Too Soon for Flowers

by Margaret Miles

  Longfellow hurried to his guest, and pounded him on the back until the other weakly raised a hand for his host to cease his ministrations.

  “It’s all right,” came his muffled cry through the linen. “I think it will be best if I walk it away! I’ll return in a while.”

  Charlotte and Longfellow settled back as they listened to Benjamin Tucker’s footsteps cross the hall and ascend the stairs.

  “It’s not often one has the pleasure of expecting to see his physician expire,” Longfellow commented. But Charlotte only stared at the brightly colored molding along the high ceiling.

  In a moment, Tabby wandered back to investigate the cause of the physician’s hasty retreat. The cat’s trainer immediately produced the piece of string, and bent forward as Mrs. Willett asked, “How did you come to choose Dr. Tucker, Richard?”

  “Tucker? He recently inoculated the boys attached to a bookshop on King Street. He spends a great deal of time there, as I do when I’m in town. Tucker, too, has a particular interest in scientific theory, and he seemed an honorable Virginia gentleman, if a little down-at-heels. He told me he’d welcome a rest, and gladly quit his rooms in Boston, for a generous fee.”

  “I see,” answered Charlotte, wondering all the more.

  AT THE END of the day’s final milking, Mrs. Willett left an unusually quiet Will Sloan to finish cleaning up on his own, as she walked from the dairy to the sun-touched side of the farmhouse. Phoebe was away from the closed study window, but Charlotte spoke briefly to Diana, who leaned out of her own room above. Before long, Mrs. Willett turned to walk through the pasture toward the Musketaquid’s marshes, with Orpheus loping happily by her side.

  The pink air of the evening was cool; but with a countrywoman’s intuition she knew that when the sun was reborn it would produce an even warmer day, with a southerly wind to force the last reluctant buds. Already, she noticed, the meadow grew thick around frost-thrown stones, which made walking somewhat perilous.

  She had to be careful, but Orpheus took no such trouble. Under Charlotte’s admiring eye, the dog bounded from boulder to bog, sniffing and prodding his territory like a proud and wary farmer. It pleased them both to know the long winter was finally over, and summer about to begin. To Charlotte, this meant freedom to walk farther into the countryside, to observe new life, and to cultivate and harvest from her gardens, orchard, and hay fields. To Orpheus, apparently, the season meant frogs, new nests in hedgerows, and suspicious holes in rock walls. Each soul, Charlotte thought again, had its own pursuits, its own happiness, its own way of defining home.

  That idea turned her thoughts again to Benjamin Tucker. No one had ever gotten around to asking, at dinner, about Tucker’s family. But perhaps he, too, had suffered sad losses; maybe that was what had driven him to resettle in an unfamiliar place. By his speech and manner, she suspected he’d been brought up in proper, even prosperous, circumstances. Yet his lace cuffs were poorly mended, the ribbons on the garters at his knees did not quite match, and one of his stockings had begun to unravel at the back of his calf. These things could indicate a careless character—or they could as easily show only a need for a good wife … or at least an efficient housekeeper. Or, she thought, one could suppose Dr. Tucker suffered from financial difficulties. Whatever the cause of his untidiness, she was not about to embarrass him by asking, and knew of no one else who might be able to satisfy her curiosity. So she decided she would have to accept the physician for what he was in Bracebridge, no matter what he was, or had been, elsewhere.

  Even so, he was a curious soul! For instance, why had he shown such an aversion to Richard’s song? Had love once been a thorn in Dr. Tucker’s side? Was it still? And could that explain his displacement from Williamsburg? There was also his interest in Phoebe Morris, whom he’d treated before. A curious coincidence, surely, to meet her again after three years, here in Bracebridge! Yet he had said little about it—in fact, he’d seemed reassured when she herself admitted none of them knew the girl well. But again, whatever was between the two had apparently taken place some time ago. While Phoebe had seemed less than pleased to see the doctor, she had placed herself in his care. Really, thought Mrs. Willett reasonably, though it tweaked her imagination, it was none of her business, after all.

  She turned at the crest of a hummock and looked back to see her house reddened by the setting sun. There in the garden, opposite what was now Phoebe’s bedchamber, stood something new—a contrivance made of poles and canvas: Will Sloan’s new shelter. Charlotte recalled her own early attempts at setting up just such a temporary camp on nearly the same spot, when she and her brother Jeremy were small. Turning away, she continued toward the river, seeing Jem’s face with her mind’s eye.

  By his own reports, her brother was learning more of the physical sciences in Edinburgh, while she took care of the farm that had been left to him. Charlotte had received a letter only the week before, but that would mean the news was now at least six weeks old. From time to time, she wished she had wings, so that she might know what Jem did the very day she thought of him, across the great green pond (as their father had called the broad Adantic). This evening, however, she was content to remain where she was. Recently, she’d seen the teeming coffee houses and taverns, the rich shops and stores of Boston. She had also seen people sorely affected by the spectre of smallpox, and by the lack of employment after the departure of military business, now that the Great War was over. She had returned home to a familiar place where one might always profit from daily chores, and where simple pleasures were the only ones expected, as the seasons changed.

  Charlotte suddenly felt in need of a strong cup of tea. Starting back toward Longfellow’s house, she watched a loose window wink at the last of the setting sun. Frogs began a chorus in answer to the rising wind, hidden beneath wild flag scattered around the meadow grass like fallen stars. The flowers reminded her of something else. Earlier, she had seen long, greenish fingers—pointing omens from the earth—rising along the southern dairy wall. Tomorrow, before they became too tough, she would snap some off and make an asparagus pie. The thought helped to keep her feet firmly on the ground as she made her way across a darkening field, toward the beckoning house, and bed.

  IN HER BORROWED chamber just up the hill, Diana Longfellow continued to read on top of her quilt until the light had fallen off to nearly nothing, and the candle she had brought up from below had need of trimming. This accomplished, she rose to light a second. The moon, past full, would not be up for a good while, and the night would become far darker before it got any brighter.

  This conclusion was a reflection not only of Diana’s celestial knowledge (which would have surprised more than a few of her acquaintances) but also of her gloomy mood. Tossing down a collection of Shakespeare’s tragedies, she then decided to pace the room for a while. That felt better, especially as a shift of soft Indian cotton played against her legs to soothe her. When she finally tired of that, she sat in her chair.

  Struck by a new idea, Diana took paper, ink, and pen from her traveling bureau, and began a letter to Miss Lucinda Devens of Boston.

  Tuesday evening, Bracebridge

  from Mrs. Willett’s house

  Dear Lucy—

  I have Promised to relate to you Everything of interest about my Inoculation and Quarantine, but I must start by saying how I truly Loathe the countryside! There is so little here to Sustain one’s Soul! Yesterday, Richard arranged a large dinner, during which we were given overdone Deer to eat; yet I suppose I should look for Squirrel Stew from our housekeeper’s pot, before long!

  The Inoculation itself was painless. I was able to avoid the Fearful Blade by inhaling a powder which promises to give small trouble for the desired Effect. My Brother has finally done something to benefit someone, and made the thing far easier than I had imagined. Let us Pray I will have no great story to tell, when I see you! But a boy called Lem, who lives with Mrs. Willett, had the Thread in the usual way, so perhaps I will see something Exciting
, after all.

  We have now added a Third Guest to our little party—Phoebe Morris, who will marry a local swain before the Summer is through. The girl comes from Concord and so she can hardly be Stylish, but she is an admirable Sketcher, and has a quiet humility I find refreshing. Phoebe has shown me some of her Work done in Crayon; this is remarkably Good. She plans to begin in Watercolors soon, and I may act as her guide. (You’ll recall I have had informal lessons from one or two Gentlemen.) While we are here, Phoebe will attempt several Portraits, and I, of course, shall be her Subject. I am sure they will be well received when I return; so you see, you need not Worry that I have nothing of importance to do. Miss Morris is hardly John Copley—but since that young man is now too Occupied even to stop and drink Tea (while I as yet have no Fortune with which to tempt him to paint me), Miss Morris will have to do!

  Here is a Peculiar Thing. You know David Pelham, of course, who wed Alicia Farnsworth, and then went to England or somewhere, after she died? Well, Lucy, he is Here! Yesterday, he approached our Table before we dined to beg a Word. Pelham is the Last person I expected to see in a backwater place like Bracebridge. Naturally, he seemed very Pleased to see me, but, since I do not believe I will be Allowed to see anyone other than my fellow sufferers, and Richard and Charlotte, until this is over, I don’t suppose Anything will come of it. A pity, since he seems more Cheerful than he once was, and of course he is far more Wealthy, which probably explains it! I have noticed him Admiring me in town once or twice since his return. Mr. Pelham, it appears, also knows my Physician. This is an old Virginian named Tucker, found by my Brother Lord knows where—at least, I have never heard of him, though he Claims to have lived in Boston these three years! It all makes for a situation I find rather Strange. Still, Dr. Tucker is not an Ill-Spoken man—and his acquaintance with Mr. Pelham gives one some Hope for him, I expect, Socially.

  But oh, this place makes me feel Cross, for there is so little to Do! Nothing happens at night; there are few Carriages, no Bells to speak of, not even a Hawker out in the street, for there is no street, only a Dusty Road. I wonder how I shall Sleep. What I would not give for a Twilight Walk about the Common, arm in arm with a Gentleman (or even you, Lucy), on our way to a Distinguished house, and a flippant Evening of Cards.

  Enough, for Tonight. I hear Phoebe’s Romeo (or perhaps Titania’s ass) come to the Window below, which opens on Miss Morris’s chamber. I will quickly shut my own to keep these delicate ears from Burning in the Rising Flames of Young Love! And so,

  Adieu—

  Diana

  After she lowered the window, Diana folded and sealed the page, and added an address to the outside. Then she resumed her place in bed, this time between soft sheets. While enjoying the clean scent of lavender, she picked up her book, considered her own life for another moment, and finally abandoned herself to the Bard’s immortal words.

  Some in Bracebridge that night went to bed to sleep, praying they would not dream. But Diana longed for dreams to come, dreams of someone she knew not. Anything, as Miss Longfellow so often sighed, for variety.

  *Though smallpox is currently said to exist only in laboratories, a cure for it has yet to be found.

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday

  THE NEXT MORNING, Longfellow and Cicero stood in the glass house built onto the side of a towering stone barn, discussing the odd habits displayed by plants and humanity. Between them were long wooden planks covered with seedlings.

  “Well, something’s eating them,” Longfellow concluded. He picked up a clay pot, then held it over his head to look beneath the leaves of a young cabbage.

  “There’s a white fly in here,” said Cicero, staring up toward sunlight that filtered through fronds of a tall palm.

  “I search for the green worm, which should be—Hah!” Longfellow reached up to pluck the offending cabbage worm from the plant, then let the grub fall to the dirt floor, where he made a smear of it under his booted toe. “I’d say it needs another application of tobacco—which I will make stronger.” Reaching to a shelf below the table, he brought up a wooden box. The old man looked on with the distress of someone who might enjoy putting the objects it held to a different use, while Longfellow tore and crumbled a dry leaf section into a glazed jar already half full of a foul-smelling liquid.

  “They say the smoke may keep away the plague,” Cicero offered. But he had no real hope of changing his employer’s mind. This painful discussion was not new—it had simply been reborn in a new form a few weeks earlier, when the box of cigars (an ill-conceived gift from Mrs. Willett’s brother-in-law, Captain Noah Willett) had arrived.

  “I’m well aware of what its supporters say, as another excuse for poisoning themselves,” Longfellow rejoined. “Though even these nefarious articles may have some place in a well-ordered world, if one finds a scientific use for them … as we have. By mixing the ash with ink, I’m told one might obtain a remedy for fungus of the skin. I have even heard of a man who recommends working a cigar into a horse’s bowel, to treat a severe case of colic; but I have yet to see anyone of good sense insert one into his mouth and light it….”

  Longfellow next strained off a few ounces of the tobacco decoction into a stoppered bottle, its top pierced with holes. Adding some wetted soap, he shook the bottle vigorously, then began the task of sprinkling as he paid close attention to each small cabbage. “Worms,” he muttered, “worms at the very core of hope … worms that produce such lovely white moths. Which reminds me—I wonder how Diana is feeling today.”

  “Mrs. Willett reports they are all well—although your sister fidgets.”

  “When does she not?”

  Cicero sensed danger in Longfellow’s less than charitable mood; still, he ventured a further observation.

  “It is too hot in here.”

  “Is it? If you say it, then it must be so. Individuals of your age usually find a bread oven too cool to support life. Well, then, what do you suggest we do?”

  “First, we might get rid of the white fly.”

  “There is no white fly, as I’ve told you twice! Only seed fluff, from opening some of last year’s pods. It would seem your vision is failing. Any day, I expect to see you and Mrs. Willett leading one another about the village, stumbling over small children.” Once again, Longfellow squinted his own eyes to better appraise the cabbage in his hand.

  “We might have the top windows whitewashed. I’ve already opened the side glass this morning, and it’s not enough.”

  Longfellow paused to gauge for himself the temperature of his surroundings. “Go ahead. It may well ease your joints to do a little climbing. Be careful of the ladder.”

  Cicero sighed, for he was not fond of heights, but soon the old man saw something that gave him a moment of pure joy. He pointed it out to Richard Longfellow, who turned to observe one of the cats clawing madly at the trunk of a large and graceful tree fern—a prized specimen brought with great care from the Caribbean.

  “Sainted apostles! Out, you monster!” the cat’s master cried, hurrying down the length of the aisle while Tabby prudently withdrew into a pile of empty pots. Man and feline performed a singular dance until, cornered by Longfellow and Cicero, the sleek animal leaped effortlessly to land behind both pursuers, then streaked toward the door.

  The roundly cursed cat might have been following his ears as well as his instincts, for in another moment the door opened, and Tabby shot out.

  “Have I come at a good time, or bad?” David Pelham inquired, once he had recovered from his surprise.

  “One is much like another here. Come in, Pelham. I suppose you’re interested in horticulture,” said Longfellow.

  “I enjoy exotic collections as much as the next man, but I always leave the business of helping them survive to others. I hardly think I have the talent for it, myself.”

  Longfellow, who had heard this kind of nonsense before, had only scorn for those who refused to pay attention to the workings on which all life depended. However
, considering his position as host to an invited guest, he manfully held back his feelings.

  “Cicero, this is Mr. David Pelham. Cicero and I, too, were Bostonians, Pelham, before we were drawn here.”

  “A freedman … ?” Mr. Pelham asked, looking from one to the other. Meanwhile, Cicero made his own appraisal of the cinnamon-colored costume before him, completed by an aroma of orange flower pomade at the head, and large buckles of gold on the feet below.

  “Free in the legal sense, if not the metaphysical,” said Longfellow. “Cicero may leave whenever he chooses. But he stays—largely, I believe, because he must torment me. Yet he pays for the privilege! At the moment, he is about to mount an expedition to the roof, for which I do not recommend an audience.” He then led Mr. Pelham out of the glass house, across the backyard, and around to the front of the house, where they entered. The visitor was thus allowed to avoid the kitchen, admire the broad entry hall, and catch a glimpse into the great formal room to its right, before approaching the west-facing study. There they greeted Charlotte and Benjamin Tucker, who were sipping mid-morning cups of tea. Longfellow pulled two straight-backed chairs away from the wall, and lowered himself next to the physician.

  “I’ll be back in a moment with a new pot and a cake,” said Charlotte as she rose, causing Mr. Pelham to bob up again. “Have you no house servants?” he asked his host when he finally sat down.

  “Two or three women, daughters of a neighbor, who come weekly to remove the dust and replace the linen. Beyond that, I’m well able to take care of myself.”

  “But—your kitchen! With no servants, what do you do for your dinner?”

  “Sustenance can always be found at the inn; occasionally, Mrs. Willett takes pity on us and extends an invitation. But we often make do with what we can concoct. You might see for yourself, if you would care to join us one day. This Sunday, perhaps? When I’m in the mood, I enjoy culinary experiments: goat in a curry, served with fermented milk curds, for an example. I wonder goat’s not eaten more. The idea came to me from a correspondent who is in the India trade—at least he was, though I hear he has recently succumbed to a stomach complaint.”