A Mischief in the Snow (5 page)

Longfellow got up and crossed to his own hearth to
pour out three more glasses of his best sherry. “Now what,” he then asked, “do you say to that, Carlotta?”

“It may be easier to take a novel apart than to put one together,” she decided.

“A laudable answer. However—?”

“However—perhaps I should read it for myself.”

“Could any of us rest, imagining you
dreadfully obedient
to Mr. Walpole? But I imagine you are far too sensible to be impressed by such fare. No—I would like to test this new work on a mind of lesser capacity. For that, I plan to give
Otranto
to our friend Jack Pennywort.”

Charlotte's eyes widened. “Jack Pennywort!”

“As a fellow prone to superstition, he should be a proper audience for Walpole's litany of horrors. I will offer a reward, of course—after all, he will be plowing rather stony ground. Jack's wife could no doubt use something extra for her pocket, with the price of food and fuel steadily increasing.”

“I'm sure she could,” said Charlotte, appreciating his kinder motive. For many, life
had
lately become more difficult. “Still, do you think it's sensible to plant such seeds, in such a place?”

“It was you who showed us that while Jack may be gullible, he is no simpleton. Let us see if he trusts his reason this time, or falls prey to the fantastic. In any event, he'll earn a good supply of punch at the Blue Boar as he reveals the astounding contents of each new chapter. At least it will be entertainment for a winter's eve.”

“Well—”

“I shouldn't be surprised if the village clamors for more—showing itself no different from London's best society. But there is a chance our neighbors will show more discretion, which would be amusing. I only wish Edmund were here to wager on the outcome.”

Charlotte was struck anew by Longfellow's apparent callousness to his sister's discomfort. Yet winter's short days and long nights did cause many to seek diversions. She'd seen enough of superstition in the village where she'd been born (and Longfellow had not) to doubt the wisdom of fostering more. But what he'd described seemed something even the least reasonable among them would hardly swallow whole. And there could be little harm in chewing over literature, great or not, she supposed.

“Would you enjoy more energetic entertainment, Mrs. Willett?” Longfellow asked, as if he read her thoughts. “I've come up with still another good idea today. You might even guess what it is before I tell you. No? I have heard that you were off skating, after dinner. Even the memory of your exercise gives your cheeks a healthy glow! It should also have given you some idea of the state of the ice.”

“I believe most of the river to be well frozen,” she answered evasively.

“Which is why I sent word flying while you were at play, to organize a day of ice-cutting. I've found my pond solid to a depth of fourteen inches. Tomorrow, anyone who cares to take ice home, or who is willing to move the stuff for others for a few shillings, is invited to come up to Pigeon Creek. Diana shall see that working together is a far better thing than setting neighbor against neighbor, which seems the new style in Boston.”

“Richard…” Diana replied with a sigh, as if she believed such a social event still beyond her. Again, her face seemed drawn.

“But it will mean early work, so we should prepare for bed,” he finished easily.

On this, they all agreed. Charlotte bid them both goodnight, kissing Diana's forehead before she retired.

When she had entered Richard's house earlier, she'd seen its eldest inhabitant reading in the kitchen, next to a pair of curled and sleeping cats. Now, as she left, Cicero still sat quietly at his own fire, his head covered by a tas-seled red toque.

“How is Mrs. Montagu this evening?” he asked. His dark face held the strain of long concentration, for he'd been amusing himself by poring over Milton's conversations with Satan.

“Tearful, I'm afraid. Did she seem to you any better today?”

Cicero thought this over, then cleared his throat. “She still neglects to order me to straighten a room, improve her tea, or feed the fire. That, you will agree, is unusual. No complaints, either, about the news her brother brings us from the village. And, no word from Boston.” Laying his book aside, the old man shook his head with a frown.

Charlotte shared Cicero's sense of helplessness. Both of them knew that mourning for a young child should not be encouraged; such deaths happened far too often. For the sake of the living, one was expected to return to normal patterns of life as soon as possible. But the former major-domo and guardian of what was once the Longfellow establishment in Boston—who knew well that its junior member would often surprise them—had found something else to worry him.

“What are we to do,” he asked, “if she decides to stay?”

“Stay? Here? You don't really think—?”

“Today,” he returned, “if she were asked, I believe she would refuse to go to London. Yet it seems the governor may be off before long, and so I wonder about the captain…”

“Oh!” The new thought saddened Charlotte further— and she could imagine why Cicero found it alarming. Diana was willful and did tend to be inconsiderate, though the happiness she'd found with Edmund seemed to improve the common faults of a child raised by doting women. The captain had been able to moderate his wife's quick opinions by exposing her to his own, which were generally more charitable. But if he were to go—?

“In that event,” she asked, “do you really think Diana would choose to live here with Richard, rather than return to her mother's house in Boston? Since she dislikes the country, such a course would hardly seem prudent.”

“No,” Cicero agreed with a sharp look, until she saw his point. Prudence was not always Diana's guide, especially when her feelings offered to lead the way.

But were any of them different, when something threatened the flame at the core of one's heart? Then, did wisdom or reason offer the best protection? When she'd lost Aaron, she'd wished it wasn't so—wished so hard it seemed he'd returned to comfort her. If his imagined presence was not exactly real, it was certainly
something.
To this day, she might find herself surprised by an unexpected touch, a familiar scent, the sound of steps, or rustling… things that had been born of great need, she suddenly saw, as much as by desire.

Knowing she would think more on each of these matters as the night wore on, Charlotte bid Cicero a fond good evening, and set off for her own fireside.

I
T WAS REFRESHING
to walk out into the dark, past the bare, pruned stubs of Longfellow's mulched roses, and on to her own kitchen garden. Again, Charlotte found the cold air useful for clearing her thoughts. She stopped a moment to appreciate the hour, pleased with the warmth her wool cloak gave her, and the smoothness of the silk scarf she'd wrapped about her throat.

Something new attracted her attention—something not right. The sky had flickered, as if it were lit by lightning high above the clouds. But there
were
no clouds this evening, except for a single mare's tail that glowed faintly in the starlight. But there it was again—an illumination that might have come from a giant lamp, held high above the northern pole. With this thought, she knew that what she saw was a pale form of the aurora. Fascinated by this rare display, she watched vague patches of light scurry back and forth across the heavens.

Though the
aurora borealis
did seem magical, it was a natural occurrence. She'd heard it said these northern
lights, particularly when beautifully colored, were an omen of evil. She did not believe it. Why they came and went, none knew exactly, but she thought them lovely. Yet they did nothing to combat the cold, and so at last she lifted her door's latch and went inside.

In the kitchen, her nose twitched at the scent of hanging herbs and a pine fire, while her eyes enjoyed a scene she'd expected. Lem was engrossed in a book. Orpheus, who'd been asleep, got slowly to his feet. Shaking his speckled fur, he approached and put his soft muzzle against her hand, while his feathery tail and hind quarters wagged a further welcome.

At the sound of her voice, Lem got up, took her cloak, and hung it on a peg behind the door.

Charlotte removed her shoes and sat with her skirts drawn in, until Lem had tossed another log into the fire.

“How was the ice this afternoon?” he asked, taking a seat beside her.

When she'd arrived earlier he'd been in the barn, busy with the evening milking. He'd not seen her run swiftly up the stairs to change her clothing, and re-pin her hair.

“Exhilarating,” she said at last, glad to have found a truthful answer. She
had
been cheered to find the outcome no worse.

There seemed to be a further query in his eyes. If, she thought once more, she planned to return to the island, Lem would be a logical companion. Or, she might ask him to give the spoon and cloak to Alexander Godwin. She decided she would tell him something more of her day after all.

“I paid a visit to Boar Island.”

“What! I'd no idea you were acquainted with those women. Were you invited?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Well… I'd met Mrs. Knowles before. And I've been asked to return.”

“Huh!”

“They're lonely, Lem, as you might suppose. An occasional visit could make their lives easier. Would you like to go back with me?” The new look on his face caused her to suspect he kept something interesting from her. “What?” she asked.

“You already know, I guess, that it's dangerous to go up there.”

“Is it?”

“There are the boars, for one thing. And then…”

“Then you believe the other stories, too?”

“About supernatural beings? I'm open to the possibility,” he replied.

“You might bring that up in conversation with Mr. Longfellow one day. I'm sure we'd all find such a discussion extremely stimulating,” she said, in a way that made Lem wonder if she was serious.

“It's got a reputation, and it's had one for years,” he maintained stubbornly. “My grandfather told me men in his time were aware of lights floating around, and fires that would come and go, the sound of the huntsmen, strange music…”

“Have you seen or heard such things?”

“Well, no. But I do think it's a dangerous place, one way or another.” Her face told him she still required convincing, or at least something for her curiosity. “I can tell you a little about the rest of it,” he offered.

“You've been there, too?” Charlotte asked in surprise.

“My brothers and I were warned to stay away. I did go once, though, when I was twelve.”

“You never told me.”

“I took an oath to keep mum.”

“But how did you get there?”

“That summer, Ethan made a kind of bark canoe. Not a very good one, but it could float for an hour or two. Then we had to stop the new leaks with more pitch. My mother was forever asking why she found it on our breeches, and each time, she'd tell my father.” Recalling the outcome, Lem shifted in his seat.

“What were you planning to do?” Charlotte asked, feeling a forgotten thrill herself. Once she, too, had hoped to reach the island and explore it, no matter what others told her. She'd even supposed she might find plants and animals related to those in Spanish America, or India, or other places she'd read of.

“We had no real plan,” Lem continued, “but we crossed the water and a few patches of reeds, and landed at a place we were sure couldn't be seen from the house. Walking along the shore, we found a crack in a face of rock, covered by a lot of vines. That took us into something like a little meadow, with cliffs all around. There was a sort of hut there, no more of it left than stone walls and a chimney. It made us imagine we might meet a castaway, like Robinson Crusoe—but all we did was eat our bread and cheese, climb the cliffs a while, and then paddle home.”

“I would like to see it for myself—though perhaps in summer, as you did.”

“I've heard the island's boars killed a man once, who went walking alone. I wouldn't advise it, Mrs. Willett. Nor, I think, would Mr. Longfellow. After all, he's warned me his own pigs can be dangerous.”

“That's true…”

“But just visiting the house might be safe enough. If they really are lonely. How did it look? How were the ladies? ‘Old Cat and Mad Maud,’ my father used to call them, though I'd never call them that to anyone else.”

“I'd say Mrs. Knowles is not without thorns. But she was kind to me. Maud's given name is Magdalene. It seems she was born with an affliction which causes her to lack judgment; Catherine also hinted she's not always been in her right mind. I suppose that's one reason they've kept to themselves for so long. But today, when we took tea together, everything went well enough.”

“Is the house full of relics, from the Crusades?”

“I don't think they're quite that old,” she said with a gentle smile.

“Alex Godwin swears they are. But he often says things he knows aren't true, and then mocks anyone who believes him.”

“An annoying habit,” said Charlotte, in sympathy with one she assumed had been such a victim. “I would say the furnishings are something like those of an English gentleman's country manor. Or one from Hanover, which is where John Fisher came from.”

Here she stopped, unwilling to put into words further ideas she'd had about Mrs. Knowles's father, remembering the tapestries she'd seen, and the tales she'd heard.

“Perhaps one day,” Lem said, “when the old woman dies, the village can see what it's like before it's sold.”

“I hope that won't be any time soon.”

“Few will regret it when it does happen,” Lem told her. “Except, possibly, the ‘Little Lord.’”

“Who?”

“It's what some of us call Godwin. I've heard it said the fool believes the island will be left to him, one day.”

Charlotte recalled something else Mrs. Knowles had told her, concerning a surprise in the boy's future. Could what Alex believed be true?

“That's why he always has airs,” Lem said, with an
expression that made Charlotte laugh as she rose from her seat.

“Since we'll be busy again tomorrow, I think I'll go up to bed.”

“Pleasant dreams.”

“And you,” she replied.

“Though I hope you're not troubled by thoughts of the river.”

“The river? How do you mean?” She watched as Lem bent to retrieve one of the boots she'd removed that afternoon, and left behind a broom at the edge of the hearth.

“Still not dry,” he informed her.

So he'd known all along! But would he say more? At the moment, it appeared not.

For his observation, her friend received a pained look from another who did not enjoy being deceived. Charlotte made her way out of the kitchen, into the front room. She walked past the tall clock, patting it out of habit. Finally she climbed the stairs to her chilly bed chamber, clucking her tongue while Orpheus padded softly behind.