Too Soon for Flowers

by Margaret Miles

  Dr. Tucker cleared his throat, but made no comment.

  Attracted by Longfellow’s pianoforte, David Pelham rose with a smile and made his way to the instrument, where he ran his fingers over the ivory keys, picking out a simple tune until Charlotte returned with a tray. He then took a seat beside her, accepting cup and saucer and a slice of cake, though he immediately set both down on a small table nearby.

  “I had hoped,” he began, “to have the pleasure of seeing Miss Longfellow today.”

  “Diana won’t be allowed to leave Mrs. Willett’s house for another two weeks, at least,” her brother informed him.

  “Then—might I be allowed to visit her there? I may be of some use, if Miss Longfellow wants cheerful conversation, or perhaps someone to read to her. It would be my great pleasure, I assure you.”

  Longfellow chewed his cake thoughtfully before he answered. “You will have to consult her physician on the wisdom of having another visitor in the house,” he eventually replied, “though I can see no real harm …”

  “Sir?” asked Mr. Pelham.

  Dr. Tucker, too, appeared to consider. Then he lowered his gaze, and blinked full into Mrs. Willett’s face. For a moment, Charlotte had an odd feeling she could not account for.

  “Mr. Pelham may certainly visit from time to time,” Dr. Tucker decided.

  “Thank you, Doctor! I am delighted!”

  “In fact,” said Longfellow, “you might as easily lift the spirits of two young ladies.”

  Oh, yes?” David Pelham asked politely.

  “Another is there—Phoebe Morris by name—a girl already known to Dr. Tucker, it seems.”

  Mrs. Willett noticed David Pelham’s hand, reflected in the Venetian mirror, tighten suddenly into a fist. When he turned to stare at Tucker, the physician gave a sickly smile.

  “She’s soon to wed a local lad,” said Benjamin Tucker, while his face contorted strangely.

  “Then I wish her happiness.” David Pelham abandoned his refreshment for an exploratory trip around the room, during which he examined several objects. “What a superior study. A room of good proportions, impressive windows for a country place, and interesting decoration. I would be happy to spend a great deal of time here myself, I believe.”

  He lifted the lid of a rosewood box resting on a bookshelf to one side of the mantel. Inside were two matched pistols. “These are splendid!” he gasped with admiration.

  “I bought them on the Continent,” said Longfellow, “from a Corsican. The man was sorry to sell them, but desperate for funds. I suspect the Europeans are fonder of small arms than we. Perhaps that’s because they have more to fear from their neighbors.”

  “Yet I myself practice with a set obtained when I began to fear going unprotected at night—yes, even in Boston! But you never fire them?” asked Pelham, as he studied the weapons more closely.

  “Rarely. When I feel an urge to practice with a weapon, I generally choose the longbow. Far better exercise.”

  “A fine part of English tradition,” Pelham conceded.

  “As well as that of America,” Longfellow pointed out, smiling at the contrast between the traditional archers of the two continents.

  “An interesting point. However, bow and quiver might be odd things to carry, on a walk down Cornhill.”

  “Colorful, at least. What is your opinion, Doctor?”

  “I would like to see all firearms discouraged,” Tucker replied curtly. “I’ve seen what they can do to a body, and too many young men develop a fascination with them. They also make a highwayman’s business far easier than it might be, when they go armed among peaceful citizens such as myself, who carry no weapons.”

  “Would you then take our military muskets and fowling pieces from us, too?” asked Longfellow, hoping to encourage vigorous conversation.

  “I doubt such a choice would ever be left to me! Though I hardly find muskets or fowling pieces necessary these days, when I go out to procure a piece of beefsteak or a sausage.” The doctor hoisted himself from his comfortable chair. “But now, I must go across the garden to my patients.”

  Charlotte had been sitting quietly, thinking it inadvisable to comment on a subject most men believed women ill prepared to discuss. (Still, Aaron had often asked her to lead him over the fields on his arrival in Bracebridge—had even taught her to load and fire his rifle, which still hung over the kitchen hearth, though she now had not the heart to use it.)

  “May I join you?” she abruptly asked the departing physician.

  “Of course, madam, of course! I would greatly welcome an assistant.”

  “They do have a curious decoration,” Longfellow went on to David Pelham, as his admiring guest continued to stroke the silver, wood, and steel of the finely crafted firearm in his hands.

  HIS GLASSES PERCHED on top of his head, Benjamin Tucker bent as close as he dared to Diana Longfellow’s chest. He watched it rise and fall for a moment, straightened, then sat back on his chair at the side of her bed.

  “Nothing yet there; nor anything on the neck, face, or hands. In fact, I don’t believe there’s even a fever. How do you feel, Miss Longfellow?”

  “Like taking a long walk across the meadows. Alone.”

  “That, I’m afraid, you may not do,” replied the doctor.

  Diana gave him a swift look of displeasure, but soon returned to her previous ennui.

  “There’s no need for you to stay in bed,” Charlotte suggested gently. “You might try a walk around the house; it has the advantage of not soiling the slippers.”

  “Oh, I’ve tried that. I tried to talk with Phoebe this morning, but she said so little, and besides, I can’t sit still for her today. I have even visited with Lem, but he seems to prefer his Latin to me! Since I paid scant attention when Richard’s ancient tutor was in the house, I’m no help there. I have even,” she said, lifting her eyes toward the ceiling, “spoken with Hannah. You can imagine what pleasure either of us derived from that.”

  “What did you discuss?”

  “How one goes about cleaning brass. I found it not very interesting.”

  “Perhaps you may soon be able to shine in a different way.”

  “How, Charlotte?” Diana asked eagerly.

  “Mr. Pelham has asked to be allowed to visit you, for what he suggests might be cheerful conversation,” Mrs. Willett returned with a smile.

  “He hasn’t!” Diana cried, looking down at her house costume.

  “I’m afraid I gave my approval,” said her physician, as he took her wrist to feel her pulse. “Was that unwise?”

  “Well … I do have some idea Mr. Pelham will forgive something less than elegance in dress—after all, he was married. The tattle, Charlotte, is that when he was quite poor—though his family was once quite proud—he took a rich wife for her fortune and little else, apparently. I always found Alicia Farnsworth to be a dry, retiring sort of person. And sickly, of course. But he may have loved her for some reason, if that matters. Unfortunately, she soon died. It’s the opinion of several ladies I know that Mr. Pelham was sure she would—but they also say that he should not hesitate to wed again—if only he asked them!”

  “There are,” said Charlotte, “many reasons for marriage. Was Miss Farnsworth interested in learning? Sometimes, when one lacks health—”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say, Charlotte. Though when I think of it, I have noticed Mr. Pelham actually listening at the town’s evening lectures, so perhaps he is able to talk of something besides one’s appearance, or the state of the weather—unlike many others. In fact, he must be a man of many experiences, having traveled, and been married … so I suppose a visit is perfectly fine, Dr. Tucker.”

  “I can assure you, Miss Longfellow, that Mr. Pelham admires you greatly—something he has made very plain to me,” her physician replied with a crack in his voice.

  “Really? In that case, let me do something about my hair. He can’t expect too much, under the circumstances. If only Patty were here! Charlotte, wh
ere is my mirror?”

  Soon after the mirror had been located, and when Diana had found a comb, a choice of caps, and a handful of ribbons, her visitors left the wonderfully revived young woman to her task.

  ONCE HE AND Mrs. Willett had gone down the stairs and across the kitchen, Dr. Tucker knocked on the door to the small side room. The shelved chamber had once held stores, and sometimes sheltered itinerant craftsmen who showed up to mend shoes, repair clocks, or add heads to their ready-made portraits. More recently, the room had become Lem’s sleeping chamber, although in winter he had to share it with bushels of potatoes and apples.

  Fully dressed and lying atop a striped blanket, the boy turned from his book with an inquiring look.

  “Don’t get up,” said Dr. Tucker. “For once, you’re allowed to stay there all day, if you like.” Tucker brushed the hair from the boy’s forehead, and found only smooth skin. “No aches, no pains at all? No weariness?”

  “A small headache. It’s not bad.”

  “The countryside breeds superior young men,” Dr. Tucker noted to Charlotte, who nodded her assent and wondered if Lem might be hungry, as usual. Before she could ask, the doctor uncoiled the bandage on the boy’s arm, looked at the suppurating wound closely, wrinkled his nose, and covered the area back up again. He signaled that he’d concluded his examination.

  “We’ll leave you to your studies,” said Dr. Tucker in parting. “By the way, what do you conclude, on reading the great Caesar’s adventures?”

  “That they are the reason my head aches.”

  “An interesting theory,” the physician said with a dry chuckle. “I seem to recall observing the same phenomenon, a very long time ago.”

  Leaving his second patient to fend with history on his own, Dr. Tucker led Mrs. Willett through a kitchen portal and into the main room of the house. Eventually, they passed through the open door of her study.

  Phoebe was the only one of the inoculated who seemed feverish. At least, her face was more flushed than usual, Charlotte noted when they entered the room.

  “Do you feel ill, Miss Morris?” the physician asked at once.

  “No.” Phoebe’s reply came in a low voice. Her eyes moved from Dr. Tucker to Mrs. Willett.

  “Then, do you wish you were home?” Charlotte guessed, worrying that the girl should have been sent back to Concord after all.

  “I once looked forward to seeing more of the world,” Phoebe replied vaguely. She lay back as Dr. Tucker reached for one of her hands.

  “Your new life here will be exciting,” Charlotte assured her. “But you might find time to travel, too, in the next twenty or thirty years.”

  “Have you seen Will this morning?” Phoebe asked her suddenly.

  “He’s well, but a little pensive.”

  “That is unlike Will, isn’t it?” Finally a smile skipped across her face. But it swiftly faded. “Have … have you seen him as well, Doctor?”

  “No, indeed. You have a good pulse,” he told the girl. “However, I advise you to stay in bed. Eat lightly, sip small beer or cider when you can. That should calm you. It occurs to me, Miss Morris, that we’ve not spoken of your medical history.”

  “No,” Phoebe answered, “but perhaps—could we talk of it now?” This time, her own hand reached out for the doctor’s, while her steadfast eyes attempted a message her lips seemed unwilling to convey.

  Charlotte had supposed another woman in the room would make Phoebe feel easier. Now, she saw that Miss Morris wished to speak to the physician without her. She watched as Tucker covered Phoebe’s fingers gently, while to his face came a look that seemed to combine sharp sensations of pleasure and pain.

  She rose to leave, then waited a moment longer; still, she heard no objection. Then she went out of the room somewhat uneasily, leaving Phoebe and Dr. Tucker alone.

  MUCH LATER IN the day, Mrs. Willett sat on a milking stool, while nearby, Will Sloan pulled with slow regularity at a soft bag. In the dairy’s doorway, mosquitoes, an occasional long-tailed mayfly, and swarms of gilded gnats gave movement and sound to the evening air. Charlotte wore a thin veil to keep the worst at a distance. Encountering Will’s weathered neck and face, the biters found they had even less chance of success.

  “You’ll see Phoebe again tonight, won’t you?” she asked over a cow’s twitching back.

  “I expect so,” Will called dreamily from another flank.

  “Would you give her a message?”

  “If you want.”

  “I have forgotten to tell her I brought back a length of fabric, as she requested, from Boston. It’s for a skirt to wear at the wedding, with the short jacket she’s already made.”

  “Do you expect me to gossip like a girl, about clothes?” Will demanded, suddenly suspicious.

  “A married man should know about them. How else can he keep an eye on what his wife needs—and explain to her how well she looks?”

  “I won’t need to look at what she has on to tell her that!”

  “But like it or not, she’ll expect it. So—the cloth is white linen, with a pattern of light green sprigs. And it has tiny apple-red knots. I think she’ll be pleased.”

  “More than I’ll be to tell her,” Will muttered.

  “How long have you known the soon-to-be Mrs. Sloan?” Charlotte soon went on, to pass the time. “Almost a year.”

  “Has she told you much about what her life has been like in Concord?”

  “Didn’t need to. I’ve been there a dozen times, so I saw for myself.”

  “Do you like it there?”

  “It’s all right. When we stay the night, her family gives my brother and me a room that looks out over the river. If I’d only had a fowler last time, I could have shot ducks for dinner, without even getting out of bed.”

  “Has Phoebe ever spoken of visiting Boston, Will?”

  “No. But her younger sister Betsy said she was there once, and ate lobsters. And I think it was with Phoebe, so Phoebe must have gone there, I suppose.”

  Not for the first time, Charlotte marveled at the workings of love—for what other reason could these two have to marry? They seemed an unlikely match, and probably knew very little of each other. Surely, Phoebe had a keen curiosity in things Will had little use for. Perhaps a trip together would open his eyes, the way a month’s visit had spread the world before a grateful Mrs. Willett, who had traveled with her new husband to Philadelphia for the month of their honeymoon.

  “She might enjoy spending a week or two in Boston, if you’d take her there,” Charlotte suggested. “For your wedding trip. It would be a good chance to get to know one another, without brothers and sisters there to tease you. And you could eat all the lobster and oysters and fresh scrod you’d ever want. I think Phoebe would like to go. Especially to be sharing something new with you.”

  “I know she would,” Will began. But he never finished, for soon he’d drifted off into a trance again.

  Charlotte smiled and let him go.

  • • •

  AN HOUR AND a half later, Will Sloan stood whistling softly outside the west window of Phoebe’s new bedchamber. The sun had already gone down, ending the long day, and a freshening breeze made the boy glad he’d put on a second shirt over the first. In another moment he saw his fiancée appear, carrying a candle. Setting the light down on the sill, Phoebe raised the lower sash as far as she could.

  “Throw on a shawl—it’s cold out here,” Will told her, unsure if he had given advice or an order. Whichever it was, he was pleased to see the girl draw a wrap from a chair and adjust it over her shoulders before she leaned out.

  “Will—I’ve waited so long!”

  “My mother sent me off earlier. You do look beautiful tonight … sweetheart.” At this moment, in the twilight, with her hair loose and long, she reminded him of a princess in disguise, waiting to be discovered by a wandering shepherd—or, as it happened, by an errand boy and milker of cows. Once again, Will Sloan told himself he was a very fortunate young man.
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  “And I think … I’m sure that gown’s becoming. Especially with those little pieces you put in, shining back at the candle.”

  Phoebe looked down to her green shift, whose cambric sleeves she’d worked into a pattern of vines with silver thread. As she gazed back up, tears brimmed in her eyes. This soon had the effect of dissolving Will’s gallantry into a fount of passion—though a small part of his mind was able to note that Mrs. Willett had given him sound advice.

  Abandoning all thought, Will moved forward impulsively. But his betrothed swiftly backed away from the sill.

  “Stay there! Will, you promised!”

  “I only promised not to come inside—if you would sleep down here where I could see you. But I wish you would come and sleep with me tonight, Phoebe.” He whispered now, so that no one else would hear. “You could, if you wanted to! Nobody would know, if you slipped out, later …”

  “Will, you promised you’d do as I say.”

  Will Sloan thought of another evening a few weeks before, when he’d had his own way. “But Phoebe, you know I need you!”

  “I know, Will,” she answered softly.

  “Are you sure you miss me, too? As much, I mean? Do you miss … ?”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  “I don’t know why you had to do this, Phoebe.” The boy was unable to keep his frustration from his rising voice. “You didn’t have to go in there! If you’d only told your father—”

  “You know I had to do what he thinks best.”

  “But after we marry, I’ll take his place in that!”

  Phoebe smiled briefly, then seemed again about to break into tears.

  “Phoebe, what is it?” Will asked tenderly.

  “I was only thinking …”