The Loves of Leopold Singer by L. K. Rigel Page A

is, would you to do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
    “You are too kind.”
    “I come into my majority in May, when I will have full authority over my estate.” He recited the speech he’d composed in his head on the road from Salzburg. “If you grant me the honor, I’d like to be married then. You will be well cared for.”
    Just barely, she pulled her fingers away from his kisses. A less perceptive man wouldn’t notice, but Leopold felt a momentary physical rejection like an unexpected blow. Then she yielded and the dark instant passed.
    “You will be loved, Marta. You are loved.” All was well. He felt her acquiesce into the Marta he knew, lovely, compliant, and his perfect complement.
    Marta could barely believe this was happening. Prospects are funny things, Vati had said, and so they were. Hers had improved because he had looked out for them. Because he’d sent her to Vienna, she’d always know he had loved her though Fate had left her to Wolfram’s negligent care.
    Now she again felt revived by Leopold Singer’s vital force. She wanted to touch his cheek, to rest her head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. With her father’s death had come the great shock of her utter powerlessness. Dependent on her brother’s good will, she faced a sobering and self-diminishing reality. In that world, no one was her champion. A new kind of necessity colored her feelings. As much as she wanted Leopold Singer, she needed him more.       
    She had never spoken of Beethoven’s kiss, yet it was easy to tell him about it. He was sympathetic, where Wolfram would have ridiculed her. She remembered Oktav’s kiss, and how she had imagined Leopold in his place. She could still imagine it. She wanted Leopold’s kiss. She wanted him for her husband and for her lover.
    And he was here, making love to her, kissing her fingers. The thrill of his touch surged through her body. For the mere fraction of a moment she’d thought, maybe I am as bad as Eve after all . In that instant of self-doubt, a chasm had opened between them, and it was terrifying.
    “I will marry you,” she said. He brought her into his strength and kissed her full on the mouth. The chasm closed. She did not feel evil. The world felt exactly right.
    The following May, Gabrielle helped Marta put on the veil they had made together. It was Gabby’s design and more a mantilla than a veil, the color of light brown eggshells, each crocheted star centered with pastel rosettes in green, pink, and blue. It cascaded over Marta’s blue silk wedding dress, made by a dressmaker in Salzburg at Leopold’s expense. He had guessed rightly that Wolfram would not pay for such a thing.
    “God’s grace,” Gabby said. “You look like a Spanish queen!”
    The image in the glass offered proof. Marta really was going to be married today. The lacy veil against her dark hair did make her seem exotic. Wolfram could not begrudge the luxury of her dress because her husband-to-be had ordered it. Her mother’s voice could not intrude on her beauty because she was giving it as an offering to her bridegroom.
    Her eyes were green with anticipation. Other girls seemed to lose something of their selves when they married. Even dear Gabrielle was not quite as lively as before she became Mrs. Wolfram Schonreden. But in marriage, Marta anticipated a new freedom. She would no longer be a father’s daughter or a brother’s ward.
    She would be Leopold Singer’s wife. She would keep her own house and entertain her husband’s friends. Wolfie and Gabby would come to dinner on Sundays. Soon her children would join Gabby’s children in studies and games. The dress and mantilla would go into a cedar chest until the day of her daughter’s wedding.
    “Are you ready, sister?” Wolfram stood in the doorway beaming with unlikely good cheer, cleaned up and dressed in their father’s best suit.
    “Wolfram, you are so handsome!” She linked arms with him, emerged from the house