No Rest for the Dove (4 page)

“Science does, indeed, make an exciting mistress,” Longfellow assured him. “One I will happily share with you. But can you give up your previous love altogether? In Boston, you know, they allow no theaters.”

“No music?” Lahte asked, incredulous.

“Oh, we enjoy our music. In fact, the city manages to gather together an orchestra every few weeks, attended by the governor and a few hundred invited guests, who come to dance and otherwise amuse themselves. We also have chamber groups. And I have been lately told that singing masters are on the increase. It seems they improve not only the voices in our choirs, but our singers’ opportunities for courting … though this development has caused some preachers to fear Bacchus himself has come among us! Still, you might share your own knowledge of vocal study, for the sake of the art. And, perhaps, our ears.”

“Possibly,” Lahte replied, his eyes now strangely hooded.

Longfellow relented at last. “Well, then, as a fellow
scientist, I will be glad to assist you in settling. As it is, Mrs. Willett and I have far too few intelligent neighbors.”

“Ah, bravo, Richard! What, then, must I do?”

“First, declare your intention to reside to one of our selectmen. Happily, I am one, so that is done. It is we who keep the peace here. We will take your pledge—something most of our villages require of visitors who remain for more than a week or two. I will tell the others that I’ll be responsible for your good behavior; you will vow to behave; the village will assure you that should you ever ask for its charity, it will ship you back to wherever you have legal residence. Though I doubt it would extend to paying your passage back to Milan. I rather think we might arrange to have you dropped by one of Boston’s wharves—”

“This is hardly a way to welcome a man who comes with his pockets full,” Signor Lahte replied with new coolness.

“But there is some sense in it, for it keeps farmers from having to support those who aren’t their own. Most here make just enough to keep themselves in sugar. ‘Charity begins at home, is the voice of the world.’”

“It is certainly the voice of those who
have
a home.”

“You need not feel alone. Even I have been ‘warned off,’ as the law calls it. Although the good people of Bracebridge have elected me to serve them repeatedly—and at my own expense—they would soon send me back to Boston if I found myself fallen into penury. I believe, however, that we might spare you the usual bond of forty pounds.”

“How kind.”

“As soon as you find property you wish to buy, we will again appraise your character. Finally, you may sign a petition to settle. At that point, you’ll be one of us. More or
less. You do know,” Longfellow asked sharply, “that the Church of Rome is held in low regard by the province of Massachusetts?”

“That, I think, will be no problem, for I have gladly left the Pope and the Vatican behind. Yet I ask you—can talk of government and religion be fitting on such a day? Instead, will you allow me to give payment for my dinner with a song?”

“We would be delighted!” cried Longfellow, his eyes suddenly charged with new life.

With an air of purpose, Gian Carlo Lahte stood. He raised a hand to his brow while composing his thoughts, and inhaled deeply. He gazed at the leafy vines above them … his lips parted … his arm stretched upward … and he sang.

The notes that flew from his throat were borne on a voice so strong, so brilliant and pure, that Charlotte’s lips, too, parted while she watched and listened. She felt her own breast heave as Lahte’s voice soared, unbelievably, angelically, higher and higher—as if it would take her heart up with it. Soft, trembling notes were followed in the same breath by piercing leaps; these in turn gave way to bubbling trills not unlike the magnificent song of a woodland thrush. It was glorious—it was astounding! First tender, then commanding, he continued with an unearthly grace, a peculiar ease. She could hardly imagine how—

Across the stone table, Longfellow saw his neighbor blink rapidly. Then he watched her shudder, as the terrible truth became clear. Observing that moment of knowledge, he even felt a pang himself.

Signor Lahte finished the brief aria. Having paid tribute to the ripening grapes above them, and perhaps to something more, he lowered his eyes with a look of pride that soon turned to confusion. He was waiting for Charlotte to speak, but she could not.

“Madama,” he said finally, “perhaps you do not understand what most of Europe knows. I am a
musico
.”

More was exchanged though their eyes, which could hardly have been said with words.

“I have never heard such beauty before,” she then replied, “yet I do know—such things are sometimes possible.”

“Ah …
sì
.”

“To Britain and the Continent,” said Longfellow, “our famous guest is known as
Il Colombo
, the Dove.”

“How kind of you to share with us your gift—” Charlotte stumbled as she again realized its source. “—and your great talent,” she finished.

The musico walked to her side. “It is my joy, always, to give what brings pleasure.” He reached for her hand and brushed it, surprisingly, with the tip of his nose.

“I should also mention, Carlotta,” said Longfellow, “that Xerxes, the gentleman in Handel’s opera from whom we’ve just heard, is a Persian king—though his actions are somewhat less than noble. In fact, he plans to steal his brother’s fiancée. First, however, he makes love to a tree in the lady’s garden. It would seem he has a rather uncertain nature.”

“He sings
to
Nature,” returned Lahte, “as do I, Richard.
But after enjoying your
insalata
, I ask you, madama: Should a love for
vegetabile
be mocked? After all, many things on this earth are worthy of our passion,” he said as he released the tips of her fingers.

Both men now turned to face each other again, and Mrs. Willett soon found herself pondering what two such forces might mean for the future, and the safety, of the neighborhood. Before she could decide on an answer, or even make further amends (for what, she hardly knew), an even more jarring chord came to put an end to their unsettling entertainments.

BARELY AN HOUR
earlier, Caleb Knox was driving along the nearly deserted Boston-Worcester road, wishing he were home. The farmer gave the reins he held a mild shake, causing them to ripple—but it was not enough to alter the pace of the horse who pulled his wagon. Judy kept plodding, and the rude conveyance rolled on, slow enough to suit the weather, its sleepy driver lulled once more by the creak of heavy wheels.

As they passed a field aflame with tall goldenrod, Knox imagined himself in a chair behind his own house. The smell of hot sun on his shirt reminded him of his old dame’s ironing, done outside in summer beneath the kitchen overhang. If only, he thought, he might get up and walk down to the spring for a drink of cold water. The ale he’d consumed at the Blue Boar, after he’d left the mill where he’d exchanged grain for flour, had not helped to quench his thirst at all. Neither the first pint, nor the second, nor even a third.

The horse neighed unexpectedly, as if she, too, longed for refreshment. Then he saw that something else concerned her. Beside the road, next to a long hedge of old hawthorns, stood a lone mount that wore a bridle and
saddle while it grazed. It was a curious thing—and yet, on such a warm afternoon, perhaps it was not.

The farmer pulled himself erect as he looked out from under his rime-ringed hat. The horse’s rider was no doubt asleep nearby; he could see that a nest of sorts had been made in the grass. But why would he be
there
, when he could have chosen the shade of the hedge? Why would anybody lie out full in the afternoon sun? And what were all those flies doing? Despite the heat, Caleb Knox felt a chill.

While he hardly relished the exercise, it did seem this situation might be worth a closer look. So, when his wagon came even with the saddled horse, the farmer gave a pull that made Judy stop, her large head shaking. He climbed down, giving further instruction for the animal to stay where she was. Precariously, he leaped over the wide ditch at the side of the road, landing on both feet. Then he wound his way through the weeds until he reached the silent rider.

The man was not resting. In fact, it looked as if he would have no further need for rest ever again. Caleb knelt down to make sure he was not wrong. After that, he spent a few minutes in quiet speculation.

Surely the poor devil had been drunk—he could smell it, and it appeared he’d even lost some of his liquor down the front of his old black coat. A sad thing, very sad. One hated to see a man enjoy himself, and then choke for it. Unless—unless he’d been thrown? Maybe he’d directed his horse down from the road, intending to give them both a rest—and then, maybe, it had shied at a viper. He only hoped the snake, if there was one, had taken itself far away! Yet if the man had carried some form of drink with him, could any be left? There was none around the body, he soon saw. But—might there be something else?

Caleb soon came upon several pieces of Spanish and
English silver in one pocket, along with some coppers, and a few smaller coins made of gold in another. All of these he put into his own pocket with a sigh. They would have to be turned over to the authorities, for it wouldn’t do to rob the dead. Although right there next to him was something else that had a pretty shine to it, and even a gem or two. Did this belong to the stranger? It lay close, but … maybe, and maybe not. Wouldn’t it be something wonderful to give to the old dame? She’d long forgiven him a great deal; she would forget even more, he imagined, if he were to offer her such a gift one day. Besides, it looked as though the dead man was a stranger, perhaps far from home. He and his possessions might never be missed. In which case …

At last decided, Caleb Knox put the small, glittering object next to the coins in his breeches. After that, he walked around a clump of yellow stalks full of bees and approached the riderless horse. Its head rose with a whinny. Clucking to keep it calm, he crept the last few feet, and grasped at its bridle. Before long, to Judy’s surprise, he had the mount tied to the back of his wagon. Leaving the two to become acquainted, he then returned for the corpse.

The farmer felt a little foolish as he pulled off the man’s hat, and set it on top of his own. Next he lifted the pair of legs, and held one under each arm as he walked backward, allowing the stranger’s coat to drag over a new furrow in the vegetation. At the ditch, Knox hoisted up the dead weight, and grunted as he carried it down and back up again. At last he rolled it into his wagon. In another few moments, when he had arranged the man decently, he climbed forward to his seat. Finally, he turned Judy around on the road, and started the wagon back toward Bracebridge.

Looking both ways, Caleb still saw no one ahead of him, or behind. Soon, many voices would be clamoring to
hear his story, for the reward of a tankard or two. He would not be sorry to tell how he’d found the terrible thing now behind him. At least, he would tell most of it … if not exactly all.

First, however, he would do his duty and speak to someone else, who would surely know what more needed to be done.

“
YOU DO PAINT
an unpleasant picture,” said Richard Longfellow. He smoothed his gathered hair further with a callused hand, feeling new moisture on his forehead. He suspected they’d all become more aware of the great heat and stillness of the afternoon, now that Caleb Knox had introduced Death to their party. “And you believe he met his end recently?”

“A few hours ago, it may be,” the farmer replied, his eyes drifting toward a man unknown to him, who stood at the edge of the piazza.

Longfellow turned abruptly to Gian Carlo Lahte, to watch him adjust his coat sleeves over lace ruffles. “You saw nothing, I suppose, on your way here?” he asked the musico.

“Not of that sort,” Lahte replied easily.

“Where exactly was this, Caleb?”

“By the old hedge of hawthorn, not two miles east of here.”

“And you say you recovered his horse as well. A good animal, do you think?”

“For working fields, no, sir. For walking, it could be … though he likely has bloat by now.”

“Spirited?”

The farmer considered, rubbing at the stubble on his throat into which sweat continued to trickle. “Not something I could tell,” he decided.

“Hired in Boston, quite possibly. Such animals learn the Devil’s own tricks for getting rid of a rider.” Caleb snorted his agreement, though he had never hired a stable horse in his life.

“So,” Longfellow continued, “this man appears to have been thrown after leaving the road, and stayed where he landed until you picked him up. You’re sure you haven’t seen him in the village before?”

“Nor anywhere else. Could be he was a tinker, I thought—yet he had no goods box, nor saddlebags. Clothes like a gentleman’s, but too old. Cast-offs, could be, yet still queer, somehow. He did have coins in his pockets….”

Knox reached into his own breeches and carefully brought forth the collection, leaving it in Longfellow’s outstretched hand.

“A sad tale, Caleb. But one hardly new these days, with riders having no better sense than to race from hither to yon.”

“Amen to that!” exclaimed the farmer, whose plodding Judy had feet the size of firkins.

“You found Reverend Rowe?”

“No. But I heard he went over to Brewster’s, so I sent a boy running for him.”

“Since this man had no other possessions, I suppose he came from town to visit someone, planning to return by nightfall. A small mystery, but one we’ll understand shortly, I’m sure.”

The farmer nodded as he put his hat back on. Then he lifted it again, briefly, to Mrs. Willett. Still, he would not go. Instead he turned in the direction of the unknown guest, perhaps hoping to have one stranger’s presence, at least, explained that day.