A Wicked Way to Burn (14 page)

Her eyes soon adjusted to the subdued light that came in through a line of small windows. Facing her was a long row of dark, empty milking stalls. Hay had already been put into the continuous manger, at the edge of the flagstone aisle where pails were cleaned and stored. Lem had taken care to fork the manger full the evening before,
working from a pile of loose hay near the double door. That door was still barred on the inside. She removed its crosspiece from large metal supports. In a few more minutes, her young helper would lead the herd in from the barn. Then they would both begin to fill the wooden pails with warm milk for her buyers—and for their own breakfast.

This morning, Charlotte felt oddly uneasy in the darkness, despite the quiet, and the familiar animal smells of the barn. She picked up one of the empty pails, removed its lid, and examined it for cleanliness. Then, a small sound that seemed to come from the middle of the dairy made her look up. Whatever it was, it stopped almost before she could be sure she’d heard it; turning her head, she could hear nothing more. It might have come, she guessed, from the trench against the wall where the cows soon would be driven in. (Occasionally, a rat from the fields decided to move in as well, until Orpheus changed its mind.) Even though the hay inside tended to absorb noise, she could still hear the wind’s sharp play. Perhaps something had fallen onto the roof. She tilted another bucket and began to examine its depths, sniffing.

And so it was a complete surprise when the door she had recently entered blew open again and banged repeatedly. Shock caused Charlotte to lose her balance and fall back. Happily, her descent was cushioned by her heavy skirts, as well as the pile of hay behind her. She had just begun to laugh, when she quickly stopped. It had taken only a moment for her hands to feel the hay she had fallen into, truly feel its texture, its depth, and above ail its unexpected warmth.

Charlotte stood up with a movement almost as sudden as the one that had seated her. Quickly, she turned around to stare at the dim depression. Very recently,
someone else had been on that same hay, out of the wind, hidden in quiet sanctuary.

The door banged again. She remembered the careful way she had latched it against the wind when she came inside. Then she heard a cowbell, and in another second a tall figure opened one of the double doors behind her, fastening it back so that the black and white animals he escorted could amble slowly to their stalls.

A look of surprise grew on Lem’s face as he took in her dazed expression. And then, once more and with a
whoosh
, Charlotte Willett sat down.

“IT STILL MAKES
me fidget,” said Hannah Sloan later in the morning, “to hear of that Frenchman around here somewhere, up to no good.” She pulled a pile of bread dough into another large fold, and pushed it down again into the low wooden bin in front of her. Charlotte looked over from the table where she tallied her accounts.

“But you never felt that way about any of the Neutrals before.”

“We never before had such strange things going on! An old man disappears … and Emily Bowers says Hiram’s had reports of all sorts of trouble—from a child with fits, to a horse with the staggers. Though I suppose such things aren’t unheard of during the best of times. But as to this Frenchman, why, what if he
was
to lurk around, waiting to prey on a woman alone? Worse yet, what if one of the local men was to find him here?” Hannah added with a darting look.

Charlotte was glad she hadn’t mentioned the unknown guest in the diary that morning. But had Hannah seen him go?

“Mary Frye seems to think Fortier is an honest man,”
she finally answered. “Good enough to marry, according to what Nathan tells me.”

“When does a girl who’s lost her heart have any control over her head? Oh, I don’t blame Mary—she’s all right. But
he’s
an angry one, from what I’ve heard. And I’m not sure but he’s got cause to be. The way they were all treated, sent off from their homes like blackamoors, by His Majesty’s fine governor! If you ask me, it’ll be a long time before the Acadians forgive our king. Who’s to say war won’t break out all over again? What if the French should decide to come back? I say I’d rather know where the Neutrals in this country
are
, and keep my eye on them.”

“It’s my guess that Gabriel Fortier isn’t here. He probably went home to Worcester,” said Charlotte, skirting complete honesty.

“He might have … but with Peter Lynch pressing Mary for an answer, I doubt if the Frenchman’s in any mood to go far. No, he only left the Blue Boar to avoid the miller. He’s still around, somewhere.”

“But do you really think he’s guilty of any crime, Hannah?”

“Well, he was the first to leave, just in front of the merchant that night… though probably all of them had the same idea of lining their pockets,” Hannah said with a sniff as she thumped the stiff dough. “Still, I don’t see how anybody could have robbed the old man and then made him disappear that way, without being seen. But
somebody
must be guilty of something! I hear from my boys,” she continued, “the talk at the tavern, and the apple press, and the mill; and they tell me stories have come back from Concord and Worcester. Some are saying crime goes unpunished in Bracebridge, that ungodly things have been happening, and that it’s not safe here anymore. Well, the way our own men are starting
to talk about taking the law into their own hands, it may be all too true!”

MEANWHILE, OUT IN
the barnyard, Lem drove a maul deep into a section of pine. While the report of his hammer still rang, he stooped with a practiced, easy movement to throw the split pieces onto a small mountain of winter firewood. As soon as he saw Charlotte approaching, he greeted her with a broad, lopsided grin.

Admiring his work and enjoying the scent of the fresh slabs, she returned his silent greeting. More than the countryside had grown during the summer, she realized. Nearly to full height now, Lem seemed to have found a new grace, after a year or two of tripping over his feet. There was a promise of strength in his broadening shoulders, too. It was a fair trade for the sweat he put into his work.

“Autumn’s the busiest time for most of us,” Mrs. Willett began cautiously.

Lem agreed with a nod, wiping his face with a sleeve.

“So many jobs to take care of all at once. Do you think you could use some help this afternoon?”

He gave her a curious look through a lock of hair, and rubbed his hands over his upper arms, making no guesses.

“I only thought,” Charlotte added, “that we might share some of the work, and a little food, with someone less fortunate.”

He had to agree with that—and to admire again her kindly way of thinking.

“Like Jack Pennywort,” she added.

Now he looked at her with plain astonishment. He shifted from one foot to another, waiting to hear more.

“I have an idea he’ll be sitting in the Blue Boar, still
telling his story. I’d like you to go and ask him to come here in about an hour. And Lem …”

He brushed some wood chips from his sunburned arms, still listening.

“… if you should happen to see, or hear, anything that might be interesting … you might tell me about it when you come back. If you’d like to talk. Over a cup of tea.”

He gazed at her with new concern. Maybe he should think about asking Mr. Longfellow to drop in and speak with his mistress more often. Mrs. Willett must be desperate for someone to talk to … however impossible that seemed. Though it
was
pleasant to know she considered him a source of conversation. But he was apparently on a par with Jack Pennywort there. Lem wished he knew what he should say.

“I know what I’m asking may seem strange,” she went on, after trying to read his look, “but you see, I’m going out to dine later, at the inn. And I was hoping to learn more of the truth from Jack about what’s been going on. More than he’s thought to tell—or has been willing to! I need your help to get him here,” she finished in a rush.

Ducking his head, Lem shoved long arms into his coat. He was glad she couldn’t see the expression of pride on his face. Pride was a thing that looked silly enough, he often felt, on an older man’s face, let alone on a younger one’s, who should know better. That his mistress might consider him a man now, too—that she had even asked him to join her in a conspiracy of sorts—was something he’d have to think about.

I’ll do my best
, his final nod signified. Then he walked out quickly to the main road, to be further tousled by the gusty afternoon.

W
HEN LEM WAS
gone, Charlotte continued through the yard, looking forward to a visit with Richard Longfellow, reasonably confident he’d be hard at work on matters of interest to them both. Under bright autumn clouds she forced her way against the wind, across the fading gardens.

She eventually found him in his greenhouse, built against a rock wall that formed the south side of his barn. Cicero sat in its small vestibule, surrounded by late roses on trellises set against the costly glass walls. He appeared to be engaged in pleasant contemplation, with his eyes closed. Through the inner door, Charlotte could see Longfellow bending over a workbench.

“His experiments with the love apples?” she asked the old man, stopping for a moment to share his limestone seat.

“He’ll kill us all, before he’s through,” Cicero growled after a yawn.

“And Diana? Where is she?”

“Miss Longfellow is out this morning. She let it be known she didn’t care much for the smell last night, and that she was going to the inn to recover herself.”

“Ah,” said Charlotte. Diana’s current visit was proceeding along the lines of most previous ones.

The glasshouse was a breath of July in late October, due to the rich soils and growing things within its humid warmth. Southern honeysuckle twined next to pots of Appalachian rhododendrons and bare stalks of South American orchids. This year, a raised bed of West Indian pineapples grew below a permanent and fantastic palm, next to an orange tree in a Spanish jar. Several other beds were generally used for starting annual vegetables, or for growing strawberries.

Near the back, a multi-flued Baltic stove sat ready to protect the tenderest plants on the coldest nights, though the stone wall behind it stored sufficient heat from sunlight to keep the frost away during much of the spring and fall. Each morning, after late September, large felt shades which were attached to the rafters were rolled up, while at sunset, they were unrolled again and overlapped for more thermal protection.

Longfellow frequently explained the workings of the place to Mrs. Willett, and to anyone else willing to listen. And many did. The building and its contents, the result of years of research and experimentation, were the wonder of the neighborhood. This was especially true during the snowy months. Then, favored guests might be asked in for a meal taken
almost alfresco.
Others had to make do with peering in from outside.

“How are the
lycopersicon?”
Longfellow’s neighbor inquired with interest, joining him as he bent over clusters
of dark green leaves that partly hid several glossy red fruits.

“These inside are still doing nicely,” he remarked, picking back some errant stems with his long fingers, “but I don’t believe
pomodori
will ever be seriously grown for food here, the way they’re being cultivated in Italy—even though they’re one of our own natives. I’ve found they make an interesting condiment, with some spice added. But I predict it will never take the place of oyster sauce.”

“I seem to remember you telling me that all of the solanaceae, including these, can be deadly.”

“Some parts of them … and the nightshades, in particular. Although even they can have their uses. I’m sure you’re aware that Italian women often court love, and death, by widening their eyes with
belladonna.
Insanity is another frequent effect. In my opinion, however, it’s tobacco that’s the worst of the family. A wretched, dangerous thing to foist onto society. Our plantation friends are happily leading the rest of us to perdition, solely to line their pockets.”