The Lost Bee (Singer Chronicles 1) Read online

  The Lost Bee

  L.K. Rigel

  Copyright 2013 L.K. Rigel

  Published by Beastie Press

  Cover design Copyright 2013 eyemaidthis

  Cover background by fairiegoodmother

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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  The Lost Bee (Singer Chronicles 1)

  No head ever ruled a human heart ... and love was never wise.

  When tragedy alters Susan Gray’s standing in society, she’s forced to accept a position in service at the Duke of Gohrum’s London mansion. There the butler’s kind and handsome son falls in love with her, but Susan loses her heart to Leopold Singer, a wealthy intellectual foreigner who reminds her of her former life as a gentleman’s daughter.

  Delia, Duchess of Gohrum, has her own plans for the man who once rejected her. She wants revenge on Leopold Singer, and she'll gladly use Susan Gray to get it.

  Desire, jealousy, careless pleasure - and love - set events in motion that bind the fates of all for generations.

  The Lost Bee

  Table of Contents

  A Fallen Woman

  Almost Wonderful

  Killers Murder More Than Men

  Gohrum House

  Leopold Singer

  The Wrong Lovers

  Bath

  Let Me Die

  Unbearable

  Cruel Love

  Lost and Found

  A Fallen Woman

  1796, Carleson Peak

  “Miss, I’m so sorry.” Mama’s maid stood at the kitchen door, her face red with frustration and defeat.

  “Quite all right, Fisher. Cook and I are finished here.” Twenty-one-year-old Susan Gray took off her apron and handed it to the maid.

  Since she was fourteen, she’d run Millam Cottage as if she were its mistress. She consulted with the kitchen about stores and menus every day. Until her little brother John went away to school, she’d been his governess. On the rare occasion Papa brought home a guest, Susan served as his hostess.

  She didn’t have to be told what the matter was now. Mama had slipped away from Fisher and out of the house. Again. She reached for the two bells dangling from wall hooks by the door. “Did you see which direction she went?” she asked, handing a bell to Fisher.

  “No, miss.”

  “We can’t go wrong to start in the woods.”

  Susan rushed outside without taking time to find her hat and gloves. With Fisher on her heels, she crossed the garden to the path Mama had worn during the years the Grays had lived at the cottage. “Let’s split up. You go north to the fairy mound, and I’ll go to the great ash tree.”

  Susan carried her bell by its clapper to keep it silent. She and Fisher had devised the scheme a couple of years ago. Whoever found Mama first would ring her bell to let the other know and take the poor wretch straight back to the cottage and a warm fire. It saved spending more time in search of the searchers.

  A soft breeze played over Susan’s face like a cat’s paw. It was cold out for early autumn, and she picked up her pace. Mama was so frail. It wouldn’t do if she caught a chill. At a distant sound, Susan stopped. She couldn’t tell if it was Fisher’s bell or a human voice. Sometimes Mama sang when she danced through the trees in her search for the white lady.

  After a few minutes, Susan resumed walking. It must have been nothing, only the wind in the leaves. When she was a little girl she believed in the white lady, the magical creature of Mama’s imagination: a fairy queen who stole human babies from their nurseries and in exchange left behind whorls of oak beneath their blankets. If you heard her song, you’d be her creature forever.

  Mama’s fascination with the white lady was bewildering to Susan—until she grew up and slowly realized her mama was not quite right in the head. Then the white lady metamorphosed from romantic figure into harbinger of Susan's fate: to be housekeeper for an often absent father and nursemaid to a wretched, delusional mother.

  Susan would never marry. Never know a man’s love.

  She had come to the understanding five years ago at Baroness Branch’s harvest ball. She was sixteen, and a young had man asked for a third dance. She knew what a third dance meant. It meant more than politeness. More than hope for an introduction to her father, Mr. John Gray, the brilliant engineer favored by the Duke of Gohrum.

  The young man took her hand and, so very briefly, squeezed it more firmly than he should. With the first notes, he risked brushing his lips across the back of her glove then let go as they took their places. She stepped toward him with the music, barely able to control her shy smile. When she stepped away, she caught a glimpse of Papa watching from the sidelines. His expression devastated her.

  He pitied her, and in a flash of insight she knew why.

  Papa had to travel. He didn’t design canals only for love of the work. He was a gentleman, and one day he would inherit a comfortable fortune. But his marriage had met with strong disapproval from his family. He was estranged from his own father and had lost all financial support. Papa needed the earnings his designs brought.

  Susan could never marry. She would not leave her wretched mama to the care of strangers.

  From that night, she attended no ball or any public function. She pulled herself out of the world and retreated into the books she bought from Mr. Davies or that her father brought her from his travels. She didn’t mind. She really didn’t. Better to answer to a kind papa than a cruel husband. She didn’t even remember that young man’s name.

  A line of stamped-down wild grass ran off the path past a fine large ash, Mama’s favorite tree. “Ah, there you are,” Susan said aloud. “I’ve found you now.”

  A low chuckle came from the other side of the tree. “I didn’t know you were looking for me.”

  “Oh.” Susan automatically smoothed her hair and checked to see if her skirt was straight. She struggled to hide her delight. “It’s you.”

  Morgan Baker sat on the ground, one long leg stretched out and a book resting on his knee. His rumpled hat lay on the ground beside him.

  “Yes.” He peered through wild blond curls. His blue eyes lit up and a smile spread over his face. “It’s me,” he said.

  Susan had retreated from the world. She hadn’t prepared for the world to come to her. Her heart leapt into her throat, as it did every time she saw the brilliant young engineer.

  From the beginning, she treasured Morgan Baker’s visits to Millam Cottage. She was drawn to his informed conversation, but it didn’t hurt that he had broad shoulders, a ready smile, and blond curls that constantly fell over his laughing intelligent eyes. Company was rare in the Gray household, and after that first supper she didn’t think to leave the gentlemen alone with their brandy and cigars.

  She and Mr. Baker discovered each other’s admirable qualities starting that night, and in the last few months they’d discussed all manner of things. Revolution versus civilization. Discoveries of the modern age. The changing style of poetry.

  He jumped to his feet and took an eager step toward her.

  “I beg you pardon the intrusion, Mr. Baker,” she said.

  “You could never be an intrusion, Miss Gray.”

  “May I ask what you’re reading?”

  “Poems on Various
Subjects by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

  She didn’t care what he was reading. She only cared that he was so near and they were alone and could speak freely. But her brain froze, stuck on inane niceties. “Are they good? I haven’t heard of the author.”

  “I don’t believe they are.” He laughed, and his eyes twinkled with fun. “But one likes to support the new poets.”

  “Quite admirable, I’m sure.”

  “No, Miss Gray.” He dropped the book and took her into his arms. “I’m not at all admirable.” He held her close, an arm around her waist and a warm hand on the back of her neck. “I’ve been here for an hour, hoping you might come out today. For so long, I’ve dreamed of seeing you alone.”

  “I was—I am looking for Mama.” She turned away from his penetrating gaze, but he held her chin and guided her back.

  “Your eyes are bewitching. Do you know that?” he said. “Not really blue. So pale they’re gray, befitting your name, like a cloud passing in front of the sun.”

  “Who is the poet now?” His touch was too much to bear. She was going to faint. The bell slipped from her grasp and fell to the earth with a muted clang.

  “When I first saw you,” he said, “I didn’t think you were pretty.”

  “Are you trying to woo me, sir? Those are hardly words to make love by.”

  He silenced her with a finger. “Your eyes seduced me.” His gaze swept down from her eyes to her pounding heart and permeated to her very soul. “And led me to your other fine qualities.”

  “This is madness.” She should be angry at his impudence. She should stay away from the brash young man who’d come into all their lives like a whirlwind and impressed her father with his knowledge and skill and thrilled her with…with his impudence.

  “I agree. It is madness. But at all events, I spoke with Mrs. Gray not ten minutes ago.” He lifted Susan’s hand to his lips. Oh, why hadn’t she worn her gloves? “She said something about going to see the fairy flowers.”

  “And you let her go on alone?”

  “Why not? She didn’t want my company.” Mr. Baker looked puzzled, but was he sincere? Mama had never been present at his visits to Millam Cottage, but he’d lived in Carleson Peak long enough to hear tales of the erratic Mrs. Gray.

  “Mr. Baker—”

  “Had I gone with your mama, I would have missed the great pleasure of seeing you, Miss Gray…Susan.”

  Her name came out in a whisper as his lips caressed the back of her hand. A fire spread up her arm and over her body. She should stop him. Pull away. Say something to show how him furious she was. If only she were furious.

  “Mr. Baker—”

  “Morgan, please. Oh, Susan.” His voice broke. “You weren’t meant to be someone’s daughter. You were meant to be someone’s woman.”

  Woman, not lady. She pushed the thought away as his lips found hers. She’d never been kissed before. Feelings she’d only imagined—and some she never dreamed of—raced through her. He opened the top button on her dress, and she didn’t object. He opened another button and another. Why didn’t she protest?

  The breeze raised chill bumps on her breasts. He pressed her against the tree, and she let her arms fall to her sides. Useless. As if she’d lost her mind. His hair brushed over her throat and his breath warmed her skin. She heard a bell ringing in the distance.

  It was like she’d come to the summit of a mountain. She could turn back now, go down the way she came, run and join Fisher with Mama. Or she could go with Morgan to the other side. Perhaps she’d been enchanted by the white lady after all. She denied him nothing.

  And he took everything.

  “I am a fallen woman,” she said afterwards, wonder in her voice. And yet she wasn’t sorry. She was twenty-one years old. Other girls she knew had been married four, five, six years. Some had more than one child. But married was the key word. “I’m...”

  “Ruined?” Morgan said. “A slut?” The words hit like a slap across the face, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “Oh, my love, I’m teasing you.” He laughed indulgently and chucked her chin.

  She felt foolish. Unworldly. Perhaps she wasn’t as free of society’s expectations as she’d believed. It was easier to agree with Rousseau in theory than in practice.

  “Our feelings are transcendent,” Morgan said. “Susan, you’re beautiful and pure. What we have is more powerful than social custom. You could never be a slut.”

  He put her buttons back together, his fingers making quick work between her breasts. “You’re wrong,” she said. She wanted him to take her again.

  “Nevertheless,” he said. “I have to go to Manchester on the afternoon coach. When I return Saturday, I’ll speak to your father.”

  “My father?”

  “My darling Susan, I want to make you mine forever. Properly. I want you to be my wife.”

  Almost Wonderful

  All week Susan could barely keep her composure. Her feet never touched the ground. She was reborn. Morgan loved her. Of course she loved him, but she never dreamed he’d return that love. She smiled for no reason. But there was a reason. Soon the world would call her Mrs. Morgan Baker. The week’s wait was torture and bliss.

  On Friday Papa was at home, and Mama was well enough to come down to supper. She sat across from Susan at Papa’s right-hand side. Her white-blond hair was neatly plaited, not a strand astray. Her pale blue eyes were clear, and there was color in her cheeks. She ate no more than one or two bites from each course, but she took a little wine and appeared to follow the conversation. It felt like a normal family meal. From time to time, Papa covered Mama’s hand with his so tenderly it broke Susan’s heart.

  Oh, Mama, you’re so beautiful! What happened to make you this way?

  She was lovely when she wasn’t a mess, and Papa was darkly handsome. Susan had inherited the light and the dark and come out a drab mouse with brown hair and a plain face. Her eyes were her only distinguishing feature, even lighter than Mama’s and, as Morgan had remarked, not blue at all but a striking bright gray.

  “I’m touring the canal with the duke tomorrow,” Papa said. The Duke of Gohrum’s canal had been finished years ago, and now Papa oversaw its management. It was a fine arrangement, as it allowed time for other projects and Millam Cottage came with the position. “Mr. Baker won’t return from Manchester until late. He’ll be sorry to miss it.”

  Susan felt her cheeks burn. “Mr. Baker is a wonderful help to you, isn’t he, Papa?” she said. “It’s a shame he had to go.”

  “It couldn’t be helped. The lock mechanism is giving the navvies fits. A canal is like anything in life that is worthwhile. It’s never finished, you see. Without proper maintenance, it becomes a useless monster. Mr. Baker is the only man I trust to bring the correct replacement part.”

  It made Susan proud to know Papa valued Mr. Baker as much as she did.

  “No matter,” Papa said. “He’ll have his introduction to the duke and Millie—and to Baroness Branch and Sir Carey as well. He’s wheedled me into taking him to the harvest ball as my guest. I daresay he deserves it.”

  That wasn’t how Morgan had told it. He’d given the impression Papa invited him to the ball unprovoked. No matter. As Papa said, Morgan deserved the attention.

  When the food was cleared away Papa said, “Why don’t we have our brandy right here?”

  “Let me get it,” Susan said. At first she thought Papa didn’t want to break the spell. With any change, Mama might fall back into her imaginary world. But setting the brandy and glasses on the table, Susan realized Papa was examining her closely.

  “Is everything all right, my dear?” he said. “You’ve seemed agitated these last few days.”

  She took a sip of brandy to delay her answer. She’d meant to hold herself back from thinking about Morgan during supper, but it proved impossible. Papa knew her too well. Of course he could see that she was in a different world this past week.

  “The white lady found her.” Mama nodded knowingly
and raised an eyebrow. She gave Susan a wicked smile, as if they shared a secret. But how could she know?

  Susan had to think of something. She wouldn’t betray Morgan. He should be the one to tell Papa of their engagement. An idea came to her.

  “Actually, I’ve decided to attend the harvest ball this year,” she said.

  Yes! A wonderful plan. Morgan could announce their engagement at the ball. He’d been so happy about Papa’s invitation. He deemed it a sign of society’s acceptance. More important in Susan’s mind, it was a sign of Papa’s approval. He did say Morgan deserved the attention.

  “I’m pleased you’ve decided to go to the ball this year, my dear.” But Papa didn’t appear at all pleased. “I hope it’s for your own sake, and not someone else’s.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Susan stared into her brandy glass.

  “You’ll need a new frock, I suppose,” he continued. “You’d better go into Carleson Peak tomorrow and order something expensive and ornamental from Mrs. Barton.” He patted her hand kindly, but his unspoken disapproval hung in the air between them.

  Susan felt miserable and happy at the same time. Papa would see. Morgan would be a wonderful husband, and that would be the answer to all of Papa’s doubts.

  “The white lady got to her,” Mama said. “She heard the white lady’s song.”

  ***

  The next morning Fisher brought the bells to Susan. Mama had again escaped watch.

  “Never mind,” Susan said. Nothing could bother her today. In a matter of hours Morgan would be home. She found Mama in the woods leaning against the ash tree, her bonnet on the ground nearby. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like a white-gold shawl.

  “Susan, did you see?” She took Susan’s hand without complaint and rose to her feet. Mama had her problems, but she was congenial. “The white lady came to me.”

  “That’s very fine, Mama.” Susan rang the bell then picked up Mama’s bonnet.