“When you spoke with Phoebe, did she tell you she was acquainted with Mr. Pelham?”
Dr. Tucker’s eyes darted to Diana’s face.
“We ask,” Diana explained, “because there is a drawing of him in one of Phoebe’s sketchbooks.” She picked up the volume in Charlotte’s lap, and passed it to Tucker.
The man’s response, thought Charlotte, was a perplexing one. As he looked down, his expression was grave; then, he seemed to wheeze, though from something other than mirth. Finally he looked up to Diana again. This time, there was determination in his eyes.
The moment he began to speak, a gust of wind blew in several curtains, upsetting a jar of violas Mrs. Willett had brought in earlier. Their water fell across the floor, and rolled toward a pair of satin slippers Diana had left by the hearth. She gave a piercing cry as she leaped forward to lift and shake them, fearing they would never recover; then, she danced about with the slippers at arm’s length.
“Miss Longfellow! I must tell you—warn you!” the physician tried again.
“Yes?” asked Diana impatiently.
“You must know—”
“That I should be in bed? But I feel fine! In fact, I’m afraid if I lie cooped up in that room any longer I may lose my good nature entirely, and have to resort to rum, or worse! Do you know, Charlotte,” she mused as she sat down once more, “I like this bed far better than my own. Perhaps I will move down here, and be closer to everyone. The scent from the garden is so pleasant. Yes, I will move down; I’ll get Hannah to help me. She can carry in the folding screen from the next room, so I may also have a small dressing area, there in the corner. I hardly think anyone will object, since I’ve had the same treatment as Phoebe—although I hope to avoid the same result,” she added, looking obliquely at Dr. Tucker.
“Miss Longfellow!” he cried again, extending both arms in supplication.
“I suppose it was not your fault, Dr. Tucker. In fact, I am almost positive of it. But I think I’d better move down here, you know. It will give me something new to do.”
“It might be easier for Hannah,” Charlotte agreed.
“But I beg you,” the physician said with renewed effort, “if you insist on this move, to keep your window closed! The air, at this time in your treatment, may be harmful—quite harmful indeed! Keep your windows closed, and perhaps your door open. That way … you will benefit from the heat of the kitchen.”
It was a strange idea considering the fine spring weather, and Charlotte began to feel some concern for the state of the doctor’s nerves.
“We might all benefit from a return to rest and quiet,” she suggested. “I’ll take mine while visiting my cows, since it’s nearly time to milk them again.” Off to the north, she heard thunder echoing among the hills, while outside the windows the trees had begun to dive and thrash, exposing the silver undersides of their leaves to the dusky sky.
“A storm will perhaps clear the air,” she added.
“I certainly hope you’re right, Charlotte,” said Diana, her expression an unusually thoughtful one. Staring at the leaves as if under a spell, Dr. Tucker made no reply at all.
CHARLOTTE WAS SLIGHTLY out of breath when she arrived at the dairy’s door, and her hair, which she had neglected to cover, was in great disarray. She reached up to adjust its pins, while her eyes became used to the low light that filtered through a line of small, high windows above. Henry Sloan was waiting inside. Henry had recently reached the age of twelve and manhood, at least in his parents’ eyes.
“Any word from Will?” she asked. For reply, she received only the ducking of a fluffy head. “Have you been told what to do if you see him?” This time, a nod, while the eyes beneath the light blond mop shorn straight around rose to watch her cautiously.
“It’s very likely he’s fine. If he’s not, though, you’ll have to think first of your brothers and sisters, Henry. He can come to my house—but you mustn’t go in there, except as far as the door. But don’t worry—even if he’s ill now, he’ll be home soon. And he might not mind resting from his chores for a week or two, while your mother brings him soup and biscuits in bed!”
“My mother says we aren’t to talk of him. She says she can’t bear it.”
“Oh? Well, now, do you know what to do with an udder? Show me, and then I’ll go to the next one, and while we work, we can talk.”
Wondering if his mother or the rest of the family yet allowed young Henry to speak his mind, she watched the silent boy pull industriously at two teats, until a smooth flow matched his even rhythm. This was far better than the work of his devil-may-care brother, she quickly realized. A few years younger than Will, Henry already seemed to possess more sense, and appeared not to be the kind of boy who would find himself in trouble often. Charlotte thought of Lem, lying in bed, who had started in her dairy in much the same way. Then she imagined Will, out in the world alone, suffering terribly for the loss of his first true love—no matter what, or who, had caused it. Or was it just possible that Will Sloan, too, lay cold and still, like Phoebe? Was this what Hannah truly feared?
With a heavier heart, Mrs. Willett started up a rhythm of her own. Soon she was comforted by the patter of milk as it went into two pails, a pleasing staccato from four hands, against the placid chewing of the warm and gentle herd.
• • •
DR. BENJAMIN TUCKER stood alone in Longfellow’s darkening study. He set down his empty sherry glass, and re-crossed the room to look down again at the open rosewood box that held two matched pistols. He picked one up and examined it closely. It was not the first he’d seen; in fact, he’d watched similar weapons being loaded many a time, by young gentlemen showing off their toys together. He knew black powder from a small container went into the barrel first. Then a paper-wrapped, round-cast ball was seated firmly, tamped with the ramrod. After that, the curved steel plate on top was pulled back to half cock, and a smaller amount of powder was placed in the shallow pan beneath. Finally, the plate was lowered to cover the priming pan once more.
When he was done, he inserted the loaded pistol into the band of his breeches, so that its handle came up at the vent of his waistcoat. After he had settled his larger coat, he studied himself in Longfellow’s Venetian mirror. How worn his features had become, he thought. How haggard, and how like his soul. He hadn’t looked this way a week earlier, in Boston. But that had been before he’d seen David Pelham again. Why was there always something going wrong in his chaotic life? Money, rumor, bad luck, and, like a bad penny, Pelham, putting his nose where it did not belong. If only he had never run into the man again! And, of course, the irresistible child. She was the key player in their little drama. Was it coincidence that had brought them all together here? Or Aphrodite herself? He could easily blame Pelham; but who had done the worst, of the three of them? How could it have been helped, after all? And where would it all end, now that another prize, another beauty, was in sight? Love sounds the alarm, he heard again. But could anything make up for what had already occurred? Only one thing, he again decided.
Dr. Tucker poured and downed a final glass of sherry, then turned and left the room, walked through the echoing entry hall. Outside, the trees whipped themselves into a frenzy. Long waves of wind raced down the meadow grass. Before him, the inn beckoned. Inside, there would be men and a few ladies having wine and punch, arranging for a little entertainment of some sort at the end of a long day. The heavens might provide them with their own show, he thought, looking up at the swirling clouds. But that was of little concern to him. He had something else to do with his evening.
Somewhat unsteadily, he walked across the lawn, then onto the road. Angling to one side of the inn, Tucker moved with purpose along the building, saw the side door, and stopped. Above him, safe on the second floor, David Pelham probably sat with a book in his hands, digesting his dinner. What plans had the man made to take himself into the night?
Dr. Tucker felt the weapon at his waist. He put one foot forward, then turned his head. Finally, pulling hims
elf away, he continued to walk until he had left the inn and passed by the carriage yard behind. Increasing his speed, he went on to climb a sloping field. Eventually, he reached the trees. He took a small footpath that led into the forest. As he walked, he was aware of the whoosh of fresh leaves churned to a froth above him, as well as the menacing clouds overhead.
Suddenly, he stopped. With a last look down the hillside, he reached into his belt, and removed the pistol. He pulled back the cock as far as it would go, and positioned the barrel carefully against his temple. For a moment, he watched the tempest building above his head. Then, while Nature continued to moan all around, Dr. Benjamin Tucker let out a groan of his own, and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 10
Saturday
FROM BENEATH THE works of an iron grinder, Cicero slowly removed a box filled with a soft cone of fragrant powder. As he lifted it to his nose, he enjoyed the pungent aroma that marked the day’s official start. Shuffling in his slippers, he went to the hearth, lifted the boiling kettle, and continued the unvarying routine for creating a heavy, black elixir that made pale-tea drinkers quiver in their shoes. How one could expect tea to clear the eye, let alone wake the brain, was beyond understanding.
He decanted the liquid away from the sediment into a warmed pot, slipped on a squat cozy, and set both on a tray near bread for toasting, next to a block of butter. After that, he moved the whole of the operation to the study, where he knew Longfellow would soon be drawn by the familiar aroma.
Cicero poured some coffee into a bright Indian cup. He sank into one of the two cushioned chairs that rarely left the middle of the disordered room. A first sip revived him—the second he was actually able to taste—the third was ambrosial. He had heard the rain end in the night; now the air outside the tall windows sparkled with new clarity, as the sun played over shining leaves. It would be another lovely day.
Content with the progress of things so far, Cicero let his gaze run fondly around the study as he took his fourth sip. The leatherbound books with their gold-stamped spines awaited his choice; he’d finished one of their companions the night before. Perhaps, this evening, he would look into Pope again. The twisted little man had known what it was to suffer—although he usually got a bit back in the end. Yes, Pope would do well for a Saturday night.
Unexpectedly, Cicero’s eyes spotted something not right. Specifically, they rested on a space where something should have been—but wasn’t. Where, he asked himself, was the rosewood box?
When had the pistols last been moved? Longfellow rarely touched them, but he’d mentioned recently someone had found them interesting. Wasn’t it David Pelham? Cicero looked around, then with some relief saw the box sitting on top of the piano. He would move it back to its place later. Still …
The old man walked to the box and opened it. Like a funnel of dust in a hot field, fear rose within him. One of the weapons was there. The other was gone!
Cicero set down his cup quietly, and went from the study into the hall. He climbed the broad steps to the second floor. Reaching the physician’s door, he cocked his head to listen. He knocked, but received no answer. Gently, Cicero opened the door to peer inside. No one was there. He went in a few feet and looked around. Everything was tidy, all was orderly. So orderly, in fact, that he knew the chamber was just as it had been the day before, when he’d walked by and seen young Martha Sloan pulling the bed together. It hadn’t been slept in since.
He considered for a moment more. Perhaps, since someone else had recently admired them, Longfellow had finally decided to try one of the pistols himself. It could be he’d gotten up early and taken one into the fields. But Cicero had heard nothing along those lines discussed the night before.
Stopping next at Longfellow’s door, he heard a rustling. He waited. Richard Longfellow emerged almost immediately, wearing his usual linen trousers, a cambric shirt, and a colorful waistcoat, as yet unbuttoned.
“Umm?” Longfellow exclaimed with a start. “What are you up to? You can’t have had more than one cup, since I only began to sniff it a moment ago. The house isn’t on fire, I presume, or I would have smelled that, as well. What disaster has disturbed your morning routine? Ah! Another rat in the pantry. Did you think to call the cats?”
“One of your pistols is missing.”
“Is it, indeed? Where do you suppose it’s got to?”
“Dr. Tucker is not here, either.”
“He is up this early?”
“I’d be surprised if he even slept here last night.”
“Unusual,” Longfellow commented, starting off down the stairs, although his shoes were as yet unbuckled. “What do you make of it? And when did you see him last?”
“Before he went to Mrs. Willett’s to see his patients, and you and the captain walked off your tempers in the pasture.”
“When we came in, after the rain started, I presumed Tucker had gone to bed early. After all, we can’t be expected to amuse our guests all the time, nor they their hosts,” Longfellow added, although it did seem to him now that he may have been remiss in his hospitality.
“He could have gone out later to visit Mr. Pelham at the inn, and slept there,” Cicero offered. “Or possibly, he met someone else he knew.”
“Possibly. Or he could have wandered off to study the stars, I suppose, taking a weapon to counter his fear of the countryside.”
“In the rain?”
“Well, he might have gone somewhere, and then decided to try his hand this morning at shooting waterfowl. Unlikely he’d hit anything with a pistol, but not beyond belief for a man from town to try. He did point out that he didn’t like the things.”
“Waterfowl?” asked Cicero with surprise.
“Pistols. He said they made him worry. Seemed to feel they were sinister.”
When they regained the study, Cicero poured out two cups of coffee. “Should I wake Captain Montagu?” he asked.
“Let him sleep. He had no rest the night before this, and you and I kept him rather late last evening, as well. But I think …” said Longfellow, barely tasting the coffee as he gulped it down, “… I think I’ll take the air.” He quickly took the silver buckles for his shoes from a pocket, scowled as he realized the advisability of sturdier footwear, then put the buckles on anyway.
“Shall I come with you?”
“Let your toes uncurl at their own pace. Tucker may come back and require breakfast.”
“We can hope for that,” said Cicero, though without much conviction.
As soon as Longfellow finished buttoning his waistcoat, he lifted his coat from the back of a chair where he’d left it the night before.
“Yes. Let us both hope,” he called back, dashing off through the study’s doorway.
• • •
A FEATHERY TAIL swished back and forth as Orpheus moved over wet field grass, nose working, ears alert.
Charlotte Willett walked behind with her skirts raised, exposing high boots that might have been mistaken for her brother’s, had they been larger. In truth, she had been fitted by a rough cobbler who lived in the village. Most Boston ladies she knew wouldn’t have admitted to owning such things, but she greatly preferred them to Diana’s iron pattens, or to wooden clogs, or certainly to getting her lighter shoes soiled and bedraggled while she explored the countryside.
Today, Charlotte had put on her boots and braided her hair to go on a search for mushrooms. She had already found several clusters that had sprouted overnight in a pasture, on mounds of rotting dung. They would be tasty in a stew. But after the heavy rain, she hoped, too, to find some forest mushrooms growing between the trees on the damp slope. Fried in butter, these would be a special treat.
With her braid swinging under a straw hat and a deep basket dangling on her arm, she led Orpheus back to the road, crossed it, and climbed the forested hills behind the inn. From a higher spot she could see sections of fields and fens to the north, where a light mist still rose into the sunshine. Her own way was yet in shadow. Ev
en the birds had deserted the chilly shade to search for food in the brighter air below. She shivered again as the wind brushed by through weeping trees. The drops caused her to hurry on toward a glen where she had often had successful hunting.
Before Mrs. Willett reached her destination, Orpheus had overtaken her. The old dog suddenly turned and ran down a path that came up from below. She followed him with her eyes, then she was startled to see something brightly colored several yards off through the bushes, quite low to the ground. Too low, she thought with sudden unease. When nothing stirred after the dog’s intrusion, she turned and followed the path through a thicket of elderberry. At last, she recognized the russet coat, and the familiar waistcoat. Though his head was hidden by ferns, it was surely Dr. Tucker. He continued to lie still, even as Orpheus snuffled at his ear.
The piercing cry of a flicker from the top of a high pine startled her, and made her swing around. Then she saw the wig, a few feet from where his hat had landed. Both were sodden and stained.
He must have tripped and fallen—but the physician lay on a fairly level spot, his feet seemingly free of vines or runners. She took another few steps forward to nudge a cluster of fronds away from the balding head, with its few short strands of damp hair. In another moment, she realized that a part of the doctor’s skull had been lifted away. The ragged material around the larger of two holes had been washed clean of blood; some of the pale stuff inside had later been covered by a delicate new leaf partly devoured, perhaps by a caterpillar, or some other treetop creature. Charlotte shuddered from head to toe. Yet as this passed away, she felt a new surge of curiosity. Finally, she forced herself to bend down.
She slipped tense fingers under Dr. Tucker’s coat, wanting all the while to pull away. But she soon learned that the earth beneath him was dry. He must have died before the rain, she reasoned, and remained there throughout the night. How sad to die alone—even when death was not unexpected. A few feet beyond the body lay Richard Longfellow’s pistol. There had been no attempt to hide it, or to take it away; and who else could have borrowed it? She had to suppose something incredible—that Dr. Benjamin Tucker had taken his own life.
Too Soon for Flowers Page 13