No Rest for the Dove

by Margaret Miles

  “Which is …?”

  “That spoken by the palate.”

  Her look of puzzlement soon turned to amusement. “As well as the tongue? Of course!” she laughed. “Secluded here among rare vegetables, your wit is sadly wasted, sir. But we will respect your quiet worship of the beautiful. We will go out instead into Mr. Longfellow’s kitchen garden, where we will speak of sprouts.”

  Pleased by her good humor and sense, the old man continued to smile long after Mrs. Willett had gone. He then decided that his neighbor possessed a beauty quite equal to that of Il Colombo’s young lady, after all.

  WHAT CICERO HAD told her was true. As Charlotte walked about the garden with Elena, the girl recognized much, repeating new names as her companion gave them—then giving back her own.

  Basil, Elena informed her, was basilico; the mint, menta; thyme, timo; lavender, lavanda. On the other hand, the salvia she pointed to was not the cardinal flower, but ordinary sage; prezzemolo, plain parsley; the onion was cipólla, while French tarragon, as Charlotte recalled hearing before, was called dragoncello.

  The greater world of vegetables seemed even less familiar. Although here, according to Elena, grew the familiar carota and patata, there was also the hot, red-bottomed ravanèllo, larger purple rapa, leafy fringed lattuga, larger heads of green cavolo, and pimply green cetrioli. Yellow corn, it seemed, was granoturco, putting Charlotte in mind of turban-topped gentlemen in curling slippers. As she repeated the word she mimicked such a man, twisting the ends of long, invisible moustaches—causing Elena to cry “Turco!” and pretend to be a whirling dervish … until a blue butterfly floated by. Then she stopped and gazed with longing at its delicate beauty, as it played freely above their heads.

  This lady was very different, thought Charlotte, from the petulant boy who had been jealous of her on the previous morning. Now, it appeared, Elena was happy in the knowledge that her place with her husband was secure.

  And yet, what of the previous evening? How could she manage to ask of that? It still seemed to her that Elena had been threatened. What if it were to happen again?

  Seeing Charlotte’s concern, the spirited girl appeared to encourage further conversation—perhaps, thought Charlotte, because she sensed an ally, and one who understood the world they shared as women.

  At first the going was difficult but gradually, a flow of understanding grew between them. Soon, using words taken from French, Latin, and English, as well as movements of hand and eye, they abandoned their embarrassment and charged on like children designing a language of their own.

  That Charlotte wondered about Thomas Pomeroy was made clear the moment she spoke his name. It took another moment for Elena to realize she and Pomeroy had been observed in the garden. Then, the girl let out a dramatic moan and produced a flood of words, which did little good. Halting, she began again, her dark eyes intense. She soon made it plain that Pomeroy had spoken to her of a drawing—the sketch of Sesto Alva that Richard Longfellow had lately put up at the inn across the road. This Thomas Pomeroy had seen. He had also, apparently, seen Sesto Alva before, out on the Boston-Worcester road. And he had seen not only Sesto, but Gian Carlo Lahte—for the two had been together!

  When this was understood, Elena vigorously shook her head, calling it a lie, asking, as did Charlotte, why Lahte would not have said so before, even to his wife. As for Thomas Pomeroy, Elena suspected he thought himself in love with her. Charlotte showed that she had supposed much the same—even while the girl masqueraded as a boy. And yet, she asked herself, what could Thomas Pomeroy have hoped to gain by his lie? Had he actually believed Elena would go with him, thinking her husband had murdered her kinsman? That seemed unlikely—until Mrs. Willett realized there might be a further explanation.

  She drew a sharp breath as she recalled Captain Montagu’s warning of the previous afternoon. Praying the girl would understand, she continued with as much speed as both could manage.

  “Elena, could your father … pay someone—pay a man … to harm … to injure … faire du mal, à ton époux?”

  “My husband?” Elena looked at her with amazement.

  Charlotte abruptly remembered Jonathan Pratt’s jewel—given to him by Thomas Pomeroy! What if Don Arturo met the boy in Boston, and gave him the diamond as a partial payment? Could Pomeroy then have come to Bracebridge to await the arrival of Gian Carlo Lahte? He might have hoped to steal Elena away—perhaps even to avenge her father. And, if such a thing could be bought, might Elena’s father also have paid for the death of Sesto Alva?

  Elena suddenly rose to the tips of her toes and pointed toward the house, while her other hand flew to her lips. Below them, someone crossed the road, making for Richard Longfellow’s front door. Even at a distance, both knew it could be only one man.

  In the same instant, Charlotte realized Lahte was alone in the house. He might have arranged for something to be brought to him from the inn … or Lydia might have sent her servant with something—it did seem Pomeroy carried something on a tray—something hidden beneath a cloth—!

  Choosing to trust her instinct, Charlotte bolted. While she ran, she lost sight of Thomas Pomeroy as he went behind the house. Then she heard a sharp scream; Elena had joined her on the path that led to the kitchen door.

  Once inside, both stopped … but they could hear nothing more than their own breathing. Clutching a handful of Elena’s skirt, Charlotte motioned for her to follow, down the passage that led to Longfellow’s study. The two women stepped silently over carpets and boards until they came to the open door, and peered through into the familiar room.

  Gian Carlo Lahte looked up at them from a book, smiling a question at their sudden appearance.

  “You could be in grave danger,” Charlotte warned. Something in her face convinced him at once. Lahte leaped to his feet, looking around for a weapon, finding one in the hearth’s metal poker.

  Wielding this, he inquired further. “Where?”

  Again, they stood frozen in silence. But there was still no sound, until Elena gave a small, helpless gasp.

  “We have just seen Thomas Pomeroy,” Charlotte explained, “coming to the front door. I can’t say for sure—but I think he may carry a pistol. Did you summon him?”

  “No.” Lahte shepherded the women into a corner. He then went out into the hall. In a few moments he returned, perplexed.

  “No one is there. But why do you—”

  “If he heard us come from the back to warn you, he may have gone,” said Charlotte, hoping this was true. As his wife sank into a chair, Lahte went to her side.

  “Cara?” he asked, only to see her shrink back in horror. Once more Elena screamed, but this time the sound came from her very soul. In another instant they heard the sharp report of a pistol fired from outside the study’s open window. Next came a crash as a metal round exploded a large enameled vase that had stood only inches from Elena’s raised hand.

  Had Lahte not been in the act of kneeling to his wife, it could easily have been his head that received the impact, Charlotte realized with a sickening jolt. Wanting to approach the window, she held back, asking herself if Pomeroy might not have a second weapon ready to discharge. Then Lahte leaped toward the casement himself. She lunged to pull him away, while he shouted a barrage of abuse.

  After that, both watched Thomas Pomeroy run off across the fields toward the river, twisting back grotesquely from time to time, as if he were a dog whose tail had been caught in the jaws of a cruel trap.

  “THE SCOUNDREL MUST have hidden a boat in the marshes,” declared Richard Longfellow. He had heard the terrible story; now, the great affront he felt to both himself and to his guests was apparent in the rippling of his cheeks. He took a glass from Cicero, who brought wine for them all.

  “The young wretch,” he concluded, “would have had no motive of his own, being little known to any of us. So you could be correct, Mrs. Willett, in assuming Thomas Pomeroy to be in the pay of Don Arturo.”

  Charlotte saw that Elena’s
eyes swam with the pain of new awareness, while her fear ebbed away. She hardly wished to add to this anguish, but had little choice.

  “Richard, what if the boy was sent not only to kill Signor Lahte …”

  “What else?”

  “He may have been paid to take Elena, too, and bring her back to Boston.” She could not make herself say a second possibility that had occurred to her. The proud father might also have wished to destroy a daughter who had brought him shame.

  “Hmmm. It would seem, then, that Montagu was correct. We must confront the father; and we may all be safer in Boston, than here.”

  “I assume so,” Diana readily agreed. “We have locked our doors for years against villains who would prey on us, or take our silver—at least in the evening. Besides, after what I have seen happen in this place, Richard, I ask myself if your village is not more dangerous than most of Massachusetts.”

  Lahte had been listening to Elena as the girl, who had taken him aside, spoke rapid Italian. Finally, with a look of sadness, he turned back to the others.

  “In Boston, Richard, we will wait for a ship to take us away. Even in the beginning you seemed to know this would be so. Elena and I will return to a place where I have more power to protect her—where I have greater influence in society. We will go to London.”

  “But first,” said Diana, “you must rest with us in Boston, for a few days at least. At Richard’s house, I think, for it is larger. Charlotte, do come, too. I should like to have your company. And yours?” she tried, giving Elena a look the girl seemed not to understand. But when Diana held out a hand to her, it was accepted. This, thought Charlotte, was a kindness which gave both women a renewed sense of safety, though it was something she found herself unable to share.

  Longfellow now made a suggestion.

  “We might arrange for a musical evening, Gian Carlo, to encourage Boston’s support, as well—in case you should again change your mind … or, should you need further help while you wait for passage.”

  “I shall be happy to meet the people of Boston,” Lahte began in reply, until a sharp rap came on the front door. He and the others seemed to stiffen, as Cicero went out of the room. In a few moments, Christian Rowe was ushered in, trailed by a woman in the throes of her own agitation.

  “We have here a thing that must, by law, be returned,” Rowe began officiously. “For I fear it has been stolen! Mrs. Knox came to me as soon as she suspected it was wrongfully taken.” He gave a nod, and the small, trembling woman held out an object she’d brought curled tight in her sun-browned hand.

  “Ooh! How lovely,” Diana cooed with surprise. She leaned forward to examine several bright loops of gold fashioned into a coiled serpent, whose sparkling green eyes were not unlike her own. “Are those emeralds?” she asked, a moment before Gian Carlo Lahte gave a startled exclamation.

  “What is it?” Longfellow asked his guest.

  “I believe—it is only a cloak pin.”

  “I guessed as much, though it’s not mine. But was this stolen from you? From my own house?”

  “It is not unlike one I once owned while living in Milano,” Signor Lahte replied. He turned away, as if the object was of no further interest. Again Elena spoke to him, but she received only the briefest of answers.

  “Where, exactly, was this found?” Longfellow then asked the reverend.

  “It was taken up by Caleb Knox, from the body of Sesto Alva as it lay beside the road.”

  Now Elena, too, gave a small gasp, before she and her husband traded looks once more. It appeared hers expressed something more than wonder. It also seemed, to Charlotte at least, that Lahte’s eyes held a hard command.

  “Only nearby,” Mrs. Knox insisted. “For I’m sure my husband would never think to rob a dead man … but when he gave me such a treasure, I did feel uneasy, and worried whose it might have been.”

  “But you say it was once yours, Gian Carlo?” asked Longfellow, striving to be perfectly clear.

  “Perhaps. Yes, I think that it may have been lost before I left Italy—when, exactly, I did not notice. But now, I suspect Sesto found it in the home of Don Arturo. One does leave cloaks with servants—and Sesto was not always honest, as I have already told you.”

  “Well,” Longfellow began, glancing at Elena, only to find that the girl seemed unnerved once more.

  To Charlotte, it appeared that her neighbor was carefully weighing Gian Carlo Lahte’s answers, balancing them against other information he recollected, until something in his face changed. At the same time, she asked herself if there might not be another explanation for the stolen pin’s reappearance.

  Longfellow reached out and took the gold clasp from Mrs. Knox, who seemed glad to be rid of it. “As an official of the village,” he kindly informed her, “I will take this into my own keeping, with my thanks. And I will do what I should have done several days ago,” he told the others. “We’ll go to Boston tonight, in the cool of the evening, with the moon to light our way. I will speak with a justice of the peace on Friday—Judge Trowbridge in Cambridge, I think. After he hears what we know, I believe he’ll call for a coroner’s inquest. He might also sign writs for the arrest of Thomas Pomeroy and Don Arturo Alva. The truth must soon come out, as it generally does. But for the good of all, we will help it along.”

  Yet as Richard Longfellow studied the faces of those before him, he felt a doubt that the whole truth would be likely to please each and every one.

  Chapter 18

  Thursday, August 22

  EARLY THE NEXT morning, Longfellow rode the ferry from Boston to Charlestown, where, upon landing, he took a road that led past wasteland and clay pits to Cambridge.

  He found Edmund Trowbridge sitting in an office near the courthouse. Attorney General of the colony for the past fifteen years, Judge Trowbridge no longer represented Cambridge in the Assembly, though he was, currently, a member of the Governor’s Council. But Longfellow knew he might still find time to listen to an old family friend, and to attend certain cases that were to a scholar’s liking.

  Trowbridge did agree to hear their evidence the next day, when Longfellow promised to bring back with him several other witnesses: Signor Lahte, his young wife, Captain Montagu, and Joseph Warren—assuming the physician could leave Boston and his practice. While he heard the story, the judge recognized the name of Caleb Knox, known to him from an earlier case concerning a purloined cow. He also smiled at the mention of Jonathan Pratt, for while riding circuit, he’d made many stops for refreshment at the Bracebridge Inn. He even chuckled as he anticipated a fit challenge for his disciplined brain—something beyond the pecuniary squabblings on which he was most often asked to focus his attention.

  And so, Longfellow returned victorious across the broad mouth of the Charles. Once the ferry had docked on the Boston side, he remounted and rode up to his house on Sudbury Street.

  The place looked well, he thought as he examined its brick front by day—except for a few cracks left by the memorable shaking of the earth ten years before, which could hardly be helped. Situated between the Mill Pond and Beacon Hill, the comfortable structure his widowed stepmother continued to inhabit had the advantage of a large garden behind, part of an enclosed triangle completed by Hannover Street and Cold Lane; there was also a livery stable handy at the far side. And it was only a short walk to the Green Dragon … a matter of further convenience. All in all, the property was sensibly placed, neither across Mill Creek in the crowded North End, nor too close by the center of Crown activity between Long Wharf and the Common. One could do far worse, choosing from the town’s two thousand assorted dwellings these days.

  He left Venus at the stable, and walked across sod and garden to the back of his house. Inside, he was met by the two servants who remained in the absence of their mistress. They had long ago learned to expect odd things from friends of Miss Longfellow—now, Mrs. Montagu—but this foreign couple that came with her brother was something else again, their anxious faces seemed to complain.


  “How are the ladies?” Longfellow asked. Hephzibah and Rachel exchanged knowing glances, before the elder answered.

  “We made a bath for them each in their rooms, from the outside kettle,” said Hephzibah.

  The dumbwaiter he’d fashioned the previous year would have made their work less difficult, he supposed. Still, it would have been no pleasure, in this sultry weather, to fetch water from the central well, heat it, and haul it to the side of the house. He greatly preferred the system he’d designed for his own home in Bracebridge, where a hand pump moved water from an enclosed boiler next to the cellar’s cistern, sending it to each of the upper floors.

  “They are now on the high porch with the gentleman,” Rachel added, “where there is a breeze. Would you want some refreshment brought up, sir?”

  “Not just yet. I may find something else to do before long.”

  “Captain Montagu has called and gone away again, but said to tell you he will soon return,” said Hephzibah.

  “Then bring up a bottle of currant wine from the cellar after all,” Longfellow decided.

  “Do you know, sir, that your own servant has left us this morning, to attend to some private business in the town?”

  “I suggested it.” Longfellow knew Cicero was in an awkward position; the old man was now only a sort of valet in a house where he’d once reigned nearly supreme. It had been a small act of mercy to send him off.

  Hephzibah gave a sad smile, shook her head at life in general, and took herself after Rachel down the kitchen stairs.

  Longfellow climbed to the floor above to find Gian Carlo Lahte seated with Elena, Diana, and Charlotte, all of them lounging comfortably on the large open porch, propped by pillows as they watched the slow movements of ships in the harbor.

  “I see you’ve organized something like a seraglio,” Longfellow commented to Lahte, meaning it in jest. He then reddened, as he recalled the traditional protectors of such places. “Yet not quite a paradise, after all. Don’t trust the water in town, Lahte, no matter where it comes from—my own well not excepted. We all know the reason they sometimes stink, but it’s beyond our powers to keep them perfectly clean. Wine is safer. Or perhaps you might care to walk out for a tankard of ale?”