No Rest for the Dove (2 page)

This citizen of a greater world was glad to be bound for a long, unholy wharf that stretched out to welcome seagoing men and their cargoes. His own load was a mixed
one this time, for part of it had come to him unbidden. But he would likely make out well, after all. In a few hours he would get on with his own affairs, while those whose lives he’d preserved went ashore and scattered, giving him precious little thanks for a job fairly done. Some, at least, he would be glad to be rid of! Yet he supposed there was little likelihood of great improvement in the next lot to come aboard, when he began the tedious voyage home to Portsmouth.

This thought caused the captain to shake his head ruefully as he continued to watch the pointing passengers below—until Long Wharf claimed his full attention.

Bracebridge, Massachusetts
Thursday, August 15

A
BOVE THE
M
USKETAQUID
River and the dozing village of Bracebridge, two friends strolled beside an orchard, while a dog with dappled fur wandered ahead through blue-green blades of rye. None of them had any clear direction, but walked to enjoy the quiet afternoon and the ripeness which suffused the hot, humming countryside.

“I believe,” Richard Longfellow was advising the young woman at his side, “that you would do well to set out a few others, to take the place of those in decline. I’ll be more than happy to supply you with budded stock already in my nursery, Carlotta, for the promise of a warm pie or two. But you seem to be thinking of something other than apples.”

“I do have an odd feeling,” Charlotte Willett admitted.

“Involving the thumbs, perhaps? A sort of pricking?”

“Oh! Can you feel it too?
Are
we to have a visitor, do you suppose?”

Longfellow brushed an impertinent grasshopper from his snowy sleeve, then replied with an amused smile. “I’m afraid I can’t claim an intuition to match your own—something for which I thank Heaven! I did, however, receive a letter yesterday.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket as he went on. “This tells me that a visitor will indeed be coming out from Boston tomorrow—yet he’s traveled a great deal farther. I must warn you, too, that he’s something special. I find myself eager to see just what you make of him! Earlier today, I made it a point to alert the taproom at the inn, telling them they’ll soon entertain a wealthy gentleman who comes to us from Italy. This caused something of a stir.” Longfellow chuckled at the memory.

Charlotte resettled one of her cider-colored locks with a penchant for freedom under her bonnet’s straw brim. “And this mysterious gentleman’s name …?”

“Gian Carlo Lahte. We met in Milan two years ago, and we’ve since exchanged letters on quite a few scientific subjects. Though I hardly know him well, I believe him to be a quick-witted and superior fellow, not many years above my own age, who has traveled extensively. Already, my sister is pleased with him; you see she’s added a postscript of her own.”

“But how did Diana meet this paragon?”

“As you know I direct my foreign correspondence to Boston, rather than Bracebridge, and it seems Signor Lahte saw Diana and my stepmother drinking tea when he looked for me in town. On the strength of our acquaintance, they asked him to join in.” Longfellow
refolded his letter and stuffed it back into his loose linen trousers. “I must remember to ask him what he thought of our Madonna.”

“If Signor Lahte raised her spirits, I would imagine he found her charming. But I believe her mornings
are
easier to bear, now.”

“I pray they are, for poor Montagu’s sake! A man suffers greatly, it seems, to become a father.”

Charlotte smiled gently as she plucked a burr from her dog’s ear. Yet while Orpheus sneezed and shook himself she straightened with a frown, reflecting on the months ahead. Inhaling deeply, she looked off toward gray hills that rose beyond the glittering river. Both were nearly obscured by the fragrant haze of the August afternoon.

Longfellow allowed his own attention to wander, until he found himself gazing at a low rock wall atop the knoll on which they stood. There Eleanor Howard rested, near the grave of Aaron Willett. Sickness and sudden death had left Charlotte nearly alone in the old farmhouse below, where she had been born … which she and Orpheus still shared. For a while Lem Wainwright had been a help and a consolation—but now the boy had ridden off to Boston, where he prepared with a cousin to enter Harvard College in September. At least her brother Jeremy had been back in June—though after six weeks he’d embarked on a new life, as well, this time as secretary to a banker in Geneva. Before recrossing the ocean, he had again entrusted the farm he’d inherited to his sister’s good care.

Following Jeremy’s departure, Longfellow had been glad to see that his frequent companion retained her cheerful outlook. But this hardly surprised him, for he had long known her temper to be an even one. She seemed to perceive a natural harmony beneath the world’s turmoil, and to embrace it—something he observed with a
degree of skepticism. Yet this happy bent kept her trim vessel (as he sometimes imagined) riding an even keel, its straight mast and plain sails rarely leaning too far, one way or the other. Though just where she set her course was anyone’s guess!

Five years had passed since Aaron’s death, and still Mrs. Willett showed no inclination to wed again. Nor had she been asked, as far as he knew. Of course, her reputation was hardly a help to her there. Beyond the fact that her first husband had been a Friend from Philadelphia—and how that had shown a lack of sympathy for local prejudice!—she had also developed a well-known curiosity which could not add to her appeal as a woman. At least this seemed the view held by most eligible men about the countryside, if it was not his own. But Diana had managed to marry a respectable man, so was there not hope for Charlotte, as well? And if such a thing did occur, would it not make her a less frequent topic of village gossip? That, surely, would eliminate a great many of his own worries!

Richard Longfellow continued to muse while he accompanied his companion to a wild rose that climbed the arms of one of the orchard’s elders, a gnarled tree with only a few small fruits to show for the summer’s warmth and rain. As he watched her reach for a cluster of flowers, something else came into his mind.

“‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,’” he quoted. She stopped where she was, and her azure eyes sparkled with amusement. She then recited the poem’s end: “‘… And while ye may, go marry; for, having lost but once your prime, you may forever tarry.’

“Richard …?” she asked a moment later, snapping off a fragrant white blossom. “Did Mr. Herrick ever wed?”

He realized his error at once, but it was already too late to retreat.

“I believe not.”

“Then doesn’t it seem odd …?”

“What, Carlotta?”

“For a man who refuses to take the step himself … to recommend it to others.”

“To virgins, actually, if you’ll recall the title. And women, of course, are quite different from men.”

“Do go on!”

Gathering his thoughts, Longfellow turned his face to the sky. A number of sunlit clouds now floated above the haze. Though none was yet the kind of towering presence that might bring a storm, he asked himself if each was as innocent as it appeared.

“For a woman,” he finally said, “the strength of a man is commonly held to be a desirable support—and very often, I think, it is a necessary one. As this tree is. We know most women are easily swayed … and for this reason they are likely to need some form of guidance, as well. At least, their happiness cannot be complete—it is said—if they lack the care of a husband, or a father. Yet in the case of a male, a good cook in the kitchen may be quite enough to ensure a serene and enjoyable life. Though I suppose I would be happier myself,” he concluded darkly, “if I had such a servant in my own.”

“We needn’t abandon all hope, for Cicero may yet marry. Even if you, like Mr. Herrick, do not.”

“You know, there are some who find it difficult to forget—”

His tone was so changed that Charlotte knew he thought again of Eleanor. Impetuous and beautiful, her sister might well have thrived under the guidance of this man, she reflected. Yet had their marriage taken place, she was sure both would have felt its benefits.

Longfellow knelt down and seemed to examine a
length of lichen-covered branch in the grass, until a cloud of thrips tickled his face back to its usual composure.

“But I think that a man who waits overlong,” said Charlotte, “may become too old to wed.” His vanity responded as she had supposed it would. His hazel eyes snapped as he rose to stand over her once more.

“Too old? I hardly see how, Mrs. Willett! A wise man will wait for maturity, before he chooses a mate for the rest of his days. However, a cursory study of the species will tell you that for a woman, the opposite must be true.”

“Do you say, then, that a woman should marry
before
she becomes too wise?” she asked with a smile.

“Before it is too late—for other reasons. As a countrywoman, you should realize—you can see that while a man is never past the setting of fruit, he must take care to choose a wife who is sufficiently young, as well as willing—if he desires children. For this purpose, awaiting wisdom in the female is hardly necessary, nor is it advisable. And fruit, after all, is what most agree is Nature’s intent in a union. Fruit, foals, or sons. Or perhaps daughters,” he added fairly.

Though it seemed as if a thorn had pierced her, Charlotte tried to take no more from these words than she supposed they had been intended to convey. She had attempted, and failed, to produce either sons or daughters. Yet could this be
all
one hoped for, in marriage?

“You give a useful warning, I’m sure,” she replied at length. “Though at twenty-five, I believe I still have a year or two left, to decide. But let’s return to rosebuds, Richard. A man who waits overlong to gather his own might find himself in more
danger
, I think, than a woman who tarries.”

“How so, Carlotta?” her neighbor asked with new interest.

“You see how this rose clings to a much older tree for support, as you recommend. Yet while the rose thrives, her prop appears to falter. I suspect that’s why wild roses very often choose mature subjects. The softening crotch of an old limb offers security and a foothold; and with time, the rose will find even greater encouragement to wander—though this may do damage to the tree. Not what one hopes for in an orchard, I think. Nor in a marriage.”

“A strange metaphor, Mrs. Willett,” Longfellow answered, startled anew by his neighbor’s knowledge of life beyond her own simple hearth. “Shall we, then, eliminate this deadly climber?”

“Perhaps not—for it is pretty,” she returned, again taking in the blossom’s sweet aroma. “But we might agree to put off further talk of marriage … until we’re both a little wiser.”

Longfellow accepted the truce with a nod.

“But Richard, do tell me more about this attractive stranger who has been recommended by Mrs. Montagu—the friend you would have me see tomorrow.”