A Wicked Way to Burn (22 page)

Finally, as he lay in bed, he had it. Curiously, the unusual smile he remembered had been on a woman’s face, in a small, dark oil he’d seen hanging in an enormous palace in Paris. It was a painting that had some indefinable magic about it. It had been painted by the old Italian … what was his name? Oh yes, he thought as he drifted off. Leonardo. Vaguely, he wondered if the man had known anything about poetry.

EARLIER, A LAMP
across the way had moved from house to barn, as Lem left Charlotte’s kitchen for the sweetness of his bed of new straw, next to warm and quiet bovine companions.

On their own, Charlotte and Richard Longfellow sat for another hour, watching the dying embers with Orpheus between them. The dog sighed while Longfellow curled and spread his fingers into the old fellow’s silky coat, working out a cocklebur.

Longfellow, too, had been offered refreshment, and had settled on a cup of mint tea, hoping it would help his digestion. He’d watched carefully as his neighbor prepared it for him, admiring her straight form, her country woman’s quickness, her efficiency of motion as she performed a familiar task. If only Diana had some of Mrs.
Willett’s natural desire to please, framed in a domestic setting of her own, he thought with little hope.

“I wish we could think of something between us to improve Mary Frye’s future,” said Charlotte after she had poured out the tea. “I know it would be difficult to go against her father directly. But Richard, you’re a well-respected man; if you could find something to tell him against Peter Lynch as a husband—”

“Would recent threats against another woman’s life do?”

“I don’t suppose we need to take much notice of that. After all, he hardly knew what he was saying.”

“He knew well enough, since the same threat had just been made to him! Whatever way he has in mind to carry it out,
that
was a warning.”

“But why? Lynch must know I have little influence with Mary. As for bringing up the coin—”

“Yes, now about that coin. As you so kindly pointed out, he could be blamed, even sued, for making false statements against Fortier, since he knew they
were
false. With lawyers as thick as hickory in the woods, our miller may yet find himself in a trap of his own making. Lynch has valuable property to lose, too, which seems to be a major attraction for the legal mind.”

“And Mary? Do you believe she’ll be safe now?”

“My guess would be she’s safer than the miller. The Frenchman seems to have a grand passion, and a short fuse. It’s a triangle of the oldest kind, and one that no one else should try to alter,” he added, waggling a finger in her direction.

“Am I to take two warnings in one night?”

“You are. I know gossip is not your worst vice, but the desire to find things out for your own satisfaction is a thing I’ve seen you carry to extremes. In this case, it might be unsafe, as well as unwise.”

Charlotte spread her fingers on her skirt, then
looked up with a toss of her hair which, Longfellow thought, looked surprisingly like honey in the firelight.

“Do you want to know what really piques my curiosity at the moment?” she asked him abruptly. “I’d like to know what’s come over Lydia Pratt. Mary said that Lydia
had
to go along with Jonathan tonight, because of something the girl could tell us, if she chose to. Which she did not. I’d like to know what Mary uses to keep Lydia at bay. The girl sounded as if she might consider blackmail as a weapon—although the word is probably too strong.”

“Blackmail, and Lydia Pratt the victim? That would be a satisfying twist. For someone who calls the tune as often as she does, a little enforced behavior is a delightful thing to contemplate. Ha! But what do you think this charge against Lydia could be? Is she keeping the profits of her geese from Jonathan? Great Heaven, she might be the leader of a local coven! She does have the face for it. She could even be the chief thinker of a criminal band … highwaymen who hide their plunder in her linen chests. Which will it be?” he asked, rubbing his chin with enjoyment.

“Did you know,” asked Charlotte solemnly, “that Lydia Pratt was the last person to speak with Duncan Middleton, and that she failed to mention it to anyone? She happened to have been overheard by your old friend Mr. Lee. At least, Diana overheard Jonathan telling Captain Montagu about it, and told me. So tonight, when the captain mentioned an accomplice—”

“You don’t think that
Lydia—?”

“What if Lydia knew Middleton before, and drew him here? After all, we’ve known her here in Bracebridge for barely three years.”

Longfellow couldn’t be sure what lay behind Charlotte’s look, but he allowed himself a chortle, nonetheless.

“You take none of this too seriously either, I see,” she finished with a small laugh.

“Some of it I do. And so should you,” he warned again, getting slowly to his feet. “When I go, I’ll check to make sure you’ve bolted the door behind me. And you might go to your study and watch my lantern—or Jonathan’s, at any rate, which I’ll take with me—until I’m safely through my own back door.”

He gazed out at the thrashing rain. His eyes became vague, even grave, filling Charlotte with new apprehension.

“The miller made no threats toward you, Richard,” she said, puzzled by the sudden change.

“No, he didn’t. But then, it’s not only the miller I’m worried about,” he replied, just before he gave her a quick brotherly kiss, and disappeared into the swirling night.

Friday

G
OD’S WILL,” SIGHED
Rachel Dudley, indicating the body of her son. A mother came to accept that the Lord worked in mysterious ways, her early visitor concluded, and that heaven answered few questions. But exactly how the young man had got to heaven was a question that might still be answered on earth, Charlotte Willett reminded herself as she stood in the doorway.

Sam Dudley lay on his own bed in a room he had shared with his younger brother, Winthrop. Now, Winthrop could be seen through small glass panes, sitting by the woodpile and holding on to a fowling piece that had come into his possession only the day before. What had become of Sam’s father, Charlotte could only guess—though John Dudley’s jug today might be a welcome consolation, she thought with some sympathy.

Charlotte stepped forward to examined the motionless figure. Sam’s chestnut hair had been carefully combed.
He was fully dressed, except that he wore no shoes. But his mother had covered most of the body with one of her quilts. A quilt in progress, on the stretching rack in the main room, was made of finer remnants; probably, it would be sold to pay for necessities, while Mrs. Dudley’s own family made do with rougher work. Sam’s loss would surely be felt as they continued the struggle to “get by.”

“He was so stiff with cold, it took me till this morning to lay him out proper.”

Somehow, she’d managed. Charlotte had half expected to see signs of a fight for life. But Sam looked as if his last day on earth had ended in peaceful sleep. The only odd thing to be seen was a scrape on his forehead. Had it been, after all, a simple misadventure, a misreading on the boy’s part of some known danger? Or had it been something far less common, and far more horrible?

Charlotte reached to touch a beardless cheek. Then her fingers took the quilt away from the long neck. Now, she saw a small bruise at the front of the boy’s throat. And the throat, she speculated uneasily, seemed not quite as round as it should have been.

Meanwhile, Rachel Dudley had taken up a beaded deerskin bag from the bedside table, to explore it with fingers tired from clutching. She spoke proudly, through trembling lips.

“This was a gift I made for him last Christmas, right after his father gave him the musket to hunt with. He told me he needed something to hold powder and shot. I made it as pretty as I could, and he always wore it under his shirt, right next to his heart.”

Her voice caught, and she stopped to whisk away a new tear almost angrily. With a determined motion, she sat and took up the cold hand lying next to her. Then she pushed the bag into its limp, curled fingers. Only now did Charlotte notice that the little bag’s knotted leather thong had been broken partway up its rawhide
length. “I guess it caught on something when he fell…” the woman went on, seeing the question in Mrs. Willett’s eyes. “I don’t know if he tangled himself in some bushes in the dark, or just exactly … what. They found it lying not far away, next to his gun. Winthrop’s got that now. I hope he’ll be more careful….”

Rachel Dudley suddenly shuddered, and she gave in to harsh, dry sobs. Charlotte’s own thoughts were far from calm, but she hid them for the sake of the grieving woman whose arms she held, until they stopped shaking.

In a little while, Rachel took up the cold hand once again. Then, as the mother became absorbed in memories, Charlotte offered soft condolence, and left the room.

A little girl with pigtails like braided corn silk stood just outside the doorway. She politely escorted her guest through the large room that served as kitchen, storehouse, and living area. There was a small cot next to the fire. It must belong to her tiny guide, Charlotte decided.

“Would you take some cider?” the child asked, as she’d certainly heard her mother do. Charlotte sank onto a low stool by the hearth. She shook her head as she adjusted the young girl’s homespun dress, which had lost one of its wooden buttons.

“Your name is Anne, isn’t it?”

“Yes—”

“Have you had your breakfast?”

“I had some with Win. We had porridge and syrup. Are those your combs?”

Charlotte’s eyebrows rose as she saw Anne looking at the top of her head.

“Yes, they are.” She stopped, recalling the warm spring day when Aaron had brought them home.

“I guess they’re made of real shell.”

“From a very large tortoise, I should imagine,” Charlotte agreed.

Anne drew in her breath to think of it. “My brother
Sam was going to get me a comb, when he went to Boston. That’s what he told me.”

There wasn’t much to say in reply. Sympathy would mean only unwanted pity to a serious girl of six or seven. The child had simply stated a fact. But now, the full sadness of the lost promise seemed to strike Anne, as she looked wistfully past Charlotte to her brother’s room.

“He told me he would, just like when he brought me back my ribbon.” Reaching up, Anne fingered the ends of a grease-spotted grosgrain band she’d tied around her neck.

“A very pretty ribbon. Golden, like your hair,” Charlotte said gently.

“Yes, but not as golden as
real
gold. A gold coin—”

The child suddenly gasped and dropped her eyes. In her open palm, she traced a circle the size of a small coin with the nail of a stubby finger, frowning. Then she sighed, and her eyes closed briefly with the effects of a night of fitful sleep, taken while others were weeping.

“Gold is pretty, isn’t it?” Charlotte agreed quietly. “Have you seen very much of it?”

“The only time I
ever
saw it,” said Anne, leaning closer, and lowering her already small voice, “was the gold Sam showed me. But he said I shouldn’t tell. I’ve seen silver before. After the harvest last year we had some, for a while. I got to hold it. It shined, by the fire, and there were crowns on it, too. The gold was prettier, but Sam wouldn’t let me hold it as long. He said it was a secret, after I spied on him and saw him pull it out,” she confided.