No Rest for the Dove (21 page)

“The Green Dragon,” she repeated with a look of sympathy that pulled a small smile from him.

“Then he may still be a patron. When he’s found, we’ll keep a close eye on him. However, if he succeeded in following his cousin from the tavern, then Don Arturo may have followed him here, as well. But how is it, sir, that you and he arrived in Boston at nearly the same time, as did your wife and Sesto Alva?”

“Though I set out before the others,” Lahte answered, “I traveled slowly, by land, as far as Calais. Then I stopped in London, to settle some accounts. Elena tells me she and Sesto left Milano three weeks after my departure; thinking to avoid discovery, they went by carriage to Marseilles. From there, a French ship took them on. I think it likely that Don Arturo came directly by water, perhaps from Genova—Genoa, you call it. If that is so, he might even have been the first of us to arrive.”

Charlotte shifted in her chair. Though she had little personal knowledge of ocean travel, she knew it could be a dangerous undertaking. Another question that had occurred to her was unsettled by a sudden wish to know if her brother Jeremy had arrived safely after his own crossing, for she had not heard from him since his departure.

“I am sorry,” Lahte continued, looking to Mrs. Willett and noting her unhappy expression, “that I have had to play a part before you. If there had been a different way—but until I could speak with Don Arturo, I thought it best to hide Elena from the world’s eyes. And then, madama, you guessed the truth.”

Signor Lahte had, in fact, given a grand performance, Charlotte decided. She would long remember some of its more pleasant moments. But she also knew that truth was
better, and safer, than illusion. It would soothe the inflamed village to know he was a husband, after all … if that knowledge did disappoint a few hearts. Now, Gian Carlo Lahte and his young wife could simply be themselves. And yet, she had to suppose their troubles were scarcely over.

“Edmund,” Richard Longfellow said quietly, taking the captain aside. “There is something else … something Mrs. Willett and I have discussed. I think you should seek out Dr. Warren, too, when you return to town.”

“He, at least, won’t be difficult to find. But why?”

Longfellow outlined Warren’s reasons for suspecting Sesto Alva’s death to have been unnatural—as well as Mrs. Willett’s more recent suspicions, founded on a sphere of granite.

“I will keep all of this in mind,” the captain finally answered. “But Richard, remember one thing more. Often, a hireling can be found to do a man’s bidding, whether it is lawful or not. A false Frenchman haunting Bracebridge may not be all you now have to fear. Quite possibly, one of Boston’s own ruffians has found a new employer….”

At this, Richard Longfellow looked increasingly uneasy—a thing for which Edmund Montagu was thankful.

L
ATER, MRS. WILLETT
walked out to find the Huntress, nearly full, climbing the blue sky to the east of Bracebridge, as Apollo and his golden chariot raced toward the opposite horizon. Despite this fine setting, she thought, her neighbor would have to make do with bread and bacon for his picnic, along with oiled, herbed greens. For his part, Longfellow had promised to dip into a jar of olives and to cut a slice from a wheel of cheese from Parma—both lately ordered from a Boston storehouse to make his foreign guest feel at home.

As she moved through her own garden, Charlotte listened to the distant calling of a mother to her child from a house down by the bridge. The air, still and clear, carried sound a long way tonight, she noted. She heard someone far off repeatedly striking metal on metal. When that
stopped, there was only a dim murmur she knew to be the movement of water among reeds, and the voice of crickets as they awoke from the torpor of the afternoon, to warn of the coming autumn.

She found it odd that Nature appeared as usual, after the drama of the day. Now, thanks to Lydia Pratt, wives surely told husbands what they’d learned earlier of the castrato and his marital arrangement. By the bridge where younger women frequently lingered, hoping to speak with youths on evening errands, news of Signor Lahte’s bride must also be a popular subject. Even the children would be buzzing with twisted tales of a dark, foreign man about to come and take them away, if their behavior did not improve.

Charlotte hoped the usual peace of the village would soon be recovered. But what if Don Arturo Alva did come, intending to retrieve his daughter—or to do even worse? Could Dr. Warren’s suspicions have been correct? Or even, perhaps, her own? The physician had still sent them no word.

When she reached Longfellow’s flowers, Mrs. Willett inhaled their heady scent, and found her neighbor cutting a pink specimen with a pocket knife. “Madam,” he called to her as she approached. “May I take the basket, and give you this rose as a compliment? You have been instrumental, once again, in bringing consternation to our lives, to occupy us all for days! Do I smell fried bacon?” When she had accepted the rose, he lifted the cloth from the basket with one hand, taking its handle with the other. “I am in very good humor tonight, Carlotta, for some reason. Possibly it’s because I cannot think of a better supper companion. I’ve left my own supplies on the patch of chamomile. Will you take my arm?”

“With pleasure, sir,” she replied formally. “I hope you won’t mind to hear I’ve invited one more….”

Longfellow’s face fell and he looked in each direction, until he noticed her smile. When her whistle had brought Orpheus from his exploration of a rock ledge, the three made their way to a flat and fragrant spot near a line of long shadows.

“You know,” Longfellow told her, negotiating a screw into the neck of a bottle, “some will think our rendezvous a romantic one, rather than a simple outing to enjoy the air.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Charlotte replied as she set out two plates.

“You’re not even a little pleased with the idea?”

“Tonight, I would imagine Bracebridge has other things to talk about,” she said, her tone sober.

“Of course. I only thought—”

“You supposed my feelings bruised, and believed I needed courage. You could even suspect me to be unhappy enough to enjoy revenge.” Her look assured him it was not so.

“Pass me the bread, and I will enjoy some of this bacon,” he said with an answering grin.

“Where have you left the others?”

“Cicero,” he said, finishing a bite and reaching for his wineglass, “is serving something or other to Lahte and Elena on the piazza. We all decided they would enjoy a few hours alone. As the old man knows no Italian, their secrets will be safe—if they have further secrets,” he added, his brow suddenly furrowed. “However, I believe for tonight they will put intrigue aside. They must be ready to fulfill one final promise of their marriage vows.”

“I think that’s already accomplished. Or do you imagine ‘Angelo’ slept at Lahte’s feet last evening, as he proposed?”

“Hmmm!”

“Though she’s young, I hardly think Elena lacks a woman’s natural feelings, or charming wiles.”

“Or the usual jealousies,” her companion added, his look to her more thoughtful than before.

“But where are Diana and Edmund?” Charlotte inquired, turning the topic away from her discomfort.

“They’ve gone to the inn, where they’re no doubt enjoying an intimate supper upstairs. They, too, have some private matters to discuss.”

“Does Edmund still plan to leave this evening?”

“When it cools. Now, he’s quite sensibly giving my sister more time to scold him. Diana is displeased to have been left in the dark with regard to our guest’s colorful history. She said as much when you left us earlier—in a voice none in the house could fail to hear.”

“Do you believe he’ll be able to find Elena’s father in Boston?”

“For Edmund, such a thing should not be too difficult—if the man is still there. But now, let us forget the others, Carlotta, and concentrate on the joys of our own supper. Tomorrow will be soon enough to think of this jumble again.”

Thus bidden, pleasure finally came, and remained with them for nearly two hours. Then, while a softer light embraced the earth and an owl began to call, Charlotte and Longfellow walked back toward the house. They paused to listen to Gian Carlo Lahte, they supposed, again playing the pianoforte, this time for his wife.

However, soon after, on her way up the hill to her own home, Charlotte saw something that told her they’d been wrong to presume the girl indoors. Elena Lahte, or at least a remarkably similar figure, stood not far from the garden path ahead of her, talking with someone under the vast web of moonlight.

Charlotte stood still. She also signaled Orpheus to sit, which he did readily, though his nose continued to seek out new information. At first, she had no wish to intrude on the pair who stood in her way. She even thought of
reversing herself and taking the broad road to her front door. But hearing harsh words, she changed her mind. They were not Italian, nor English, but French words—some of them, at least, fluently spoken.

Had either been less intent in their argument, they might have spied her through the light foliage of the tall roses. But at the moment, neither one seemed to have eyes for the world. Abruptly, the tenor of their confrontation changed from that of a difference of opinion to something stronger. Suddenly it appeared that the girl had been grasped, and was held close.

“Misero!”
Elena cried out the single word as she twisted free; then, she lowered her voice while backing away from Thomas Pomeroy. In another moment she turned, lifted her skirts, and ran toward the protection of her husband.

Mrs. Willett was prepared to clear her throat, so that Pomeroy might know further interference with Signora Lahte’s desires would be witnessed. But there was no need. Instead of following, Thomas Pomeroy spat on the dirt before him, and then stomped away. Careless of his clothing, he made his own path through the roses, taking a direct line back to the Bracebridge Inn.

Charlotte felt several things other than relief, as she and Orpheus continued home. What she had seen baffled her, and she now wondered all the more about Jonathan’s new servant. Had he waited for Elena to wander out into the garden for a breath of air, so that he might try his hand at seduction? Surely, the village had been full of such thoughts lately! And Jonathan had already assured her he supposed the young man possessed an amorous temper.

And yet, the real significance of what she had seen continued to elude her, even when she lay her head onto a feather pillow, and began another long, hot night of troubled tossing.

ALMOST AT MIDNIGHT
, a man in casual attire walked along Boston’s Union Street, until he saw the familiar sign of a green copper dragon.

When he went through the open door, the brick tavern seemed not unlike an oven slowly cooking an assortment of pungent humanity. Inside, the air was redolent of tobacco smoke and sweat, with a few less pleasant odors of a hot night; fortunately, these were sweetened by rum fumes, the aroma of citrus and spice rising from punch pots, and a prevailing smell of ale. All in all, this thick air welcomed city men long used to worse, if it did come as a contrast to that which Captain Montagu had lately enjoyed, riding in from the country.