No Rest for the Dove (12 page)

Longfellow also knew where to find comfort of a sort in town, if he chose. But how much better to lead a simple life in the country, he told himself, where one might drink away one’s cares hearing only the crickets, whose song he took a moment to enjoy. Far better to avoid the town’s many murmurs, including the seductive cooing of its young ladies, all longing to be wed! Lovely young ladies, still … like roses … like wild roses?

His agile mind was by this time quite fuddled. A new thought caused him to laugh out loud; the next made him scowl. Eventually, he gave them all up to listen to a soft
rain fall upon the maple leaves near an open window, while a candle by the sash flickered.

Cicero entered quietly, aware that the man who sat within, once his own young charge, had again entered the mercurial state to which he was prone when his direction became unclear. In one hand the old man carried a board; in the other he held a lacquered box. Without a word he set the painted board on a small table between two cushioned chairs, and sat to arrange familiar chess pieces of ebony and ivory on their proper squares.

Then, both heard a high, musical sound come from the gray twilight. Longfellow immediately unwound his long legs, and leaped out of his chair to investigate. From a tall window he made out Gian Carlo Lahte in the distance, a small flute to his lips. It appeared he was shepherding Mrs. Willett, who walked before him through the meadow grass. And by all appearances, both enjoyed the warm, gentle rain that fell onto their heads.

“What do you make of that?” he asked, staring hard.

“It sounds familiar …” Cicero replied hesitantly.

“Of course—it’s a tune from the blasted
Beggar’s Opera
, which it seems we’ll never be free of! ‘Over the hills and far away’ be damned—what do you say of the
picture
?”

“If it were left to me, I would put a hat on her.”

“She might have a care for her health—if nothing else! And it is, indeed, the Sabbath….”

Cicero looked to the level of port left in the decanter before he replied. “There is another thought we might consider. Milking is a something our friend does well.”

“Milking? By God, that’s true!”

“An excellent talent, I think … extracting something useful with patience, and a little pulling.”

“Well, let her have her sport. And let us see if your ancient brain is yet capable of strategy. But first, we need
more candles—and a bottle of Madeira. I find this port cloying tonight. Bring them here, and though the world about me roars a tempest, I will be as the lamb.”

“Asleep, possibly,” Cicero muttered, while he made his way toward the pantry where the beeswax tapers were kept. Yet he, too, had asked himself lately just what Mrs. Willett and Signor Lahte were up to. He only hoped that the answer, when it came, would not prove an unpleasant surprise for them all.

Monday, August 19

W
HILE BRIGHT DEWDROPS
still burdened the grass, Longfellow stood in his yard, turning as he surveyed each point of the compass, trying to ignore the tattoo that throbbed in his head.

He turned to the north, and felt a new twinge as he recognized the path where Mrs. Willett had strayed the night before, walking with Il Colombo. His disquiet, he supposed, might only be due to wine and the continuing sultry weather. Yet he suspected that something disastrous lurked just over the rosy horizon.

Before long, Longfellow cheered himself slightly by walking to fill a handkerchief with blackberries for his breakfast. They would taste well on a biscuit, with some top cream. He might pass by Mrs. Willett’s dairy for a fresh cup—he supposed he would find her still inside. Or,
he might not. Perhaps after he’d consumed a fortifying breakfast and four or five cups of coffee, and had taken a glass of something with Jonathan Pratt while they discussed the latest news from town … perhaps then he would go and speak with her.

Signor Lahte slept late, he found on reentering his house. And Cicero had mysteriously decided the pantry needed reorganizing, which caused sufficient fuss to discourage conversation. In the end, after a solitary meal, Longfellow walked out to observe his pigs as they rested in their shady sty. The sight and earthy smell of the contented swine blotted out the last of his unsettled mood, and sent him whistling around a corner some time later.

What Richard Longfellow encountered next caused the happy tune on his lips to die away, for he suddenly saw his sister before him, reaching down from a chaise to take the raised hands of her watchful husband. Even the horses had turned to stare at her, their reins fallen quietly to the ground. Less quietly, Diana came to earth bemoaning her state, continuing her discourse while she adjusted a seersucker bodice over the loose folds of a voluminous skirt.

“Edmund!” Longfellow called out as heartily as he could, walking forward.

“My apologies, Richard,” the captain responded, “for sending no word, and for the early hour. But Diana did insist—”

“I am sure,” the young woman interrupted, “that my brother will enjoy a visit with his sister who may not last the summer, given the way she feels at this moment! I also imagine that though my husband is called
captain
he might as well be a naval one, for all he knows of horses. I have never had such a jostling. But I’m sure having someone rub my feet will make up for it. Oh, Richard, it is simply dreadful, all that I must endure—”

“Diana, what a joy it is to see you. And Edmund, of course. But as you feel unwell, then why—?”

“Dr. Warren told me I must walk. But the cobbles are too hot, and the air in town is full of such smells! If it isn’t the bay at low tide, it’s the gutters, and the horse droppings. And the flies! So, I have decided instead to enjoy your country breezes, even if they do frequently choke one with dust. But there is no breeze this morning, is there?” she asked with a look that suggested betrayal, pointing her nose to where she thought a country zephyr ought to be.

“Surely Patty is coming behind to fan you.”

“Patty! That lazy thing left me last week, walking off with no warning. One only expects to find such rudeness in a better class of people—but I’ll soon replace her, if she won’t come back begging! Still, there is another who will come today,” she added, with a look to tease him.

“Your mother?” Longfellow asked unhappily.

“She’s gone into Connecticut to drink the waters at Stafford—and to bathe in them—for the governor’s wife recently returned from a similar
recreation
. My mother plans to stay at the springs for at least two weeks, to see if they will do her any good. Though there is not much I can see wrong with her … at least compared to me! Still, it will do
me
some good to have her gone away, for there is only so much advice one can cheerfully take. I’m afraid, Richard, that she is becoming quite unbearable.”

Longfellow glanced to Montagu, whose silent reply was clear enough. Had Diana at last become something less than celestial to her new husband? She did seem earthbound today, with her swollen skirts and cheeks. And there was the reported condition of her feet. That was more than he cared to think of, yet he strongly suspected other details would be forthcoming. To avoid them he walked to the back of the chaise; there, he helped Montagu unstrap a rough wooden box, which lay
atop a mass of shavings. Taking no chances, Edmund had arrived with his own cellar … presumably one whose bottles no one else would feel the need to count.

Once she had lost her audience, Diana seemed to revive, and soon came to watch. When the two men had a firm grip on the wine, she led them toward the door where Cicero stood waiting.

“Go and tell Mrs. Willett I’ve arrived,” Mrs. Montagu ordered after she’d answered his inquiring look with a nod, and a shake of her auburn locks. “For I’m sure I’ll need a woman’s sympathy to make me feel at home.”

“And you might send the inn’s stable boy to see to the horses,” Longfellow suggested, before leading his guests inside. At last, in the front sitting room, he asked, “If it’s not your mother who’s coming, then who, exactly, am I to welcome?”

“You’ll see,” Diana answered, easing herself into a chair. Then she kicked off her slippers and closed her eyes, a smaller smile lingering on her lips.

Montagu followed Longfellow to the kitchen. Together they fed the hearth’s coals to heat water for tea, and Longfellow discovered a plate of little cakes from the inn.

“A good trip?” he asked casually.

“As you might expect.”

“At the moment, your wife bears remarkably little resemblance to her namesake.”

“Probably a healthy thing, for I have heard mortals who marry goddesses rarely fare well. I do rejoice to see Diana become a riper, more maternal woman.”

“Hmmm. What does she mean, another visitor?”

“That is a story you started yourself.” The captain now seemed to reclaim some of his habitual edge. “By the way, I’ve brought back the sketch you sent me—for we’ve learned the identity of the man you found beside the road.”

“Have you, by God!”

“You supposed we would not?”

“Well, I thought it might take another day or two, in a place the size of Boston.”

“We do what we can to keep a watchful eye on our visitors. And, on our most interesting citizens.”

“So I hear,” said Longfellow, recalling Dr. Warren’s recent warning. “Will you tell me the rest?”

“Shortly. I, too, am curious, and look forward to hearing more of your guest.”

“Lahte? Come and meet him. By the sound of it, he’s just come down the stairs. I would imagine he’s found your wife by now.”

Edmund Montagu frowned as he hotted the china pot. “Diana tells me they have already met, while with your stepmother.”

“Here’s the tin. Do you already know something more of him yourself?”

Montagu tossed out the water, then spooned curled leaves into the teapot before filling it completely with boiled water. “I am aware of the source of his fame, if that’s what you mean. He was recognized on the wharves by one of my London acquaintances.”

Longfellow put the rest of the tea back on the shelf while he gave a thought to the captain’s web of informants, who tracked figures likely to offend the colony’s authority—and, more importantly, the Crown’s.

Finding a tray, Montagu set onto it the pot, cups and saucers, and silver bowls of milk and sugar. He then rejoiced to see Cicero come in through the back door, bringing Mrs. Willett. She extended her hand, studying his face with curiosity. In another moment she smiled more broadly.

“Ah, Carlotta. But we can see for ourselves, Edmund,” Longfellow continued as before, “how Diana and Lahte
get on, if we can force ourselves to leave the comforts of the kitchen.”

“By all means.” Montagu picked up the heavy tray, and murmured a few words of inquiry to Charlotte as they went.

The small front sitting room resounded with a babble of confusion, while introductions, welcomes, and inquiries after health gave way to the search for a comfortable seat, or a spot to stand for best vantage. When the cordial din had lessened, it was again Mrs. Montagu who led the conversation.