No Rest for the Dove (30 page)

“No. Not yet.”

“I’m certain he’ll tell you that if you stay, you might one day use its scientific laboratory, with equipment you’ll find nowhere else.”

“That would be interesting …”

“But not enough?”

“I would rather be among friends again.”

“Richard may say you’ll miss finding new friends, and living among scholars who will direct the future of the colony. Bonds are often formed, I think, between those who suffer life’s trials together.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lem returned, recalling warnings of the pranks he might expect, and descriptions of the great discomfort of cold weather in Harvard’s drafty halls.

“There is another side, of course,” she went on. “In Bracebridge, you have a room of your own. I will also give you permission to speak to females … something I believe the professors at the College consider a dubious pastime.”

So Mrs. Willett, thought Lem, had no great faith in
the men who attempted to guide them. In this, lately, he found he agreed with her.

“There is, too,” Charlotte continued, “the question of what Boston may do to make its own future. As I know very little of these things, I doubt that I should advise you. Still,” she finished with a smile, “I have hoped you would not be ‘swept away’ by those who arrange the town’s politics. And from what I have heard from Captain Montagu …”

“Mr. Longfellow hoped I would stay, I know.”

“But he may begin to see that you can assist him in his experiments in Bracebridge, and continue to help us both. You could mention to him that his great hero Dr. Franklin did not attend Harvard College, or any other.”

“Then do you think he’ll agree to my return?”

“In another day or two, ask him yourself.”

“I
am
going home, then! And my cousins are welcome to make of Boston whatever they care to—for there’s far too much racket here for me.”

Charlotte said a silent word of thanks. He had come to her a cast-off, driven from a house more full of noise than joy. Together, they had been content with a quiet life—and now it seemed they were to enjoy each other’s company again, for a year or two. Beyond that, who could ever say?

Her wine finished, she felt like dancing—as others had begun to do—or at least catching her breath in the fresh air. She and Lem soon walked through the house to the double doors that opened onto the rear yard, where they expected to find a breeze. Find it they did, along with something else entirely.

In the shadows of the stone porch, two figures stood with their backs to the new arrivals, gazing into the eastern sky above the rooftops. Charlotte felt Lem hesitate as he, too, recognized the two men. Dr. Warren was the first to sense their presence.

“Mrs. Willett! What a pleasure to see you again. Do
you know Josiah Quincy? I believe he has heard of you, and some of your good work in Bracebridge, from young Mr. Wainwright. Has Lem told you about our life in town, as well?”

“We’ve just been speaking of the ways of the greater world, in general, and the future of Boston in particular.”

“Have you?” Warren asked, his eyes moving back and forth between them.

“Though I must also suppose,” she assured them, “that some of the subjects you discuss together are not for my ears.”

“Your ears, I imagine, do not close themselves to much. Did you enjoy the Coroner’s Inquest, by the way?”

“Enjoyment is not quite what I would call it … though several interesting questions were raised—but, oh! look—what is that fire? Off in the distance—”

“Nothing to worry us, madam! Not a house, surely, for it seems to be on Fort Hill. Possibly a carriage lamp fell into a dry field. Perhaps we should go and see, nonetheless. Josiah, shall we walk together for a while, to clear our heads? And Lem, will you follow us?”

“I have a first duty to this house, Doctor,” the young man answered, more sure of himself than the physician had expected.

“Oh? I see,” said Dr. Warren, again sizing up the boy, and then the woman at his side.

“I hope, Mrs. Willett,” said Josiah Quincy, “that we will meet again.”

“Thank you, sir, and a safe night,” Charlotte replied. At that, the four parted company, two stepping back into the light while the pair of gentlemen disappeared into the streets, to join a growing throng that had already begun to revel in the dark.

IN THE NEXT
hour, the London
harmonica
was uncovered and tried, to the delight of the assembly. One of Europe’s newest instruments, it had been made to Dr. Franklin’s specifications, like the one in Philadelphia which had been displayed during the previous winter. Longfellow soon explained to Lem, now stationed at his side, that rather than having rows of beer glasses of varying sizes like the old German
Glasspiel
, Franklin’s instrument was composed of three dozen open globes, ground to produce tones and half-tones, nested in one another and joined through central holes to a metal rod—the whole rotated with pressure supplied through a foot treadle. Wet hands on the polished glass rims produced a series of penetrating sounds that spanned three octaves. The notes were different, yet each had the clear, sharp quality of chimes.

The other musicians took turns accompanying the owner of the
harmonica
as he played airs from several nations, some reproduced from purchased sheets, others learned by one or another of the group in cities as diverse as Dresden, Florence, Vienna, and Dublin. Still other songs, thought by some to be equally charming, were of Philadelphia and Boston manufacture. And, of course, the works of London’s (and the Queen’s) current favorite, Johann Christian Bach, were not neglected.

Finally, after playing a piece composed for the musical glasses by Gluck many years before, one of the maestro’s newest operas was introduced as the evening’s pièce de résistance.

Settled next to Diana, Charlotte had to strain to hear Longfellow explain the story to Lem, who had accepted her chair, while the musicians took time to tune again.

“Orpheus, himself a mortal, was the son of Apollo and Calliope. He had the misfortune to lose his wife when she was bitten by an adder—something I hope you ladies will take pains to avoid in your own outings. Then, just as Eurydice
began to enjoy herself with the other shades in the Elysian Fields, Orpheus decided to go down and carry her home. With his lyre and his honeyed voice, he soon soothed the Furies who guard the gates of Hades. They allowed him to lead Eurydice back to the light—but he was not to turn to her, nor to answer. You can imagine what this might do to a lady! She finally convinced her spouse to ignore his orders, and so she was lost again, through her own folly.”

“Thank you, Richard,” replied his sister. “I am sure Lem appreciates your insight into a woman’s soul, and her inevitable silliness. All of which is worth about a fig.”

“That you may keep, my dear—for a man should also be wary of a woman bearing fruit,” her brother returned jovially, perhaps beginning another lesson.

“Richard! I believe we are all waiting …?”

Longfellow sat back with a smile, and with a wave of his hand bade the music begin anew.

The notes that now came from the musico brought tears to the eyes of many, as Orpheus mourned the loss of his beloved. A few others felt their hackles rise, reminded of the plaintive howl of faithful dogs who sang their misery after a death in the family—or, on occasion, before one.

With an eerie presentiment of her own, Charlotte looked to Elena, who sat several chairs away. Although the young woman had earlier seemed to warm to the looks of admiration around her, she now appeared to have tired. Like many others, she had taken out a lace fan, and wielded it for its cooling effect.

Abruptly, the room was starkly lit by a sheet of silent lightning. The guests braced themselves for the shock of thunder. When it came, Charlotte saw that Elena retained a child’s fear of the noise, for she got up, took her flowing train in hand, and moved toward the hall. Further
flickers, however, fit surprisingly well into Il Colombo’s musical description of his anguish in Pluto’s realm, and the rest of the audience remained spellbound.

Moments later, there came a note higher than anything heard that night—a shriek of fear, rising from the darkened hallway Elena Lahte had just entered! Charlotte was among the first to rush forward, for she imagined Don Arturo Alva there, attempting to pull his daughter out into the impending storm. But the scene that met the eyes of all who crowded under the arch was something none, including Mrs. Willett, had expected. Before them, they saw a dark old man—Cicero, to be exact—holding a pistol to the head of a young man in dirty clothing, while Elena cringed against a wall, a hand to her face, her pretty fan trampled on the floor.

“Pomeroy!” Longfellow bellowed, pushing forward. “Is there
no place
in this town that can hold you? And what do you want here? Has Alva sent you on more murderous business? What is this?” He reached down to the carpet to pick up a long-bladed knife. “I see you have come for more than supper—and this time, I can assure you that you’ll pay for your presumption, by finding yourself soon in shackles! But Cicero—how is it that you came to be standing in the hall, with a weapon?”

“He was under my orders,” Diana called out as she made her way through the crowd, her hands prying apart the shoulders of her brother’s guests. “When the madman Alva came in earlier, I told Cicero to arm himself and watch for intruders, whenever the rest of us might be occupied. It appears that he saw more than we, hiding behind his screen in the corner there. Though I never supposed he would catch
this
goose, once again!”

Charlotte had now helped Elena part of the way up the stairs, so that she might lie down in one of the bedchambers. Pausing, they both looked back to see Thomas
Pomeroy staring up at them one last time, his face bearing the stamp of defeat, and perhaps something more. After a moment, the girl continued to rise proudly, white as the dead Eurydice, her train trailing behind her. Pomeroy watched them disappear. Then, he gave a whimper and sat down on the floor of the hall, his grimy fists pressing into his eyes.

The music started again, soon reaching a level that rivaled the flashing storm. Yet Charlotte could not remove from her mind the pathetic image of a young man without a hope, without a friend, who had been swiftly taken away. Though he was a thief—even, perhaps, a murderer—she wished he could have been helped, somehow, to a better life. But Thomas Pomeroy had long ago been caught up in devilish clutches, and these had urged him along his own road to Hell—a road from which not even the golden voice of Orpheus would save him.

Tuesday, August 27