The Loves of Leopold Singer (33 page)

No. That would be foolish. In fact, she must hope he did not.

At the next meeting of the Society, Mr. George Mark did not appear. Though the lecture was one she was looking forward to, she felt a little awful, a little rejected.

“Good evening, Miss Fiddyment!” called Miss Westerman. “Oh, I am so glad to see you here. The men are not coming tonight, the rascals.”

The men! The rascals! There was such convivial fun in the way Miss Westerman laughed.

“My brother says he would be bored to tears hearing about the necessity of public education. I told him that he and George Mark are both very bad citizens, but there was no moving him. Come, let us find a place to sit.” She took Igraine’s elbow as if they were sisters and led her in to the hall.

Igraine was so happy. It was wonderful to have such a vivacious friend and to be young in the world, enrolled in the noble task of forming the next generation of American citizens. She would see Mr. George Mark at the next meeting surely. And she did. A month later, she and Miss Westerman and Mr. George Westerman had just taken their seats for a lecture on “The Tragic Death of Mr. Alexander Hamilton,” when Mr. George Mark arrived.

“Oh, he has brought Charity. How grand,” Miss Westerman said, without enthusiasm, waving so that George Mark could see her. Miss Westerman introduced Miss Fiddyment to Miss Charity Waters, Mr. George Mark’s fiancée. She was a lovely girl, seventeen, with porcelain skin and deep blue eyes. She wore the newest fashion from France. Mr. Mark barely acknowledged Igraine’s presence.

The seasons rolled on. Summers were more humid, winters colder. The pervading hunger in her spirit and her body receded to dull background noise. There was a light, however, and that light was her friendship with April Westerman. They shared their sorrows and successes as teachers. Miss Westerman convinced Miss Fiddyment to switch from the Congregational Church to the Unitarian Church, a change which had the added benefit of scandalizing Mr. Mark. When George Westerman died of pneumonia, Igraine was there to comfort her friend.

Igraine did enjoy small consolations in her modest life. Early on, she discovered the pleasure of causing Mr. Mark minor grief, and one day she caused an irritation far more than minor. It was the year she and April both turned twenty, and April could no longer stand it that Igraine was not being paid for her services.

“Really,” she said. “A freezing room, a few scraps of food each day and your pick from the church ragbag do not constitute proper payment. Even an orphaned female should make actual money.”

“I suppose you are right.”

“Mrs. Johnson is ready to offer you a position. She is eager to. And she will pay you seven dollars a month in addition to your room and board. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t reached your majority. You must be paid something for your labor. If you were a man, he’d have to pay you at least twenty dollars a month.”

“In so many ways, Mr. Mark is despicable,” Igraine said. “But the truth is I’m used to him. And if I left, what would happen to the girls? But I promise to speak to him about wages.”

“Think of this, Igraine. You could buy shoes that actually fit you.”

The thought of better-fitting shoes certainly appealed. When she lived with her aunt and uncle and her shoes were made for her, her feet had never hurt. It would be such a pleasure to be able make small purchases from time to time, a gift for her friend, Miss Westerman, little treats for the girls.

That afternoon when she broached the subject, Mr. Mark was incredulous. “How can you speak of money! When I think what I have spent these five years keeping you fed, in clothes, personally seeing to your education...”

“I know I am grateful you didn’t turn me out, Mr. Mark, and that you’ve let me earn my keep these five years. But the fact is Mrs. Johnson has offered me a private room and seven dollars a month if I will come to her.”

Mark’s face was a darkening purple, but she was reasonably sure he wouldn’t strike her. She said nothing and waited. When it appeared he wouldn’t respond, she moved to the door, “Well, then. I’ll tell Mrs. Johnson she may have me.”

“Wait.” Matthew Mark turned his back on his ungrateful protégé. It was inevitable she should ask for money, and paying her some small token would not do him injury. But he was furious to be met with a demand like this. It would set a bad example were he to submit. And yet he couldn’t afford to lose her. More and more often, people sent their daughters to him on account of Miss Fiddyment’s reputation.

It wasn’t fair. She had social talent and everybody loved her, whereas he toiled unheralded behind the scenes to no one’s appreciation. Fair or not, if she went to Mrs. Johnson there was no telling how many of his students would follow. “I can give you six dollars a month,” he sneered.

Six dollars. It was the private room she wanted. She would have taken that and no money. She knew she should leave anyway and take the position Mrs. Johnson offered. But Igraine didn’t like Mrs. Johnson, a silly woman who chattered constantly. As much as she loathed Mr. Mark, they had worked out a routine where he pretty much left her alone. And the matter of the girls was real. Who would protect them if she left?

“And a private room,” Mr. Mark added.

He was afraid! He was afraid she would leave. An infusion of confidence made her bold. “The room, and six dollars a month,” she said, “with a rise to eight a month in two years’ time.”

“Done.”

Though her heart pounded, she tried to appear nonchalant. “Jemima Fordham is leaving at the end of the term. I will take her room when she goes.”

“Agreed!” Mr. Mark threw his arms up in a show of exasperated defeat. He walked away before she could strip him of anything more. She had claimed the best of the rooms, with an efficient fireplace and a cheerful view and an attached sitting room. He stopped. Considering her standing, it was fitting that she have that room. Why had he not thought of this before?

She could use the sitting room as a parlor to take over the interviews he found so onerous. Yes, this was for the best, a shrewd move. He shuffled away to his dark study in the back of the building and congratulated himself on his clever business acumen.

Once Igraine recognized Mr. Mark was a coward beneath his tyrannical bluster, she learned to let him have his way in the many petty matters he clung to and stand up to him when it mattered. She was able to implement quite radical methods, banning corporal punishment among the other two teachers and encouraging the development of the imagination in “her girls.” She believed that she led a rather good life.

In one thing Mr. Mark was adamant. He refused to purchase the 1810 fourth edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica for the school’s library. It was so modern, it even had an entry for geology. “I can bend, Miss Fiddyment, but I cannot break. We will have no geology under this roof. You may have gone over to the heathen Unitarians, but I run a godly school!”

“Mr. Mark, you don’t—you cannot ascribe to the work of Bishop Ussher. You don’t believe the world is only 5800 years old?”

“Silence!”

She didn’t press the matter, but she could no longer live under Mr. Mark’s geology-deprived roof.

1814, Shermer Landing

“Herr Zehetner, dear, come sit by the fire. The wind is fierce this morning.”

Marta enjoyed having Carl Zehetner around the house. He had a sweet disposition and he watched the babies with a keen eye. She fitted a quilt over his knees and handed him a mug of coffee and milk sweetened with honey and spiced with nutmeg and cardamom.

“
Kaffee ist gemutlich
,” he grunted. “
Wo sind die kinder
?”

“Jonnie! Eleanor!” Marta called out.

“Here we are.” Gisela came into the kitchen with her youngest son, Jonnie, and Marta’s daughter, Eleanor. She gave the children each a cookie and kissed her father-in-law. “Watch the kinder, eh, Vati?”

“
Ja
, an old man can be useful yet.”

“I’m not a baby!” Six-year-old Jonnie was indignant.

Marta picked up Eleanor and kissed her cheek. After the kitten hayloft, Marta had become pregnant with her son Harry. She produced Samuel two years later. It had seemed there would never be a female child born on The Farm. The Zehetners by then had seven sons, and the Singers were grateful for their living two.

On December 12, 1811, Eleanor had come into their world and was immediately the favorite of all, a sweet and even-tempered little girl who was never sick and was always happy.

The Farm prospered due to Jonathan while Leopold directed his passions elsewhere. He was enthusiastic about politics and served on the local elections board. He wrote articles for
The Post
about the Founding Fathers and philosophers like Rousseau and Locke.

When the opportunity arose, he bought
The Shermer Post
.

Today America was again at war with the British. Some called it The Second American Revolution. Dieter had nearly been killed at the River Raisin Massacre, saved when Jonathan sent a ransom. Dieter came home with a chronic pain in his shins and a permanently sad countenance. Willie, twenty-five years old this year, was with Andrew Jackson’s militia in Louisiana, an officer in the Army. His letters, unlike Josef’s brief mystical notes, were long and full of commentary.

It was clear that after the war Willie would make politics his career and the Goodsons’ youngest daughter Amy his wife. He often wrote of his ambition to live in Washington and work for improvements in the lives of common soldiers and veterans. Leopold had hopes of Willie being appointed to the Senate from Massachusetts one day—another good reason to make Jonathan a landowner sooner than later.

Gisela showed Marta an envelope then kissed it and returned it to her apron pocket. “It’s from Willie.”

“Is he coming home soon?” Marta said.

“I haven’t opened it. I’m waiting until the men come in for the picnic.”

“Oh, drat. You have better self-control than I,” Marta said. “But the letter will add to our celebration.”

“Oh, dwat!” Little Eleanor repeated.

“What celebration?” Gisela lowered her voice. “Are you with child?”

“No, not that. Oh, I can’t keep my tongue. You must pretend to be surprised or you’ll ruin Mr. Singer’s fun. The deed has been recorded for your land. He’s gone to town to collect the document to present to Jonathan at the picnic today.”

Samuel called from outside, “Reverend Lightfeather is coming!” The older children had taken on the job of announcing arrivals, and this one made them excited. When Lightfeather had first come to Shermer Landing, the tale had gone out that he was part savage. False or true, the story caused some shuffling in the pews. Some left the church—they were not that freethinking! Many visited out of curiosity and stayed.

Later details added to the minister’s legend. His grandmother had been taken by Shawnee and married one of her captors. Her child, Lightfeather’s father, had been returned to civilization upon the death of both his parents, but he’d insisted on being called by his heathen name. Lightfeather’s actual presence eased most fears. His deep brown eyes were full of compassion. More than once, a parishioner imagined that he might be looking into the eyes of the Savior himself.

Ceres Lightfeather left her husband with the children and joined the ladies in the kitchen.

“Mrs. Lightfeather,” Marta said. “You didn’t have to bring food. Not that I complain. You made your potato salad! But Mr. Singer wanted Mr. Lightfeather to earn a little something extra today, not incur an expense.” Leopold had asked the reverend to come to the picnic and bless the deed.

“Mama! Mama!” Harry ran into the kitchen. “Someone is coming!”

“Yes, Harry,” Marta said. “Many people are coming to the picnic.”

“No, Mama! Someone new!” Harry pulled on Marta’s skirts and the women moved to the front veranda.

The yard was full of makeshift tables covered with homespun and decorated with flowers. Leopold’s beloved daffodils bloomed all the way to the road. Mansard’s wagon for hire, loaded to brimming, creaked up the driveway toward the house. Beside the gloomy driver an oddly dressed young man stood waving his hat.

“Josef!” Gisela was the first to recognize her son, at sea continuously these past two years.

Harry dropped Marta’s hand and ran with Gisela.

If Willie had become the pride of the two families, Josef had become their delight. He’d made a real career of the sea. So young, he was the captain of his ship and one quarter owner as well.