“It would seem our physician revealed himself to be a man of explosive passion,” Longfellow concluded. “I wonder I didn’t see it sooner.”
“What one first sees in a fellow is often at odds with what is later discovered,” Montagu returned, gazing at the bloodred glimmer hovering on the horizon. “Men, and women, may be easily fooled. Especially very stubborn ones.”
“Certainly none of us is infallible. Yet enlightened Reason, based on what we perceive, remains our only basis for civilized behavior—and, for arriving at Truth.”
“Richard,” Charlotte asked, “can we expect a decision on Phoebe’s death soon?”
“Quite soon. In fact, tomorrow, if nothing new comes into our hands. The selectmen will meet again in the morning. The larger issue seems resolved, as I believe you have heard—even if the details remain somewhat confused.”
“Do you think there is any hope of learning more?”
“It would surprise me if we do—but just what would you have us discover, Mrs. Willett?”
“I hardly know how to answer. But perhaps I should tell you now of something I thought, at least, that I observed—just before Dr. Tucker seemed to warn us that something was about to happen … although I wasn’t sure what he meant by it Oh, how shall I start?”
“At the beginning, Carlotta,” Longfellow said kindly. But instead of answering her neighbor, Mrs. Willett addressed a new question to Edmund Montagu, as he dispatched a mosquito attempting to bore through his stocking.
“Did Diana tell you, Captain, that we found a drawing of David Pelham on Friday afternoon, shortly before Dr. Tucker died?”
“No, Mrs. Willett, she did not. But she would hardly seem to need one. Whenever I attempt to speak to her, I find the man himself planted like a rosebush at her side.”
“It was in Phoebe’s sketchbook.”
“Was it?” asked Longfellow, leaning forward intently.
“Near a drawing of an aunt in Boston, a woman named Mary Morris. Do you recall, Richard, Dr. Tucker saying he treated Phoebe for a rash while she was in Boston? He also told us of knowing David Pelham at the same time.”
“Yes—but Pelham told us he never met the girl, didn’t he?”
“He did. Yesterday when I spoke with him he admitted to the acquaintance; he also claimed Phoebe’s aunt warned him to end it, apparently for his own safety. Mr. Pelham believes Phoebe suggested more to him than she should have, and that it was not the first time she had done such a thing. Diana seems to think we may believe what he says.”
“Hmmm,” was all that Longfellow replied, giving her courage to go farther.
“I doubt Mr. Pelham will tell us much more. He fears upsetting Diana, as well as Phoebe’s family. But I think there is something else there. And if someone were to visit Mrs. Morris in Boston, he might look for the journal I assume Dr. Tucker kept, as most physicians do.”
“If someone were to visit … ?”
Mrs. Willett’s eyes scanned the clear sky.
“I could take pleasure,” said Captain Montagu slowly, “in some mild exercise; I have also thought of putting a few miles between myself and certain parts of Bracebridge for a day or two.”
“You may plead special business, I suppose, to travel without risking a Sunday fine….” said Longfellow lightly.
The captain, too, examined a bright Venus for a few moments more, before he decided. “Richard, I’ll sleep in Roxbury tonight, if you have no objection to my leaving you for a while. After staying with friends there, I’ll look up Mrs. Morris in the tax rolls tomorrow, and pay a call. I will also stop in at the doctor’s lodgings. But I would know one thing first, Mrs. Willett. Do you have a specific interest I should know of?”
“I would only like to know the answers to a few small questions, before this is all well and truly settled.”
“I see. In that case, take good care of yourself, madam,” Montagu added pointedly as he stood, giving his companions each something else to think about as he went inside.
A FEW MINUTES later, as the captain threw an assortment of small articles into a saddlebag, Charlotte knocked at his door.
“Captain Montagu,” she began, hardly knowing what she wanted to tell him. “Edmund,” she ventured.
“Yes?” he asked, as curiosity overcame his surprise, and he moved aside for her to enter.
“I know you haven’t declared intentions to Diana, beyond friendship—but I have heard from her that David Pelham has been suggesting things that could indicate much more than friendship—things she couldn’t do, in good conscience, without marriage.”
“Has he, indeed?” asked Montagu, holding a cambric shirt motionless in his hand.
“Though I doubt marriage has been discussed between them.”
“Then what is the object of such talk?”
“On Diana’s side, it may only be to test waters that have risen nearly to her feet.”
“And on his?”
“On his, I’m not sure. But I think idleness and vanity, when they are mixed with desire, have been known to lead to haste, and even to unintended harm.”
Edmund Montagu nodded, examining his visitor closely. He was not about to comment—for Diana’s recent accusation of having spoken unfairly of a rival had stung, and continued to do so. However, he told himself, he had a higher duty than to his own comfort.
“So, you distrust the man,” he finally answered. “As do I. But I have tried to temper my suspicions. As you might suspect, they may well be influenced … by other considerations. You, Charlotte, are in a better position to see him clearly.”
She flushed at his first use of her name, and became more aware of the fact that she had invaded a gentleman’s bedchamber. But in another moment, she went boldly on.
“I do believe there may be a great deal we don’t yet see in Mr. Pelham. I am sure he’s not been entirely truthful, and I fear he’s still hiding something of importance. I cannot know if it is for his own sake he will not speak, or for that of someone else. And then—But I hope to know more, when you return. Edmund, do you think that could be by tomorrow afternoon?”
“Should it be?”
“I very much suspect it should,” said Charlotte, her eyes seeming to plead for this favor.
“Depend upon it, then,” Captain Montagu replied forcefully as he swung the saddlebag onto his broad shoulders, and went to prepare his mount.
Chapter 15
ACROSS THE STONE bridge, inside the Blue Boar Tavern, the landlord drew enough ale to fill a pewter tankard. He took it to a table, where he set it down in front of a bearded, buckskinned man of the West, who sat on a long bench. The man raised the container and in an instant downed half of its contents.
“Fine stuff,” he commented after a belch, watching Phineas Wise with a twinkle in his eye. The tavern keeper smiled to think of the profit he’d make on this traveler, before the evening was out. For Phineas knew the value of each shilling that came his way, which was why he maintained an unadorned but snug room ready for all comers, while upstairs, three dusty rooms with canvas cots (a frugal idea suggested by a gentleman in the Hindu trade) added a crowning bit of glory to the establishment. At least, no one had expired there for several years, Mr. Wise was pleased to say.
“Another?” he asked when the vessel had been drained.
“What else?” the frontiersman asked with a laugh. “For your friends there, too,” he cried with good humor, pointing at two old men who sat in the only high-backed chairs in the place, each smoking a long clay pipe. “Your health, sir,” called the one known as Flint after they had been served, while his constant companion, Mr. Tyndall (who also answered to Tinder) raised his pipe in a salute.
“The nights are not very cold in this season,” Flint went on, “but a measure of ale is always appreciated, for health’s sake.”
The Westerner, hoping for some amusement, moved closer still, and introduced himself as Jason Clarke, of Pittsfield.
“A Berkshire man?” asked Flint conv
ersationally.
“Indeed, sir. A mountain man, if you will.”
“And how do you like coming into civilization?”
“Is that what this place is? It seems rather rough to me, and something of a backwater. Pittsfield, you know, has now over a thousand souls.”
“A thousand! Fancy that. What do they all do, to make it so populous?”
“Farm, mostly. And marry to produce offspring.”
“Here—have a pipe. I keep a spare or two, in case I break one tapping it on the hearth. And some tobacco.”
“Many thanks. I will take back what I said of roughness, for you seem to understand civilized behavior.”
Old Tinder polished his nose with a handkerchief before replying. “Civilized, we may be. But you’d be amazed by what else goes on in such a smallish place—involving men and women, both, caught in the throes of will and woe!”
“How is this?” asked the Berkshire man with increased interest.
Then, Tinder began to tell a tragic tale of a deceased maiden of uncommon beauty—her dead physician with a taste for rum and a knowledge of magical potions, whose soul was likely to be anywhere but in Heaven—and a young suitor, barely a man, who had gone to live as a hermit in the forest, where he would surely die all matted and foul, and alone.
Meanwhile, other men walked through the portal into the tavern’s musty gloom. One in particular stood at the threshold for a long moment, before his eyes made out Phineas Wise going into the small scullery in back. Leaving as he had entered, the newcomer made his way around the building, then went in again through the scullery door.
At his entrance, Phineas Wise looked up from his simmering stew in surprise, for few ever thought to invade his culinary privacy from that angle. Then his eyes opened even wider, for there stood the lad he had been expecting, yet hardly hoped to find.
“Will Sloan!” he exclaimed.
“Hello, Mr. Wise,” said the boy in a weary voice. “I’m glad to see you.”
“Will, where in God’s name have you been?”
“In the woods.”
“For four days?”
“I had to! But then, I got so damned hungry I had to come back in—can I have some of that?”
Constable Phineas Wise studied the boy’s flushed face before he picked up a deep plate and filled it. Will sat down onto a bench beside the wall, and the landlord gave him the stew and found a spoon, wiping it first on his apron. The boy then began to eat with the appetite of a wolf.
“About all I could find,” he managed to say as he gobbled, “not having my fowler, was mushrooms and pine buds, and a few cattails down by the river. I wondered about the mushrooms, though at first I didn’t much care if they killed me or not! But then I decided I’d best save myself, after all.”
Wise pondered the boy’s high color as he listened to this rambling talk. Clearly, Will was unwell. But was it the result of four days’ exposure, with little food? Or could it be the smallpox?
“Will, did you go in to her? Did you touch her, boy?”
“Phoebe?” asked Will Sloan, looking up with another shiver.
“You do know that she’s—?”
“I went in, and she was lying there so strange—I had to know, didn’t I? How did it happen, Mr. Wise? How could it? Was it the smallpox? Have I got it now, too? Am I going to die, d’you think? I don’t want to die, but if I do, I suppose I’ll see Phoebe, won’t I? She’d still be mine, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she?” he demanded.
“You’re too stubborn to go just yet, Will, I’d guess,” Phineas Wise replied brusquely, wondering what to do with this new trouble. Could the boy talk so easily of the afterlife, if he had lately taken a life himself? And yet, he did seem uncertain of his reception there. “Some say you did more than touch her, son.”
“How could I? She told me we couldn’t do anything—” Suddenly, Will’s look of confusion changed to one of anger. “You mean, they think I killed her? Is that what they think?” He flushed a bright red, his eyes blazing.
“It seems she died peaceful enough, Will, but with no other sign; after you ran away—”
“Peaceful? But it wasn’t like that—it was awful! I had to run—I had to! Only I couldn’t go home after I’d touched her, I knew that for certain.”
“Then why didn’t you go to your mother? She was right there.”
“Because I thought—”
Abruptly, Will buried his head into his hands. His shoulders began to heave, as one harsh sob followed another. The earlier fierceness gone, Will Sloan seemed no more than a frightened child.
Phineas Wise’s heart softened. “All right, then, go to Mrs. Willett’s house, right now. At least you were smart enough to stay away from your brothers and sisters, I’ll give you that.”
Will looked up. Then, his tearstained face solemn, he nodded. “I didn’t want to hurt anybody!”
“Promise me you’ll stay there at Mrs. Willett’s. I’m telling you officially, now. As village constable. And don’t let any of my guests see you go, if you can help it. Did you greet anybody when you came in?”
The boy shook his head.
“Good. It’ll be best for you to stay out of everybody’s way, at least until we get a few things straight.”
“Where is Phoebe?” Will asked suddenly.
“She’s in the churchyard, where you can visit her later. Right now, you go to your mother, and stay there.”
Will Sloan departed, without a further word.
The boy was ill, thought Phineas, and perhaps he should not have sent him to the waiting smallpox in a weakened state—but what else could be done, with no physician anywhere near? And if it was the pox, he himself might yet be sorry he had even spoken to Will Sloan! What would Hannah do, though, if the boy should die of it, after all? That was more than Phineas wanted to imagine.
He reentered the main room of his tavern to see his customers still chewing over the week’s events, now gone beyond news to become lore. Instead of taking the pair of deaths as a threat, most seemed to talk of the story almost as if it had occurred somewhere else. Perhaps that was not surprising, for few had known much about either of the two unfortunates.
Maybe, thought Phineas Wise, it was all about to blow over, without blowing up. Maybe luck would be with them. Maybe time would put an end to all that had been disrupting the peace in Bracebridge, before anyone else should sicken … or die.
ALONE BUT FOR the shadows in the quiet kitchen, Hannah Sloan sat staring at a fading fire, happy to let the light fall so that she might not be drawn from her memories. Yet as the remains of two hearth logs settled with a flurry of sparks, she was startled back to the present by the sound of something new. It seemed like scratching. In a moment, her heart was in her throat, for it was a sign her children had used when they were small, and found themselves on the wrong side of a door.
Hannah looked to the window behind her. This time, her heart nearly stopped, for through the glass she saw a sad, familiar face. A hand to her mouth, Hannah rushed at the door and hauled it open on creaking hinges. Will stood there quietly, his head low. His mother grabbed at a hand and pulled the boy inside, crushing him swiftly to her breast. Then, almost as abruptly, she thrust him out at arm’s length to study, before she gave him a clout that sent him sprawling to the floor.
“What was that for?” he shouted, scrambling to his feet in the hope of avoiding another attack.
“Come here,” Hannah ordered. This time she reached for both hands and caught them before the young man, whose ears still rang, could run away.
“Sit.” She pushed him down, pulling another chair close so that he had little chance to retreat. “Will,” his mother said softly. “Whatever have you done?”
Before Will Sloan could answer the door to Lem’s small retreat opened, and the two young friends were noisily reunited.
“Where’ve you been!”
“Me? Where d’you suppose?”
“Was it terrible?”
“Par
t of it surely was!”
“I was sorry—”
“What about you? Did you get it?”
“Not too bad.”
“I see you got some pocks, all right.”
“Not many, though they itch like fury—”
“Will,” his mother said brusquely, seeing his flush for the first time, “how long have you had this fever?”
“A day or two, I guess,” said the boy, brushing off her worried hands.
“Did you go in to Phoebe?” she demanded.
“You saw me, didn’t you?” Will returned hotly. “I saw you, as well! Did—did you—?”
Now the door to the front room flew open and Diana Longfellow swept in. Recognizing the look of masculine rebellion that turned her way, she placed her hands on her hips and attacked.
“So, it’s you! What have you done now?”
“What have I done? What have I done?” the boy cried out. “What’s been done to me, I should be asked! My Phoebe’s in her grave, and Mr. Wise says I have to stay here until he tells me different—here in the last house I ever wished to walk into again!”
“Hannah, put more wood on the fire,” Miss Longfellow ordered, “so we can see if he is telling the truth. Young man—”
“I’m sorry for his tone, but the boy is ill and tired,” said Hannah, protecting her son with her bulk.
“And which of us is not?” Diana responded, standing her ground. “But I have just thought of something else. Hannah, run and fetch Charlotte. Quietly! For Heaven’s sake, don’t let my brother know what’s happening. Richard can ask his questions tomorrow. But I want to hear what’s occurred before that, and I’m sure Charlotte does, too.”
“He’ll need food—”
“I can get him that. Now hurry.”
Realizing Diana’s orders were for the best, Hannah left her boy behind and hurried out the door.
The next several minutes were spent feeding Will and Lem both from what the pantry held—cold meat and mustard, as well as bread from the Bracebridge Inn, which they washed down with cider. A second meal after Phineas Wise’s stew made Will drowsy, but he was not to rest yet, for his mother soon burst through the door with Mrs. Willett behind her.
Too Soon for Flowers Page 20