A Mischief in the Snow (25 page)

T
HE SWEET SMELL
of fodder surrounded them while milk began to hiss into empty pails, inside the dark barn. With their lanterns nearby, Charlotte and Lem settled once more into an old habit. Happily familiar, it gave them a chance to think with their hands busy.

Today, both knew something unusual would be expected.

Charlotte began by saying they'd been told Ned Bigelow was once in line for an inheritance, though that would now go back to Philadelphia—and, that Magdalene was the boy's mother. When she'd finished, Lem whooped from the next stall.

“
There's
something I never expected to hear!”

“Do you think Ned knew?”

“If he did know about his mother, he never said. As long as I've known him, he's been worried about money. So as for this inheritance, I'd say probably not. Though I'm sure he
wished
for one.”

“Oh?”

“He and Jonah never had much, and he talked about going off one day, traveling by sea, exploring places he's read about. He often asks Mr. Pratt for old newspapers, or the
London Gentleman's Magazine
, which sometimes gets left behind by the guests. Stories about pirates and the like, he sometimes reads aloud.”

As the milk continued to shoot, Lem fell silent, possibly considering his own future, which was far from sure.

“You know Ned goes to Boar Island?” Charlotte asked.

“I would have told you—but I swore an oath to tell no one. Especially not any woman!”

“That's what I'd imagined. But why do you suppose Ned confided in you?”

“Because we've been friends since we went to dame school together. My mother never liked him—she said he sets a bad example. But no more than my brothers, it seems to me! And when I came to live with you, our paths often crossed in the village, so we started to talk about things other people don't seem to understand. Things he'd read about, and ideas I'd learned from Mr. Longfellow. And other things, lately,” Lem added, his voice less certain.

“The counterfeit shillings?”

“Sometimes I wished he'd never told me! But we were friends, so it would have been hard for him not to. It wasn't his idea. The whole thing was urged on him by a few others—who, exactly, he never would say. But he did worry about money, so he went ahead.”

“When did you see him last?”

Lem got up and moved to another animal, kicking his stool through the hay before he replied.

“He came to Mr. Longfellow's last evening,” he finally answered. “After he heard the constable wanted
me kept there. He waited until he saw me by a window, and threw some snow. I went out when I could. I'm sure he didn't come for fear of what I'd say—he knew the truth would soon come out. He only wanted to see how I was.”

“Did Ned ask you to help him make the coins?”

“No. Well, he did let me help him score the edge of some of them, once or twice, while we talked with Jonah. He's a fine old man,” Lem added warmly.

“With a colorful history.”

“The foundry, you mean? Yes, he does have interesting tales. Is that what made you suspect Ned was involved in making the shillings?”

“Partly. When I visited Jonah, I saw Ned had a burn on his hand. He said it was from the discharge of his fowler—but I noticed he had no gun when he came in. Later, I wondered if he might have received the burn while working on the shillings.”

“That's more likely. He never was one for hunting, especially in the cold. He can't stand the wait.”

At least, thought Charlotte, the coins had been one explanation that came to mind to explain Ned's injury; and it did lead her to suspect he'd been on the island that morning. As yet, neither of the two young men had been told of the final accusation of Catherine Knowles.

Find out if the boy was—
Was what? On the island that day? The boy Catherine had disinherited, who may have killed her new heir, only the day before? The one who then could have come up behind an old woman at her hearth, and pushed her into it?

“But how did the scheme get started?” Charlotte asked after a long silence. “Who knew what to do, exactly?”

“Jonah was able to tell Ned how to set up a forge in
the house I told you about, after someone else went over and made repairs.”

“Did he make the molds?”

“That part was easy. Ned has a good eye and a clever hand; he's often sketching pictures he finds in books and magazines. Though for learning how to work with the metal—the engineering of it—I think he had the help of someone in Concord who makes etchings for the newspapers. A friend of Sam Adams. You remember I met him at the Green Dragon Tavern, this summer.”

“That, too, is interesting. But did you see Ned on the island yesterday?”

“No. Before I got there, smoke was coming up from where I knew the forge to be—and Magdalene told me she'd just come from there. But by the time we left, the smoke had stopped. I thought he'd already left for home.”

“Magdalene saw Ned at work there?”

“He told me he first met her there in the spring. She gave him a fright, peering in at a window; but he soon found she wanted to watch. He finally coaxed her to talk a little—but did
she
know?”

“That Ned is her son? I think so. For fear of losing him a second time, she still won't say.”

Her son's dancing eyes, Magdalene had told her, came from his father—whom she would not see again. And Ned did have a warm, joyous presence; Charlotte had seen that often enough herself.

This time they moved together to new stalls, after emptying their pails into a vat on wooden runners.

“Did John Dudley come often,” Charlotte tried next, “to bring Ned the silver he needed? And the pewter?”

“It was usually Dudley. He left things in a hollow under
a tree, in case anyone else should come by. He even brought his wife's spoons, and then lost one somewhere. Ned said Mrs. Dudley got it back from you. Did you find it that day you fell into the river?”

“Please don't remind me! Did Ned say how Dudley got the other spoons back?”

“He brought them from the island when Dudley told him he'd better, or his wife would have someone's ears! On the day of the ice harvest, he ran home and returned with them in his coat. And he slipped them into the bag I'd left by the bonfire, thinking Dudley would take them out when he was sure no one else noticed. But Dudley pulled the bag under his feet, and took it home at the end of the day.”

“Then whoever removed the hatchet took it
before
Ned came back—or he would have seen it when he put the spoons in?…”

“I'd say he would have had to.”

Charlotte stood once more, patting the brown rump before her as she waited for Lem to finish draining the last udder. “Did Alex Godwin know Ned visited the island, and why?” she asked finally.

“Oh, he knew. That's what he threatened to tell Mr. Longfellow—to get both of us into trouble. I don't suppose, though, that he ever really would have dared to.”

She hadn't yet told him she'd also learned that Alex had stood to gain Ned's fortune, after Catherine changed her mind. If he'd known that, would he have spoken so freely? She told him now.

Lem's reaction was a long, quiet look, and a slow nod. He understood and readily forgave her—just as she had forgiven him for his own recent omissions.

“But you will try to help him, if he needs it?” the young man asked, watching her earnestly.

“Of course.” She only hoped such a thing would be in her power. She prayed that what she suspected might be wrong.

“I will,” she said once more. “If I can.”

W
HAT DID HE
say?” asked Longfellow.

Minutes before, Charlotte had returned and walked alone down the corridor to Longfellow's study. She'd found him gone.

Cicero informed her, once she'd found him in the cellar selecting a bottle of port, that Longfellow was out inspecting his glasshouse. This stood against the barn, to which a path through the deep snow had been made; still, she felt like grumbling as she took off her house shoes and put her boots back on, then slipped a cloak over her shoulders.

The inside of the glasshouse was hardly warm, but at least the wind could not get in. A Baltic stove with several branching conduits rising from its firebox served to keep one corner well above freezing, if it was regularly tended. This, Longfellow was seeing to now. The smell of green that surrounded them in the darkness was especially enjoyable at this time of year. The fronds of the tree fern and a few other specimens seemed to droop somewhat,
but they'd survived here for several winters, and she knew it would take a hard frost to damage any of them permanently.

“He said,” she finally replied, “enough to make it clear that Moses Reed was right about one thing. Lem should have nothing more to fear, even from someone who may have wished to harm him, or to spoil his name.”

“Ned Bigelow, however…”

Her spirits sinking, Charlotte waited. Longfellow shut the iron door with a clang, and went on.

“There does seem to be something there. Could he have known about the inheritance—and, that he'd lost his chance? Magdalene may have told him of the first will. Jonah could also have decided he'd reached an age when he should know his own history. Then again, if Alex Godwin unsealed and read what he'd witnessed, and was about to deliver?… He might even have found a way, I suppose, to go through all of Catherine's papers. In that case, he may have taunted Ned with being excluded once again.”

“Alex did know about the counterfeiting scheme. He even threatened to come and tell you.” She then told him the rest of what Lem had revealed.

“I see,” said Longfellow with a frown. “So Ned is implicated in that, as well.” He escorted her to a stone seat behind the iron apparatus; there, warmth and a soft glow came from air vents in the iron box. She felt the encouraging pressure of his arm at her waist, until he politely moved it away.

“But we also have John Dudley to consider,” he said at last. “He went to the island, you say. And with the hatchet there at his feet—”

“But if he took the hatchet and used it, would he have taken the bag home, to draw our suspicions? Beyond that,
when Mrs. Knowles fell into the fire, Richard, the constable was with you.”

“He seemed shaken at seeing the hatchet, when we were all in Rowe's parlor…”

“But that may have been no more than a fear of blood, which is fairly common,” she returned.

“Hmmm,” said Longfellow, disliking it himself.

“If I'm completely honest,” she admitted, “I would say I'm greatly interested to know what Ned was doing at the time of each death. Magdalene saw him on the island yesterday morning; I saw him return to his grandfather's house later, his hand burned. He said he'd had an accident while out hunting. But if someone pushed Catherine Knowles into her fire, that someone may have found he had to keep her there for some while—waiting for her wool skirts to burn,” she finished in a small, unhappy voice.

Longfellow grew concerned for the kind woman beside him, long his friend. She was struggling admirably to be impartial. From a knowledge of her heart he knew, too, that she would be slow to forgive herself, if her suspicions led to Ned Bigelow's downfall. He would miss the lad, he thought suddenly. It would be a shame to find him guilty—and especially hard on old Jonah. Lem would be deprived of a companion with a fine brain, and that was something rare enough in Bracebridge.

“But Carlotta,” he continued, putting his arm around her shoulder to warm her. She was shivering, he noted with new alarm. He drew her closer. “Though it looks as if Ned may have had opportunity, even reason, that doesn't mean he must be the
only
one. Let's give this thing time, before we say more. As to the shillings—”

“I did hear what Edmund said in the taproom,” she replied. “But what might Mr. Hutchinson do, if he hears
of them? I'm afraid life has taught us that things have a way of changing.”

“For the good, very often,” he replied, moving back a strand of hair that had fallen across her worried face. “Take Edmund, for instance. Though once a staunch supporter of the rights of first sons, I believe he's reconsidered that faulty British tradition, and it may mean he'll give his future children, and Diana's, a more equal chance in life. In yet another case, someone else we know quite well seems to have turned a different corner…”

Was it time, at last, to admit his own fault? For weeks he'd suspected his unreasoning jealousy of his summer visitor, Gian Carlo Lahte, had been more than a little unfair. In the matter of courtship, he himself had been unable to act as he might have liked—
would
have liked. And so he'd nearly abandoned his neighbor, just when she
should
have been able to rely on his friendship, while she examined rekindled passions of her own.

What an ass he'd been!

Yet in some ways it was understandable. He knew Aaron Willett remained oddly alive in his wife's mind. He had liked Aaron—had even begun to love him as a brother, toward the end. With Aaron and Charlotte for neighbors, and her sister Eleanor his fiancée, he'd known for the first time the joys of a family. Certainly, life with his father and stepmother had lacked this kind of warmth and comfort. And then, his family had been sundered, leaving him alone with Charlotte, to mourn.

Now Diana had grown and married—and it seemed there were four again. Such an arrangement was almost too easy; it even felt as if it could have come at the expense of the other. He recalled how one day Charlotte and Aaron had laughed together, ambling through the fields. Walking behind with Eleanor, he'd found the sight
of their pleasure added a conviction to his own. He'd assumed he and Eleanor, too, would share a spiritual and physical unity, which would last forever.

It had all been a house of cards. But it seemed he must try again. For months, years, he'd asked himself if he were willing to chance such happiness a second time. Yet now, he knew that losing even a portion of the closeness he felt for the woman beside him was unthinkable. He
must
do whatever he could to keep her affection, and slowly add to it. And he had better begin soon, he decided.

Charlotte imagined her neighbor was about to add something, perhaps of a more personal nature. He bent a little, and she suddenly felt his lips on her own. They lingered, and she began to suppose he offered her a new sort of endearment, a different kind of beginning. In a few moments, she drew a long breath, and thought she saw him smile in the faint light.

“But in any case,” he told her, “I don't believe you should continue to worry about Ned Bigelow, or Lem… or anyone else who may have vexed you lately. Now, will you stay with me tonight? Good. Let's go in and try a bottle of old port, one of my best. I've asked Cicero to bring a pair up from the cellar. May I walk you home, madam?”

“Please, sir,” she replied, rising and pulling her cloak more tightly about her. Then, with his arm at her waist to guide her, they walked out into the ancient magic of a starlit night, making their way toward a glow of candles across the yard.