No Rest for the Dove (3 page)

“
There
is a man who has broken a heart or two, I would imagine. I would not be surprised if he even pleases a woman as particular and obstinate as you! Though in Lahte’s case—”

Longfellow stopped short. “I only promise, Carlotta,” he continued, “that you’ll be entertained. As long as you refuse to accompany me to the center of the world’s culture—though I’ve assured you I would care for you as a brother—I’m glad to house a part of it here, to give you a small taste of Italy’s many marvels.”

“Will this marvel arrive in time for dinner?”

“He proposes to come at two.”

“Next I suppose you’ll ask me to help with the preparations.”

They exchanged smiles of perfect accord. And soon, after both had taken a last, silent look toward the hilltop, Charlotte led them down the grassy slope, bobbing like a pinnace through parting green waves—leaving dog and man to follow, contented, in her wake.

Friday, August 16

G
IAN CARLO LAHTE
did, indeed, arrive as promised the next day.

At two o’clock, a statuesque stranger, exquisitely dressed, was observed by visitors and servants to climb down from a chaise and stand in the rising heat of the Bracebridge Inn’s gravel drive. The gentleman even seemed to strike a pose for them—until the lad who had led his horse and conveyance away came back from the stables pushing a hand-cart, and started to move a brass-studded trunk across the road.

Signor Lahte sent the boy off as soon as they reached the maples near Richard Longfellow’s front door. Once alone, he removed his calfskin gloves. He opened a handkerchief, and flicked a layer of dust from a coat of scarlet silk minutely embroidered in thread of gold, and from a
matching waistcoat. While cocking his head to the song of cicadas performing in the whispering leaves above, he dusted lemon-colored breeches and white silk hose, then adjusted a pressed beaver hat over black tresses that fell beautifully about his shoulders. At last, Signor Lahte found time to admire the tall windows and white façade of the house before him. In another moment, its largest door flew open and Richard Longfellow came striding out, his arms held wide with genuine pleasure.

Some time later, as the sun continued to blaze, the two gentlemen sat coatless beneath an arbor of vines above a small flagstone piazza, enjoying an unobstructed view of the village, fields, river, and marshes below. During a pause Longfellow rose and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He casually encouraged Signor Lahte to do the same.

“But what the devil would make you consider settling here?” he finally asked outright, before sitting down again.

“What man could resist such natural beauty?” Gian Carlo Lahte countered. His voice was light and playful, his English quite tolerable. He made a move with his hand, extending his praise from the piazza to the vista before them. “What could be more delightful? Your arbor, full of fruit—the quiet river and dwellings below—the warm sun, and air full of enchanting smells of field and forest pine. How the country soothes one’s senses!”

“The months on either side of our summers are somewhat different. Many feet of snow may then fall onto our enchanting fields and forests, not to mention the roads between. I warn you, Gian Carlo—our little world is not always as kind as you find it today.”

“I have walked on ice many times,” came the guest’s proud reply, delivered as if he remembered these occasions as feats of daring—which caused the others at the table to smile.

While the two continued their banter, Charlotte Willett observed them in silence. Though perhaps forty years of age, Signor Lahte still had a figure whose youthful litheness matched his frequent bursts of enthusiasm. And what wonderful eyes! Light gray and quick, their pupils expanded with little warning, giving one the idea of peering through a window into a dark night. He was clearly intelligent. He also sighed easily, as did many an idle gentleman. But she imagined him capable of a great deal. In short, Gian Carlo Lahte seemed a paradox of easy smiles, carriage, and attitudes, yet also a man whose body had been molded by healthy discipline, and perhaps even rigorous training. But to what end?

“I promise you,” Longfellow insisted, “that come January, our landscape will resemble Stockholm, rather than Milan.”

“Is your blood too thin for this place, my friend?” the Italian then inquired of the venerable figure leaning against the doorway, nearly lost in its shadow.

“As I was born in Boston, sir, I find it just bearable,” Cicero answered quietly.

“Ah—then you are not a traveler? I had supposed …”

“Cicero once accompanied me to England and the Continent,” Longfellow informed his guest. “That was on the occasion of my first tour, but for some unfathomable reason he has since refused to go along. In this, and other things.”

“Years ago I had little choice,” the older man returned dryly. “At the time I was owned by the father of this man—my current employer.”

“
Current
employer?” Longfellow retorted. “Have you decided to pack your bags again, after all? Should you need assistance, be sure to tell me!”

Signor Lahte hurried on. “I believe that I understand,
signor. You serve the aristocracy, much as I have done. At least, we have been asked to use the same doors.”

Cicero’s glance to Longfellow signaled his approval of this diplomatic guest, for manners pretty enough to match his face. The old man then went inside for a plate of cheese and pears.

“I have also seen more to admire here than the landscape,” Lahte added, moving back to his original topic. “Before us, there is a rare calm … a gentleness … an innocence that is a true delight. I suppose any man must find what I see before me a joy in all seasons!”

“Innocence?” Longfellow responded with a chuckle. For some time he had noticed Charlotte’s unusual stillness, though her frequent smiles suggested that she was, as he’d predicted, fascinated. He next observed with interest that she reddened at the compliment, though the crafter had been careful to direct his eyes away during his skillful delivery. The rogue possessed an urbane and honeyed tongue, at least. Learning what else he might be capable of promised to make the week ahead a stimulating one.

“Signora,” said Lahte, as he stood and set aside his napkin.

“Yes?” Charlotte replied, her breath quickening.

“I believe I may thank you for engineering our
repas
?”

“We each collected what we could—and, took courage at the thought that the meals during your recent crossing might have left you a little hungry.”

“If only you knew! A journey full of such horrors! Yet I can almost forget its savagery, having now tasted your delicate
gambero di fiume fresco
, spiced with
cannella
… the
poulet en mayonnaise
… the refreshing
insalata
, with fresh
fungo
and
dragoncello
… stuffed eggs with bold mustard … this peasant bread …
magnifico
! How could a man not be overwhelmed, by such pleasures of the
campagna
?”

“While you were in the kitchen with Cicero,” said Longfellow, “I explained to Lahte how the local boys trap crayfish in Pigeon Creek. Of course, Gian Carlo,” he went on, “we thank India and the Company for our cinnamon, and Madeira for this wine. But our bread flour came from the fields before you, and was ground in the village mill you see there—you can make out the roof over the trees. The wood across the way supplied our mushrooms—and as for the chicken, eggs, and cream, the salad and the tarragon, all came from Mrs. Willett’s barnyard, dairy, or kitchen garden.”

“You live like a king, Richard, yet you do not have the trouble of a court,” Lahte sighed, sitting down again at Cicero’s entrance.

“In winter, our tables tell quite another story. If you stay, I promise you’ll make the acquaintance of salt cod and beans. Though I do appreciate your good opinion. I’m sure your appetite has long been satisfied by delicacies only the aristocracy commands.”

“My talent has allowed me to try … many dishes,” Lahte replied, as he deftly sliced into a ripe pear that had been put before him.

Longfellow cleared his throat, then leaned forward to divulge to Mrs. Willett something he had kept from her.

“Signor Lahte,” he said in a confidential tone, “sings. In fact, for many years he has been a wonder of the operatic world. Did I mention this to you before, Carlotta?”

“No,” she whispered back.

“Gian Carlo, will you describe for Mrs. Willett some of your professional ports of call?”

The Italian replied with a flourish of the silver knife he held, before he finished the slice of fruit in his mouth.

“First, madama, Italy; then, the chapel of a duke, in Stuttgart. I moved on to Dresden, while that city drew
all of Europe to its bosom, to be nourished by the world’s best music. But then, the Emperor Frederick and his Prussians—and your British, Richard—chased the armies of the rest of the world up and down that land, causing many singers and musicians to flee. Those who were born there could not, of course, leave as easily as the rest, and I have since heard that many fell beside the soldiers of Austria, Sweden, France, Russia….”

Lahte paused to savor another bite of fruit, then shrugged his shoulders with a sad smile before continuing.

“At that time, I was given letters of introduction by Maestro Annibali, a very kind man indeed! Since I had learned some English, I went to London. There it was pointed out to me, as it was to all the rest, that I was not
the great god Farinelli
! Still, I did well; not only my voice, but my dramatic powers, too, were called remarkable. I was often asked to sing, for the opera, and the oratorios. I also performed for gentlemen in their clubs, where I met a number of lords. Soon, I was invited into their homes … so that I might entertain their ladies, as well. Yet after a time, one wearies of the affections of the great … who are rarely constant. One begins to crave a simpler life. However, I did not wish to bury myself, like Farinelli, in a Bolognese villa, waiting for the final curtain to fall.”

“Too quiet a life?” asked Longfellow.

“As you say. I, myself, settled in Milano for a time, where there is music far better than the usual fare of the provincial
teatri
.”

“But do you expect to hear anything as fine in this place?”

“No, no! You see,” Lahte explained, leaning forward eagerly while his voice rose with excitement, “when I left Milano, it was to come to the New World! For many of us, the call of your freedom, your liberty, is so strong it
becomes like a lovely taste upon the tongue! So, I have come here with great hope, to be far from courts, tyrants, priests—a long way from the Hanovers, the Habsburgs, and their laws that destroy one’s soul. Coming here, I call an end to politics, jealousies, intrigues—an end to life that ignores the ways of Nature. For they are the true things! I have also come to study Science, like you, Richard. And in this new land, I hope to build a home worthy of devotion—even of great love.”

While he spoke, Charlotte watched the movement of Signor Lahte’s hands. She had seen his long, delicate fingers stroke a spoon, toy with a bread basket, caress a wineglass. She could not imagine them gripping a scythe or a hoe, at least ungloved; but then, with wealth enough he would never need to. Yet it was an odd thing in Bracebridge to take no part in bodily labor.