No Rest for the Dove (28 page)

B
EFORE BREAKFAST WAS
over, the Longfellow household came alive with the efforts of list-makers and furniture-movers; soon, it opened its doors repeatedly to delivery men, who came between a stream of servants bearing notes of glad acceptance for the evening’s musical gathering.

Longfellow had the pleasure of telling Gian Carlo Lahte he would be accompanied by at least a dozen serious musicians, all of whom looked forward to presenting a part of Gluck’s newest Italian opera, which described the dramatic descent of Orpheus into the Underworld. One had sent several pages of music, while another promised to bring a glass harmonica recently arrived from London, as well as his cello. Signor Lahte took up the sheets full of musical notation with interest. Clutching these and a biscuit, he then went off to practice.

Meanwhile, Diana received a dressmaker, hurrying her up to a room on the second floor; there, they began to alter a tight, trained gown of embroidered white silk for Elena, who stood stoically as she was pinned. Gossip flew between Diana and the dressmaker concerning many of the several score invited for the evening’s concert and dancing—guests who could also look forward to a table of whatever delicacies might be teased from the city’s warehouses, and from the ripening countryside.

Lem, too, would be there, Charlotte thought with satisfaction as she wiped a cloth over a set of crystal glasses. As one by one they glowed with perfection, she listened to the arrival of the other responses. Lieutenant Governor Hutchinson had declined, due to a slight fever within his family, but they could look forward to seeing Dr. Warren and his wife. Most of the others who answered were little known to her, and some were complete strangers. Missing her own hearth, she wondered if her own Orpheus fared well under Henry’s care … or if, perhaps, the situation might be just the reverse.

As Charlotte continued to work, she was occasionally asked for her advice by Rachel, and even Hephzibah. Both women were glad to approach her for a sensible ear, and were greatly relieved by the current cloistering of Mrs. Montagu. Before long, chairs were polished, flowers ordered, another large box of candles sent for, and the livery stable told to look for business from those who would come some distance, for Longfellow’s invitations included guests from towns all around the Bay, and some well beyond.

At midday, Captain Montagu came to collect Diana so that she might rest at home—an offer his wife declined, at least for another hour or two. Still, he reported before taking himself back to Town House, nothing had been
heard or seen of Don Arturo Alva. At least Elena’s father had been unable to stop her remarriage on the previous evening, when a simple ceremony had been performed by Reverend Eliot at New North Church, which stood not far away. Edmund went on to presume Alva was on his way to Canada, where he would no doubt arrange quiet passage to England, or to Madeira, or the Azores. There now seemed, he told Richard Longfellow, little chance that the scoundrel would ever be made to pay for his crimes. Somewhat to the captain’s surprise, Longfellow showed little concern. He appeared to have more interest in the arrival of an ancient tuner who hammered at the strings of a harpsichord, when he was not attacking its tight pegs with a small wrench.

All in all, thought Charlotte, with a twinge of sadness, the capture of Thomas Pomeroy would be enough to satisfy most who heard the story, if a bigger fish had gotten away. At least, Don Arturo Alva could hardly threaten any of them tonight, in a houseful of people.

“Mrs. Willett?” Longfellow asked, interrupting her reverie over a small plate of ham and cold potatoes. “Have you need of anything more? An addition to your costume, perhaps? For it seems I must go out again.”

“If the kitchen is happy, then so am I.”

“You’re certain? Cicero has gone to talk with a man about the oysters, and I am taking Lahte with me. You ladies will have an hour of quiet without us.”

“I doubt that! But I think we’ll manage.”

With the departure of the men, Diana and Elena came down to see the seamstress off with the newly marked dress, then found something in the pantry for themselves. They joined Mrs. Willett to eat from their laps in a small, beautifully papered room that faced a secluded garden.

“It seems the worst is over,” said Charlotte, as she
noted that a peace had fallen over the house, and that Mrs. Longfellow’s roses did well.

“For the moment,” Diana agreed with a sigh. “Though now, I will have to think of my own manner of dress. With Elena quite striking in white, I shall choose something dark. And I think you will all be surprised—”

Diana broke off to look toward the open door that led into the hall. “Whatever it is,” she said crossly, “leave it there, and send the bill to my brother—unless he has already paid you.”

“Signora,” came her answer, which made Diana frown.

Though her back was to the door, Charlotte watched Elena’s head revolve swiftly; then, the girl cried out. Turning herself, she was shocked to see the face of a dead man—for if it were not for a scar along his cheekbone, the man before them might have been Sesto Alva, risen from the grave!

“Elena,” came the harsh voice again, this time with greater authority. The girl responded in Italian, her fear swiftly changing to anger. Neither Charlotte nor Diana could comprehend the phrases that flew over them, yet it seemed clear that father and daughter harbored little respect for one another. Don Arturo Alva approached Elena, raising his jeweled hands to take her by the shoulders; then he shook her until she lost a small lace cap she wore, and appeared to swoon. Her father dragged her to a chair and stepped back, his eyes defying her to move again.

“Sir,” Charlotte heard herself say in a strained voice, “you must not treat a daughter so—”

Alva looked at her with curiosity, and she supposed he had not understood her. She tried again.

“You are at this moment being sought by the law …
vous êtes … appelé
, no,
recherché—par la loi!
” Again, he
only stared. But a calculating smile appeared on his face while she continued.

“L’homme Thomas Pomeroy—il est saisait; il a donné son histoire …”

“Madame,” he replied, “I believe even my poor English is better than your halting attempt at French. You say I am sought, and someone is seized by the law—and his story is—?”

“But we thought—”

“That I have come here with the mind of a child, knowing nothing of your tongue, or your ways? It is you in America who know nothing of the great world, madamina.”

When used by Gian Carlo Lahte, this odd name had seemed endearing; now, Charlotte imagined it was used mockingly by the man before her.

“Then I can tell you simply,” she replied, “that the authorities seek your arrest, for which a warrant has been signed. Thomas Pomeroy has been taken, and charged with attempting to kill your daughter’s husband. It is supposed you may have had a hand in this, and in the death of Sesto Alva, as well.”

“Sesto?” The man seemed incredulous.

“Of course!” Diana interrupted. “For we know he has been poisoned!”

Alva looked to Diana; then, his eyes moved to his daughter. Elena had revived, and seemed triumphant at her father’s unmasking.

“No!” he shouted, startling them all anew. “Who is Pomeroy?”

“He is also known as Matthew Beaulieu,” said Charlotte.

“È pazza,”
Alva growled as he stepped forward and took his daughter by a slender wrist.

Elena now echoed her father’s earlier refusal, pulling back while Charlotte and Diana moved to her side, threatening to thwart at all costs the man before them. Alva blew out his cheeks in frustration. “I warn you,” he threw back at them, “the wolf will remain nearby! Do not rest—
never
close your eyes, signore!”

As he finished his threat, they all heard the front door open and close. In another moment, Cicero passed by. Don Arturo sidled into the hall, and the women heard the door open again. By the time they ran to it themselves, Alva’s dark-clad figure had disappeared.

When Diana let out a whoop, Charlotte’s eyes searched Elena’s pale features. “Have no fear,” Mrs. Montagu then crowed to the girl, “for Edmund will find him again before long, and you will be safe here with us. For now, we have proven ourselves the superior force! What an insufferable man to have for a father,” she added under her breath to Charlotte, before rustling off to give Cicero new instructions.

And how tragic, Charlotte concluded, to be a daughter unable to love her only remaining parent. She had seen Elena’s bearing, like that of her father, show more outrage than sadness, or even censure. She wondered again at the strength shown by young Signora Lahte—strength surely due, in some part, to the stubbornness of youth. Had Elena been wise to run away, to oppose her father’s will? If she had not done so, Sesto Alva would still be alive. With this knowledge, how could she ever be entirely happy again? And what of the continuing threat to herself, as well as her husband?

It would be wise, Charlotte thought further, to watch how this brave but vulnerable girl bore the further strain of an evening of great excitement—an evening which would soon begin.

AT SEVEN, UNDER
a milky sky, a rumble announced the arrival of several carriages at once. Soon they disgorged two dozen individuals—all ready to worship the saintly Cecilia, or perhaps her elder sister, Calliope.

As Longfellow greeted each group at the door, Charlotte stood waiting to be introduced, and to have her own hand taken in turn. Though she did not know many, it appeared many had heard something of her; more than one gentleman, she noticed, looked back to Longfellow with a grin.

The growing crowd appeared to be made up of good, well-nourished people, each of them splendidly dressed. Near the stalks of candelabra that stood about the floor, as well as in more shadowy corners, bright coats in many hues glowed above lace both white and gold, which ruffled playfully at throats and sleeves. As for the ladies, the occasion allowed them to wear their most ornate silk gowns, though some of the younger ones had chosen gay cherryderry and kingcob, summer cotton and patterned satin from India. Most of the fine jewels in the room were from handed-down collections, removed from trunks and drawers to rest briefly on pretty dimpled fingers and perfumed throats. But these gems hardly sparkled more than the smiles exchanged between old friends. Occasional attempts to discuss serious matters were soon met with raised hands, and a quick return to happier subjects.

At least, thought Charlotte during a lull at the door, she had brought one good gown of dark green lustring; over this, she wore a nearly transparent apron of tiffany, with a crossed lawn kerchief at her bosom in place of frills. Still, she could have passed for a milkmaid in such elegant
surroundings—something which, she thought with a blush, she was, after all.

However, it was clear that her neighbor felt quite at home tonight. For the first time she saw Longfellow as the sole master of this house, with his stepmother temporarily out of it. One day, it would be his to do with as he pleased, when the last Mrs. Longfellow’s dowager claim expired—along with that lady herself. Yet it seemed he would have to wait a while. And he would probably continue to avoid that woman of restless habits, with the repetitive, nasal voice of a nuthatch, and a plump white breast to match. It was one reason Richard Longfellow had gone to Bracebridge in the first place—to make a second home for himself and for Eleanor, as long as his Boston house was occupied. But had he reason enough to stay in the village forever? Or did he already look forward, Charlotte asked herself, to his eventual return to town? The thought unsettled her as she watched him entertain old friends with better grace than he showed most on his country estate.

Another rustling at the door preceded an ordinary-looking man in brown, who accompanied a tall young woman fashionably attired in a riding habit. Her collared coat and deep skirts were cut from black velvet; a neck cloth was wound about her throat. Mrs. Willett imagined this particular lady could hardly have arrived on horseback, given her apparent condition, but the impression Diana’s friend Lucy Cooper made (though she suffered from the heat) was a striking one.

When Diana entered a moment later, she, too, was on the arm of a husband; but this one wore a handsome, deep blue military coat with much gold, set off by a thin ceremonial sword on an elaborate frog, while his cockaded hat nestled under an arm. Like Lucy, Mrs. Montagu had made good use of her own natural reason to abandon stays and let down her hair. In fact, her thick auburn curls
hung in daring simplicity down her back, softly framing a newly rounded face which this evening seemed nearly seraphic—though its radiance probably owed less to heaven, thought Charlotte, than to country sun. Her low-cut dress was of the sack style, its flowing material a pale blue edged in flashing silver; long, close-fitting sleeves and a train behind added to a nearly medieval picture as Diana proceeded slowly into the room. Many were the heads that turned to watch, and to congratulate her fortunate husband.