“For Edmund, such a thing should not be too difficult—if the man is still there. But now, let us forget the others, Carlotta, and concentrate on the joys of our own supper. Tomorrow will be soon enough to think of this jumble again.”
Thus bidden, pleasure finally came, and remained with them for nearly two hours. Then, while a softer light embraced the earth and an owl began to call, Charlotte and Longfellow walked back toward the house. They paused to listen to Gian Carlo Lahte, they supposed, again playing the pianoforte, this time for his wife.
However, soon after, on her way up the hill to her own home, Charlotte saw something that told her they’d been wrong to presume the girl indoors. Elena Lahte, or at least a remarkably similar figure, stood not far from the garden path ahead of her, talking with someone under the vast web of moonlight.
Charlotte stood still. She also signaled Orpheus to sit, which he did readily, though his nose continued to seek out new information. At first, she had no wish to intrude on the pair who stood in her way. She even thought of reversing herself and taking the broad road to her front door. But hearing harsh words, she changed her mind. They were not Italian, nor English, but French words—some of them, at least, fluently spoken.
Had either been less intent in their argument, they might have spied her through the light foliage of the tall roses. But at the moment, neither one seemed to have eyes for the world. Abruptly, the tenor of their confrontation changed from that of a difference of opinion to something stronger. Suddenly it appeared that the girl had been grasped, and was held close.
“Misero!” Elena cried out the single word as she twisted free; then, she lowered her voice while backing away from Thomas Pomeroy. In another moment she turned, lifted her skirts, and ran toward the protection of her husband.
Mrs. Willett was prepared to clear her throat, so that Pomeroy might know further interference with Signora Lahte’s desires would be witnessed. But there was no need. Instead of following, Thomas Pomeroy spat on the dirt before him, and then stomped away. Careless of his clothing, he made his own path through the roses, taking a direct line back to the Bracebridge Inn.
Charlotte felt several things other than relief, as she and Orpheus continued home. What she had seen baffled her, and she now wondered all the more about Jonathan’s new servant. Had he waited for Elena to wander out into the garden for a breath of air, so that he might try his hand at seduction? Surely, the village had been full of such thoughts lately! And Jonathan had already assured her he supposed the young man possessed an amorous temper.
And yet, the real significance of what she had seen continued to elude her, even when she lay her head onto a feather pillow, and began another long, hot night of troubled tossing.
ALMOST AT MIDNIGHT, a man in casual attire walked along Boston’s Union Street, until he saw the familiar sign of a green copper dragon.
When he went through the open door, the brick tavern seemed not unlike an oven slowly cooking an assortment of pungent humanity. Inside, the air was redolent of tobacco smoke and sweat, with a few less pleasant odors of a hot night; fortunately, these were sweetened by rum fumes, the aroma of citrus and spice rising from punch pots, and a prevailing smell of ale. All in all, this thick air welcomed city men long used to worse, if it did come as a contrast to that which Captain Montagu had lately enjoyed, riding in from the country.
He looked around at the collection of men, and assorted women—serving maids, two traveling ladies who had arrived late to avoid the day’s heat, and a few hearty local women, seemingly unmarried friends of other drinkers. Some ate, some drank, many read newspapers, a few played at whist and tiles. There were also, he saw with no surprise, some whose pastimes were arguably less innocent—men he knew, crowded into a corner around a collection of small tables.
There was Revere, the silversmith, red-cheeked and wide, with a sharp eye for all that went on around him. Tonight, he sat at the side of Joseph Warren. The physician’s light blue eyes continued to leap about as he leaned toward a friend as yet unknown to Montagu, his lips near the fellow’s ear. Next to Warren, with his back turned … that had to be the elder Adams, the ringleader himself. There was no mistaking his palsy as he raised a hand in assent to something said at the next table, then brought it down hard, causing his cup to dance. The heat had made the poor fellow’s hair and coat even less tidy than usual, Edmund decided before his eyes moved on.
At another table hunched Will Molineux, the Irishman at the center of much of what had lately been reported to Town House. It seemed a bad omen for him to be here among many men of St. Andrew’s Lodge, for by habit he should have been with his Liberty Boys at the nearby distillery, instructing them in how to brew sedition. And quite possibly, how to make off with someone’s purse. Molineux sat with a strange smile, listening to a man who appeared, by his garb, to be newly arrived from London. This tender soul had dressed himself up as a macaroni complete with velvet suit, and lengths of loose curls under a feathered hat. The effect was rather like Signor Lahte’s, the captain supposed, though it was somehow less successful in such a callow version. Ah, well. At least it was a relief from the more dangerous sort now all too common in London—those of Clive’s pack glittering in gold lace, with the gems of India sewn onto their clothing, often followed by a pack of tinseled, pinchbeck imitators. Yet was there something more to be seen here …?
Montagu walked around for a better view of the man’s face, and was rewarded with a blank look. It was Ian Whately, by God! The captain forced a cruel smile, causing the other to look away in disgust, after he’d raised a small looking lens to an arrogant eye.
Whately again spoke loudly of the libertine John Wilkes, a gaming friend of days gone by—before that firebrand’s expulsion from Parliament, and from England. Certainly an acquaintance with a well-known enemy of the King’s party would please the local nabobs, who would no doubt grow to enjoy this fop, after they’d had their fun with his costume and manner. Let them laugh, as they persuaded him to become more like themselves—something he would be glad to do, by degrees. Eventually, they might even ask him to join their lodge. And then, Ian could relay conversations of great interest, when he slipped away to join his true friends at Town House. All in all, the disguise seemed well done—if the ‘peeper’ was a bit much.
But what was happening tonight to draw such a collection of men not usually seen this late together, at least in public? Something the Crown should know about, surely. Was more trouble in the works? Montagu was again thankful that Diana, and their future child, were safely tucked away in the country.
One face the captain did not see in the crowd was that of Don Arturo Alva. He would have to seek out the landlord and again show him the sketch—a close copy of the one Longfellow had made. But first, Montagu decided to spend a moment on more subversive matters. Give them their Liberty, he thought as he moved closer to the knot of seated men. Give them enough rope—
To the captain’s surprise, he now recognized a youth sitting at Dr. Warren’s table. He hoped this one would not be overcome, one day, by their studied madness! Such company could only prove a goad and a threat to a boy unfamiliar with the town. And should the worst happen to Lem Wainwright, what would he ever say to Mrs. Willett?
By moving a little, Montagu was able to stare Lem full in the face, which brought their eyes together. Did the boy seem upset to see him? Was he guilty for what he had done, or planned to do, with these men? No! Happily, it seemed to him that Lem’s honest face showed only pleasure. In another moment, both had begun to smile.
“Ho, Captain!” called Paul Revere, raising an engraved pewter tankard from his own shop in greeting. “What has brought you away from your bride at this hour? And is Mrs. Montagu well, sir?”
“Exceedingly well, thank you,” Montagu returned, walking closer. “She enjoys the country air.”
“A good thing! Is the silver frame I made for your miniature still to her liking?”
“It is as good a one as she has eve
r seen, she tells me. It is also her constant companion, whenever I am unable to be with her.”
“Let us hope that will not be for long,” said Sam Adams, “for family is the glue that holds the world together … as my own wife now tells me.”
“Indeed, sir. I hear you’ve recently gained a surprising number of Sons, who follow in your footsteps.”
“Of many mothers, I do admit—but all joined by a similar desire,” Adams replied seriously, to chuckles from those around them.
The captain changed his focus. “Mr. Wainwright, have you yet mastered your Latin and your Greek?”
“I confess I haven’t, Captain,” Lem replied, standing. “And I’m now told I have more to learn than I’d supposed. In fact, several gentlemen have offered to tutor me.”
“Though I believe it is Mr. Longfellow who paid your bond to the college, and he who sponsors you?”
“Yes, sir. For which I often praise him.”
“We only wish, Captain, that Mr. Longfellow were less busy in the country, so that he might visit us as often as do you,” said Sam Adams, with a gentle smile that hid well-known steel.
“I suppose you have already heard, Mr. Adams, that our friend has a subject of unusual interest to study at the moment. Dr. Warren must have told you of his own visit to Bracebridge last week?”
Several heads turned Warren’s way, but on that matter, apparently, the physician had held his tongue.
“In fact, Dr. Warren is one of two men I’ve come here to find tonight. Might I ask you, sir, a few questions concerning your recent medical observations?”
Nodding, Dr. Warren rose quickly and led Captain Montagu to an alcove away from the rest.
“I will only keep you a moment, Doctor, as I’m aware that I intrude on something … but tell me, if you will, what you’ve made of this fellow Mr. Longfellow says you carted off to Dorchester, now known to us as an Italian named Sesto Alva. Please hold nothing back, for I believe your information may well affect the safety of our friends in Bracebridge.”
Warren looked closely into the face of his inquisitor. What he saw convinced him to speak freely.
“As a physician, I will tell you that one idea, at least, can be discounted. The man’s lungs were clear; he did not choke. Instead, inside this Alva, as you name him, I found several bleeding ulcerations. Some others seemed to have hardened into scars. His stomach was surely affected by a malady, and for some time. What that was, I cannot be sure—a chronic illness, perhaps. All I can say with certainty is that his death was not the result of a moment’s evil on an entirely healthy body. Still, he could have consumed poison that day, as I suggested to Longfellow—for the sores in his mouth were severe, and may well have increased as a caustic material sat in it, after death….”
“You cannot rule out murder, then.”
“I cannot. There was also a blow to the skull, as I suppose you’ve heard.”
“Made in anger, do you think?”
“Possibly; perhaps only the result of a fall. But this in itself seems unlikely to have killed the man, given the circumstances. Still, it is there.”
“So. Medical science can help us little … and we are forced to renew our search among the living.”
“Which takes us from my strength, back to yours.”
Neither spoke for a moment; the discussion seemed concluded.
“What is your feeling about the new revenue stamps, Doctor?” the captain asked abruptly. This time, Warren was quick with an impassioned answer.
“While we agree that the death of one man must be counted as a thing of importance, your stamps threaten the rights, liberty, and property of many thousands—most of whom see these possessions as more precious, more worth guarding, than life itself!”
“Will you then encourage the mob to hang not an effigy but a man, when it next feels a need to protect such things?”
Warren smiled and bowed slightly, backing away. “In Boston,” he replied, “I know only citizens who wish to keep their homes and families from harm.”
“To do this, Doctor, they begin by destroying the peace and security, even the homes, of Crown officials. But let us hope a taste was enough to warn all men of the poisonous effect of such actions!”
There seemed little more to say, and with a swift acknowledgment, they parted.
After that, Edmund Montagu made his way to the tavern keeper to inquire about the sighting of a doppelgänger the week before. The busy man pointed out a girl who had served that evening; tonight, too, she was occupied with fetching orders. This time Montagu took a protesting subject by an arm, and led her into the alcove he’d earlier occupied with Dr. Warren.
“This man,” he said, again taking the drawing from his coat. “Do you remember seeing him?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” the pert and pretty girl replied, standing still at last. “I remember both of them. Very alike they were, when I saw them together.”
“What day was this?”
“Wednesday last,” the girl replied.
“I’ve already heard they had much the same appearance … but can you recall anything different about one or the other?”
“Different? Well, sir, apart from quite a nasty scar on the side of his face, the one who came in second that night did seem better cared for … and he tried to order in French, on the first day I saw him. Biftek, as they say, and vin for wine. I thought he must be down from Québec. The other, who may have been a poorer brother, spoke queerly too, though his few words to me were in English. He asked for a bowl of bread and milk with his ale. That was on the night the two of them met, before the second gentleman arrived.”
“But you say you saw both men before last Wednesday?”
“The one I called the poor brother came in a day or two earlier, had a little soup and some cheese, and then took more off with him. It seemed to me he had an attack of indigestion, but when I asked if he was ill, he only waved me away. I worried he might have a touch of the summer complaint. But he certainly did not come by it from eating our food, sir!”
“And the other? He came to eat?”
“He sat and had his dinner another day, as well.”
“So each came in alone, before; but this time, they met by accident?”
“It seemed so—yes, sir. Both did look quite surprised!”
“Did they appear to be on friendly terms?”
“No,” the girl answered, “they did not, though for a few moments they sat together, talking quietly.”
“And how did they leave?”
“I saw the one who was ill go out the back, toward the little house behind. Then, I heard the other exclaim. He rose as well, threw a coin onto the table, and rushed off in the same direction. That was the last I saw of either one. Was there some trouble, sir, between them?”
“It looks that way….” Captain Montagu replied. He then let the girl go to see to her customers, watching as she melted into the welcoming crowd. He thought again of what Dr. Warren had told him, and of the lingering illness of a man soon to die. Then, to no one in particular, Montagu added, “but the real question is, for how long …?”
Chapter 17
Wednesday, August 21
WITHIN THE GLASS house built onto the side of Longfellow’s stone barn, Cicero spent the morning gardening, while he also cultivated a philosophical mood. Holding a clump of potted cactus from Mexico in his hands, he observed a web deep within its golden, curving spines. Here a spider had found safe haven, covering the smooth green skin with a circular tunnel the size of an old man’s thumb—though it seemed to do no harm. The spider might even assist the plant, he imagined, by devouring smaller visitors who came with a more destructive hunger.
He had seen more than one such cactus, though carefully watered and given good soil and sun, become host to cottony mites, and finally turn to brown mush. This particular specimen seemed to thrive on little water, with its roots in gravel and a guest upon its back. As it did well, he would leave plant and animal as they were, he
decided; he would not apply the yellow dust he’d already puffed onto the others.
Heat, sun, water, soil—it wasn’t easy to tell how much of a thing a plant might need. What suited one sort could cause another to sicken, and eventually to die. They were not unlike people, Cicero concluded, each born with a certain bent—a particular humor—which a wise man made little attempt to alter.
Cicero’s meditation beneath the lightly whitewashed panes was interrupted by a swish of skirts, as Mrs. Willett and Signor Lahte’s young wife entered the glass house. Signora Lahte, he presumed, must now be dressed in her own usual apparel; a previously secreted trunk had come earlier that morning from Boston. Today, she wore an open robe of bright, thin silk, with a beaded sash to accentuate her slight figure. Her eyes resembled smoky pearls, between lids and lashes carefully darkened with what he guessed was lamp soot. She had also reddened her lips somehow, and wore ruby drops at each ear. Amazingly, yesterday’s sulking child had been reborn a beauty—whose equal, as far as he knew, Bracebridge had not seen before.
It seemed to Cicero, too, that Elena quickly felt the mysteries of his sanctuary. And why not? Full of the incense of flowers, sulfur, and moist soil, with its raised tiers here and there aglow with deep color, it was not unlike a Roman cathedral—though the latter, he recalled, did tend more to darkness.
“Richard is away?” asked Charlotte, her voice subdued as her feet crunched across the gravel, while her skirt of plain linen whispered its own familiar greeting.
“This morning, Mrs. Montagu decided that he needed to take her out riding, in the chaise.”
“Oh. When I met Signora Lahte in the garden, I hoped we could all walk together, so we would be able to talk. My French speaking, as you know, is hardly—” She stopped as they watched Elena bend herself far back to marvel at the tree fern that nearly touched the roof.
“You may find, though, that you have another language in common,” Cicero replied. “One I expect we all share.”
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