No Rest for the Dove (16 page)

In her chamber she flung loose the bed’s coverlet and the uppermost of two sheets, creating satisfying puffs of air. Then, with her bare feet dangling above the floor, she sat and gazed longingly at the dark window, hoping for some sign of a real breeze. Weeks ago she’d abandoned her usual shift; she now wore one of Aaron’s nearly transparent summer shirts of fine Holland. It was short, and its shoulders drooped well beneath her own. It was also cool, and wearing it was a remarkably enjoyable sensation.

After she had rolled up the shirt’s sleeves, she took the combs from her hair. When it had all tumbled down she picked up a brush, smoothed her light tresses, and tied them back with a ribbon. That done, she walked across
the room past the looking glass. What she saw reflected in its dark surface caused her to stop and stare.

Again, the song of the Persian king came back to her with the image of Gian Carlo Lahte standing on Longfellow’s piazza in his own shirtsleeves.
Simpatia
, he had called it, the first time they were alone. She had to admit there was something in this unusual man that moved her—in his voice, his words, even the fingertips that had brushed against her ear—something that made her wish to give him her trust, as he’d suggested. And yet—

And yet, she barely knew him! How
could
she have spoken as she did, and so quickly? Was it because, through his art, he was able to put himself into a woman’s place—into a woman’s heart—to feel what other men could not? She knew the women of Bracebridge were whispering romantic possibilities to one another, their interest piqued by his strangeness, as well as by his handsome features. She also knew from talking with Hannah that some of their men supposed the taste in love of a castrato might be of quite another sort.

But that could not be true! Longfellow had told her that the company of Il Colombo had long been sought by women. And yet—

She hardly expected every man to surrender to her own modest charms, but why had he spoken to her of wanting only a sister for a companion? Had he grown tired of the chase, and lost interest? Or was Italy an even odder place than she had been led to believe? Curious things were apparently condoned there—even encouraged—for look what had already happened to Gian Carlo Lahte! Could this be true of love, as well?

The Bible, she knew, recorded a peculiar passion shared by David and Jonathan—one which surpassed the love of women. And Shakespeare had written of the Duke of Illyria’s lust for a young soldier … who had also been
loved by the Lady Olivia! She had heard that even today in London, noblemen, at least, might be allowed to choose as they wished. But was such a thing likely to occur in Bracebridge?

Perhaps it was the rising summer moon, or even the
mal aria
from the marshes, that caused her to have such thoughts, she decided as she crossed to the bed she’d once shared with Aaron. She threw herself upon it, and vowed to go back to what she knew.

Only that afternoon, she had seen the musico warn Thomas Pomeroy to keep his distance. But Pomeroy had done no more than approach Angelo, and perhaps admire him with questioning eyes. Earlier, Lahte had been less than overjoyed to see the child; yet he did take him back into his service. He must have felt sympathy for one to whom the future promised little.

But
why
, she asked herself again, had Angelo, unsummoned, crossed the sea? Was it because what she would not suppose of the master was, in fact, true of the servant? Did Angelo look for more than a master in Signor Lahte—more even than a friend? As for the musico, would he not know from his own experience what might befall such a child—one with no protector, who had already grown used to the idea that his body could be bought and sold? Should not this make one feel a tender concern? And would not he then wish to keep others away, to protect the boy?

She next had to ask herself if Gian Carlo Lahte saw in Thomas Pomeroy, late of London, what she could not. Was Thomas truly a threat to young Angelo? And how, if at all, did the dead man, Sesto Alva, fit into this complicated scheme?

By now feeling somewhat dizzy, she lay back and allowed the entire web to dissolve from her mind. Perhaps it was only the heat that suggested these things, and made
the details of the situation building around her seem impossible to untangle, or to judge.

One thing was certain. So many ambiguities could hardly encourage sleep. For that reason, Charlotte was not surprised to find herself lying awake in the darkness hours later, while she considered the ways of men, and women, and children … and the obvious virtues of solitude.

Tuesday, August 20

A
GAIN CLAD IN
proper attire for her sex, and somewhat chastened by her flight of fancy in the night, Mrs. Willett walked beside her cows from barn to dairy on another humid morning.

At the doorway, she turned to see Hannah’s son running for all he was worth, his face aflame, his feet occasionally slipping on the damp grass. Puffing and flailing his arms like a windmill, Henry managed to stop himself. Then, his chest still heaving, he took the pail held out to him.

“A letter was brought to me yesterday, by Mrs. Montagu,” said Charlotte, once the milk had begun to splash rhythmically. “From Lem.”

“I hope he still says his prayers, for he’ll need them in a
place like Boston,” the boy replied. Now thirteen, Henry had decided that he’d nearly reached the estate of manhood; Charlotte recognized the fact that his ears, at least, had grown large.

“He studies, mostly, with his cousin and a tutor,” she replied, “though he does find some time for a more social life.” Diana’s comment about a possible courtship returned to her now, and cost her a small frown.

“Has he trained with the militia yet?” Henry inquired.

“Why would he do that?”

“Because
all
young men long to join. You carry a musket, and march up and down the Common. Will says that’s what he does in Concord, on Training Day; and then they all drink ale before going home. I wish I could march about with our militia, on our green.”

“I hope Lem is more eager to bring in a turkey with his musket than to assist Governor Bernard. Besides, Henry, you know he has time before he’s expected to go.”

“They let some practice early, though. Will says boys often follow the rest, and hear some fine talk too! And Lem’s sixteen, after all.”

“But he’s still a part of Bracebridge, even if he has gone off to Boston. Which I begin to wish he had not,” she added to herself.

“Martha would like to see him come home,” Henry said as if it were a secret, ducking his blond head to speak to her from under a cow.

“Did she tell you so?”

“She can say what she likes … even, sometimes, that she doesn’t ever want to see
Mr. Wainwright
again! That is usually after she receives a letter, but I know it’s not what she means. I think she is really very fond of him. She says she’s afraid, though, that he’ll be swept away—which I hope he is not! But I don’t see how he could be, unless
there is a worse flood there than was ever seen here, on the Musketaquid.”

Martha’s older sister would naturally hear her dreams and fears, thought Charlotte, just as she herself had once heard Eleanor’s. She imagined they might do well to be more careful of Henry. But he was a late child, and there was no one else his age at home. No doubt he heard and saw a great deal that he didn’t fully understand. “In his letter to me,” she told the boy, “Lem asks of you, and he hopes your family is well.”

“Maybe I will write to him. Mrs. Willett … do you know anything of the new boy who came from Boston yesterday? I wanted to ask you before, but when I came too late for milking …”

“No harm done. Though I can’t tell you much, Henry. It seems he knows little English, and since few of us here understand the Italian language, it may be a while before he is able to make new friends.”

“His master seems happy to have him here.” Henry got up and moved his stool and pail to another cow. “I saw them sporting together last evening in a far field, wrestling in the grass. I was watching a snake pull a small rabbit out of its burrow, and then he ate it.”

“Oh!”

“It was down by the creek—but only an old milk snake, really. I found it hard to leave, though, until it finished, for I’d never seen such a thing before.”

“I see! But you also saw—?”

“The new gentleman, Mr. Lahte, with a boy I didn’t know. Though I heard about him later from my sisters. He’s a little taller than I am, but he was
weeping
!”

“Was he?”

“Yes, and he was too big for that, I thought.”

For the remainder of their milking they spoke of other things, until they set down covered pails at the dairy’s
door, and Henry prepared to lead the cows to pasture. Suddenly the two turned their heads, to find the source of a sweet sound coming from the near meadow. Charlotte recognized the high, musical strains at once, and felt herself blush. Then she explained that it was Signor Lahte’s flute, though she couldn’t quite make out the player, given the distance. Henry, it seemed, could.

“Look—there they are again!” he said, pointing. “He’s given the flute to the boy now, and … and he’s twirling him around!” The novelty of this behavior clearly appealed to Henry, who urged the cows forward for a closer look, using a smooth stick he had taken from behind the door.

“Take care!” Mrs. Willett called as the herd swung away, the bell on the lead animal clanking loudly.

For several minutes she stood there, watching. Lem, too, had shown her some of a young man’s joys and troubles, she recalled as she walked back to the house alone. Richard must have been right to send their young friend off to Harvard; here, he would have only a small share of his father’s few poor plots of land, one day. But how could the village prosper with its most promising sons going off to the college, and remaining in Boston to earn their livelihood? Henry would have to decide before long whether he should go, or stay. And then she imagined another choice—one made by a boy barely older than Henry, to cross a broad ocean in search of his own dream. What sort had it been?

She knew she could hardly ask Angelo, even if they had spoken the same language. But there was still Thomas Pomeroy. Exactly how much, she wondered, did Jonathan know of him?

At least that was one question to which she knew she might easily find an answer.

A FEW MINUTES
later, Charlotte arrived at the Bracebridge Inn to find Elizabeth busy, as usual, in the kitchen. Tim, the message boy, was there as well, eating scraps of pastry crust. He hauled the milk pails she’d brought in her hand wagon down into the cellar to cool, while Charlotte selected yeasty griddle muffins and fatter soda biscuits for herself, then more to take across the road to Longfellow’s household. Both women agreed the visitors might appreciate these for their breakfast, with a basket of berries and Charlotte’s gift of a pot of sweet cheese.

Meanwhile, Thomas Pomeroy loped down the servants’ stairs from the upper rooms, to encounter Tim coming up from below. Together they leaned against a door frame, speaking softly, sharing chuckles and jabs.