No Rest for the Dove (29 page)

A growing stridency of voices and an increase of heat in the great room beyond the entry hall proclaimed that nearly all who had been invited had arrived. A few now began to find places among chairs that had been arranged in rows. The musicians, too, sat and began to tune their strings, creating a familiar cacophony that called the room to order. Something else, hidden beneath a drapery of green baize, stood between them on a table with spindled legs, promising another treat for the evening.

Longfellow led Charlotte to a chair near the center of the first row. Spying a trio of guests standing in the arched entrance to the room, he quickly promised to join her later. While the three newcomers bobbed to survey those before them, Longfellow hurried to make them welcome.

“Mr. Wainwright! And what rabble have you brought in with you? Warren! And Josiah? I’d heard you would be away from town this week—your appearance is a fine surprise! But why have you come without Mrs. Warren, Doctor?”

“The answer to that might surprise you, too, Richard,” Josiah Quincy broke in with a strange laugh. “I fear you no longer have your finger on the pulse of Boston society. But then, that is our physician’s job, is it not?”

“What do you mean?” Longfellow asked, worried by the young man’s excited manner.

“I have advised Mrs. Warren to stay at home this
evening,” the doctor replied, “for I’m afraid she is not entirely well.”

“Nothing serious?”

“Only enough for me to hesitate to have her travel through the streets,” Warren answered cautiously. “But here, you have abundant beauty and wit of your own. Mrs. Willett!” he called over the room’s buzz.

“Go to her, Lem. She might enjoy seeing an old friend tonight,” Longfellow instructed the young man. “But first, tell me what it is that I should know, but don’t.”

The boy looked uncomfortably at Dr. Warren, then at his shoe buckles. Though Longfellow’s eyes snapped with suspicion, a deep cough from Josiah Quincy captured his attention. Josiah had taken out his handkerchief, and now glanced swiftly at its contents with a practiced eye, before putting it away again. At twenty-one he looked forward to a brilliant future, if the consumption in his chest gave him sufficient time. Fair-haired and slight like his friend Warren, though somewhat taller, he cut an arresting figure. His wandering eyes crossed on focusing, giving him a further air of gravity—though hardly tonight!

Longfellow considered that Josiah was one of the youngest to meet in the long room above the office of the
Gazette
, with company that included Warren, John Hancock, Dr. Church, Jeremy Otis, the artisan Revere … occasionally John Adams and Richard Longfellow (though he had seen them little, lately) … and always, Sam Adams. Most were Harvard men, reasonably well-to-do. All hoped to keep their world safe from harm by walking a path close to the black leads of treason. None of the rest was here tonight, though some had been invited. Was something else on, then? Perhaps there would be another round of protests in the streets, yet another bonfire, some new effigy thrust up into the Liberty Tree. Who would
they choose this time, to mark with public scorn? Whoever it was, when an odd whistle was heard in the streets and alleys, many hundreds of men would join together. That, Longfellow
did
know. And despite his curiosity, he also knew he preferred to spend this evening inside, surrounded by light and music.

“Lem,” he said at last, “go on—take my seat by Mrs. Willett.” Glad to obey, the boy walked away. “I will see both of you when we have our supper,” Longfellow said to Quincy and Warren. “And gentlemen, I would be obliged if you would not alarm my guests, as you have already alarmed me! It isn’t much to ask. If the place should clear itself to follow other events, my sister, I can assure you, will not be pleased!” It was enough to put a new face on things, for they all knew of Mrs. Montagu’s ways, as well as her growing influence upon the many females of the town.

Something new stirred the room; each head turned to admire the guest of honor. Signor Lahte had come in quietly to stand under the tall arch, as if he were waiting on a stage. Applause soon rose in anticipation of enjoyment to come, and the musico’s lashes dropped humbly. He bowed low, before raising his shoulders and last of all his face, in a practiced, flowing movement that he repeated as the clapping continued. He retreated through the arch, to return with his young wife. Another burst of approval swept through the room as all admired the white gown with its long train, and a tall silver wig with dancing white feathers, set off by a necklace of borrowed emeralds on a slim neck as smooth as polished marble.

Diana looked on, proud of her creation, convinced that Elena could have gone without shame even to the Bourbon court. But Boston would do for now.

Her brother, too, admired the youngest of his guests with pride. The City on the Hill, built by exiles, had reached a degree of civilized behavior that could match
London’s, he imagined with a smile—even though the beauty of the hour was a daughter of Milan. But she and her husband, in his rich court attire of silver and gold, would make a beautiful pair wherever they landed. That, no one could deny. Except for one man, Longfellow realized with a swift frown. As the applause finally abated, he took a new look at the windows whose heavy curtains remained open, and recalled what he’d been told of the brief appearance of Elena’s father, only hours before.

At last, the moment had come for the music to begin. When he had helped Elena to her seat, Lahte joined the musicians, to whom he had earlier spoken of the particulars of the performance. To open, an aria from one of Handel’s operas,
Giulio Cesare
, had been agreed upon. The musico would become the Roman general in Egypt, about to step into a snare baited by beauty, and pride.

A French horn’s first rousing fanfare was joined by an oboe’s curiously eastern note, and the jingle of the harpsichord; now, two violins soared majestically, while a pair of cellos set a succession of determined footsteps beneath the whole. In the New World, the voice heard next had always belonged to a woman or a boy, for what man among them could hope to raise his voice to the necessary pitch, in full force? Here, finally, they would be able to enjoy the role as the composer had intended.

Lahte sang with fewer frills than many had expected, but with a strength of feeling that was deeply moving, and remarkably satisfying. This, his audience concluded, was a true Caesar at last, standing heroically before them!

Richard Longfellow had slipped forward to reclaim his chair at Charlotte’s side. He began a low translation, while Lem bent down and scuttled toward the wall.

“Silent, secret, hungry for his prey … the cunning hunter goes,” he whispered, leaning toward her ear. “And the man who would do evil … wants no one to see … the deceit that is in his soul.”

Something rose to niggle at Charlotte’s mind, reaching it through senses greatly distracted by the mingling of many delightful sounds. In another moment, she was again carried away.

Over and over, Lahte repeated the same words, in varied form, to new combinations of notes. Seated behind his host, Edmund Montagu felt as if he were being gently lifted; he, too, found it difficult to concentrate on his own thoughts. He had seen Warren and Quincy enter, and as they spoke with Longfellow it had seemed Richard was genuinely at sea. That was not surprising—after all, he was now little more than an amusement to these dangerous men. Yet what, exactly, were the rebellious fools up to? Outside, the pearly sheen of the sky had turned to a darker gray. Soon, lanterns or torches would be needed, and faces in the streets would be obscured. He had insisted on more sentries at the Neck’s gates, when he last spoke with the governor. He had also sent some of his own men to the ferries, where they would keep their eyes sharp. Montagu was certain the atmosphere of the night would be unsettled; even the air was curiously thick and electric. For a moment he took the beringed hand of his wife, and asked with his eyes whether she had any reason to complain. Her ecstatic gaze assured him that she did not. Then, he went back to his own worries, while the room continued to swell with song.

When the piece was over, wild applause demanded
bow after bow. The musicians, too, got up and began to congratulate each other, until all felt the need to sit down again.

As the hour progressed, other songs washed over the great room and out into the halls of the house, as well as through its tall, open windows. In the street, several who were headed for the Common, or the Green Dragon, or across the mill stream drawbridge that led to the North End, stopped to listen. Then, more than one forced himself to hurry on, having something of even greater interest in mind for the evening hours.

E
VENTUALLY, WHEN THE
need for stretching and other refreshment grew stronger than the thirst for novelty and beauty, the music ended for a time. Longfellow’s guests wandered about his house, gravitating to a pair of long tables that offered food and drink. Here ladies and gentlemen picked up plates, and filled them with tastes of the season: black, red, and blue berries, soaked in liqueur and topped with whipped cream; lady’s fingers painted with apricot glaze; slices of lightly smoked trout on fresh-baked cracker, and red roe spooned from bowls seated atop blocks of melting ice. A treasure trove of ice, too, floated in a silver bowl of citrus punch liberally laced with rum, while wine, decanted into cut crystal bottles, awaited those with more refined appetites.

Tongues loosened, and toasts were thrown like garlands onto Signor Lahte and his lovely bride. Nothing could be more enjoyable, at least in the social world, thought Charlotte as she sat down with her glass replenished. By the reflected flicker from a mirrored sconce behind her, she saw Lem return with a plate in one hand, punch in the other.

“You say he’s lived next to us for a full week?” the youth asked, continuing their previous conversation as if he still shared her home.

“Nearly that.”

“He is handsome, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“And everyone else thinks so, too?”

“Most do. Even Lydia Pratt.” At the mention of the landlady’s name, Lem goggled, his mouth full of cake, while Charlotte suppressed a laugh. “But not quite everyone, I think,” she added gently.

“How is … how are they?” Lem managed.

“Jonathan is quite well. So is Nathan. And you must mean Hannah, and Henry. They are well, too …” Teasing her young friend with an intentional omission, she let her voice trail away.

“And the rest of Hannah’s house? Martha?” Lem finally asked, almost strangling on the name.

“Mattie? I believe Henry did say she has been worried lately.”

“Worried? Why is that?”

“She heard from her brother that you will join the town militia, and may be swept away by its glory.” Charlotte had expected a chuckle at this, but Lem seemed unamused.

“Join the Boston boys and their old uncles on the green? Not likely! I would sooner eat cod every day. You can tell Martha, if you happen to see her, that I will be coming home to do my marching.” The young man rose
abruptly. “But I see, Mrs. Willett, that you’ve finished your wine. If I may, I will fetch you another.”

As he moved off into the crowd, Charlotte was once again surprised to see that the boy she’d long known was now nearly a man. There was still an occasional movement that betrayed his uncertainty, yet he clearly felt a new ease in his approach to nearly everyone. And he did employ his eyes well, paying proper attention to the needs of those around him. Perhaps, she decided, he might thrive in the city and its elevated society, after all. Wasn’t that what she, and others, had hoped for?

“What I meant to say,” said Lem when he returned, “… what I’ve decided, is that I won’t stay at college this year.
Nor go there any other
.” He handed her the glass, and waited for her thoughts on the matter.

“Have you told Mr. Longfellow?”