No Rest for the Dove

by Margaret Miles

  “Carlotta?” Longfellow asked, when he realized that her mildness was quite unlike his own warring emotions. “Did you know of this?”

  “For an hour, at most. But Richard, let Signor Lahte speak. He might now tell us a great deal more.”

  When their mouths had parted, Lahte kept a protective arm around his young servant, who looked increasingly pleased. “Ladies … gentlemen,” he began, “I would like to present to you my wife, Elena Lahte.” Then, he murmured softly to his companion, “Cara sposa….”

  “Grazie, caro,” she responded, looking up at him with shining eyes.

  “Cicero,” Longfellow remarked, speaking to the door where he knew the ever-curious old man lurked. “Port, please. My sister, who has brought us yet another surprise, will now require reviving.”

  Chapter 15

  ALTHOUGH DIANA HAD not fainted entirely away, she had in fact swooned and fallen into a convenient chair. As Charlotte went to offer her assistance, Lydia Pratt, barely disguising her malicious joy, sidled toward Richard Longfellow. But he had already made his way toward Captain Montagu, hoping to share the burden of council.

  It seemed that Gian Carlo Lahte and his bride were the only ones in no hurry to improve the situation; Lahte silently fingered the gold ring that again graced Elena’s hand, while she purred with contentment.

  “Well,” said Edmund Montagu to the rest, after he had spoken for several moments with their host. “It seems that some of the truth, at least, has come out. But I, for one, am at a loss to understand why this charade was necessary. Signor Lahte, what could justify treating a wife in such a manner? And how, sir, did you ever manage to get her to go along with you?”

  “I hardly know where to begin,” replied the musico. “But you are right, Captain. You must now hear the whole truth. It is the fault, first, of the Holy Father in Rome.”

  “An interesting idea,” Longfellow countered, “but hardly an explanation.” He watched his guest summon strength and wit, before starting out on what proved to be a long and involved story.

  “The Pope,” Lahte said finally, “does not allow castrati to marry. However, that is what I have done. For many years, I cared nothing for this ban for I, too, saw no point in marriage … for myself, or for a woman I might choose. But then, I turned away from the stage to seek a better life. In Milano I hoped only to share my knowledge of music. And then, one day, a friend presented me to Don Arturo Alva—a man of old family and fortune, who had also a daughter. His daughter and I had already met, in the city’s cathedral. After a mass there, Elena found a reason to speak to me, when her father went to light the candles. She later asked someone known to her to call on Don Arturo, to ask him to engage me, so that I might teach her more of music. This was done. But I soon found Elena believed she was in love with me. She was not yet fifteen—but in many noble families, even children are given in marriage. Elena then told me her father had made his choice for her. For a nearly a year, they had argued over a gentleman who was well beyond the age of her father—a man Elena did not like. Finally, Don Arturo told her she must accept this man, or enter a convent to live with the sisters.”

  “How terrible!” breathed Diana, alert once more.

  “I knew I could not give Elena all that she deserved, and what most women desire. But what could I do? I, too, now longed for another to share my life.” Lahte stopped as his throat closed over words that might further express his hopes.

  “She had,” he soon continued, “no longer a mother to advise her, and few others to guide her. Don Arturo often treated his daughter cruelly, keeping her from the governess who defended her, until that lady died tragically. She was kept even from her maid, if she would still not obey. Without love, Elena was without hope, and I was saddened to see her so. At first I did not intend … but in the end, I found an English parson who toured the cathedral, as many do. I paid him to meet us both there one day, to perform the ceremony that would make her my wife—at least, in the world that does not bow to our own religion.”

  “Yet you stopped short of carrying her away?” Longfellow asked delicately.

  “Elena was my wife, but only in name. I could not bring myself … with one still a child. Then we spoke of my wish to go to America, and I promised I would return for her. If pressed further, I told her she must go to the sisters, as her father required—for in a convent, I knew she would find not only a refuge, but learning. After a year or two, I hoped she might still wish to join me in a new life—if she then felt it would bring her contentment. But, if she had by then come to consider our marriage a mistake, Elena could forget what she had promised, for it was not a true oath in the eyes of the Church. She would be free to marry again, if she chose. I would not hold her to her vows.”

  “But she chose to be with you,” Diana returned, pleased by the romance of his story. “Even though you had not yet made her entirely your own?”

  “Sì, signora.”

  “I do begin to understand your wife’s recent irritation with you,” she added thoughtfully.

  “But the father?” asked Longfellow, eager to hear the rest.

  “After I left Milano, Elena again argued with her father, telling him against my advice that she would never agree to marry the man he chose, for she was already married to me! At this, he laughed—yet he had the gates of his house doubly guarded, so that no one who did not belong could enter.”

  “But Sesto Alva … he was your wife’s uncle?” Charlotte guessed.

  “Nearly—a cousin to Don Arturo, and a man I met only once. Of course, his position in the family allowed him to come into the house. But he was only a poor man who did small things in life, for small reward. I have learned from Elena that he spent the little his family provided—then, he lived by his wits, as you say. Often he would pledge or sell plate or jewels, for those who needed funds quickly. Elena had a little left to her on the death of her mother, and this she urged Sesto to take, to bring her to America—where, she told him, he might also improve his own life. Sesto agreed to do this. Yet I am sure he hoped to receive more from me when he brought Elena, to keep our new home a secret from her father. Unfortunately, there are always whispers—and Don Arturo himself learned that I had come here. I had not kept my interest in this place a secret, after all.”

  “And then, when you saw Sesto—?” asked Longfellow.

  “When I looked down at him, there in your cellar, I saw only Arturo Alva! For they were much alike—except for Don Arturo’s scar. I imagined Elena’s father had come for revenge. But very soon, I realized it must be Sesto. Then, I suspected Elena might have sent him to me as a messenger.”

  “Thus, the business of the boots and buttons?”

  “In my country, those who travel alone often conceal valuable objects, for they know they could be robbed. Sometimes they also hide messages, so that their families might hear what has become of them, if they are unable to return. I hoped Elena had somehow hidden such a message for me.”

  Following her own thoughts for a moment, Charlotte recalled Thomas Pomeroy’s diamond, which she supposed might have been similarly concealed in his clothing, while he traveled. Had Sesto done the same? Gems were, after all, a part of his business. But there was something else she felt she must ask.

  “Did you know,” she inquired, “that a man who may be Elena’s father was seen last week in Boston?”

  “You knew of this as well, madama? Yes, Elena has told me Sesto came face to face with her father, soon after they left their ship. Sesto denied to Don Arturo that Elena was with him; then he slipped away, hoping he was not followed to the place where they stayed. Sesto swore he was in Boston on another mission; he pretended I had left Elena in London, and arranged with him to bring me a young boy I was fond of, to take her place. It was foolish, perhaps—but he had little time to fashion a story. He also brought to Elena the clothing of a serving boy. My wife was amused, at first, to imitate those women in the operas who sing their roles in trousers. But later, when Sesto did not
return from his ride to find me, she knew she must keep up the masquerade, to remain safe from harm until she found me. Then, I asked her to remain disguised for her safety, and for that of my new friends. I thought, if word reached Don Arturo that I was here with a boy, then he might believe Sesto had told him the truth. In doing this, he would only assume what others quite easily suspect, after hearing stories of musici.”

  “There may be a good side to this, after all,” Captain Montagu pointed out to Longfellow, when Lahte had finally finished. “Once your neighbors hear your guest has a wife—one whose father refuses to acknowledge a Protestant ceremony—and that the cruelty of the Church of Rome was responsible for their flight from Milan, then they will take Lahte’s side. At any rate, they will surely keep their eyes open for Don Arturo.”

  He paused to look pointedly at Lydia Pratt, who nodded for herself, and for the ladies in her circle.

  “I do not suppose,” the captain continued, “that it will be easy for yet another foreign gentleman to make his way, unnoticed, to your door. Is the father,” he now asked the musico, “able to speak English?”

  “I have never heard him attempt it.”

  “Perhaps, then, we are in little danger after all,” said Longfellow with relief.

  “Though I think,” Lahte added, “that Don Arturo could make one think he is a Frenchman—as we are far from Paris here.”

  Montagu now addressed the happy couple sternly. “One day soon, you must confront him. Of that, there can be no doubt. But I would like to find him first. Where was Don Arturo last seen in Boston?”

  “Elena could not say,” said her husband. “Sesto never named the place to her, for they did not know the town well.”

  “I believe,” said Charlotte, “it was in the Green Dragon.”

  “How did you learn this, Mrs. Willett?” the captain asked with a bemused expression.

  “Nathan Browne met a merchant here at the Blue Boar, who saw both men together there last week.”

  “Then it seems I have yet another reason to visit that infernal place. You’re sure it wasn’t Cromwell’s Head, or the Bunch of Grapes?”

  “The Green Dragon,” she repeated with a look of sympathy that pulled a small smile from him.

  “Then he may still be a patron. When he’s found, we’ll keep a close eye on him. However, if he succeeded in following his cousin from the tavern, then Don Arturo may have followed him here, as well. But how is it, sir, that you and he arrived in Boston at nearly the same time, as did your wife and Sesto Alva?”

  “Though I set out before the others,” Lahte answered, “I traveled slowly, by land, as far as Calais. Then I stopped in London, to settle some accounts. Elena tells me she and Sesto left Milano three weeks after my departure; thinking to avoid discovery, they went by carriage to Marseilles. From there, a French ship took them on. I think it likely that Don Arturo came directly by water, perhaps from Genova—Genoa, you call it. If that is so, he might even have been the first of us to arrive.”

  Charlotte shifted in her chair. Though she had little personal knowledge of ocean travel, she knew it could be a dangerous undertaking. Another question that had occurred to her was unsettled by a sudden wish to know if her brother Jeremy had arrived safely after his own crossing, for she had not heard from him since his departure.

  “I am sorry,” Lahte continued, looking to Mrs. Willett and noting her unhappy expression, “that I have had to play a part before you. If there had been a different way—but until I could speak with Don Arturo, I thought it best to hide Elena from the world’s eyes. And then, madama, you guessed the truth.”

  Signor Lahte had, in fact, given a grand performance, Charlotte decided. She would long remember some of its more pleasant moments. But she also knew that truth was better, and safer, than illusion. It would soothe the inflamed village to know he was a husband, after all … if that knowledge did disappoint a few hearts. Now, Gian Carlo Lahte and his young wife could simply be themselves. And yet, she had to suppose their troubles were scarcely over.

  “Edmund,” Richard Longfellow said quietly, taking the captain aside. “There is something else … something Mrs. Willett and I have discussed. I think you should seek out Dr. Warren, too, when you return to town.”

  “He, at least, won’t be difficult to find. But why?”

  Longfellow outlined Warren’s reasons for suspecting Sesto Alva’s death to have been unnatural—as well as Mrs. Willett’s more recent suspicions, founded on a sphere of granite.

  “I will keep all of this in mind,” the captain finally answered. “But Richard, remember one thing more. Often, a hireling can be found to do a man’s bidding, whether it is lawful or not. A false Frenchman haunting Bracebridge may not be all you now have to fear. Quite possibly, one of Boston’s own ruffians has found a new employer….”

  At this, Richard Longfellow looked increasingly uneasy—a thing for which Edmund Montagu was thankful.

  Chapter 16

  LATER, MRS. WILLETT walked out to find the Huntress, nearly full, climbing the blue sky to the east of Bracebridge, as Apollo and his golden chariot raced toward the opposite horizon. Despite this fine setting, she thought, her neighbor would have to make do with bread and bacon for his picnic, along with oiled, herbed greens. For his part, Longfellow had promised to dip into a jar of olives and to cut a slice from a wheel of cheese from Parma—both lately ordered from a Boston storehouse to make his foreign guest feel at home.

  As she moved through her own garden, Charlotte listened to the distant calling of a mother to her child from a house down by the bridge. The air, still and clear, carried sound a long way tonight, she noted. She heard someone far off repeatedly striking metal on metal. When that stopped, there was only a dim murmur she knew to be the movement of water among reeds, and the voice of crickets as they awoke from the torpor of the afternoon, to warn of the coming autumn.

  She found it odd that Nature appeared as usual, after the drama of the day. Now, thanks to Lydia Pratt, wives surely told husbands what they’d learned earlier of the castrato and his marital arrangement. By the bridge where younger women frequently lingered, hoping to speak with youths on evening errands, news of Signor Lahte’s bride must also be a popular subject. Even the children would be buzzing with twisted tales of a dark, foreign man about to come and take them away, if their behavior did not improve.

  Charlotte hoped the usual peace of the village would soon be recovered. But what if Don Arturo Alva did come, intending to retrieve his daughter—or to do even worse? Could Dr. Warren’s suspicions have been correct? Or even, perhaps, her own? The physician had still sent them no word.

  When she reached Longfellow’s flowers, Mrs. Willett inhaled their heady scent, and found her neighbor cutting a pink specimen with a pocket knife. “Madam,” he called to her as she approached. “May I take the basket, and give you this rose as a compliment? You have been instrumental, once again, in bringing consternation to our lives, to occupy us all for days! Do I smell fried bacon?” When she had accepted the rose, he lifted the cloth from the basket with one hand, taking its handle with the other. “I am in very good humor tonight, Carlotta, for some reason. Possibly it’s because I cannot think of a better supper companion. I’ve left my own supplies on the patch of chamomile. Will you take my arm?”

  “With pleasure, sir,” she replied formally. “I hope you won’t mind to hear I’ve invited one more….”

  Longfellow’s face fell and he looked in each direction, until he noticed her smile. When her whistle had brought Orpheus from his exploration of a rock ledge, the three made their way to a flat and fragrant spot near a line of long shadows.

  “You know,” Longfellow told her, negotiating a screw into the neck of a bottle, “some will think our rendezvous a romantic one, rather than a simple outing to enjoy the air.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Charlotte replied as she set out two plates.

  “You’re not even a little pleased with the idea?”

>   “Tonight, I would imagine Bracebridge has other things to talk about,” she said, her tone sober.

  “Of course. I only thought—”

  “You supposed my feelings bruised, and believed I needed courage. You could even suspect me to be unhappy enough to enjoy revenge.” Her look assured him it was not so.

  “Pass me the bread, and I will enjoy some of this bacon,” he said with an answering grin.

  “Where have you left the others?”

  “Cicero,” he said, finishing a bite and reaching for his wineglass, “is serving something or other to Lahte and Elena on the piazza. We all decided they would enjoy a few hours alone. As the old man knows no Italian, their secrets will be safe—if they have further secrets,” he added, his brow suddenly furrowed. “However, I believe for tonight they will put intrigue aside. They must be ready to fulfill one final promise of their marriage vows.”

  “I think that’s already accomplished. Or do you imagine ‘Angelo’ slept at Lahte’s feet last evening, as he proposed?”

  “Hmmm!”

  “Though she’s young, I hardly think Elena lacks a woman’s natural feelings, or charming wiles.”

  “Or the usual jealousies,” her companion added, his look to her more thoughtful than before.

  “But where are Diana and Edmund?” Charlotte inquired, turning the topic away from her discomfort.

  “They’ve gone to the inn, where they’re no doubt enjoying an intimate supper upstairs. They, too, have some private matters to discuss.”

  “Does Edmund still plan to leave this evening?”

  “When it cools. Now, he’s quite sensibly giving my sister more time to scold him. Diana is displeased to have been left in the dark with regard to our guest’s colorful history. She said as much when you left us earlier—in a voice none in the house could fail to hear.”

  “Do you believe he’ll be able to find Elena’s father in Boston?”