No Rest for the Dove (17 page)

“Madam, good morning,” Thomas suddenly called, as he straightened and gave her a quick bow. “Is there something I can do …?”

Searching for an answer, Charlotte took in his neat, glossy hair, clean face with its hint of a beard, pressed apron tied over his clothing, well-developed calves under unexpectedly fine stockings, and finally, shoes of soft, almost unblemished leather. Nearly all of his apparel seemed new. She looked up to see that he scrutinized her own appearance, possibly with an even more interested eye.

How, she wondered, could she ever have thought—! And yet, given what little she knew …

“Do you wish, possibly, to change your order for the glass?” asked Thomas. “I can easily tell Mrs. Pratt what you require—”

Before she could answer, Charlotte heard skirts whipping through a passage, and then saw Lydia Pratt herself.

“If you young gentlemen,” she cried, “have nothing better to do with yourselves, then I—oh! Mrs. Willett.”

As Lydia’s demeanor changed abruptly, Charlotte saw
that she had done something else to alter her appearance. Her black hair, though still in its bun, was not as tightly drawn as usual, and a few forced waves rode atop the woman’s thin forehead. Her cheeks, frequently almost gray, were alive with a suffusion of well-being—or perhaps something more easily obtained. And could that be perfume coming from a newly drawn lace handkerchief? The indolent summer air had surely whispered into Lydia’s ear; possibly, it had even refreshed something languishing deep within her soul. Though not an unpleasant change, thought Charlotte, it was a startling one. Especially as it came on the heels of her own ponderings, during the previous week, over love … and death.

“Mrs. Willett?” the landlady repeated. “Are you taking some of our goods to Mr. Longfellow? Or have you news from there already?”

“News? No, I have not seen them today, but my intention is to stop there, to add to their breakfast. Is there something you would like me to say?”

“No, no … unless you would ask if they will come again to dine, as they did yesterday. Of course, it is always good to see Miss—er—Mrs. Montagu, and her charming husband, the captain. Now, this other gentleman …”

“Signor Lahte?”

“He, too, is a welcome addition to our little village, as I’m sure you’ll agree. You have spoken with him at length, I believe, in your own home?”

Although Charlotte had learned long ago that few things in Bracebridge went unobserved, she felt herself bristle.

“For part of a morning, with Hannah. He watched as I made several cheeses.”

“I’m sure he found
that
fascinating.”

“He seemed to. If you like, I could encourage him
to come and see how you run your own establishment, which must have a great deal more to offer his natural curiosity.”

Lydia seemed to agree. “If Signor Lahte would visit us again,” she simpered, “I know he would be satisfied! I would be only too glad to give him a tour of the inn’s parts.” Saying this, she again fluttered her handkerchief.

“But I’m also sure,” said Charlotte, “that this morning he and the others will be hungry for your warm biscuits and muffins. Tim has taken the milk downstairs,” she added.

“I will note that in the book,” said Lydia, her smile vanishing as a matter of trade overcame her mind’s other calculations.

Making her escape, Charlotte pulled her wagon around the corner of the inn; in another moment she stood before the open window of Jonathan Pratt’s small office. She was pleased to see a round head pop out of it.

“Mrs. Willett! Won’t you come in and join me?”

“I would rather you join me in the delightful air,” she answered, giving Jonathan a look of such innocence that he answered at once with a conspirator’s smile.

“Then I will have to leave off work, despite the fact that I am in the midst of tallying.”

“Might we not discuss my account?”

“Certainly! And I will inspect what you have made off with this time. Scones, is it? Oh, muffins—I did sample some of them earlier, but perhaps another one or two will do no harm.”

When the landlord had come out into the yard, the two old friends made their way to a rustic seat of logs that sat in a copse of trees not far away. Hidden from most things, it was a place appreciated by those with imagination.

“So, my dear,” Jonathan began as he chose a muffin. “How do you like having a stylish European next door? I believe it’s nearly all some women now think of. Have you, too, come under his exotic spell?”

“I think,” she said, feeling herself redden, “that it is entirely possible I am like other women, Jonathan. He is a pleasing man, with quite a good carriage, face, and manner.”

“He is far too handsome for his own good!” the landlord rejoined, patting a waistcoat that rode uneasily over an impressive stomach. “Something I am sure he knows.”

“He seems intelligent …”

“Yes, he does. That’s why I wonder at his being here at all.”

“Has our village no exotic charms of its own, in your opinion?” asked Charlotte with a light laugh.

“Charms? In certain young ladies, here and there, quite possibly. Yet I cannot believe any of them would make a proper match for Signor Lahte.”

“He could offer one of them a fortune …”

“But not a houseful of children to work a farm, or to marry land.”

“It’s rumored there is another reason he might not marry a young lady.” She watched as he eyed her warily.

“If, Mrs. Willett, you suppose I will speak with you of what I suspect you mean, then you are mistaken!”

“But Jonathan, I’ve been a wife—and have some idea … of many things. Besides, if others speak of it, why can we not, only between ourselves?”

“Talk of forbidden love? I don’t see that a wife should know much of this subject. After all, women will not find its equal among
their
sex.” Though he refused to make further comment, her look of disappointment soon softened him. “However, I do recall that your father allowed you to
explore his library, which includes many of the classical authors … so I suppose I may in good conscience answer a question or two. If I can.”

“Is it possible, that here—? Have
you
known a man to devote himself whole-heartedly, passionately, to another? To the exclusion of my own sex?”

“Possible? Most things are possible, my dear. That is something I’ve learned while operating an inn. Even with sleeping arrangements—although such things are not supposed to happen. But they do, even here, despite warnings from the pulpit, and penalties occasionally sent down from the bench.”

“It is not something one often reads of, though, in our own time—even in Pope, or Fielding. So I wonder—”

“Reads about? Do you actually suppose that novels represent life, Mrs. Willett? Great Heaven! Who would care to
write
of such things? What would others say of such an author? Or
to
him? No, my dear, some things are best spoken of softly, between sensible friends, rather than broadcast in the newspapers, or put into novels! This is hardly a subject even for one’s own journal. Think of what might happen, should one’s children read—or their children, one day!” Jonathan closed his eyes, then gave a chuckle before opening them again. “Yet there are some of the highest rank and fashion in England who are not afraid of such talk about themselves—as I presume you have heard. And I can assure you that we, too, have such neighbors … although they do not proclaim what they do, or feel, to the world. For instance, we both know one pair of pleasant old gentlemen who live a little out of the village … but I ask you, Mrs. Willett, who would tell
me
their secrets? Especially as everyone can see that I have another sort of problem for my own.”

Charlotte smiled at this reference to Lydia Pratt, before going on. “Jonathan, to change the subject entirely—”

“Yes?” he replied with new suspicion, watcing her blue eyes widen. Now, it appeared, she went for the meat of the nut she had come to crack.

“Your servant, Thomas Pomeroy—”

“What’s this? Don’t tell me you think—!”

“As you say, I know so little … as a woman, especially … but I did wonder, when I saw him here at dinner yesterday.”

“Pomeroy?” The landlord gave an explosive laugh. “Hah!
That
, I think, is hardly likely to be young Tom’s style! No, I would suppose he is quite the opposite. From the way I’ve seen him watch the various females who come and go, I believe he might behave, if he could, like the infamous Don Juan. Or perhaps your Signor Lahte. Now, there is a life that must give one much to think on. I only hope, if Lahte stays, that he will tell some of his better stories to me! Confidentially, and only between gentlemen, my dear. For I’m afraid I’ve missed a good deal of what the world offers.”

“But where has he come from?”

“Pomeroy? He’s English, of course … from London. Last week he arrived here from Boston with another traveler.”

“That much I know.”

“Well, then—after that, he asked to speak with me in private, and he made me an offer. What do you say to this, Mrs. Willett?”

Reaching into a pocket, Jonathan Pratt pulled out a fragment of cloth. He carefully unrolled it to reveal something small that gleamed even in the shade.

“A diamond?” Charlotte asked with surprise.

“It seems Pomeroy’s parents were French—forced to leave that Catholic country in order to marry, for as Protestants, they were not permitted the rite. This is the last of a pair of heirloom stones they gave him, with which
he was to make his way in the world. He told me the first one paid for his passage here in May. This, he hopes, will help to set him up in a trade, after a suitable apprenticeship. He also asked me to take him on until he could find a proper master—or at least until I might turn this into gold for him, for a small commission. He tells me he hopes to bring his parents from London one day, to share our better life. That seemed to me to indicate a very good sort of lad.”

“It is a heartwarming story,” Mrs. Willett said softly.

“There is more, and I warn you it’s of an even more exciting nature. I overheard Thomas telling Tim that while headed here from London, he barely survived a wild storm at sea which nearly sent his ship to the bottom! Though finally, it only drove them far off their course. By God’s grace they anchored safely, and the captain was able to obtain a new mainmast in Funchal. But when he sailed again, it was with three fewer hands, for they had been swept overboard one howling night! Quite an adventure, don’t you think?”

“Nearly as exciting as something from Mr. Defoe. Or perhaps Dean Swift?”

To this, Jonathan nodded soberly.

“It might be,” he returned, “that Thomas Pomeroy could make himself into a fine novelist, one day. But I would hope, first, that he proves his intelligence by finding more useful employment, or learning a trade. Meanwhile, he does well enough here, which is something I generally expect but rarely find in those I hire. The most promising of people, I am sorry to tell you, are often a disappointment. I do know of one night when young Thomas ‘borrowed’ a field nag and came in at dawn … but then, we cannot all be middle-aged, sedentary, and reasonable, can we? Now, why do
you
ask about him, Mrs. Willett?”

“I have no real excuse. But if he is to stay with us, I thought …”

“That you should inquire into his pedigree? Quite sensible, for you will now have something extra to trade, on your next visit to the shop of Mrs. Bowers. At the moment, I can assure you Pomeroy is without other fortune, but I think he’ll soon remedy that. He seems to me a clever lad who might easily win a Bracebridge daughter. Though I suppose any young person who comes to us without references could, conceivably, bring trouble. Speaking of trouble, how fares Mrs. Montagu this morning?”

“I haven’t seen her. She keeps town hours, you know. But I am going that way. May I deliver your compliments, as well as your muffins?”

“You may.”

“Then I’ll be going,” said Charlotte, rising and taking up her wagon’s handle.

As she went on her way, Jonathan Pratt watched her fondly, though he asked himself why she had just set off in entirely the wrong direction.

SOON AFTER MENTIONING
Mrs. Montagu to Jonathan, Charlotte had realized there was little chance Diana would yet be dressed, for it was still no more than eight o’clock. But that left time for a chat with Nathan, who should be at work on the other side of the inn’s rear yard. She walked past the stables toward his small forge, and saw by the smoke drifting from its chimney that he was, indeed, nearby.

As it turned out, Nathan Browne was just inside the enclosure, working today as a farrier. With a roan’s forefoot crooked between his knees, he ran a metal file over the animal’s horn. Then he lowered the leg to the ground
and stepped back to flex his back and arms, before turning and noticing Charlotte standing there.

“Do you sell door to door today, madam?” he jested, eyeing the cloth packets in the wagon with interest. She offered a muffin, which he took once he’d wiped his hands on his sleeves. Savoring a bite, he stepped forward and squatted to examine her wagon’s wheels.

“They’re holding well,” he commented, checking both sides before lifting his placid gaze.

“A good advertisement for your skills.”

“As if I needed work! This is my fourth horse this morning. It seems everyone travels before harvest, but few take enough care of their mounts or carriage horses to have them ready.”

“But you were busy all last month, as well.”

“Then perhaps the average owner is not as bad as I imagine. Why is it in our nature to think the worst of our fellows, do you suppose? Now, what can I do for you this morning? Are your own feet quite well?” he asked, leaning back to sit in more comfort on the ground.

“They’ll do,” she replied as she sank to the wagon’s bed.

“Still, they might benefit from a short rest.” Nathan spread his large, rough hands on the grass. “Some speculate they’ve taken you too far of late, walking out with Mr. Longfellow’s guest.” Seeing her frown, he gave an apologetic shrug of his broad shoulders. “Though that is not something I’ve repeated. Will he stay with us long, do you think? And what does he intend to do here?”