No Rest for the Dove (8 page)

He swiveled abruptly to regard the minister. In Rowe’s face, at least, he saw nothing to confirm a new and monstrous suspicion. The man’s interest appeared to be held by pieces of pewter and silver arrayed upon the sideboard. Clearly, his thoughts went in another direction.
Or did they …?

“If there are mosquitoes in your bedroom,” said Charlotte, “you might ask for frames to be put into the windows. You remember, Richard, making Diana the gauze screens last summer, after a June bug came in one night?”

“Yes, yes—all too well!” Longfellow again saw his sister running through the hall in her nightgown, clawing at her hair. At least this softened the revolting thought of Reverend Rowe courting his neighbor.

“But I still can’t see why I wasn’t bitten even once last evening,” he continued, seeking further consolation in scientific observation. “North of the bridge where the river slows, down in the marsh grass, one might expect to be bothered. But you wouldn’t have been wandering there?”

“Even in Italy,” Lahte assured him, “and especially in Rome, we are careful of the
mal aria
, the bad air that hangs over such places on warm nights. Also, I am sure I would find the odor most offensive.”

“Presumably. While I recommend the benefits of night air in general—unlike some who would have us suffocated by bed curtains—we mustn’t forget that even the ancients feared miasmas that float over water. Especially water that stands or meanders. Do you know, I once stood on the actual Maeander, having gone down to Phrygia from Constantinople to have a look at the land of old Midas—”

“Most edifying, I’m sure,” said Reverend Rowe abruptly, “but as our most influential selectman, what will you do about our thief?”

“What
can
I do, Reverend? At the moment, I have duties beyond pilfered boots and buttons. I will admit this affair worries me, and if you discover anything more, I hope you will let me know. But now, perhaps, we should all go about our business.”

“If you would care to stay, Signor Lahte, you would be welcome,” Charlotte suggested—causing her neighbor to regret the telling of a small lie regarding his own level of occupation.

“I would be delighted,” said the musico. His long fingers rolled down his sleeves. “I believe, madamina, that you must be a sorceress. I am cured! And I would gladly learn more of your spells.”

Blushing again under the reverend’s sharp eye, Charlotte felt she would enjoy learning something more of Signor Lahte’s world, as well—clearly a strange one in which poverty and cruelty might join to create rare beauty, though with a melancholy proviso.

IN THE HOUR
that followed the departure of Longfellow and Reverend Rowe, Gian Carlo Lahte first explored Mrs. Willett’s kitchen, and then wandered her barnyard, acquainting
himself with fowl, flora, tools, and utensils, inside and out. The spotted hens under the white oak seemed to give him particular pleasure as he threw them scraps, and it occurred to Charlotte that this worldly man might almost be revisiting his simple boyhood. Pleased by the thought, she turned from the window and again took up a knife, this time to cut into a mass of curd lying in a vat that waited in a water bath by the fire. Crushed rennet, from the stomach of a calf that had provided Easter’s dinner, had already done its work, curdling milk from last evening mixed with more gathered that morning.

She cut the curd into small squares, then began the long process of turning the warm pieces gently with her hands, feeling for the mass to lose its moisture. In the meantime, she considered Hannah’s choice to work in the yard, even when Signor Lahte came inside to watch her own efforts.

“What is to be done now?” he asked from a low stool, as Charlotte continued to stir.

“In a few minutes I’ll ask you to pour more kettle water into the bath, to heat it further. Once it comes to the proper temperature, it has to be kept there for about an hour. Then we’ll remove the whey. You might help by lifting and pouring out what’s in the vat—just onto the cheesecloth I’ve stretched over that bowl, there—so the curds can drain. After another half-hour it can go onto the boards, where I’ll knead in the salt. Then it all must be pressed into the molds, which I’ve lined with more cloth.”

“And your work will be done?”

“
Then
, we put weights on the top of the molds. In another hour, more weight, and in three hours time the cheese should be almost dry. I’ll rub each one with salt,
and take them all down to the cellar to ripen. They’ll be turned every so often for two months, at least, before the first comes to table.”

“How I adore the patience of women! The liquid—this whey—you will make it into
ricotta
?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that is … but the family in Mr. Longfellow’s piggery finds whey very enjoyable, and beneficial.”

“Your country is indeed a rich one.”

“Have you helped to make
ricotta
before?” she asked, after her hand went briefly to a few twists of cider-colored hair that had begun, as usual, to fall.

“I remember only that the liquid was made sour and eaten in my father’s house—the rest, he sold to be made into fine cheeses for others. But I did not make
ricotta
myself. As a young boy, my chores were outside. Then, like the cheeses, I was sold to a
conservatorio
in Parma. There I sometimes visited the kitchen to help, and to find something more to eat. But for long hours each day I only studied, and sang. Now I think I will surprise you. Even as a boy I was called Il Colombo, but not for my fine voice; as you know, the dove sings less well than many other birds. No—you see, one feast day, some of us were allowed to eat many
piccioni
—doves, as you say—after a special mass sung at one of the great churches. From that time, I longed to be rich so that I might keep such doves myself. I also hoped to learn the tricks of the bird-catcher—the fowler—by following him into the forest outside the city; in that way I should always have the little roasted songbirds, the ortolans, to eat. I see I do surprise you! But though I was hungry for such things, I was also glad to have more bread to eat than many others, whose voices did not show the promise of my own.”

Something made her want to turn away from this picture of a boy hungry for birds, as he himself was taught to
sing—but Charlotte found her curiosity too strong. Instead, she asked a daring question.

“I suppose we can never truly understand the ways of Rome here, but didn’t your clergy—your priests—didn’t they forbid what was done?”

“Sì,”
he answered simply.

“But then …?”

“At the
conservatorio
, everyone prayed I would be taken to serve Il Papa one day, paid for with good money. Of course this was to be for the glory of God! Yet it is said to be against God’s law, to do what is done to so many. The cardinals even say it is enough to condemn such a
dottore
to the
inferno
—but, they also hope we will sing for them like the angels. It is for this reason the Holy Father allows, and pays, and looks the other way. Life, you see, is never without sin, even in Roma.”

“But you did not go to Rome?”

“I grew too charming,” Lahti admitted with a laugh. “When my voice was ready, my teachers were offered more by the theaters than by the cardinals. In Italy, you know, young men often play the parts of women in the operas; and of course, no women are allowed in the choirs of the Church—this is the order of the Pope. In the theater, it can be unpleasant, even dangerous, for a woman to walk the stage. My own experience has taught me to have sympathy for these brave ladies—indeed, for you all! Especially as I, too, have known the bite of a corset with stays around my chest, and the trouble of painting my face. Perhaps,” he ventured with a smile, “I know these things better than you, madamina?”

Charlotte pressed on, soothed by her companion’s comforting voice, despite the unusual subjects they pursued. “And the Duke? How did you go from Italy to Germany?”

“When the Duke heard me in a theater in Milano, he
bought my service for two years, so that I might go and sing in his chapel. To him I was able to sell myself, for I had already earned enough to pay the
conservatorio
for my training. That, for me, was the beginning of freedom. But madamina, may I ask something of you?”

Charlotte looked to her hands as she replied. “If you like. But I haven’t much of interest to tell.”

“I have heard from our friend Longfellow of your husband. He was what is called in England a Quaker, I believe. But there are no other Quakers here?”

“My husband was a Friend—that is what they most often call one another. And he was raised in Philadelphia, where there are many. Here in Massachusetts, I’m afraid Friends are not entirely welcome, but my own parents taught me to value what comes from within, as they do … as well as what the world can teach us.”

“And, of course, what your good reverend has to say?”

A soft laugh was Charlotte’s answer. “I was not raised in Aaron’s faith,” she added on an impulse, “but I did feel somehow that we were one, from the first.” She was unused to hearing herself speak intimately of her husband; it was especially odd to reveal her feelings to someone who was little more than a stranger! But she had quickly found herself drawn to Gian Carlo Lahte in a way that, if not exactly as it had been with Aaron, was not entirely different.

“Simpatia,”
he returned. “This is the best beginning for a marriage. Without it, men soon find passion elsewhere—and women may give back to their husbands a gift of horns.” He looked away, as if he feared he’d broken the trust between them—if, in fact, his meaning had been understood.

“Is this why you are here? Do you run from a cuckold?” asked Charlotte, unable to keep what she suspected to herself any longer.

The musico rose gracefully from his low seat. Gaining time, he took two silver tubes from his pocket, and joined them to make a small flute. He tried a few notes before he answered her carefully.

“Why do you suspect this, madamina?”

“Perhaps because you seem remarkably truthful in some things … while I suspect you mislead us in others, including your reason for coming here.”

Even to her own ears it sounded worse than rude. Would he be insulted? Yet they had already shared much. And what bounds were there, after all, when a man seemed so utterly willing to please?

When it came, his reply, as she’d hoped, was direct.

“I did wish to avoid a certain person by coming here. At least for a time. And it is a woman … one who cannot refuse her feelings of love for me. I, too, have feelings—and it is very difficult for a man to refuse, when he is asked to prove himself. Especially when there is little for a lover to fear from such an encounter. Do you, perhaps, understand?”

“I think that I do.”

“With you, madamina, I believe I can be honest as I have been with few others. For much of my life, I have run to avoid becoming entangled. It is why I left Milano many weeks ago, when she threatened to leave her home. I tried only to spare an old man—and perhaps to avoid a certain pain myself. Love can bring great danger, and my life has already been … full of event. Now, I think I would prefer to live with a woman who is like a sister.”

“You have never married?”

He seemed to consider anew before giving her his answer. “In Italy, it is not possible.”

“Not possible? How could that be?”

“Do you know what the Church believes to be the first purpose of a union between man and woman?”

“Children.” Uneasily, she recalled another recent conversation.

“A musico has no hope of fathering children, and so, there can be no marriage. In my country, this has long been the law.” He put the instrument he held to his lips, and produced a few notes, which lingered sweetly.

“But can that be true in this country?” asked Charlotte.

“An interesting question! It is possible your Reverend Rowe will have the answer.”

“It is possible,” she returned, her face expressing her thoughts in a way that soon caused them both to laugh.

“Madamina! I have been delighted to have a thousand gasp before me; now, I tell you, I only want to play to the vines, and these cheeses, and to a woman who might one day become a sister to me! But tell me,” he asked, suddenly in earnest, “could you love a man if you were certain he would never give you a family? Could you … could any woman be content, with such a husband?”

Hardly believing she did so, Charlotte replied by telling him a fear of her own.

“You see, I have no children. Yet had I known that would happen, I doubt I would have chosen differently. Even, I think, if I were certain the fault lay with my husband. But I cannot know the fault was not in me. And if
that
is true … it would make the two of us, signor, somewhat alike. Would it not?”

He gazed into her azure eyes, which at that moment were sad, as well as beautiful. Gian Carlo Lahte leaned closer, extended his hand, and caught a wisp of her hair that had again fallen from its pins. He gently placed it behind her ear, allowing his fingers to linger.

“
Bella signora
, I salute you!” he exclaimed abruptly, with a deep bow. Then he strolled about the room to the tripping notes of a lively air.

Charlotte looked down with greater concentration to
the task before her. She suspected some might call it scandalous, but she could not help feeling a glow in the sympathetic company of Il Colombo. She had also begun to sense a growing relief deep within her—a thing she found somewhat more difficult to explain.