No Rest for the Dove

by Margaret Miles

  Longfellow raised an arm, pointing to the right. After that he turned left on Mill Street, riding toward the windmill just ahead. Montagu kept to his own way, hoping they might pinch their prey like a lobster. Soon, Don Arturo would run out of peninsula, and would be forced to turn one way or the other. And then, whichever way he went, one of them would be there to cut him off.

  It was at windswept Hudson’s Point, near the shipyards across from Noddles Island, that they finally caught up with him. Trapped, with the waters of Boston Harbor preventing his escape, Alva held in his prancing horse, while his daughter’s struggles increased. She had tried to twist free on numerous occasions, but still sat with her breast facing the horse’s neck, caught by her father’s arm. Now, seeing a new possibility for freedom, she gave a final pull.

  The moment could not have been more ill-chosen. As Alva’s strength lessened in his moment of indecision, Elena’s thrust broke his grip and she went flying, backward, from the tall horse. Her head hit the hard stones; her body lay still.

  “Figlia!” Alva screamed, seeing his daughter motionless in the road, while his horse continued to prance, wild-eyed, about her body. Leaping down, Alva allowed the animal to dance away. As Montagu and Longfellow reached them, the distraught father raised his daughter’s head to his thigh, cradling her as he tried to brush the hair from her face, while her skirts billowed up in the harbor’s brisk breeze.

  “Stand aside!” Montagu thundered, but Don Arturo did not seem to hear. Longfellow, too, dismounted, and took hold of the captain’s shoulder to pull him away.

  “If she’s dead, you do her no good,” he said logically. “And if she is alive—what then, Edmund?”

  “We’ll need a wagon, in either case,” Montagu decided, controlling his anger and his fears. He walked rapidly to his obedient horse, and picked up the trailing reins. “I will go and find one.”

  “Good. I’ll see to the girl.”

  When the captain had gone off, Longfellow went to the crouching man and knelt to take up Elena’s hand with experienced fingers. There was a pulse—quick and weak, but discernible. And yet, her eyes would not open, even after an effort was made to rub her hands and pat her cheeks. He had known others to fall into such a state and never leave it—at least, not alive.

  While an anguished Alva watched closely, Longfellow felt the long bones in Elena’s arms and legs, and discovered no breaks to concern them. He nodded with a brief smile, hoping to relieve the man who seemed to shrink before his eyes. The sound of Alva’s sudden weeping came as an unpleasant surprise, and he started to pull away. Then, recalling that he had once suffered similar agony himself, he gently placed an arm over the grieving father’s shoulders.

  When Montagu approached them only minutes later, a wagon could be seen coming behind him. Longfellow walked to the captain’s side.

  “She is still alive.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “But she’ll need to be watched closely.”

  “As will the father.” Montagu indicated the man who again rocked his child. “He will have to be placed under arrest, Richard.”

  “My house should do. He can continue to see his daughter, which may help her to regain her wits. Warren is not far from me.”

  “Yet in the same house, with Lahte?”

  “For the moment, I think their pain will unite them.”

  “All right, then. But I’ll post guards at your doors—something I should have done before! Here is a wagon, and some sail. If Alva cushions her head, we may get the girl to a bed without further harm.”

  The wagon stopped and its young driver joined the others in lifting up the still figure. She was, he thought with pity, a small thing, nearly as light as a sparrow, though she surely sported far prettier plumage.

  Chapter 23

  ELENA LAHTE LAY in a darkened room, her spirit deadened to the life that went on around her. For three hours, since she had been carried up the steps of the house on Sudbury Street, she had shown no sign of awareness.

  Joseph Warren had come and gone. After he examined the girl, he could only suggest that time might accomplish her cure. Meanwhile, he admitted, there was little a physician could do. He did promise to return in the evening, or whenever they might perceive some change and call for him. His eyes lingering on Captain Montagu, the doctor had again seemed about to speak. But he added no more, and went away.

  Now Elena’s husband and father flanked her bed, while Mrs. Willett sat in a chair at its foot, watching them all.

  What would happen, Charlotte asked herself, if Elena should awaken suddenly? How would she feel, seeing her father there, when her last memory was of her abduction? And what of Gian Carlo Lahte? How could he forgive Don Arturo, if he, too, believed Thomas Pomeroy had been sent to end his marriage, and his life, with a pistol? Though hard to believe, how else could she explain what she’d seen with her own eyes? Further, how could Lahte excuse the fact that Elena’s fall had been caused by her father? And if she had not fallen, Alva would have stolen her away, taking her to a ship, then removing her to his own city, and his sole control.

  But was there not also, she reasoned, something understandable in a father’s shock and anger at the loss of his only child? For with a husband such as Lahte …

  Charlotte closed her eyes and recalled questioning looks on the faces of those she loved, when they wondered why she gave no children to her husband. In her case, the situation was unexpected. But what if a man knew no son or daughter could ever be born of a union? Would he then have the right to demand so much—even for love? It was a question Lahte himself had asked her. But then, after all, it was Elena who had decided to follow a husband who’d left her behind.

  She opened her eyes to find that nothing had changed. At least while they watched over the girl, the two men kept a kind of peace, only occasionally glancing away from her motionless face. Neither spoke, other than to utter an occasional sound of distress. Another such groan came from Lahte at that moment, causing Charlotte some alarm, before she calmed herself once more. She watched him take a cloth from the basin of water beside the bed, and wring it before applying it to the girl’s moist brow.

  What kind of home might Lahte and Elena eventually find, she wondered, if they were given the chance? Elena was unwilling to stay in Boston. That was not surprising. But would her husband’s many admirers in London bring her joy? Or more unhappiness? Would Lahte continue the life of a musico? Or might he seek, for his wife’s sake, a less public occupation? Like Longfellow, he could become a landowner in some country spot, where he might experiment with a large estate. But would that satisfy the girl?

  There was also her father. Don Arturo had come after them once. Charlotte suspected he would do so again. Still, it was very likely he would now be forced to stay in Massachusetts, to be tried. And if convicted …

  It was all so sad. Studying the older man’s features, she noticed his expression change as he watched the care his daughter received from her husband, saw it alter from a look of worry to something softer. Was compassion growing within him? At least, there was no fire left in Don Arturo’s manner. Perhaps he had given up his own desires, hoping that by doing so he might persuade Heaven to return the thing he treasured most. What else could a father pray for, at such a moment?

  There was little anyone could do for Elena. However, thought Charlotte, there might perhaps be something she could do to improve the lot of someone … if she could only understand what remained unclear. She was now in possession of a good many facts, and they did seem to fit together. But curiously, they reminded her of a child’s Chinese puzzle, which mocked one’s efforts to reveal its interior. Two men meeting, somehow, on a hot afternoon, in an empty road … a cloak pin, with no cloak … the musico’s anticipated visit to Bracebridge …

  Now, she decided, would be as good a time as any to try shifting a few of the puzzle’s many pieces, in the hope that the whole would fall apart, revealing something of interest at its center. Taking a l
ong, quiet breath, she folded her hands, and began.

  WALKING SOFTLY THROUGH the house, Diana Montagu continued to think as her brother’s hostess, deciding how to deal with yet another crisis. Elena already occupied one of the bedrooms; Lahte, of course, would stay with her there, though he might prefer a cot or a pallet to the bed, should he feel the need to sleep.

  The father would be shut into another bedroom for the night, and the key removed from his door. Diana did not like the idea that it was next to her own. But when her husband had announced he would stay, she did not like to think of going back to an empty house—nor did Edmund wish her to leave, with the town in its current mood. But what if this man Alva became crazed again, and somehow managed to escape during the dark hours? She would take care to lock her own door when she went to bed; it might be hours before Edmund would think to join her. He had much on his mind, she knew. In a way, it was fortunate that something drew his thoughts from their neighbors. For he had started the morning by reviling the people of Boston in a manner quite horrible to hear! Now, she supposed he eyed even his wife with something less than complete trust … but was it her fault if some people did not appreciate good furniture, china, and painting, and all the rest that it took to make a home? Surely, if the fools who had gone to Hutchinson’s house with their axes and crows owned things as fine themselves, they would think twice before destroying the property of others! But what was one to do with men who had poor taste, few possessions, and little civility?

  However, Diana told herself as she climbed the stairs, things were no better in Edmund’s dear London. She had heard of that city’s riots, and the upheavals occurring around the countryside. At least in her own colony, she thought, while there were criminals, there were none who could be called peasants!

  Having reached her bedroom, Diana lowered herself with care onto the bed, and stared at the tall wardrobe that stood against the opposite wall. In another few months, she would be able to unpack and wear her old gowns. Though when she thought of it, how much better to suggest a journey, perhaps even to London, to buy new ones. This reminded her of the charming vermilion muslin Elena had worn that day—before Charlotte removed it. Diana’s chest tightened. Then, a jabbing pain came as she recalled the girl’s body, lying so very still. She must make herself think of something lighter—something foolish! That way, surely, the child within her would have no excuse to shift again so sharply. She had been warned that these continuing pains were an unhappy omen—that they might foretell the death of a child, and even a mother. Yet she would not shrink before Fate like a cowslip in the heat, she told herself stubbornly.

  A sweeter memory came of a fragrant yellow bouquet, offered to her when Edmund took his leave the previous summer, just before her inoculation. Edmund, she thought, might hear her grumble, but he must not know of her real trouble—especially now. She would make sure all ran smoothly around him by taking care of her brother’s guests—even if Richard had sent Cicero off again to enjoy his new laurels among old friends, while her mother’s servants were nearly overwhelmed. She must order more china and linen for Alva’s room, and she had already instructed that another place be set at the table—if tomorrow was not too hot for any of them to eat! If only she had not driven Patty away, she might have one pair of hands she could be reasonably sure of. But Patty was gone for good, the wicked thing. Or was she? Perhaps, with an increase in what she was paid … possibly with a room that included a bit more furniture, or a new hat in a brightly ribboned box? That might do. She would have to see. After all, Bon Bon had been sent off to live with Lucy, fortunate to have been banished, rather than run through! For he never should have nipped the captain—

  As if he had heard her call out to him, Edmund Montagu entered just in time to help his wife sit up.

  “Is there any change?” she asked.

  “No, my dear.”

  “Elena is no worse?”

  “No different … but no worse.”

  “When will Dr. Warren return?”

  “Soon.”

  “And where is Richard?”

  “In the garden, clucking over the state of his privy. He is pleased to announce he will sink a new shaft this fall.”

  She smiled at that, as he had expected. But before long, Montagu returned to his wife’s former concern.

  “I hardly know how we’ll tell the daughter, if she does wake, that we may now have to hang her father—as well as that wretched boy. I wish to Heaven they had all stayed at home!”

  “In Milan? Is it an attractive place, Edmund?”

  “It is not Paris, nor even Rome—”

  “How I will enjoy seeing them all one day, with you! Though I know Rome is very warm, and has smells.”

  “Unlike Boston?”

  “At least here we speak a single language, so that we may all understand when we complain to one another.”

  “Do we? Sometimes, I doubt it. Diana, you know there are many here who wish to thwart me, and do real harm to government. That is one thing. Yet should any harm come to you, during this unrest—!”

  He added no more to his threat, but asked shortly, “Do you look forward to living in London when we return, sweet? Or perhaps somewhere nearby, in the country? Would that please you?”

  “Not now, my love,” his wife whispered, drawing him near.

  But when he left, Diana knew her husband believed that she, too, entertained the idea of leaving Boston.

  He was wrong, of course. Though she may once have considered such a suggestion with pleasure, it now gave her a far different sensation. That was curious. Perhaps it was the child, voicing his own desires? It must be one further proof—if more were needed! For there was little doubt left in her mind at all.

  The first would be a son.

  CHARLOTTE CONTINUED TO sit quietly at the foot of Elena’s bed, reviewing possibilities that swirled around her like mist before a rising sun. Something, surely, was behind it all, attempting to break through.

  Don Arturo was obviously a man of great pride, who had had something precious stolen from his home. But did he want his daughter returned to him, when he came to Boston? It would certainly seem so, watching him now. She glanced up once more to assure herself.

  But then, would not this desire have been first in his thoughts, well above a lust for revenge? And if that was so, why should he have ordered Sesto Alva killed?

  As Elena’s traveling companion, Sesto was the only man in Massachusetts who knew where she was. No, that might not be so. Don Arturo could have followed Sesto to his rooms in Boston … but if he had, why did he not take his daughter then? Thomas Pomeroy might have told him later of Elena’s appearance in Bracebridge—but how could he have known of it before Sesto’s death, when she did not arrive until a few days later? And if Don Arturo did engage Thomas Pomeroy to assist him, would he not have told the boy that his first duty was to retrieve his daughter?

  There was, too, the underlying nature of Thomas Pomeroy to consider. A criminal, perhaps—but she could not bring herself to think of him as truly evil. What reason could he have had for committing the terrible sin of murder? Money? When he came to Bracebridge, he already had the gem that he gave to Jonathan—which might even, as he claimed, have been his own. It was not impossible, she decided. And if it had been sewn into his clothing, then might another like it, also hidden, have bribed his shipboard jailer, giving the boy his freedom when he landed? Either way, once he’d received the purse of gold from Jonathan, why did Thomas Pomeroy return to Boston? Was his freedom no longer precious to him? He had remained in town—had even come into Richard Longfellow’s house. Was this, too, done at the order of Don Arturo? Elena’s father had claimed he did not know Thomas Pomeroy, or Matthew Beaulieu. And how could Thomas believe he could abduct the girl against her will, from a houseful of her friends? Yet could he have come for any other reason?

  Suddenly, something occurred to her that she supposed might explain the boy’s return, as well as his earlier actions. What if
… what if Thomas Pomeroy had been moved by something more powerful than the thought of further wealth—something strong enough to lead him to risk his very life? What if he had come back for love?

  She closed her eyes and saw his face, as she and Elena climbed away. Had the loss of love been the real reason for the boy’s pathetic collapse the night before? It was no more than she had guessed at the very first—that somehow, something happened between them in the dining room of the Bracebridge Inn. But as her mind decided that it had touched at the puzzle’s final secret, another distraction arrived in the person of Dr. Warren.

  Closing the door softly, the physician walked across the carpet and motioned for her father to move away. He knelt by his patient. He spoke her name once, again. He reached out, but the girl’s eyes suddenly opened on their own. Seeing him, Elena managed a painful smile. Then she raised a hand to her husband, who took it joyfully.

  “She’ll soon mend,” Warren assured them, after he had felt her pulse, and asked the girl one or two questions. “You may give her some watered wine, and in an hour, some broth and weak tea. If she’s no worse tomorrow, I think she might resume her usual diet, and walk about a little.”

  “Thank you, Doctor!” said Gian Carlo Lahte, his voice weak with emotion.

  “I am glad to have been of service. Now, as it appears you two gentlemen could use some rest and sustenance yourselves, perhaps you will leave Signora Lahte alone with Mrs. Willett for a little while?”