“I don’t see how, sir. The mistress wouldn’t let her go out alone with any gentleman, except Mr. Pelham.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, Mr. Pelham kept calling, which I thought was a good sign. One day, Phoebe had a rash, and her aunt called in a doctor for it. I don’t know what else happened … with the other. She must have lost it. It was all quite sad, really. But I never dared to ask her about it, and I never heard later.”
“And Mr. Pelham?”
“He stopped visiting then. We heard he was to marry another lady, a Miss Farnsworth, before long. He certainly advanced himself, from his visits to the docks, to Phoebe, and then to such a fine lady.”
“The docks …”
“Well, I know a girl from home—Louisa is her name—who swore she saw Mr. Pelham there, from time to time.”
“I believe he is involved in shipping.”
“Yes, sir,” Susanna agreed, but with a knowledgeable smile the captain found disturbing. Yet she was only a servant girl. He himself distrusted Pelham, but it would take more than a mere girl’s romantic imagination to convince a British officer of another gentleman’s moral failings.
“Tell me, Susanna,” said Edmund Montagu, “do you also know a physician named Tucker?”
“Why, yes, sir! It was Dr. Tucker who came to treat Miss Morris. I believe he was first a friend to Mr. Pelham. Or, at least, I believe they knew one another.”
“Did you find Dr. Tucker unusual in any way?”
“Unusual, sir? I wouldn’t say so. He seemed a nice old gentleman. I remember he told me he had a daughter my age.”
“Nothing odd about the way he treated you? Or Miss Morris?”
“Odd? How do you mean?”
“Did he ever bother you, the way Mr. Pelham—”
“Oh, no, sir!” Susanna objected with a firm shake of her head. “He was quite a sweet old man, I thought. So did Phoebe, I’m sure. Dr. Tucker treated my friend Louisa, too, which was very kind of him,” Susanna went on in a confidential tone. “She’s a sailor’s girl, you see, and not every physician will see such patients.”
“A sailor’s girl? Do you mean … by profession?”
“Yes, sir—though hardly as coarse as some. She’s the kind of girl even a gentleman might go and see, every so often.”
Edmund Montagu hardly knew what to ask next. “One more thing,” he finally said to Susanna, whose eyes sparkled at the thought of telling the captain still more of a wicked nature.
“Yes, sir?”
“Would you say Phoebe was a girl who wanted to climb in social rank?”
“Rank, sir?” Susanna now cocked an eyebrow suspiciously at the Englishman.
“Was there something she would have done much to gain, do you think? Wealth, perhaps?”
“Oh, I see. I have known girls who would marry a purse at the cost of their own hearts, if that’s what you mean, sir. The way they do in England, I’ve heard, where many are even forced! Is that still true?”
“Young ladies often do marry according to their parents’ wishes, though these are not always loveless matches.”
“I would hope not. Though I’d like to see someone try to marry me off for gold. I think it is a cruel thing, don’t you, sir? Though a little gold may be useful, to most of us. As for Miss Morris, I think she was happy to return home to Concord and what she had there, though it wasn’t a great deal by the stick of some, I’m sure. And I heard she found a young man to marry her after all. I often thought about her, when Mrs. Morris received letters from her family.”
“Did you never tell your mistress what you suspected?”
“I did think of that … but no, sir. At the time, I didn’t know some of the things I understand now—concerning my responsibilities. I was only fifteen at the time. I’ve learned a great deal since then,” said the girl, looking fearlessly into the captain’s eyes. “For instance, I’ve learned it’s sometimes best to keep what I learn to myself. Unless it might have value to others …”
“Thank you, Susanna. I think that is all I need ask.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a shilling.
“Sir, may I ask you a question?” she asked after she had stood and curtsied.
“What is it?”
“Do you know Mr. Pelham?”
“I do,” he replied. Something in his expression made her smile a little.
“You do not like him?”
“Not especially,” he confided, feeling that she had earned a small degree of familiarity.
“Has he got his eye on someone you know, sir?”
This, Captain Montagu decided, he must ignore.
“I wish her well, then—and good luck to you and your lady, sir,” said Susanna as she gave another swift curtsy and departed—leaving the captain to consider saucy charms that led, all too often, to misfortune.
In a few minutes more, after he had given the proper words of farewell to Mrs. Morris, Edmund Montagu found himself again facing the teeming streets of Boston, with spirits fallen suddenly into confusion.
David Pelham, the captain had now discovered, was what he’d earlier suspected—a man able to ruin and then leave a young girl, even one who loved him. And yet by all appearances Pelham, too, had been in love. Such things happened, even when they were inadvisable. Captain Montagu knew this better than most. The trouble was, such imperfect gentlemen—especially wealthy ones—actually attracted, rather than repelled, spirited ladies, whose urge to reform such rakes was well known—and usually led only to more unhappiness. Should he tell Diana of the rascal’s reputed affair? What if that course only increased her interest, already piqued by Pelham’s passionate attentions? It was also, Montagu decided fairly—though he ground his teeth at the effort—it was also risky business to judge a man’s character solely by his sexual appetites. Even among the great, after all, there were peculiarities, and men who satisfied their lusts in ways both common and uncommon. Earlier, in alluding lightly to mistresses among the London aristocracy, Miss Longfellow had not been far wrong—although he had disputed the point for her own good.
Yet would such a man do for Diana? Captain Montagu found the idea too affecting to contemplate for long. Who would choose a better husband for her? Her brother? That hardly seemed likely. Would Richard Longfellow even forbid the match with Pelham, if Diana insisted upon it? And what could he, himself, hope to do about it?
Captain Montagu began to blow on his numbed fingers—and realized that the air had grown cold. He would take a few moments to swallow a glass or two of restoring brandy on his way to his last chore of the morning. Looking forward to little else, he strode downhill through streets and lanes, toward less respectable dwellings and taverns in alleys near the harbor.
An hour later, he was let in to the place Benjamin Tucker had lately called home. A first chamber had several windows, now shuttered, while its furnishings included an examining couch, two chairs and a table, a screen, and a plain chest of drawers, which turned out to hold only objects useful to a physician. The room’s one carpet was colorful, but wine-stained and worn. In a corner stood a battered desk.
Clearly, any patients Tucker had seen here tolerated a less than prosperous atmosphere. The place was barely respectable, though it did seem clean. The landlady had been pleased to comment on this herself. She had appreciated her tenant for his habits and his demeanor, she informed Montagu; and, due to the fall in trade and wages, she had few hopes of soon letting the modest apartment to another.
A brief look into a smaller room, once the landlady had left him alone, revealed a bed, a sagging rush-bottomed reading chair, and a number of books on various subjects. Some stood high on rough shelves, while others were lined up on the floor; he found still more in an old barrel. Where most of Dr. Tucker’s fees had gone was now obvious. That explained the pathetic state of the man’s attire, though it recommended the liveliness of a spirit now extinguished forever.
Going back into the public room, Montagu walked to the desk to
glance through a scattering of papers. He soon uncovered a pair of bound, blank-paged books, normally used for record keeping. A cursory examination showed one of the volumes to be, indeed, a history of appointments and charges, while the other contained lists of ingredients for the creation of medical prescriptions; the latter’s inside cover also gave the names and addresses of three Boston apothecaries. While some physicians made their own preparations, the captain knew, there were many who felt the practice beneath them. Apparently, Tucker had been one of these—a man who took pride in his position, albeit one that had been considerably reduced. Or had the physician perhaps looked for someone else on whom to cast blame, should his treatments bring poor results?
Reopening the daybook, Montagu leafed through its initial pages, which covered Dr. Tucker’s earliest months in Boston. There it was: David Pelham, beside a date, February 11, 1761. Next to this, in a tiny, nearly indecipherable hand, was a description of a course of treatment. This included Roman numerals, which the captain assumed referred to preparations prescribed. A page farther, there was more of the same, and later, in December, a large increase in the quantity of the numbered stuff, again next to Pelham’s name. After that, the patient seemed to have left the book’s pages entirely. Flipping back, Captain Montagu looked for another name. He soon found it—Phoebe Morris, Concord, with Mary Morris, of Boston, first seen September 19, 1761. There were notations that indicated two further calls to Mrs. Morris’s home, as well as the numeral of some substance used in treatment.
Montagu next examined the book of apothecary receipts more closely. There, he found a surprising number of specific clays and metallic salts whose uses were largely unknown to him, at least in the practice of medicine. However, one concoction did jog his memory; oddly, this proved to be the same compound prescribed for David Pelham. And given what Montagu believed to be the chief medical use of its main component—
Again, he felt the air’s increasing chill.
If Pelham had purchased all of this, and continued to take it … then it was lucky the rascal was still alive! It was no wonder that his temper vacillated—but how could it have been wise of Tucker to prescribe such quantities of quicksilver? Or had Benjamin Tucker intended to harm his patient? It was indeed a possibility, and a sobering thought—particularly, coming on top of his new knowledge of David Pelham.
Yet one thing more wanted doing, to settle Montagu’s immediate curiosity. He continued through the book until he found the notation for the prescription given to Miss Morris. This, he was surprised to see, was only a simple grease salve, enhanced with pitch and camphor.
As he was about to depart, Montagu noticed a letter tucked into a nook of the desk, above the rest of its clutter. It was addressed to Dr. Tucker; however, its waxed seal was unbroken. Surely, it had come here during the man’s recent absence, and had been placed there, in all probability, by his landlady. The captain was surprised to see, upon breaking the seal, that the sheet contained no writing, but only a second sheet, folded and sealed as well—this letter addressed to Richard Longfellow, of Bracebridge!
After giving the new matter a bit of thought, Captain Montagu slipped the second letter beneath his coat. Then he took up both of the record books and thrust them under his arm, before gladly leaving Benjamin Tucker’s pinched little world behind.
AT THE SAME moment, Diana Longfellow sat in her chamber attempting to soothe her frayed emotions, as a new wail rose in Mrs. Willett’s kitchen. She listened to Will Sloan’s strident insistence and his mother’s flat denial—it mattered little what this new issue was, for they had found several to argue over already that morning. When the commotion settled down, the awful noise overhead could again be heard—for Lem had retreated to Diana’s former bedchamber, where he paced heavily over complaining floorboards.
The only pleasure allowed Miss Longfellow this morning was the company of David Pelham, who sat smiling at her despite the intolerable distraction all around them. But even this one pleasure, thought Diana as she frowned ominously, was beginning to pall. And as she had correctly imagined the night before when she’d seen the vile boy again, Will was to be a continuing torment to them all! She was almost sorry that a rest had lowered his fever. This, Diana thought for the twentieth time, was more than one could be expected to stomach! What was worse, her head had begun to ache fiercely, and her skin to prick with irritation. All in all, it was not a day on which she was pleased to suffer fools gladly!
Looking to Mr. Pelham, she saw that he, too, had heard the spat—how could he help it!—although that gentleman seemed more interested in admiring her than in anything else. Which would make what she had decided to tell him all the more difficult. But she would do it.
“Mr. Pelham, I have decided—”
“Yes, Miss Longfellow?”
“I will leave here this morning—no matter what my brother has said. After all, he can have no idea! I’m sure I will rest far better at his house than in this one. Beyond that, I will then have Mrs. Willett always to talk to. Unhappily, I cannot remember if Cicero has had the smallpox; but if he has not, it is high time that he did. There seems to be nothing to the inoculation I have had, after all. So, if you will escort me, and carry the few things that I will put into this hatbox, someone can come for the rest later. There—I do feel better. But that is usually the case, once I have made up my mind.”
“I must say I will enjoy visiting you in your brother’s house, Miss Longfellow, even more than I do here,” David Pelham replied quite happily.
“Well, that is something else I meant to tell you this morning. At the moment, I think it would be best for me to retire completely from the world, and perhaps for some little time. I believe that family—and Mrs. Willett, of course—shall be my solace during the remainder of my quarantine.”
Pelham’s smile froze. “Do you really think it wise to leave, Miss Longfellow?” Suddenly remembering something else, he added, “Will you not find Captain Montagu, who is staying there as well, something of a nuisance? Perhaps he can be persuaded to leave—but will you not find you want our cheerful talks again, before long?”
“What I want is a little peace and quiet!” said Diana hotly. Then, with a sigh, she relented. “When we are both back in Boston, we will again share an evening. A good game of cards would be amusing, I’m sure—but I am not up to it now.”
“It is, of course, your health you must think of first; yet I do hope—”
“It is for the best. I’m certain of it,” Miss Longfellow assured him. How weary she was today, and how tired of being pursued. She prayed for an end to all banter, and for a long nap. But first, she moved about the room, tossing several small items into a banded hatbox, which she then covered and delivered into David Pelham’s waiting hands.
“There! I know Richard is gone for the morning, so he will be unable to refuse me. Once I am inside, I would like to see him try to throw me out!” Diana then led the way from Charlotte’s study. “Hannah, I am going!” She flung this over her shoulder in a renewal of her former grand manner; as she passed the suddenly silent pair in the kitchen. She paused to tug open the back door. Then, her cheeks flushed, Miss Longfellow hurried out into the barnyard and down through the garden with Mr. Pelham covering her retreat—on her way, she prayed, to a far better situation.
Chapter 17
SHORTLY BEFORE DIANA and David Pelham entered her brother’s house through the back door, Charlotte Willett went out the front. The cool spring air played with her skirts as she walked onto the Boston-Worcester road, headed toward the village. The day appeared fair, with little in it to worry her. But worry she did, as she made her way down the long hill.
Charlotte knew that Richard Longfellow was at the moment meeting with the other selectmen, after an earlier interrogation of Will Sloan. The night before, when she returned and found her neighbor still amusing himself with an old collection of the Spectator, she let him know Will had come home on his own, and that he suffered from a fever. She’d also su
ggested that early morning would be a better time to question the boy, for he had already been put to bed exhausted. Longfellow, though surprised, had agreed.
Diana, too, would now be busy, as she expected a visit from Mr. Pelham after breakfast. Captain Montagu must still be in Boston. And even Cicero had gone out with a pole, hoping to coax a few trout from Pigeon Creek with the aid of minnow or mayfly. It was an occupation she envied.
However, Charlotte had made another plan. She doubted it would have been approved by her friends, had they known of it—nor was she entirely sure her idea was a wise one. Yet she would know the truth, even if what she planned to do had already provoked her conscience.
Now, she passed by the Bracebridge Inn, turned off the road, and doubled back through a field that led to a copse of birch; from its shelter she could see the inn’s side door and Jonathan Pratt’s closet window. Was he there, looking out? Boldly, Mrs. Willett walked into the yard, gained the side door; entered, and stood still. No other door opened; no footsteps approached. Thus far, she was safe.
Softly, she made her way to the back stairs used by the servants, and climbed the narrow steps between whitewashed walls. At the top, she turned into the hall and listened once more. No one was about; most guests probably lingered over breakfast, or had ridden out early. The only question was, which door was David Pelham’s?
When her knock went unanswered, Charlotte turned the first knob slowly, and peered into the room beyond. Inside, she saw enough baggage to indicate occupancy by two people, and a pair of ladies’ shoes by a low chair. Closing the door gently, she moved on.
Her next knock did rouse an inhabitant, who opened the door only a crack as he scowled out. A shaved head without a wig indicated a gentleman, who was obviously not an early riser.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” said Charlotte, her eyes lowered. “I’m afraid I’ve been directed to the wrong chamber: I am looking for my cousin, Mr. Pelham. Do you know him?”
“Pelham? No!” cried the man, before he slammed the door in her face.
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