Longfellow was pleased to see David Pelham’s eyes, which previously suggested rounds of toffee, take on a glint of something far harder as they locked on to Montagu’s own. Though words were not exchanged, each man gave the other a grudging bow of recognition.
“Come along, Mrs. Willett.”
Richard Longfellow took the basket from his neighbor with a peculiar smile and offered her his arm, before propelling the little party up the hill.
“AND THEN,” DIANA Longfellow sighed, “we spoke of things beyond our fears, and our prayers for getting safely through this dreadful ordeal. I remember Phoebe talked of her family, as did I of mine.” Diana sent a brief look to her brother and decided to move on to another topic, while she reclined on a day-bed made up with quilts and pillows, on a settle in the large room downstairs.
“We also compared stories of the people we knew who had taken the smallpox … but that was unpleasant, so we went on to speak of her drawings. I told Phoebe I had seen many great paintings while in London—as well as most of those worth anything in the better homes of Boston. A few there should not be sniffed at, you know. It seems all who can afford it now want their families painted, surrounded by their possessions—though why they insist on wearing their quaintest clothing for these sittings, I have yet to discover! Would you not think they would be proud to display more of the current fashion?”
Charlotte watched Diana’s bright silk turban swivel and bob while the monologue continued. She also saw that the young woman’s conversation was well below its usual quality, and guessed Diana was not as blithe as she pretended to be. Captain Montagu was concerned as well, she supposed, for he did seem to stare.
“But you must have talked about her feelings on her coming marriage?” Longfellow inquired again.
“Ladies will seldom mention it to you men, when we do,” Diana reminded her brother. “But I’ll be truthful, Richard, in this case. She spoke of Will Sloan’s trips to Concord when they first met, and I asked her to describe his proposal. I thought it sounded rather dull, at least the way Phoebe told it. Her ardor for him was hardly dramatic, though she seemed quite constant. I did think it all a little strange, somehow.”
“Constancy may seem strange, these days,” Montagu replied gravely, crossing his legs and turning to stare now at David Pelham. Clearly, Diana had encouraged this fop to visit, and had preened herself to receive him. The surprise of his own entrance had hardly given her a moment’s discomfort. And though she must see his state of disarray, she had not bothered to question its source. Was this the young lady he had ridden his horse half to death through the night to see, one final time?
“At least, more colorful emotions may seem the fashion now,” Mr. Pelham offered cheerfully, “for there is, I believe, a more romantic view toward love these days. But are young ladies really much changed, at heart?” he queried the ladies present.
“I would say,” the captain interjected coldly, “that the flirtations that now seem acceptable in Boston society are a far cry from its former standards of modesty—and even decency.”
“Perhaps they inch closer to what has long been hoped for by Boston’s young men,” Diana tossed back. “For it is you men, is it not, who boast of making most of our rules for us?”
“But surely, Miss Longfellow, you would not have those hopes influence a lady’s behavior?” countered the captain with some warmth. “And do you suppose fathers—or brothers, for that matter—can be expected to forgive serious trespass against the females in their families, which may well result from flirtation?”
“We realize, Edmund,” said Longfellow slowly, “that in England, poaching a deer can be a hanging offense; but in Massachusetts, game is less often confined to hereditary preserves.”
“Hanging is one solution to poaching,” Montagu returned. “Though we have evolved one or two more subtle ways of influencing courtship. We must uphold standards which protect the weaker sex from the stronger, due to their entirely different natures—a difference that must be obvious, even here!”
“I fear that the sexes are still alike in their human nature. And as for protection, I find it difficult to say which gender most needs protecting from the other.”
“Then answer me this: Do you say there is hope for a woman who has lost her honor, in your society?”
“That sort of thing,” Richard Longfellow replied with a smile, “is something best left to poets, rather than to simple farmers.”
“Here are the words of a poet, then:
When lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom—is—to die.”
“How droll,” Diana remarked, after a sharp little laugh. But Captain Montagu, imagining a still body he had yet to see, focused his eyes on Mrs. Willett while he waited for her to comment.
“If, Captain, a young woman is overly sensitive to opinion, and if she is willing to injure others,” Charlotte answered at length, “then she might consider such a thing, I suppose. But I don’t believe in Bracebridge, at least, death could be seen as necessary. Here, I think, most do plan to marry, who tread where they have been told not to. But if they do not marry—and the frequent result becomes obvious—then pity will still come from many … though shame is called out by some, who should know better.”
“I see,” the captain said thoughtfully.
“Do you imagine someone in particular?” Charlotte asked.
“Two, in fact.”
“Is that clever composition your own, Captain?” asked Mr. Pelham, looking away from Miss Longfellow.
“The song belongs to Oliver Goldsmith. It is unpublished, but more than once I’ve heard ‘Nol’ repeat it for a glass of spirits. It is found in a novel soon to be published.”
“How did you come to meet Goldsmith?” Pelham demanded, smiling as if he were inclined not to believe the captain’s answer.
“That is a long story, best left for another time. I can only say that he and I have frequented the same waterfront streets and London dens, where one may observe the lot of the fallen. And we both have seen tainted, diseased women of the town who are the equal of any man in depravity—although they often arrived there through little fault of their own.”
“But how came you to be in these low places yourself, sir?” Pelham inquired doggedly.
“Again, I must decline …”
“The captain is a charitable man who often seeks to assist those in distress,” Charlotte answered for him.
“It’s quite true,” Diana replied, flouncing her skirts. “And apparently he’s come to do me that favor during my quarantine, even though he might be enjoying more splendid entertainment with well-to-do ladies in New Hampshire. Is that not charity, toward a poor, suffering, weak, misguided woman?”
“If Captain Montagu has come here to see you, Miss Longfellow,” said David Pelham, “then I will admire his taste for beauty, at least. However, I’m not at all sure I can applaud his idea of acceptable conversation for gentle ladies.”
With a glower, Montagu rose to his feet. Fortunately, more serious wrangling was prevented by the sudden entry of Hannah Sloan. She looked at the group with some confusion until her eyes found Richard Longfellow.
“Have you heard anything at all of my Will, sir?”
“No, Hannah. If I had seen you before—”
“I’ve been tending Lem. He’s become feverish. Shouldn’t Dr. Tucker be called?”
“I’ll go now. As to your son,” Longfellow added, rising to continue quietly at her ear, “I’ve made attempts to learn if anyone’s had news of him, but I’m concerned that calling for a full search might lead to even more trouble for the boy. It would be wise to wait a while longer.”
“He is a good
boy, truly,” Hannah insisted. “We all thought he would be a blessing to Phoebe, since the girl had such ideas … from too many books, and those drawings of hers. She wasn’t a sturdy girl, either—up and down in her feelings like a candle, she was. Not at all like my Will”
“Mmm,” Longfellow began uncertainly.
“But there is one more thing. You do know, Mr. Longfellow, that Will has not had the smallpox? Nor have any of my children. And I know he would not want to infect them, or anyone else.”
It was said with little emphasis, but Longfellow immediately realized the woman’s meaning. He felt his scalp tighten. Despite what his mother was inclined to believe, Will was not known for a level head. Now, Hannah seemed to tell him the boy might indeed have approached Phoebe during her final hours. And if, somehow, he had taken the disease himself … ?
“When I speak with the selectmen this afternoon, I’ll bring up the point,” he told her. Hannah Sloan extended a hand as if to touch his coat sleeve—but let it drop.
“I believe I will go upstairs,” Miss Longfellow decided, drawing attention to herself once more. “To rest. But if you please, Charlotte, come and talk with me later.”
“Edmund,” said Longfellow, “before we go, perhaps you would like to help my sister take herself back up to her bedchamber. I see she’s moved quite a lot of paraphernalia down here. She may also wish to speak to you alone.”
“Richard,” Diana responded quickly, “I’m sure I would not wish to—”
“The man’s ridden all night from New Hampshire, Diana! Would you not extend a little charity to him? And if he’s not back down the stairs in five minutes, by the tall clock there, I will send Mr. Pelham up after you both.”
“Richard!”
“I hope I have shown the captain that I have some concern for your honor, after all,” said Longfellow pleasantly, before he turned and led Mrs. Willett through the kitchen door.
CHARLOTTE KNEW LEM was seriously ill when she saw him lying under his blanket with no book in hand, his eyes studying only the ceiling. The boy turned his head to watch them enter the tiny room—an effort that clearly caused him discomfort.
“Now, Lem,” said Longfellow, looking him over, “I see you’ve met the enemy.”
“I suppose I’ll survive, sir.”
“Let us hope so. Feel anything besides unusual warmth?”
“My stomach’s been upside down for half the morning.”
“Have you begun to sweat?”
The boy nodded. In another moment, he shuddered with cold.
“You should improve in a day or two. We’ll soon have you out chopping and milking again. I’ll send Tucker over, and I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Is there anything I can bring?” Mrs. Willett asked. “We have some ice left in the sawdust. Would you like a sherbet with preserved cherries, do you think?”
“Tomorrow,” Lem whispered, as he felt his stomach rebel once more.
“All right.”
Charlotte reached out and stroked the boy’s still-smooth cheek. Kindness could do far more, she knew, than most medicines. And for a moment, her effort was rewarded with a heartfelt smile.
LATER, IN THE room full of stores and notions that occupied a part of the home of Hiram Bowers, reaction to Mrs. Willett’s proximity was less favorable. She had walked down to the village to purchase a few items, including Virginia brittle, which she knew Lem enjoyed. In a few more days, she hoped he would like the taste of some again.
Leaving the road, Charlotte approached a Dutch door whose top was already ajar to let in the air. Humming, she entered and looked around as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light inside. Before long, she realized that three women stood in various parts of the shop, though not one had greeted her.
Indeed, the acting proprietor, Mrs. Emily Bowers, seemed frozen with indecision. Over by a barrel of coarse sea salt, an older woman finally made a clucking noise, then turned her back. Charlotte had known Mrs. Proctor from childhood, and admired her as a pillar of good works in Bracebridge. And wasn’t that Mrs. Hurd beside her, holding a piece of lace? Yes, it was Jemima, whose aches and twinges she had politely followed for years—but Mrs. Hurd, too, looked away without speaking.
Emily Bowers managed to clear her throat.
“What is it that you need today, Mrs. Willett?”
“Peanut brittle, please.”
“How much for you?”
“A quarter-pound will do.”
“I’ll have my husband bring it over to Mr. Longfellow’s house this afternoon.”
“Thank you. I planned to take a few more things, but it seems I may not be welcome here today.”
The other ladies moved slightly, in a way that reminded Charlotte of her hens when they suspected someone might soon take an egg from beneath their feathers.
The distress of Emily Bowers increased, for she knew Mrs. Willett was genuinely liked and respected by more than a few of her female clients. Beyond that, she paid swiftly.
“It’s only that this morning,” the woman explained, “as we’ve been speaking of Phoebe Morris …”
“But I don’t see—”
“People wonder what’s happened, and they want to know who’s at fault,” Emily Bowers hurried on. “We’ve heard talk these past weeks that inoculation is safe—yet I can’t say all of us believe it. If the talk is wrong, then such a thing should never have been tried on the poor girl, especially not here in Bracebridge! People fear others will soon be contaminated, because of this Boston doctor’s efforts. But now let’s suppose inoculation is safe. Then, people are bound to blame the man for doing something else to Phoebe … and, perhaps, they may find fault in those who caused him to come here in the first place …”
“Think of how Will Sloan must feel!” Jemima Hurd fluttered, “to lose his young bride! Though you know,” she reversed herself, “that boy has been a trial to his poor mother. As Hannah Sloan was saying only last week—”
“Reverend Rowe may be correct, as well,” Mrs. Proctor interrupted sharply, “in suspecting both young people of wrongdoing, for there is far too much laxness, these days.”
“I see,” murmured Mrs. Willett. “But shouldn’t we wait to hear what the constable and our selectmen decide?” she asked mildly.
“Fools!” old Mrs. Proctor exclaimed, drawing a nervous titter from Mrs. Hurd. “Count on them to get everything wrong—though they will rarely tell us what is going on, so that we might straighten them out! In the meantime, people are afraid you might carry the contagion, Mrs. Willett, coming and going from your house. Some say it’s simply a matter of time before you take the smallpox, which I’ve heard you admit you have not had.”
“And a woman’s first duty, before all else, is to think of the children! What of their safety? What of their future?” Mrs. Hurd’s face was uplifted while her cry rang out.
“It was to protect the future of three lives,” Charlotte countered, “that the inoculation was arranged, for it is widely believed to be a wise precaution!”
“I don’t know about that,” Sarah Proctor retorted. “But I do know people have died both of the smallpox, and the inoculation. And do not forget, most in our village are not protected! Only a few have money enough to bring physicians from Boston, as you well know. Who will help when one of us is stricken, as a result of your encouragement of outsiders?”
“I’m sorry for you myself, Mrs. Willett,” Jemima Hurd admitted, “but what can we do? The village has decided. You should go into your home with the others, and pray that things become no worse. Go home, and stay there!” she finished shrilly.
Charlotte had no wish to hear more hysterical twaddle. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bowers, to have troubled you today,” she said, turning to leave as another walked through the doorway, dressed in well-worn, though newly ironed, garments.
“Mrs. Willett! How good to see you,” the woman exclaimed, offering her hand. “Are you keeping well?”
“Yes, indeed!” Charlotte answered with a fo
rce that surprised even herself. “How are the children?”
“Well occupied,” replied Rachel Dudley, “with the garden growing. Winthrop’s father is now letting him chop wood. And Anne lost both of her front teeth this week.”
“That will make life more interesting, when apple season comes again.”
Mrs. Dudley smiled, but Charlotte suddenly recalled a mother in tears. Last October, the Dudleys had lost their eldest son. The memory reminded her now that life did go on, despite great trials, and petty fuss—even though none of them were far from the encircling arms of Death. It called for much courage to recover from the loss of a loved one. Yet most families managed somehow, with the help of friends and neighbors, while each wondered who among them would be the next to go.
Mrs. Willett looked back to the three older women who had been silenced by the hard-pressed mother they knew to be struggling to keep her children fed and clothed—a woman who had just held out her hand gladly to another—someone they had refused to welcome.
“Are you leaving?” Rachel Dudley asked wistfully.
Charlotte thought for another moment, and then shook her head. “I’ll stay awhile, for I could use your advice on mending.” The statement was not exactly truthful, for she always avoided that particular task by bartering with one of Hannah’s girls, all of whom were handy. But Mrs. Willett proceeded to ask about a selection of needles soon put before her, knowing Mrs. Dudley to be a fine seamstress.
Before long, Mrs. Proctor and Mrs. Hurd again began to take up their own business. And Emily Bowers bustled about the room, beaming as she offered her wares to all.
Chapter 9
IN THE LARGEST dining room on the second level of the Bracebridge Inn, eight individuals sat over Madeira, sherry, cider, and ale, sharing a plate of bread and English cheddar while they discussed the latest dilemma of the village. Four of the men, including Richard Longfellow, were selectmen. Phineas Wise came as their appointed constable, having begun a year’s term (rather than pay the stiff fine for refusing) several months earlier.
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