No Rest for the Dove (6 page)

“Your friend Captain Montagu might be of some use in that.”

“What a good idea, Reverend. I’ll be sure to let him know you thought of it. Now we must be off, but I will return shortly with pencil and paper.”

As the minister walked back to his parsonage, the others began to climb the long hill that rose to the east of the village.

“A fine piece of flattery,” Longfellow soon commented. His Italian guest replied with a slight smile.

“While in the service of others, I have had much practice.”

“You did warn us of your dramatic accomplishments. Here, however, you may be called a truth-slayer and a wastrel, if they are ever discovered.”

“Ah, yes. If they are discovered …”

“It seems I will be busy for a while, so you may as well ask Cicero to help you settle yourself into the house. Then, you might enjoy a siesta.”

“An excellent idea.”

“Tonight, I hope you will delight us with your voice again, and show us your skill at the pianoforte. After that, we might all go out and take a look at the sky.”

“The sky?”

“Astronomy,” said Charlotte, “is one of your host’s favorite hobbyhorses.”

“An excellent breed, capable of taking us into astral realms. Much like your splendid arias,” Longfellow concluded.

“Oh, yes.”

Il Colombo replied with a weariness Mrs. Willett noticed with new sympathy. She had wondered at his earlier efforts to ingratiate himself with the Reverend Rowe. Now, she asked herself if Signor Lahte might not
feel he must pay for his supper—and for their company, as well. Might he tire, too, of being eternally reminded of the singular difference that set him apart from the rest of his sex?

These queries were joined in her mind by others, while the trio moved quietly through the heat of the afternoon. And then, Mrs. Willett recalled something more. Like small feathers, such ideas had a way of floating about and tickling one, which was not always entirely pleasant.

M
ADAM—?
I
S THERE
an answer?”

The young man who stood before her pulled Charlotte from a new reverie, while Orpheus continued to wag his tail after receiving a pat on the head for his attentions.

A few minutes before, Thomas Pomeroy, newly employed at the Bracebridge Inn, had come to the front door rather than the back. In doing so he’d surprised first Hannah in the kitchen, and then Charlotte, who sat in her study staring at rippling leaf shadows on blue walls. Again, she looked to the messenger who had brought the note she held in her hand.

“Oh—yes—I’ll write it down, so Mrs. Pratt will have something to fall back on once the glass comes in. As she suggests, a joint purchase of bottles should bring a better price. How kind of Lydia to ask,” Charlotte added. What
she did not add was that her note would also give him protection from the landlady’s suspicions that he’d gotten her instructions wrong, when glassware of varying sizes arrived.

While she took up her quill to jot the brief order, Charlotte saw the young man glance around, his gaze falling on Eleanor’s drawing of her parents, then a hand-painted screen before the cold hearth, shelves of books with darkened spines, and finally, the drawered desk at which she sat, with its miniature of Aaron Willett in its usual place. When she finished, she folded the sheet of paper and passed it to Pomeroy, studying him in turn.

He was not unlike Lem, she decided, opening a place in her heart still occupied by the boy, though he was gone to school. She missed his quiet, cheerful presence as he devoured a book beside her in the evening, once Hannah, her frequent helper, had left them … his acute concentration while he mended a piece of furniture … his occasional chortle, while he thought of something she could only guess at. In stages, he had grown from the child she’d taken in to a friend with a pleasing personality, and no little wit. In short, he’d become a true companion.

The lad before her now seemed to share Lem’s curiosity, and he was nearly the same age, if Thomas Pomeroy did appear to be more experienced. Of course, he had traveled; his London tongue told her that. There was also a kind of hard-won knowledge in his eyes. That suggested he’d known something beyond life’s small strains … perhaps even one or two of its calamities.

“Is life in Bracebridge to your liking, Mr. Pomeroy?” she asked gently.

“‘Thomas’ will do very well, madam, if you please. Yes, I do find much here to my liking. Though it is not England, it seems better to me, in many ways.”

“How did you find us, I wonder?” she continued softly,
giving him the chance to ignore the question if he chose. Her kindness was rewarded with a further confidence.

“Partly by chance, and partly by choice,” he told her quite happily. “After I spent several weeks in Boston, I decided to seek a different kind of life. So I asked for rides away from the city with wagoners who were about to leave. I allowed their destinations to take me several miles out, at the price of conversation and a turn at the reins. That way, I was able to learn of, and then see, the towns of Salem, Wakefield, Lexington, and Concord … and Roxbury, Dorchester, and Braintree to the south. I next met a man going to Worcester, and we stopped for dinner at the inn here; then, I discovered Bracebridge was the best of all! Mr. Pratt, too, seemed to me a fair and honest man.”

“He is that, and more. And I’m sure we are all flattered by your choice! But do you have further plans, beyond your present occupation?”

“Yes, madam, I do. I know I have the whole world yet to discover—but I may decide to do most of my seeking here, if my first impression does not alter. Which I hardly think it can,” he finished with a smile. “I hope I may soon become something more than just a stranger,” he added.

“There are several ways to join a community. Some you might find quite pleasant….”

“Do you mean I might marry here?” He laughed. “First I wish to establish myself in the eyes of men—before I begin to look deeply into the eyes of any woman.”

Somehow, thought Charlotte, though these words had been spoken with conviction, she did not believe Thomas Pomeroy would long restrain his passion for life. Something told her that
this
young soul was not likely to become lost, as others were, in Science, or Politics, as long as there was a chance of something warmer being served up.

Suddenly, she was struck by another idea that held her answer on the tip of her tongue, until she swallowed it thoughtfully. Was she not in a similar situation? This boy had only begun to live his dreams—but she, too, could embark again on a new life, if she chose. She could even leave this farm, though she did love it, and start on an entirely different road … if a man were ever to capture her heart again. She had recently denied her interest in such a thing to Richard Longfellow. But had she told him the entire truth? Possibly, the summer’s long, warm days and soft, pleasing nights had already begun to encourage something she’d hardly felt since—

Charlotte realized Thomas Pomeroy had spoken to her again, and now regarded her with an expression of amused sufferance. This made her suspect, with a blush, that he would make a kind and gentle lover himself, whenever he might attempt such a thing. With, she hoped, a girl of his own age.

“Nothing else, then?” he repeated.

“Only my thanks to Mrs. Pratt.”

“That I will gladly convey.”

Thomas Pomeroy then went out of the study and through the front door, escorted as far as the lawn. Orpheus sat down and watched silently, ears cocked, as the young man headed across the yard and out onto the road at a jog.

Finally, dog and mistress turned back to the relative cool of the old farmhouse, where they soon found new occupations.

THAT EVENING, AFTER
the last of the twilight had faded, Richard Longfellow carried a telescope out onto the grass beyond his piazza. Here he had a broad view of the dark
canopy overhead, which was increasingly dotted with stars. As their twinkling grew brighter, and the eternal White River appeared above, he bent to adjust first one steel knob, then another.

As promised, Gian Carlo Lahte had favored them with several songs after a light supper suitable for a summer’s eve. Music from the pianoforte still drifted out through the open windows. But Longfellow forgot this pleasant sound when Saturn, the most remote of the sun’s six planets, showed him its rings and a revolving moon. Great distance, he had long ago realized, at first made far bodies seem more exciting than near ones. However, once such excitement waned, he generally went back to studying more closely the well-known surface of the earth’s own orbiting companion.

Due to his intense concentration, he was at length startled to sense someone standing at his side.

“Which is it?” she asked.

“Saturn. As you’ll see, if you use your own ocular orbs.”

“So it is,” Charlotte replied, after she’d done so. “‘I saw Eternity the other night, like a great Ring of pure and endless light,’” she quoted, very softly.

“Is there anything else you need my help in discovering tonight?”

“Overhead? Nearly everything, I suppose … but I had hoped to discuss something closer.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Richard—”

“Yes?”

“A musico is the same as a castrato, is he not?”

“Yes, Carlotta. Yet this one is not any castrato. In the world of art, Lahte is special. Even among the hundreds whose voices earn them a living.”

“Hundreds!”

“It’s said at least a thousand are cut each year. Sadly, most will scarcely benefit from the procedure. But Il Colombo has enjoyed fame and fortune because of it.”

Charlotte quietly pondered the little she knew of this, one of Europe’s many cruelties.

“I myself,” Longfellow went on, “have listened to a few dozen successful castrati during my travels. The entertainment they provide is extremely popular, you know—though in France, there is a prejudice against them. Yet even there, royalty welcomes
musici
at home, when creating their private spectaculars.”

“I know Signor Lahte’s art has developed through several generations … but in our own age, when rights are so often argued, and Reason is highly valued, how can such a thing continue?”

“The audience at an opera, Carlotta, enjoys being part of a prancing, glittering show of wealth and privilege. Yet most I’ve seen appear to have little concern for the actual artists who please them—or even their music, in many cases, for there’s frequently chattering and dining going on throughout a performance.” He snorted at his recollection, before going further. “The world that supports such theaters may seem bright, but I am afraid it is darker than our own. Much is hidden from view behind scenery, and much arranged by what we would consider steep bargains—such as Lahte’s. True aristocrats might put a stop to it, but they will not. When do they think beyond their pleasures, after all?”

“Edmund Montagu is not far from a title, Richard, and he is hardly a man who would willingly injure others, I think.”

“Let’s hope not. Edmund seems to have escaped the worst habits of his class. But I will hardly envy my sister when she goes to meet her new relations across the sea! Yet we mustn’t forget that such families have long made
advancements in Art and Science possible … and who will support men like Lahte when the aristocrats are gone, which can only be a matter of time, I can’t imagine.”

“Then you feel this is something that
should
continue?”

“Well … it is the nature of man to excel, and to suffer. And it must have been partly his own choice, Carlotta. Of that I have little doubt, for the level his art has reached requires absolute dedication. Beyond that, if he had not been altered, Lahte would very likely have spent his life in poverty. The beauty of his music does have much to offer the soul, as I suspect you’ve already decided.”

“And yet—”

“And yet, instead of examining the thistles at our feet, let us admire the clockwork of the heavens.”

Charlotte quickly sucked in her breath—something unexpected had brushed against her ankle. She then realized that one of Longfellow’s cats had come along, with Orpheus close behind. The cat spoke as it threw itself manfully against her knees, to be rewarded by bubbling laughter.