat was indeed lovely, and the coffee smelled of nutmeg and The Lost Bee. The good fires Leopold used to keep for her came into her mind, and she pushed the image away.

“Cecily has left us, I understand.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“I have never thanked you, Miss Gray, for bringing Cook this coffee. I do so enjoy it.” He knew her name, and that she had told Cook about the coffee. He chuckled. “I see you believe the stories, that I am an old debaucher who has his way with the upstairs maids. That makes me sad, Miss Gray. I had rather thought we were friends.”

“Your grace, I…”

“Now you know my secret. I indulge the duchess and pretend to be pleased with the girls she sends my way. We enjoy our coffee and gossip about the inmates of the house. It’s how I find out what goes on around here. Fenton does his best, but I find a female perspective is more, ah, complete.”

“Your grace.” She was stunned, not quite sure what to say.

“I am not unaware of my wife’s faults. Her gambling, her dalliances with other men, her intrigues. It is my great failing.”

“
Your
failing.”

“I’ve never been able to relieve my dear Delia of her fears. I watched her grow up, you see. I think I’ve loved her since she was a child. But I’m too old for her. I always was. I was wrong to marry her. I thought I could save her.”
 

Over the next few days, the duke told Susan more about the duchess’s wonderful qualities. She was put so at ease that she confessed in her case those virtues were not so easy to see.

“Why don’t you marry our Matthew Peter and go back to Carleson Peak?” he said.

“I suppose for the same reason I haven’t accepted a coronet.” She smiled. “Neither the proposal nor a position in the country is on offer.”

“Now there you may be wrong—on both counts.” He paused as if debating whether to tell her something. “I still think of your father, you know. Wasn’t he someone’s son?”

“Estranged son.” How she missed Papa still! Had he lived, her life would have been entirely different. “His family objected to my mother.” She wouldn’t have met Leopold Singer. But then, there would be no Persey.

“Yes, well. You see to your young man.” There was mischief in the duke’s expression. “And very soon, you might be receiving some other good news.”

Apparently the duke put a good word in one or two ears, and a few days later Matthew Peter asked Susan to marry him. This time she let him complete his proposal. This time she said yes. She and Matthew Peter were to take positions in Carleson Peak at Laurelwood, Squire Carleson’s estate, and live in the great house there.