No Rest for the Dove (23 page)

W
ITHIN THE GLASS
house built onto the side of Longfellow’s stone barn, Cicero spent the morning gardening, while he also cultivated a philosophical mood. Holding a clump of potted cactus from Mexico in his hands, he observed a web deep within its golden, curving spines. Here a spider had found safe haven, covering the smooth green skin with a circular tunnel the size of an old man’s thumb—though it seemed to do no harm. The spider might even assist the plant, he imagined, by devouring smaller visitors who came with a more destructive hunger.

He had seen more than one such cactus, though carefully watered and given good soil and sun, become host to cottony mites, and finally turn to brown mush. This particular specimen seemed to thrive on little water, with its
roots in gravel and a guest upon its back. As it did well, he would leave plant and animal as they were, he decided; he would not apply the yellow dust he’d already puffed onto the others.

Heat, sun, water, soil—it wasn’t easy to tell how much of a thing a plant might need. What suited one sort could cause another to sicken, and eventually to die. They were not unlike people, Cicero concluded, each born with a certain bent—a particular humor—which a wise man made little attempt to alter.

Cicero’s meditation beneath the lightly whitewashed panes was interrupted by a swish of skirts, as Mrs. Willett and Signor Lahte’s young wife entered the glass house. Signora Lahte, he presumed, must now be dressed in her own usual apparel; a previously secreted trunk had come earlier that morning from Boston. Today, she wore an open robe of bright, thin silk, with a beaded sash to accentuate her slight figure. Her eyes resembled smoky pearls, between lids and lashes carefully darkened with what he guessed was lamp soot. She had also reddened her lips somehow, and wore ruby drops at each ear. Amazingly, yesterday’s sulking child had been reborn a beauty—whose equal, as far as he knew, Bracebridge had not seen before.

It seemed to Cicero, too, that Elena quickly felt the mysteries of his sanctuary. And why not? Full of the incense of flowers, sulfur, and moist soil, with its raised tiers here and there aglow with deep color, it was not unlike a Roman cathedral—though the latter, he recalled, did tend more to darkness.

“Richard is away?” asked Charlotte, her voice subdued as her feet crunched across the gravel, while her skirt of plain linen whispered its own familiar greeting.

“This morning, Mrs. Montagu decided that he needed to take her out riding, in the chaise.”

“Oh. When I met Signora Lahte in the garden, I hoped we could all walk together, so we would be able to talk. My French speaking, as you know, is hardly—” She stopped as they watched Elena bend herself far back to marvel at the tree fern that nearly touched the roof.

“You may find, though, that you have another language in common,” Cicero replied. “One I expect we all share.”

“Which is …?”

“That spoken by the palate.”

Her look of puzzlement soon turned to amusement. “As well as the tongue? Of course!” she laughed. “Secluded here among rare vegetables, your wit is sadly wasted, sir. But we will respect your quiet worship of the beautiful. We will go out instead into Mr. Longfellow’s kitchen garden, where we will speak of sprouts.”

Pleased by her good humor and sense, the old man continued to smile long after Mrs. Willett had gone. He then decided that his neighbor possessed a beauty quite equal to that of Il Colombo’s young lady, after all.

WHAT CICERO HAD
told her was true. As Charlotte walked about the garden with Elena, the girl recognized much, repeating new names as her companion gave them—then giving back her own.

Basil, Elena informed her, was
basilico;
the mint,
menta;
thyme,
timo;
lavender,
lavanda
. On the other hand, the
salvia
she pointed to was not the cardinal flower, but ordinary sage;
prezzemolo
, plain parsley; the onion was
cipólla
, while French tarragon, as Charlotte recalled hearing before, was called
dragoncello
.

The greater world of vegetables seemed even less familiar. Although here, according to Elena, grew the familiar
carota
and
patata
, there was also the hot, red-bottomed
ravanèllo
, larger purple
rapa
, leafy fringed
lattuga
,
larger heads of green
cavolo
, and pimply green
cetrioli
. Yellow corn, it seemed, was
granoturco
, putting Charlotte in mind of turban-topped gentlemen in curling slippers. As she repeated the word she mimicked such a man, twisting the ends of long, invisible moustaches—causing Elena to cry
“Turco!”
and pretend to be a whirling dervish … until a blue butterfly floated by. Then she stopped and gazed with longing at its delicate beauty, as it played freely above their heads.

This lady was very different, thought Charlotte, from the petulant boy who had been jealous of her on the previous morning. Now, it appeared, Elena was happy in the knowledge that her place with her husband was secure.

And yet,
what of the previous evening
? How could she manage to ask of that? It still seemed to her that Elena had been threatened. What if it were to happen again?

Seeing Charlotte’s concern, the spirited girl appeared to encourage further conversation—perhaps, thought Charlotte, because she sensed an ally, and one who understood the world they shared as women.

At first the going was difficult but gradually, a flow of understanding grew between them. Soon, using words taken from French, Latin, and English, as well as movements of hand and eye, they abandoned their embarrassment and charged on like children designing a language of their own.

That Charlotte wondered about Thomas Pomeroy was made clear the moment she spoke his name. It took another moment for Elena to realize she and Pomeroy had been observed in the garden. Then, the girl let out a dramatic moan and produced a flood of words, which did little good. Halting, she began again, her dark eyes intense. She soon made it plain that Pomeroy had spoken to her of a drawing—the sketch of Sesto Alva that Richard
Longfellow had lately put up at the inn across the road. This Thomas Pomeroy had seen. He had also, apparently, seen Sesto Alva before, out on the Boston-Worcester road. And he had seen not only Sesto, but Gian Carlo Lahte—for the two had been together!

When this was understood, Elena vigorously shook her head, calling it a lie, asking, as did Charlotte, why Lahte would not have said so before, even to his wife. As for Thomas Pomeroy, Elena suspected he thought himself in love with her. Charlotte showed that she had supposed much the same—even while the girl masqueraded as a boy. And yet, she asked herself, what could Thomas Pomeroy have hoped to gain by his lie? Had he actually believed Elena would go with him, thinking her husband had murdered her kinsman? That seemed unlikely—until Mrs. Willett realized there might be a further explanation.

She drew a sharp breath as she recalled Captain Montagu’s warning of the previous afternoon. Praying the girl would understand, she continued with as much speed as both could manage.

“Elena, could your father … pay someone—pay a man … to harm … to injure …
faire du mal, à ton époux
?”

“My husband?” Elena looked at her with amazement.

Charlotte abruptly remembered Jonathan Pratt’s jewel—given to him by Thomas Pomeroy! What if Don Arturo met the boy in Boston, and gave him the diamond as a partial payment? Could Pomeroy then have come to Bracebridge
to await the arrival of Gian Carlo Lahte
? He might have hoped to steal Elena away—perhaps even to avenge her father. And, if such a thing
could
be bought, might Elena’s father also have paid for the death of Sesto Alva?

Elena suddenly rose to the tips of her toes and pointed
toward the house, while her other hand flew to her lips. Below them, someone crossed the road, making for Richard Longfellow’s front door. Even at a distance, both knew it could be only one man.

In the same instant, Charlotte realized Lahte was alone in the house. He might have arranged for something to be brought to him from the inn … or Lydia might have sent her servant with something—it did seem Pomeroy carried something on a tray—something hidden beneath a cloth—!

Choosing to trust her instinct, Charlotte bolted. While she ran, she lost sight of Thomas Pomeroy as he went behind the house. Then she heard a sharp scream; Elena had joined her on the path that led to the kitchen door.

Once inside, both stopped … but they could hear nothing more than their own breathing. Clutching a handful of Elena’s skirt, Charlotte motioned for her to follow, down the passage that led to Longfellow’s study. The two women stepped silently over carpets and boards until they came to the open door, and peered through into the familiar room.

Gian Carlo Lahte looked up at them from a book, smiling a question at their sudden appearance.

“You could be in grave danger,” Charlotte warned. Something in her face convinced him at once. Lahte leaped to his feet, looking around for a weapon, finding one in the hearth’s metal poker.

Wielding this, he inquired further. “Where?”

Again, they stood frozen in silence. But there was still no sound, until Elena gave a small, helpless gasp.

“We have just seen Thomas Pomeroy,” Charlotte explained, “coming to the front door. I can’t say for sure—but I think he may carry a pistol. Did you summon him?”

“No.” Lahte shepherded the women into a corner. He
then went out into the hall. In a few moments he returned, perplexed.

“No one is there. But why do you—”

“If he heard us come from the back to warn you, he may have gone,” said Charlotte, hoping this was true. As his wife sank into a chair, Lahte went to her side.

“Cara?”
he asked, only to see her shrink back in horror. Once more Elena screamed, but this time the sound came from her very soul. In another instant they heard the sharp report of a pistol fired from outside the study’s open window. Next came a crash as a metal round exploded a large enameled vase that had stood only inches from Elena’s raised hand.

Had Lahte not been in the act of kneeling to his wife, it could easily have been his head that received the impact, Charlotte realized with a sickening jolt. Wanting to approach the window, she held back, asking herself if Pomeroy might not have a second weapon ready to discharge. Then Lahte leaped toward the casement himself. She lunged to pull him away, while he shouted a barrage of abuse.

After that, both watched Thomas Pomeroy run off across the fields toward the river, twisting back grotesquely from time to time, as if he were a dog whose tail had been caught in the jaws of a cruel trap.

“
THE SCOUNDREL MUST
have hidden a boat in the marshes,” declared Richard Longfellow. He had heard the terrible story; now, the great affront he felt to both himself and to his guests was apparent in the rippling of his cheeks. He took a glass from Cicero, who brought wine for them all.

“The young wretch,” he concluded, “would have had no motive of his own, being little known to any of us. So
you could be correct, Mrs. Willett, in assuming Thomas Pomeroy to be in the pay of Don Arturo.”

Charlotte saw that Elena’s eyes swam with the pain of new awareness, while her fear ebbed away. She hardly wished to add to this anguish, but had little choice.

“Richard, what if the boy was sent not only to kill Signor Lahte …”

“What else?”

“He may have been paid to take Elena, too, and bring her back to Boston.” She could not make herself say a second possibility that had occurred to her. The proud father might also have wished to destroy a daughter who had brought him shame.

“Hmmm. It would seem, then, that Montagu was correct. We must confront the father; and we may all be safer in Boston, than here.”

“I assume so,” Diana readily agreed. “
We
have locked our doors for years against villains who would prey on us, or take our silver—at least in the evening. Besides, after what I have seen happen in this place, Richard, I ask myself if your village is not more dangerous than most of Massachusetts.”

Lahte had been listening to Elena as the girl, who had taken him aside, spoke rapid Italian. Finally, with a look of sadness, he turned back to the others.

“In Boston, Richard, we will wait for a ship to take us away. Even in the beginning you seemed to know this would be so. Elena and I will return to a place where I have more power to protect her—where I have greater influence in society. We will go to London.”

“But first,” said Diana, “you must rest with us in Boston, for a few days at least. At Richard’s house, I think, for it is larger. Charlotte, do come, too. I should like to have your company. And yours?” she tried, giving Elena a look the girl seemed not to understand. But when Diana
held out a hand to her, it was accepted. This, thought Charlotte, was a kindness which gave both women a renewed sense of safety, though it was something she found herself unable to share.

Longfellow now made a suggestion.

“We might arrange for a musical evening, Gian Carlo, to encourage Boston’s support, as well—in case you should again change your mind … or, should you need further help while you wait for passage.”

“I shall be happy to meet the people of Boston,” Lahte began in reply, until a sharp rap came on the front door. He and the others seemed to stiffen, as Cicero went out of the room. In a few moments, Christian Rowe was ushered in, trailed by a woman in the throes of her own agitation.

“We have here a thing that must, by law, be returned,” Rowe began officiously. “For I fear it has been stolen! Mrs. Knox came to me as soon as she suspected it was wrongfully taken.” He gave a nod, and the small, trembling woman held out an object she’d brought curled tight in her sun-browned hand.

“Ooh! How lovely,” Diana cooed with surprise. She leaned forward to examine several bright loops of gold fashioned into a coiled serpent, whose sparkling green eyes were not unlike her own. “Are those emeralds?” she asked, a moment before Gian Carlo Lahte gave a startled exclamation.