No Rest for the Dove (18 page)

“I doubt he’ll attempt to shoe horses, if that’s your concern.”

“Now I’ve annoyed you. For that I’m truly sorry!”

“The fault is mostly mine, Nathan. But you’re not the only one to warn me lately. Why, I wonder, is no one else willing to make a stranger welcome?”

“I agree that it’s a wise precaution—for it’s said any traveler might be an angel in disguise. But I would add, not too welcome, or too soon. If he makes his home with us, I’ll be glad to offer him my assistance. In fact I already have, on the very afternoon he came from Boston.”

Thinking back, Charlotte recalled Longfellow’s suggestion of a siesta, on their way home from viewing the body in the cellar—a suggestion to which Lahte had immediately agreed. “What did he want here?” she asked the smith.

“He asked about his horse and chaise—the one he’d rented to drive here—and made sure we would send it back quickly. And then he wanted to know about the mount ridden by the poor devil found on the road. He asked to see the saddle as well, but neither suited him.”

He could have been seeking a message, she supposed, as he seemed to have done with the boots and buttons. Though why, exactly, she still could not say.

“I understand what it is to be new to a village, you know,” Nathan went on. “When I arrived here, I greatly valued the loan of one particular pair of ears. I still do. Here, let me regale you with a story I ran across only last evening. As you have an interest in things of a mysterious nature, I think you’ll find this worth pondering. It seems a merchant in the Blue Boar yesterday was in Boston last week, where he saw our dead man—while still living, of course—in another tavern. The Green Dragon, to be precise.”

“Oh?”

“But when the fellow got up to leave, he saw this Sesto Alva, who still sat at a table, walk in at the door!”

Imagining the scene, Charlotte replied with pointed curiosity.

“There were two?”

“There were, though some suggest that the first man was, in truth, what our Dutch friends call—er—”

“A doppelgänger?”

“That’s it. Do you suppose such a thing could exist?”

“Do you?”

“I’ve never seen one. Nor do I want to! I have, however, now that I think of it, seen a man who closely resembles his brother.”

“That does seem more likely.”

“So I suppose it is not much of a story, after all.”

“On the contrary,” Charlotte replied seriously. “Is there any more?”

Nathan stood up, and added the few details he’d previously omitted.

“Have you heard,” Mrs. Willett then asked the smith, after taking a little time to think, “that Captain Montagu also found Signor Lahte’s servant in Boston?”

“The boy called Angelo.”

“Who traveled to Boston with Sesto Alva. But as far as I know, Angelo has made no mention of this ‘brother.’ Surely, he’d think a relation would be interested in claiming the body? And wouldn’t it be surprising enough, if Alva did meet a family member here unexpectedly, for him to share the story with his servant? Especially as he had no one else to tell?”

“There could have been bad blood between them. But I’ve a new suspicion, Mrs. Willett. There may be more to this Alva’s death than has yet been told to the village. Do you think so?” Her eyes told him he’d hit on a truth. “It does seem,” the smith went on, “that their meeting was less than pleasant. Perhaps, too, Alva saw his business as none of a servant’s concern—especially one so young.”

“That may be true, as well. I only hope we’ll meet this second man, whoever he is, when he learns Sesto Alva has died here. Unless he already knows—”

She stopped short, considering.

“Or, he could have been unaware of Alva’s visit to us,” said Nathan, “and might well have moved on. If that is so, he may never hear what has happened.”

“It’s an interesting puzzle,” she said, attempting to hide her growing suspicion that it was something far worse.

The blacksmith only smiled, glad to have been of service.

W
HEN SHE HAD
reached the road, Charlotte was not at all sure what made her suddenly change her plan and continue up the hill in the direction of her farmhouse. Once inside, she passed Hannah with barely a word. The rest of the beans would have to wait, and the pears could be hanged! She went into her study, closed the door, and sat in its deepest chair, slouching in defiance.

Was it only the heat that made her feel as if her skin had just come into contact with a patch of nettles? She did not think so.

First, Signor Lahte had said he had no idea of the identity of the man found dead beside the road, or how he came to be there. Then, he remembered that he
might
know the man, but barely; in fact, he admitted no connection,
though he and Sesto Alva, and Angelo, had all came to Bracebridge from Milan. Still, she had attempted to believe him. And now, it seemed there was yet another visitor from Milan—the
double
of Alva. It was too much!

On top of that, Lahte was jealous of a younger man’s attention to his servant, though he held the eye of nearly every woman in the village! Not that she, herself, hoped to gain his further approval. She hoped for nothing from him at all … except, perhaps, the honesty he had promised. Honesty?
Pffff!
Mrs. Willett blew a strand of hair away from her face. Did he suppose her a complete fool? Someone to whom he could talk sweetly, while adding another link onto his absurd story?

The boy now had a thing or two to explain, as well. Although in his case, she suspected, sympathy would soon make her regret her anger. For Henry had seen the child in tears….

Quite honestly, she reconsidered, could it be Lahte’s fault that she had been wrong about Thomas Pomeroy? But could she then be wrong about Gian Carlo Lahte, and Angelo, too? There was
something
curious about the young man, who seemed to bear her an unspoken ill-will. Why?

All of her uncertainties of the night before reappeared. She had guessed Il Colombo had been chased from Milan by a husband. But perhaps … perhaps he had not lied to her, exactly, after all? Might he only have held something back? She tried to recall Lahte’s exact words.

I did wish to avoid a certain person, at least for a time … it is a woman who cannot refuse her feelings … she threatened to leave her home … I tried only to spare an old man…
.

Then, as if the season had changed in an instant, she saw the truth leap through a highly colored forest—one which she, herself, had fashioned.

He
could
have told her more. She had believed in him—in fact, had only refused to believe after his attentions to her had stopped. The shame of this now struck her with some force. But if what she suddenly sensed—no,
knew—
was true, then surely, there was something far worse to worry about!

Charlotte rose and went into the kitchen, where she left a quiet word with Hannah. She took a cloth, and went into the cellar to chip pieces from a square of pond ice buried in sawdust. Then she wrapped the chips in the cloth and applied it to her neck, her shoulders, under her thin muslin bodice.

Feeling cooler, she left the cellar with a new plan. When one wanted to verify a suspicion, the simplest thing to do was ask. As a strategy, it was less interesting than most. But sometimes, it did work.

WHEN SHE ENTERED
Richard Longfellow’s back door, Mrs. Willett heard the pianoforte ringing out from the study. She paused at the entryway to gaze inside. Angelo, she saw, played reasonably well, while Il Colombo stood ready to turn a page. There seemed no doubt today that Lahte delighted in Angelo’s company, bending even now to touch a dark curl. It was done with what appeared to be the gentleness of a fond father, yet now that she knew….

Here, in America, things were scarcely as they were in Italy. For here, possibly—yes, here, surely, the musico must have thought he would find peace, one day. But in fact he might well find eternal rest instead, and soon, if what she had finally seen became evident to another. Had one life already been claimed by vengeance? This seemed to her increasingly likely. For if Sesto Alva had come to Bracebridge with a warning….

The thought chilled her further; yet it was with a clear, uplifted spirit that Charlotte hurried on in search of Richard Longfellow. She found Cicero reading in the front parlor, his feet propped by a low stool, a glass of cold tea at his side. He began to rise, but she motioned him to stay still.

“Have you, too, rouged yourself, Mrs. Willett?” he asked as he stared. “Or is it only the heat? Would you care for something?”

“Perhaps when we can sit and talk. At the moment, I need to speak with Mr. Longfellow.”

“In that case, he is in the cellar … and I wish you well.”

Arriving at the cellar door, she heard several clanks, and then an oath. She took the top steps carefully, squinting down to see what might be the matter. A musty, earthy smell grew until she stood on packed dirt, next to a rainwater cistern under the kitchen floorboards. The rest of the room flared out to hold shelves and bins; a further door, she knew, led to a closet by the chimney’s base, where glasses of preserved fruits and vegetables were annually saved from frost. Along one wall, lit by a handful of candles melted into brick shelves, were racks of wine bottles that came from several nations. In addition, a pair of hogsheads held a lesser Madeira that was given out whenever the village held an ox roast, or celebrated the King’s birthday.

Longfellow rose swiftly, and cracked his head again on a wooden shelf. This brought forth another oath. When Charlotte offered to examine the damage to his skull he declined, but suggested they try a bottle which he chose after a moment’s rummage.

“When the rest of the world is an oven, this place becomes a useful refuge. Though few are wise enough to see it,” he declared to a nest of spiders above his head.

“I have seen Lahte and Angelo in your study.” To this, Longfellow offered no reply. “Where are the others?”

“Montagu, to the best of my knowledge, is writing in his room—roasting like a chicken, no doubt. My sister has gone out for a walk. It is rare to find her more clever than Edmund, but she is under orders, after all. Mrs. Montagu had no taste for breakfast this morning, and hopes to gain an appetite for dinner.”

Charlotte felt a momentary regret for having left the contents of her wagon at home, but decided Diana would soon have something far better to distract her.

“You look pensive as well as warm, Carlotta. This wine will help. It comes from the countryside near Paris; I believe many find it supremely refreshing.” With some difficulty he removed an unusual cork, creating a pop before he quickly poured a sparkling wine into two glasses.

Charlotte sipped, and smiled.

“Now, you may ask your questions.”

Abruptly, her mood changed. “Do I always come to you with questions, Richard? Am I never only civil, and good company?”

He looked at her more closely, seeing that he had stumbled onto a concern whose existence he had not suspected.

“Of course, Mrs. Willett, you are superior company, at any time! I thought you knew that. You must realize I would hardly thrive here as I do without your assistance. Though I’ll wager you have at least one question for me. What shall I forfeit, if I’m wrong? A bottle of this champagne for your cellar? A glass house orchid for your study, until winter comes? But what will you give me if I’m correct? What about a cold basket, under the trees along Pigeon Creek?”

“Richard, there is one thing—”

“Ha! Cold chicken, then, I think—and a small cake, too. Perhaps salad of some sort …”

“Is that all?”

“And a cheese. That is all.”

“Good. Now, I have an idea that will make you somewhat less pleased. I suspect Angelo was not Il Colombo’s servant in Italy, nor anywhere else.”

“Just what do you suppose he was, then?”

“That, I would like to hear from Signor Lahte, himself. I think you had better come with me, as his host and sponsor. I imagine what the two of them have been doing secretly will surprise you.” Charlotte turned and set down her empty glass. In another moment, she began to climb the steps.