No Rest for the Dove (34 page)

“The
Swallow
? Ah,
sì
!” Elena agreed.

“When did you first notice Thomas Pomeroy? For we’ve all heard that he, too, came here on the
Swallow
. He would have been kept on the lowest levels of the ship, of course.”

“Of course. There, I could not see him.”

“But you did say the captain allowed
all
of his passengers on deck, at least part of the time, because of the August heat. In the hull, it must have been dangerously hot. And if a keeper was instructed to sell Pomeroy on his arrival, so that he might work—”

“Yes; I remember these men did come up, sometimes.”

“I’m sure he noticed
you
, Elena. I suspect he saw you often enough, and long enough, to speak with you—even to fall in love. Did he find a way to come onto the deck in the night, while you, too, walked there? While Sesto lay in agony below?”

At this suspicion, Elena smiled.

“I imagine that’s why he stared at you so, when you met again in Bracebridge—during our dinner at the inn. You stared back, making your husband unhappy.”

“But Captain Montagu says not so—he says my father saw Thomas Pomeroy on the dock—paid him to come to find me. That is why this boy was in Bracebridge—why I was afraid, too, when I saw him.”

“Yet if your father saw Pomeroy on the docks, and purchased his freedom, why did he not see you, or Sesto?”

“We were gone, then,” the girl tried.

“When your father found you here yesterday, he told us he did not know Thomas Pomeroy, or Matthew Beaulieu. He also told us to be careful.”

“My father lies!”

“Last night, Pomeroy returned for you—hoping, I
think, that you would love him enough to go with him, leaving your husband—a man you must have told him you did not love. Did you also tell him you hoped to hurt your husband, in some way?”

“How could I,” Elena objected, “when I love Gian Carlo?”

“Wasn’t it you who gave Thomas Pomeroy a yellow diamond, Elena? A gem left to you, perhaps, by your mother?”

Unable to stop herself, Elena glanced to a high chest of drawers across the room.

“Did you give him one or two others? From a pair of earrings, or a necklace? Did Thomas, or Matthew, buy his way clear of the
Swallow
with one stone, and with another, perhaps, purchase his freedom from a Boston prison two days ago?”

“Tell me all you think, then!” Elena challenged angrily. “Tell me, and be done!”

“I think, while on the
Swallow
, you and Thomas Pomeroy planned to run away together. When you landed, he went ahead to Bracebridge, leaving you and Sesto to wait for word that your husband had arrived. Perhaps Sesto, too, hoped to gain, if he could manage to blackmail the famous Il Colombo. But you had other plans, I think, for Sesto.”

“He was
ricattatore
—a man who demands money, for secrets! He took from me all that I had—my mother’s necklace of yellow stones, the pin with green eyes, given to me by Gian Carlo—all, to take me away from Milano. Now, again, these things are mine.”

Charlotte considered carefully before asking her next question, which was the crux of the story. “Is it not sometimes said, Elena, that poison is a woman’s weapon?
L’avantage d’une femme?
Did you begin to practice on Sesto when you started your travels … or before? Did
you sometimes put something into his wine, to see what would happen?”

At this Elena shrugged her shoulders, though she still listened intently.

“That, I think, would explain why some of his ulcers had healed, while others were fresh, as Dr. Warren told us.”

“It is not easy to be sure of such a thing,” Elena replied.

“Nor, I suppose, to prove that Thomas Pomeroy borrowed someone’s horse to visit you in Boston one evening, after hearing that your husband was to come and dine with Richard Longfellow the next afternoon. That night, I think, the three of you talked together—and Sesto must have agreed to set out in the morning. But you also gave Thomas a bottle of wine, telling him to meet Sesto on the road, and offer him refreshment. You may have told Thomas to drink none, himself. Or, perhaps, you did not….”

“And then?”

“Then, when Sesto was dead, or lay in agony, Pomeroy picked up a rock. Perhaps he used it to end Sesto’s suffering; surely, he hoped the blow would draw suspicion from the poison, masking its use—protecting
you
. I think he did truly love you, Elena.”

This seemed to produce a smile of satisfaction.

“And here is the last of what I suspect,” Charlotte said, after a deep sigh. “I think you gave Thomas the clasp to drop near the body, so that you might later accuse your husband of Sesto’s murder. For if he were tried and found guilty, then you, as his widow, could claim his fortune—most of it already removed to London. Or perhaps you only wanted something to hold over his head. Did you never love him, Elena? Do you not love him now?”

“Carlotta,” came her cold answer. “You, too, have
feelings for Gian Carlo. I saw this at first. I hated you, of course. But think of my life! I must be pitied, for though I am young, and beautiful, my father would give me to a man both old and ugly—a man to take me away from the world, even before I see it! To give him children—no more. Him, I truly hate! Then, I see Gian Carlo in the cathedral. He is so handsome, so kind. He teaches me—I tell him I love him. But he goes away too soon. He will not touch me. Then, it is
him
I hate! But the old man, more. So, I come here. Again, I see Gian Carlo. Again, he is kind, gentle. And handsome. Soon we are husband and wife—
vero e proprio
. I do not tell him what I wished to do, before. I think he must know. He is afraid. But for me!”

Elena Lahte’s face softened briefly; then her eyes hardened as she went on. “He is only castrato. He cannot give children. He cannot marry, in Italia. Soon, I know we will part. But now, I will not marry the old man in Milano! Gian Carlo will give me more jewels; then, I will become free. This is not a tragedy, madama. It is only like the opera—sad, perhaps, but not true.”

“Perhaps,” Charlotte responded, thinking that Elena was right. Her love had never been a real one, but a play put on for profit … and at what a cost! She wondered how long ago the girl had lost her innocence—or was it possible that she had been born with none? Elena clearly knew how difficult it would be to prove what her plans had accomplished—unless Gian Carlo Lahte spoke against her, which he seemed unwilling to do. And how easy for Signora Lahte to deny all but a natural desire to be with her husband!

Yet ships did submit lists of passengers, as well as cargo, to the authorities. These lists Edmund Montagu could check. And Thomas Pomeroy might yet tell of his part in the deadly plan. But would the word of a transported felon be taken seriously? Don Arturo had recognized
Elena’s yellow diamond, Charlotte was sure. Would he admit to what he suspected, even to save himself? Or would he, too, forgive his child?

There was a knock at the door. When it opened, Elena’s father stood with a glass of wine in his hand. Humbly, he bowed to both women.

“For my daughter,” he said. Charlotte nodded.

He entered and gave the crystal glass to Elena, who took it as a queen might, from a servant over whom she held ultimate power. Again, there was a look of triumph in her face, and Charlotte began to feel ill.

In another moment, her head swimming with what she might say, what she might do, Charlotte rose and said nothing at all, but left father and daughter together. After going down the stairs for a candle, she had a glass of wine from the decanter which had been replaced, to restore herself. After that, she made her way up to bed, looking forward to a night so lonely that not even sleep, she imagined, would come to disturb her.

YET SLEEP SHE
did, with the rest of the household, until some time after the sun had risen the next morning.

Feeling warmth on her face, Charlotte opened her eyes to realize that something was far from right. For one thing, her head felt thick, and she knew of no reason why it should ache so.

Swiftly, she dressed in her clothing of the day before, and swung open her door. No other in the hall stood open. Presumably, she was the first to wake. Walking to Elena’s door, she recalled the glass of wine she had taken from the decanter below … and the one brought to Elena by Don Arturo.

She knocked, but received no answer. She opened the door, and saw the long body of Gian Carlo Lahte lying
on a straw pallet. The bed beside it was empty. His wife was gone.

Praying that he still breathed, Charlotte crossed the room and watched until she saw, to her great relief, his chest rise and fall. After that, she suspected she should summon someone to look for Elena. But to what end? What earthly good could come of finding either of them, now?

She knew Don Arturo had sufficient means to leave the city undetected. It would not be difficult for him to reach another port, and there quietly arrange further passage. If Elena remained drugged for a few days more, she could be taken out to sea in a small boat, on her way to a larger. After that, her fate would be sealed.

Would that not be the best thing, after all? Charlotte asked herself this question as she continued to stand over the unconscious form of Il Colombo, listening to a faint memory of angelic song. Would this husband have been able to protect his young wife forever? Or might he, too, have died at her hands, one day?

She hardly knew what to think. And so, she sat down and wept for Elena, Don Arturo, Sesto, and Thomas Pomeroy, and most, perhaps, for the kind and gentle soul asleep beside her. Seeing only Elena’s suffering, he had offered his heart, and his hand, too soon—an action he would long regret.

Was there not a lesson in that, Charlotte wondered, for herself?

Monday, September 2

S
EVERAL DAYS LATER
, Charlotte was home again, in her orchard, standing on one side of the knoll that divided her brother’s land from the estate of Richard Longfellow. Orpheus sat nearby as she looked up at a few shrunken apples clinging to the crooked boughs of an old tree. She heard a whistle, and turned to see her neighbor ascending, a large scythe cradled on his shoulder.

“I believe, madam, you have some grass to be cut?” Longfellow called.

“Quite a step down, for a gentleman of the town.”

“‘Let not ambition mock their useful toil, their homely joys, and destiny obscure….’ No, Mrs. Willett,” he continued, while he still smiled at Gray’s familiar lines, “I seem to have lost the temperament for life in Boston. Rather like young Mr. Wainwright. Although I believe
our last fête will keep up my reputation, and my welcome, for years to come. A mixed blessing, I suppose.”

Charlotte, too, smiled at the wry face that accompanied this sentiment. “But what of Bracebridge, considering the trouble you’ve brought back?”

“Do you refer to yourself, or to Gian Carlo? He, at least, will be on his best behavior while he stays. The poor man has been greatly subdued by his misfortune—and by Elena’s. Still, it’s far better to know, and to remain healthy! And there is a new sister he assures me he is glad to have found. But I think we will find him an even better life somewhere else, before long.”