No Rest for the Dove (20 page)

“Well, my dear, that hardly constitutes a crisis, for you have come upon a brother, and presumably a husband, in the bath before.”

“What has frightened you, my lady?” Lahte asked with a frown.

“I will tell you! I saw, signor, what looked very much like … how shall I put it?
Like a feminine bosom!
”

“Aah!” Lydia Pratt gasped, at once shocked and satisfied.

“I understand,” Lahte returned calmly, while he extended a hand. “And I am most sorry if it has alarmed you, madama.”

“I am sure you are! For what must it say of
you
, sir?” Diana countered.

“Is this a frequent occurrence?” Longfellow asked hesitantly. “Perhaps a further result of the procedure that causes the castrato to lose his—”

“Castrato! Where?
Angelo?
” Diana blurted out, looking about in hopes of seeing for herself.

“Angelo, yes,” her brother replied. “And, of course, Signor Lahte.”

“You!” The lady gaped as she turned to the Italian. “You, a—a—! And … and the child, too?”

While Gian Carlo Lahte sought a reply, they again heard a stamping of small feet on the stairs, followed by Angelo himself. He had quickly thrown on dry clothing, but now wore skirts, while his hair was pulled up into a dark, wet knot; a few strands still fell about his delicate ears. Rapidly, he crossed the room, spitting emphatic words as his eyes bore into his master’s face. Upon reaching Signor Lahte, he began to shout in angry sobs, his voice high and strident.

There was little else Gian Carlo Lahte could do. Reaching out, he brought the child into his arms and bestowed a firm kiss on rosy, upturned lips beneath his own. It was meant to stop, to prevent—but it also had the effect of calming, until the two stood quietly, twining as only lovers will.

Most in the room were spellbound. Only Mrs. Willett sighed softly, a smile on her own lips at last.

“Carlotta?” Longfellow asked, when he realized that her mildness was quite unlike his own warring emotions. “Did
you
know of this?”

“For an hour, at most. But Richard, let Signor Lahte speak. He might now tell us a great deal more.”

When their mouths had parted, Lahte kept a protective arm around his young servant, who looked increasingly
pleased. “Ladies … gentlemen,” he began, “I would like to present to you my wife, Elena Lahte.” Then, he murmured softly to his companion,
“Cara sposa….”

“Grazie, caro,”
she responded, looking up at him with shining eyes.

“Cicero,” Longfellow remarked, speaking to the door where he knew the ever-curious old man lurked. “Port, please. My sister, who has brought us yet another surprise, will now require reviving.”

A
LTHOUGH DIANA HAD
not fainted entirely away, she had in fact swooned and fallen into a convenient chair. As Charlotte went to offer her assistance, Lydia Pratt, barely disguising her malicious joy, sidled toward Richard Longfellow. But he had already made his way toward Captain Montagu, hoping to share the burden of council.

It seemed that Gian Carlo Lahte and his bride were the only ones in no hurry to improve the situation; Lahte silently fingered the gold ring that again graced Elena’s hand, while she purred with contentment.

“Well,” said Edmund Montagu to the rest, after he had spoken for several moments with their host. “It seems that some of the truth, at least, has come out. But I, for
one, am at a loss to understand why this charade was necessary. Signor Lahte, what could justify treating a wife in such a manner? And how, sir, did you ever manage to get her to go along with you?”

“I hardly know where to begin,” replied the musico. “But you are right, Captain. You must now hear the whole truth. It is the fault, first, of the Holy Father in Rome.”

“An interesting idea,” Longfellow countered, “but hardly an explanation.” He watched his guest summon strength and wit, before starting out on what proved to be a long and involved story.

“The Pope,” Lahte said finally, “does not allow
castrati
to marry. However, that is what I have done. For many years, I cared nothing for this ban for I, too, saw no point in marriage … for myself, or for a woman I might choose. But then, I turned away from the stage to seek a better life. In Milano I hoped only to share my knowledge of music. And then, one day, a friend presented me to Don Arturo Alva—a man of old family and fortune, who had also a daughter. His daughter and I had already met, in the city’s cathedral. After a mass there, Elena found a reason to speak to me, when her father went to light the candles. She later asked someone known to her to call on Don Arturo, to ask him to engage me, so that I might teach her more of music. This was done. But I soon found Elena believed she was in love with me. She was not yet fifteen—but in many noble families, even children are given in marriage. Elena then told me her father had made his choice for her. For a nearly a year, they had argued over a gentleman who was well beyond the age of her father—a man Elena did not like. Finally, Don Arturo told her she must accept this man, or enter a convent to live with the sisters.”

“How terrible!” breathed Diana, alert once more.

“I knew I could not give Elena all that she deserved, and what most women desire. But what could I do? I, too, now longed for another to share my life.” Lahte stopped as his throat closed over words that might further express his hopes.

“She had,” he soon continued, “no longer a mother to advise her, and few others to guide her. Don Arturo often treated his daughter cruelly, keeping her from the governess who defended her, until that lady died tragically. She was kept even from her maid, if she would still not obey. Without love, Elena was without hope, and I was saddened to see her so. At first I did not intend … but in the end, I found an English parson who toured the cathedral, as many do. I paid him to meet us both there one day, to perform the ceremony that would make her my wife—at least, in the world that does not bow to our own religion.”

“Yet you stopped short of carrying her away?” Longfellow asked delicately.

“Elena was my wife, but only in name. I could not bring myself … with one still a child. Then we spoke of my wish to go to America, and I promised I would return for her. If pressed further, I told her she must go to the sisters, as her father required—for in a convent, I knew she would find not only a refuge, but learning. After a year or two, I hoped she might still wish to join me in a new life—if she then felt it would bring her contentment. But, if she had by then come to consider our marriage a mistake, Elena could forget what she had promised, for it was not a true oath in the eyes of the Church. She would be free to marry again, if she chose. I would not hold her to her vows.”

“But she chose to be with you,” Diana returned, pleased by the romance of his story. “Even though you had not yet made her
entirely
your own?”

“
Sì
, signora.”

“I do begin to understand your wife’s recent irritation with you,” she added thoughtfully.

“But the father?” asked Longfellow, eager to hear the rest.

“After I left Milano, Elena again argued with her father, telling him against my advice that she would never agree to marry the man he chose, for she was already married to me! At this, he laughed—yet he had the gates of his house doubly guarded, so that no one who did not belong could enter.”

“But Sesto Alva … he was your wife’s uncle?” Charlotte guessed.

“Nearly—a cousin to Don Arturo, and a man I met only once. Of course, his position in the family allowed him to come into the house. But he was only a poor man who did small things in life, for small reward. I have learned from Elena that he spent the little his family provided—then, he lived by his wits, as you say. Often he would pledge or sell plate or jewels, for those who needed funds quickly. Elena had a little left to her on the death of her mother, and this she urged Sesto to take, to bring her to America—where, she told him, he might also improve his own life. Sesto agreed to do this. Yet I am sure he hoped to receive more from me when he brought Elena, to keep our new home a secret from her father. Unfortunately, there are always whispers—and Don Arturo himself learned that I had come here. I had not kept my interest in this place a secret, after all.”

“And then, when you saw Sesto—?” asked Longfellow.

“When I looked down at him, there in your cellar, I saw only Arturo Alva! For they were much alike—except for Don Arturo’s scar. I imagined Elena’s father had come for revenge. But very soon, I realized it must be Sesto.
Then, I suspected Elena might have sent him to me as a messenger.”

“Thus, the business of the boots and buttons?”

“In my country, those who travel alone often conceal valuable objects, for they know they could be robbed. Sometimes they also hide messages, so that their families might hear what has become of them, if they are unable to return. I hoped Elena had somehow hidden such a message for me.”

Following her own thoughts for a moment, Charlotte recalled Thomas Pomeroy’s diamond, which she supposed might have been similarly concealed in his clothing, while he traveled. Had Sesto done the same? Gems were, after all, a part of his business. But there was something else she felt she must ask.

“Did you know,” she inquired, “that a man who may be Elena’s father was seen last week in Boston?”

“You knew of this as well, madama? Yes, Elena has told me Sesto came face to face with her father, soon after they left their ship. Sesto denied to Don Arturo that Elena was with him; then he slipped away, hoping he was not followed to the place where they stayed. Sesto swore he was in Boston on another mission; he pretended I had left Elena in London, and arranged with him to bring me a young boy I was fond of, to take her place. It was foolish, perhaps—but he had little time to fashion a story. He also brought to Elena the clothing of a serving boy. My wife was amused, at first, to imitate those women in the operas who sing their roles in trousers. But later, when Sesto did not return from his ride to find me, she knew she must keep up the masquerade, to remain safe from harm until she found me. Then, I asked her to remain disguised for her safety, and for that of my new friends. I thought, if word reached Don Arturo that I was here with a boy, then he might believe Sesto had told him the truth. In doing
this, he would only assume what others quite easily suspect, after hearing stories of
musici
.”

“There may be a good side to this, after all,” Captain Montagu pointed out to Longfellow, when Lahte had finally finished. “Once your neighbors hear your guest has a wife—one whose father refuses to acknowledge a Protestant ceremony—and that the cruelty of the Church of Rome was responsible for their flight from Milan, then they will take Lahte’s side. At any rate, they will surely keep their eyes open for Don Arturo.”

He paused to look pointedly at Lydia Pratt, who nodded for herself, and for the ladies in her circle.

“I do not suppose,” the captain continued, “that it will be easy for yet another foreign gentleman to make his way, unnoticed, to your door. Is the father,” he now asked the musico, “able to speak English?”

“I have never heard him attempt it.”

“Perhaps, then, we are in little danger after all,” said Longfellow with relief.

“Though I think,” Lahte added, “that Don Arturo could make one think he is a Frenchman—as we are far from Paris here.”

Montagu now addressed the happy couple sternly. “One day soon, you must confront him. Of that, there can be no doubt. But I would like to find him first. Where was Don Arturo last seen in Boston?”

“Elena could not say,” said her husband. “Sesto never named the place to her, for they did not know the town well.”

“I believe,” said Charlotte, “it was in the Green Dragon.”

“How did you learn this, Mrs. Willett?” the captain asked with a bemused expression.

“Nathan Browne met a merchant here at the Blue Boar, who saw both men together there last week.”

“Then it seems I have yet another reason to visit that infernal place. You’re sure it wasn’t Cromwell’s Head, or the Bunch of Grapes?”