No Rest for the Dove (19 page)

“Are you certain?” Longfellow asked plaintively.

“Come, if you value what little peace you have left.”

He corked the bottle, and went up after her.

WALKING BACK INTO
the heat of the hall, Charlotte reached into her pocket and produced a small folding fan. This she began to wield as she gathered her courage. The pianoforte had stopped, and a discussion seemed to be taking place within the study. When they entered, Gian Carlo Lahte dropped Angelo’s hand, and came to bend over Mrs. Willett’s. Angelo turned away and gave a kick to the innocent leg of the instrument that had lately fallen silent. It was Longfellow who began.

“Mrs. Willett and I have been chatting, Lahte, and it seems she has some new concern.”

“
Sì
, madamina?” asked the Italian. Angelo dropped a stack of sheets with musical notations into an ornate traveling box, and slammed down its lid.

“Sì,”
said Charlotte. “I know things are done differently in Europe, or even in England.”

“Things? I am afraid …”

“Well, what is allowed. In certain cases.”

“Certain—cases?” He stared, which caused the two spots on Mrs. Willett’s cheeks to burn more brightly.

“I believe,” she said, “that I should start at the beginning. Or as close to it as I am able, and still be sure of my footing. Signor Lahte, you once told me, perhaps in confidence, that you came here fleeing from someone.”

“Ah, yes,” Lahte admitted, glancing at Angelo’s back.

“You also said, at first, that you did not know Sesto Alva—though you did seem uncomfortable when you saw him lying dead.”

“I am sure that I did! But I barely knew the man, Mrs. Willett. This is quite true.”

“Do you, then, know another member of his family more intimately?”

Lahte’s lips parted; strangely, no sound was forthcoming.

“It also seems,” she continued, “that you were the one who took the buttons, and the boots.” A nod was her reward, but still, no explanation was advanced. “You went to examine his saddle too, when you guessed Sesto Alva came here with a message. Perhaps from your servant, whose reason for coming is still unclear to the rest of us. Unless—could it be that Angelo, too, has fled? Perhaps from a father?”

“I beg of you, ask me no more! The boots, the buttons—these cannot matter. But speak further of Angelo, and you force us both to leave this place … for your safety, as well as our own.”

“Yet if you stay, and if what is already rumored were to be discovered—” said Longfellow balefully, reaching a conclusion of sorts at last.

Lahte drew a long breath. “Yes—I have admitted to you that Angelo is not like most
musici
. This is quite true. He has declared his love for me, was in pain without me, and so he asked Sesto Alva to bring him here. This was
against his father’s wishes—and mine. Now, I fear, he is unhappy for what he has done. Of course I could send him away again. But would it not be better to help him, to find for him some employment, while time heals the wound I gave when I did not intend it? He serves me well, after all. He is even something like a small brother, in my eyes. Surely, there can be nothing wrong with this?”

A groan escaped Charlotte’s lips. “Is that
all
of the truth you care to tell us?” she asked, watching Angelo turn smoldering eyes upon them both, realizing that a good deal of what they said was, in fact, understood.

“I beg of you, Mrs. Willett, keep whatever you suspect secret, only for a little longer!”

Charlotte was about to reply, but stopped as Angelo rushed through the open door, where he jostled another figure attempting to enter. Signor Lahte leaped up, but with enormous effort forced himself to remain where he was.

To everyone’s surprise, Lydia Pratt came in. With the help of a curling iron she had now coaxed several black screws of hair to hang beside her brightened cheeks, further softening her usual bun. Beyond that, she had tucked her neck scarf well down, to reveal a red poppy nestled between semicircles of blue-veined flesh.

“Signor Lahte? I have come at the request of the ladies of Bracebridge,” Lydia nearly sang. “We ask you the favor of listening to our unanimous decision, and our
sincere
desire …” She paused in her pleasure to gasp for breath.

“Signora?”

“We
hope
, as long as you plan to stay, that you will consent to become the maestro of our little choir! You might assist us in our singing—and possibly show us a few courtly dances. The youngest among us could learn from you, too, the manners practiced by the best society. Although it would appear your servant could benefit from
learning these first, for he has almost run me down in the doorway.” With this last, disapproval took its customary place upon her features.

Now it was Richard Longfellow’s turn to groan softly, while he asked again a question that occurred to him lately with increasing frequency. Had the overheated world about him gone completely mad? Still, he rose to the occasion as a host and a gentleman.

“Mrs. Pratt? Lydia. Would you care, I wonder, for a cup of tea?”

D
IANA MONTAGU STOPPED
to examine the few treasures gathered during half an hour’s wandering through the fields; she held some lacelike flowers, a small, shiny rock, and a stick with a round swelling in the stem. Her brother, she thought, would enlighten her as to what the last was. It might make him less irritable if she showed some interest in his many dull acres. And after all, what was life, she asked herself as yet another mood overtook her, if one could not bring a little happiness to others?

Though the air was stifling, she felt better as she remembered her recent city walks, and the trials to which they’d subjected her. Here, at least, one did not expect to be bothered—not out in great expanses of green, brown, and silver, where pretty butterflies swooped and rose over weeds and a few bright blossoms. There even appeared to
be faint stirrings of a breeze, for something ruffled the topmost leaves and branches of the trees winding their way along Pigeon Creek.

Inhaling sweet smells, Diana walked with renewed purpose toward the green ribbon before her, hoping to sit and bathe her feet. She then noticed a streaking object of white and tan, which looked like someone in shirt and breeches running along a stone wall, before disappearing into the creek’s hollow. She presumed it was young Angelo. At least, he would be unlikely to stop and babble at her.

Once among the trees, she found a path made by some sort of animal—or possibly Indians, she imagined with a thrill. How good it would be to sit amidst the cool, thick grass! But she decided against this for the sake of her skirts. Then, when she realized they were hardly her best, Diana again changed her mind and sat.

Overhead, a woodpecker began a rapid tapping that made her more aware of quieter birdsong, once its echoing knock had ceased. So soothing was the whole scene that she removed her hat and lay back, disappearing from the world’s view. She allowed her cares to fly away—as far, perhaps, as the distant blue visible through a tracery of leaves. Then, she heard a sharp chattering. A squirrel above her, a large gray one, seemed perturbed. A new sound came from the water—probably the boy splashing as he walked toward her through the creek bed. Would she be discovered? If she stayed where she was, she thought, the grass would hide her. A much larger splash made her suspect the child had fallen into one of the holes where, according to her brother, men and boys sometimes came to bathe. She laughed softly, listening to his irritated mutter.

Carefully, Diana rolled onto her side, and raised her
head—just, she supposed, as an Algonquin princess might have done. As if to oblige her curiosity the boy stopped, turning to look behind him. He pulled off his wet shirt, and she had a clear view of his back. No marks there, she was glad to see. At least Lahte had not beaten him yet. He had smooth, lovely skin. If he continued, she thought wickedly, she might yet see more of it.

Suddenly the boy ducked, and rose up like a harbor seal. As she watched the water flow from his dark hair, Diana got to her knees quietly; grasping a branch, she pulled herself upright. Feeling she committed a pleasant indiscretion, she took several steps toward the bank, holding on to some foliage for balance and cover. She would have taken one step more if the loose, moist grass at the edge of the creek had not given way. Instead, she pitched forward; only the branch in her hand slowed her descent into the water, while her feet slid helplessly down the muddy bank. Finally she lost her grip entirely and sat down in the creek, wet to the waist, while the boy faced her with a look of amazement.

Diana’s next discovery only caused her shock to increase—for she saw that the child was not as he should be. How, she asked herself, would the handsome Signor Lahte explain
this
development?

“Signora!” Angelo cried. Though he seemed about to bolt, he stayed and helped the less fortunate Mrs. Montagu in her plight. After a period of tugging and tussling together, both collapsed safely into the grass. A string of rapid words followed, which Diana could not understand—yet their import was unmistakable. Someone would soon feel the brunt of a raging temper—no doubt, she decided, for good reason!

Waiting no longer, Angelo snatched up his shirt and set off for the house at a run.

Diana gathered her skirts in her hands, and lifted them well above her sodden slippers. Then, walking as quickly as she supposed Dr. Warren would allow, she hurried forward, hot on the trail of Angelo’s flying heels.

“
OF COURSE, WE
have no
intention
of inquiring into your plans,” Lydia Pratt insisted, as Charlotte poured a cup of tea from the pot Cicero had just provided. “It is only that we hope to become better acquainted.
Will
you remain with us for long, signor? And is your little boy to stay, as well?”

Charlotte shrank into a chair behind the tea service, feeling Lahte’s embarrassment, as well as Lydia’s apparent lack of anything like it. Of course they had been unable to continue their original discussion; that still hung like a threatening cloud over three of the four present. Suddenly, as if the long-awaited storm had arrived, a door at the back of the house flew open with a bang, causing them all to jump. A moment later a pair of feet thundered through the passage, and they had a glimpse of Angelo as he ran toward the stairs to the rooms above. Soon a door above them slammed. Another in the upper hall opened with an oath; a further set of steps marked the progress of Edmund Montagu coming down.

Gian Carlo Lahte sat back with apparent relief. He seemed about to speak, when a noise similar to those abovestairs came from the kitchen. This time, it led to the sudden appearance of Mrs. Montagu.

The bedraggled state of his sister’s dress was enough to bring Longfellow to his feet. She hissed and motioned for him to sit, while she caught her breath.

“My dear!” cried Captain Montagu, entering the room behind her. He, too, was shushed. Diana created a dramatic
pause by raising a hand, making sure of her hold over the assemblage.

“Where,” she demanded, “is Angelo?”

“Angelo?” asked Montagu. He whipped around to face Lahte. “What has the boy to do with this?”

“I believe,” said Longfellow, “that he’s gone upstairs. What has happened, Diana? You look surprisingly unkempt.”

“I’m sure I do! For I was almost drowned in that filthy stream of water behind your house. As it is, my gown is ruined—and several other expensive articles of clothing, I have no doubt!”

“As you are a poor swimmer, I would advise you to choose a tin tub, the next time you wish to bathe,” her brother replied dryly.

“Yet had I done so, I would hardly have seen—”

Observing Lydia Pratt for the first time, Diana narrowed her eyes as if her own home had been invaded by something small, and less than welcome.

“Well, what
did
you see?” Longfellow prodded. “A moose, perhaps, wandering up from the marshes?”

“What I
saw
was Angelo in the water, disrobing—”