No Rest for the Dove (33 page)

As if he had heard her call out to him, Edmund Montagu entered just in time to help his wife sit up.

“Is there any change?” she asked.

“No, my dear.”

“Elena is no worse?”

“No different … but no worse.”

“When will Dr. Warren return?”

“Soon.”

“And where is Richard?”

“In the garden, clucking over the state of his privy. He is pleased to announce he will sink a new shaft this fall.”

She smiled at that, as he had expected. But before long, Montagu returned to his wife’s former concern.

“I hardly know how we’ll tell the daughter, if she does wake, that we may now have to hang her father—as well as that wretched boy. I wish to Heaven they had all stayed at home!”

“In Milan? Is it an attractive place, Edmund?”

“It is not Paris, nor even Rome—”

“How I will enjoy seeing them all one day, with you! Though I know Rome is very warm, and has smells.”

“Unlike Boston?”

“At least here we speak a single language, so that we may all understand when we complain to one another.”

“Do we? Sometimes, I doubt it. Diana, you know there are many here who wish to thwart me, and do real harm to government. That is one thing. Yet should any harm come to you, during this unrest—!”

He added no more to his threat, but asked shortly, “Do you look forward to living in London when we return,
sweet? Or perhaps somewhere nearby, in the country? Would that please you?”

“Not now, my love,” his wife whispered, drawing him near.

But when he left, Diana knew her husband believed that she, too, entertained the idea of leaving Boston.

He was wrong, of course. Though she may once have considered such a suggestion with pleasure, it now gave her a far different sensation. That was curious. Perhaps it was the child, voicing his own desires? It must be one further proof—if more were needed! For there was little doubt left in her mind at all.

The first would be a son.

CHARLOTTE CONTINUED TO
sit quietly at the foot of Elena’s bed, reviewing possibilities that swirled around her like mist before a rising sun. Something, surely, was behind it all, attempting to break through.

Don Arturo was obviously a man of great pride, who had had something precious stolen from his home. But did he want his daughter returned to him, when he came to Boston? It would certainly seem so, watching him now. She glanced up once more to assure herself.

But then, would not
this
desire have been first in his thoughts, well above a lust for revenge? And if that was so, why should he have ordered Sesto Alva killed?

As Elena’s traveling companion, Sesto was the only man in Massachusetts who knew where she was. No, that might not be so. Don Arturo could have followed Sesto to his rooms in Boston … but if he had, why did he not take his daughter then? Thomas Pomeroy might have told him later of Elena’s appearance in Bracebridge—but how could he have known of it
before
Sesto’s death, when she did not arrive until a few days later? And if Don Arturo
did engage Thomas Pomeroy to assist him, would he not have told the boy that his first duty was to retrieve his daughter?

There was, too, the underlying nature of Thomas Pomeroy to consider. A criminal, perhaps—but she could not bring herself to think of him as truly evil. What reason could he have had for committing the terrible sin of murder? Money? When he came to Bracebridge, he already had the gem that he gave to Jonathan—which might even, as he claimed, have been his own. It was not impossible, she decided. And if it
had
been sewn into his clothing, then might another like it, also hidden, have bribed his shipboard jailer, giving the boy his freedom when he landed? Either way, once he’d received the purse of gold from Jonathan,
why
did Thomas Pomeroy return to Boston? Was his freedom no longer precious to him? He had remained in town—had even come into Richard Longfellow’s house. Was this, too, done at the order of Don Arturo? Elena’s father had claimed he did not know Thomas Pomeroy, or Matthew Beaulieu. And how could Thomas believe he could abduct the girl against her will, from a houseful of her friends? Yet could he have come for any other reason?

Suddenly, something occurred to her that she supposed might explain the boy’s return, as well as his earlier actions. What if … what if Thomas Pomeroy had been moved by something more powerful than the thought of further wealth—something strong enough to lead him to risk his very life?
What if he had come back for love?

She closed her eyes and saw his face, as she and Elena climbed away. Had the loss of love been the real reason for the boy’s pathetic collapse the night before? It was no more than she had guessed at the very first—that somehow, something happened between them in the dining room of the Bracebridge Inn. But as her mind decided
that it had touched at the puzzle’s final secret, another distraction arrived in the person of Dr. Warren.

Closing the door softly, the physician walked across the carpet and motioned for her father to move away. He knelt by his patient. He spoke her name once, again. He reached out, but the girl’s eyes suddenly opened on their own. Seeing him, Elena managed a painful smile. Then she raised a hand to her husband, who took it joyfully.

“She’ll soon mend,” Warren assured them, after he had felt her pulse, and asked the girl one or two questions. “You may give her some watered wine, and in an hour, some broth and weak tea. If she’s no worse tomorrow, I think she might resume her usual diet, and walk about a little.”

“Thank you, Doctor!” said Gian Carlo Lahte, his voice weak with emotion.

“I am glad to have been of service. Now, as it appears you two gentlemen could use some rest and sustenance yourselves, perhaps you will leave Signora Lahte alone with Mrs. Willett for a little while?”

Father and husband each kissed the girl before going, and Charlotte heard them descend the stairs together. A quarter of an hour later she, too, left Elena to rest, and went to find Richard Longfellow with an unusual request.

“Richard,” she asked when she had found him in the library, “you were given Thomas Pomeroy’s diamond for safekeeping, I think, by Judge Trowbridge?”

He put down a volume of Voltaire. “Would you like to see it again, Mrs. Willett?”

“I would like to borrow it.”

“Why, I wonder? Wait—I’ve heard from Diana that there is a vogue, among the ladies, to scratch a memento of a visit into window glass, using a finger ring. But you, Carlotta …? No, I imagine you’ve been sent as a messenger. Well, if Diana wishes to try such a thing with
someone else’s stone, she may borrow it—for it can do Thomas Pomeroy little good.”

Longfellow went to a painted vase that stood at the end of a shelf of books, tilted it, and let a bit of velvet slide out into his hand. “Go, and have my sister leave for posterity what she will. Surely a little more history won’t hurt anyone.”

Charlotte thanked him and went away. It was an intriguing idea, but not quite what she had in mind. Yet it was best to keep what she suspected to herself, until she knew for sure.

She walked to the dining room, where the Italian gentlemen sat silently over a cold supper, which Rachel served.

“Madamina!” Gian Carlo Lahte called, leaping to his feet at her entrance. “Have you come to join us?” He helped her into a chair.

“I would like a little something,” she admitted, and the girl went out to find more ham and salad. Lahte himself poured her a glass of wine, from the sideboard behind them.

Some minutes were consumed by small talk between the two, while Don Arturo watched them carefully, his eyes seeming to gauge the meaning of references he did not entirely understand. Bracebridge was recalled, and the wonders of Boston alluded to as being well worth further exploration. But as yet, the musico was unable to discuss his plans for the more distant future. And there was something else between them that remained unsaid, underlying Lahte’s new happiness. Something that seemed, somehow, impossible to remove.

Finally, Charlotte brought the conversation around to town fashion, and found a reason to bring the scrap of velvet from her pocket.

“I am thinking of having this set into a ring. It is unusual….”

Lahte picked up the diamond, holding it to the light with a discriminating eye.

“Not a new stone, I am sure, for the cut is old. Though yellow is not the favorite of many it is still beautiful, I think—like the autumn sun. It reminds me of something else, though I cannot quite recall …”

“I’ve only recently obtained it. From Mr. Longfellow,” she added. Then, watching closely, she turned and offered the gem to Don Arturo. Elena’s father looked at it carefully, and she saw that his eyes grew as hard as the thing he held.

“This,” she said softly, “was given to an innkeeper in Bracebridge—by Thomas Pomeroy.”

Alva handed the gem back, and looked away. She saw the ugly scar on his cheek grow livid, as the rest of his face whitened. Perhaps aware of this, he reached to touch his own memento, then rose slowly from the table. “I should like,” he said, “to rest.”

Don Arturo took up his glass; he went to the sideboard and picked up the decanter of Madeira, nearly full, with his other hand. Taking both with him he left, and they heard him slowly climb the stairs.

“I do pity him,” Lahte said with apparent sincerity. “Even though he has been my enemy. But if he can forget this, I will try, as well. Do you not think, madamina, that we must all try to forget … and to forgive?”

“I think,” said Charlotte. “that I will rest a little, too.” She extended her hand in friendship before leaving the musico to sit alone, as the long afternoon wore on.

T
HE SUN HAD
fallen, but the last light of day remained as Mrs. Willett steeled herself and walked out of her bedchamber. She knocked on a nearby door. Receiving a faint reply, she entered.

Elena Lahte was brushing her dark hair, leaning back on a pile of pillows.

“How is your head now?”

“Better,” the girl replied with a smile. “But … I would not like to dance!” She laughed with pride at her increasing grasp of English, which Charlotte suspected had long been greater than Elena felt it wise to admit. For the moment, both shared a memory of the dancing that had taken place on the previous evening, which now seemed, somehow, long ago. Charlotte felt a new pang, but went on.

“Elena, when you came here, I wonder if you suffered from the sea’s movement? The
mal de mer
?”

“The sea sickness? No, my stomach is strong.”

“And Sesto? Did he suffer?”

“Sesto?” The girl seemed confused. “I think … he was ill, yes; but before, too. He was not well.”

“Then you were often alone, I imagine, while at sea?”

“On a ship with so many, it is not easy! But I did not want to be with Sesto.”

“Was he cruel to you, Elena?”

“Yes!” she said, suddenly expansive. “Cruel, with no proper feeling!”

“But the captain of your ship was a kind man, I hope?”

“Yes. Many times we spoke, when I walked, as he suggested, for my health.”

“I suppose he encouraged all of his passengers to take the air on deck, to avoid sickness?”

“That is true. It was very hot, below.”

“When you finally arrived here in Boston, it must have been a great relief! How many days passed, after you came ashore, before Sesto left you?”

“Not many. Three? Four?”

“Then your ship arrived on the twelfth, perhaps. What was it called?”

“Called?”

“What was its name?”

“The
Nantes
—or the
Neige
, I think. Some things are difficult to remember.” The girl raised a hand to her head.

“You did board a French ship, I believe, at Marseilles—but it’s very unlikely that it brought you to Boston. Heavy tariffs are placed on such direct trade to these colonies. So, I will guess that in Funchal, in the Madeira Islands, you waited for a British ship, which would bring you here. Or perhaps one was already refitting, after a
great storm that blew her far off course, to the south? Could it have been the
Swallow
you next boarded?”