“The way of the world. Born to a young sister of Mrs. Bigelow who lived to the west, I recall, and died in childbirth.”
“You know more of the family's history than I.”
“Possibly. We realize we're growing old when we discover we're founts of information, much of it unimportant, most unasked for,” he replied with a chuckle. “Tell me, what kind of employment supports them? Even before I left Bracebridge, Jonah could do little more than sit in the sun.”
“It's said Ned follows in Jonah's footsteps. I've even heard some remark that he resembles the grasshopper in the fable, while he should emulate the ant. But he pleases us with his violin,” she added, now that they had begun to hear the fiddle's strains. “And he's read a great deal. They say, too, the stories he often tells at the Blue Boar are well received.”
“It sounds as if he might come to Boston, and take up the law.”
“By staying here with his grandfather, I think he may well have added years to Jonah's life. I sometimes suppose we give too little praise to those who make joyful noises.”
“Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise,” the lawyer quoted in ringing tones. “Yet for pleasure, I doubt I would choose to watch an ant for any length of time, myself. A fiddle brings us all far better amusement.”
They began to encounter a number of villagers, and as they neared the ice, Charlotte was glad to see Diana among the crowd. Greetings were exchanged between the lawyer and Richard Longfellow, who'd earlier become acquainted in Boston; Mr. Reed bowed to Mrs. Montagu, who had heard of him. As soon as her brief smile faded, Longfellow led Reed into a discussion of town matters, which somewhat excluded the ladies.
Charlotte held out the basket she'd brought and encouraged Diana to take a maple roll, noting that she appeared wan when compared to those around them. Diana nibbled, giving only a small indication of her approval.
Moses Reed went to speak with his old friend Jonah Bigelow who sat by the fire, warming himself inside and out. Then Longfellow turned to give his attention back to his sister, but saw that she'd moved off to stand alone. In spite of his determined efforts to enjoy the day, he found himself glowering.
A year ago, Diana would have found words to describe any situation in which she found herself. Now, it seemed, she cared little for what others around her said or did. Was that the fault of her marriage? More and more, it was a thing he considered to have been ill-advised. Yet how could anyone have stopped her from accepting the captain, the year before? A brother, surely, could hope to do no more than guide a determined young heiress of nearly twenty, especially when her own mother, his stepmother, was pleased with Diana's choice. And what further trouble might Diana have found for herself, had she not married? Edmund Montagu did have much to recommend him, Longfellow had to admit. And they had been quite happy together, all in all, until this tragic business with the child. But he would like to know where the devil the man was now, when his wife had need of him!
“Richard?” Charlotte asked quietly.
“Hmm? Oh, thank you, Carlotta. I could use something sweet.”
“Your thoughts have soured you?”
“Once again,” he sighed.
“I'd hoped to speak with Rachel Dudley. Is she about, do you know?”
“I suppose she is. John is sitting there by the fire, next to his jug.”
Charlotte's plan was further delayed, for she'd been seen by someone else.
“Mrs. Willett! I'm pleased to find you at last,” crowed Christian Rowe, slipping beside her. “I myself have been here for hours, to make sure the day's festivities do not become too merry. We all know men tend to exceed propriety when they gather together, especially when they are without ecclesiastic guidance. In fact, I've heard your young charge became involved in some form of violence earlier in the day… but what have you there?”
“Maple rolls.”
“Oh, quite wholesome! There is reason to suspect the motives of those who prepare more elegant fare—trifles, French jelly tarts, or rum balls. Those should never, I think, be served in public. I much prefer the plain delights born of our own countryside to the contrivances of more fashionable society.”
While speaking, the minister had removed a pair of dog-skin gloves. He then gave a thin smile, and blew on his exposed fingers. Taking a chance, he patted Charlotte's cheek. She stood stoically while he took his time choosing from her offered basket.
“I believe,” Rowe went on, once he held his selection between crooked digits, “that Lemuel would behave with more decorum, if he saw daily the example of an older and wiser man. Someone close by, who could instruct him in the responsibilities of manhood.”
“Closer than I, sir?” Longfellow asked sharply. It was known in the village that he'd taken Lem under his protection, if not his roof. And his situation as Mrs. Willett's nearest neighbor did give him a natural interest in the boy's welfare, as well as her own. His irritation caused him to shove his hands into his pockets; in one, he felt the shilling he'd picked up earlier. Peevishly, he decided against handing it over to the cleric.
“Yes, even closer than you, Mr. Longfellow,” Rowe returned solemnly, while he continued to watch the selectman. His stained teeth bit into the roll he held, and came up sporting small pieces of walnut.
“Have you another suggestion, sir?” asked Longfellow.
“I believe a husband would be more efficacious than a neighbor, for a number of reasons. If only this lady would put her mind to accepting one, I am quite sure—”
“That is something she must decide for herself, when she is ready.”
“There's another thing I wish to accomplish at the moment, gentlemen,” Charlotte interrupted. “I will go and speak with Mrs. Dudley, as I was about to do when you first joined us, sir. Though I am honored at having my future discussed by such notable persons, at tea time. Please feel free to continue, once I've gone.”
Laughing silently, Longfellow admired her determined eyes. He also knew they had trouble with distances, so he assisted her by pointing.
“Rachel is over there with young Anne.”
“Then you'll excuse me,” she said as she walked away.
“Will I see you later?” Longfellow called, causing her to turn around.
“Whenever you wish,” she answered firmly.
“Good,” he said, giving the minister a triumphant smile.
CHARLOTTE MADE HER way through the crowd. At the edge of the pond, she touched a bending woman on the shoulder. Rachel Dudley looked up in surprise. Then she, too, beamed to see a friendly face.
“Mrs. Willett! I'm freeing my daughter from what she likes to call her new set of pattens. She assures me she longs to be a lady now, though you see she's made a large hole in the knee of one of her stockings this afternoon.”
Rachel took a frozen strap from its buckle. Showing new front teeth, Anne smiled with relief as the heavy blade dropped off. The two women watched as the blonde-headed girl chased after her older brother. Charlotte could not help remembering that there were once three children in the family. She was careful, however, to give no sign to remind Rachel.
“Is there something I can do for you?” Mrs. Dudley asked, while she stood and slipped her mittens back onto her hands. Each year, she seemed a little more absent, a little more tired. It was an effect less of age than of care, and perhaps too frequent quilting, Charlotte supposed; that was how the family made ends meet, beyond consuming or trading what her husband scratched from poor farmland.
“I hope you can tell me something of this.” Charlotte reached into her basket, and pulled out the spoon.
“Well, however did you—! Where was it?” Rachel asked, nearly overcome with amazement.
“I happened to find it… while skating on the marsh.”
“On the marsh! But—”
“Hannah told me you lost several spoons, and I thought this could be one of them. I'm sorry I can't tell you anything about the rest.” Again Charlotte hesitated, hoping she
would not be asked to explain further. Rachel's pleading look forced her to add something more. “It wasn't far from your home. It was—on Boar Island.”
At this news, Rachel was speechless, and it was several moments before she nodded. She took the spoon and slipped it into her pocket.
“Thank you—very much, indeed! I feared they would all be in the hands of someone in Boston by now,” she added, her tone lowered. “At least I have one back, to help me remember. As if I could forget! You've so often been a help to us, Mrs. Willett.”
Charlotte now noticed several knots of people preparing to leave, in conveyances that had arrived to take them home. “Will you visit me, Rachel, one morning or afternoon? When you can steal an hour or two from your house and children?”
“My husband may soon be doing the housework—at least until my temper cools,” Rachel Dudley replied, gazing toward the bonfire.
“The sun is setting…”
“Yes. In January, it often comes as a surprise. Many things do, it seems. We will have to walk a few miles if I don't urge John to find us a ride. Good-bye, and oh— thank you!” Rachel stepped forward and gave her friend an impulsive embrace. She then hurried off, calling for her children.
Charlotte was glad she did not depend on any one man for her survival—especially a man like John Dudley. For bread and shelter, many women made similar bargains. For them, pity was hardly enough.
She noticed half a dozen lanterns had been lit to combat the coming darkness. The remaining haulers would need some illumination while they finished loading. Though the cutters had already gone off to enjoy their suppers, much ice lay on a long bed of straw, awaiting a final wagon. It would be a while before the last man would leave.
She saw Longfellow take a lantern to his sister, who sat on a makeshift seat at the edge of the pond, gently rocking. Was Diana weeping? Richard helped her to her feet, giving her his arm as she walked forward, awkward as a goose. In an amazing transformation, she seemed to become a weightless sprite, drifting about the gloom.
“I thought she might like to try a pair of skates,”
Longfellow commented at Charlotte's approach. “Nothing else I do seems to improve her spirits.” They walked slowly along the bank while they waited, gaining a little warmth.
“It takes time, as you know. But a kind of peace should come before long.”
“A kind, yes.”
They moved on in silence. Despite a feeling of renewed companionship that she'd missed in recent weeks, Charlotte also felt something nearly its opposite— something unexplained, and distinctly chilly. Though she hardly supposed this to be Richard's fault, it stopped her from speaking further.
What, she wondered, could have begun to bother her now? Looking around, she saw the last of the revelers depart, while the men by the pool of light continued their work. One walked from the others, toward a copse of dark firs. She soon saw him return to the rest and resume his efforts. Orpheus was disturbed as well, his attention directed to the same trees, which grew blacker by the minute. Charlotte lowered her head and suggested he take a look. He whined, his eyes going from hers to the copse, and back again. Though he continued to watch intently, the old dog refused to leave her.
With the fading of the last light in the west, Diana reappeared. By the lantern's glow they saw that her features were quite different from what they'd been before.
“How magical it was!” she gasped. “And just as I remembered! Thank you, Richard,” she added breathlessly.
“You're quite welcome, Diana. Now, perhaps, you'll be pleased to try what Cicero has for us at home. Your lack of interest in his culinary efforts has caused him some concern lately.”
“Then I'll eat enough to bend my stays! How good it is to be among friends. I almost feel as if everything will be all right…”
“Of course,” said her brother, kneeling to remove her skates.
Charlotte made no answer of her own. At that moment, for no apparent reason, she felt far from sure.
Chapter 9
THE WINTER SKY was still dark whe n Charlotte opened her eyes to a new morning. Refreshed, she looked forward to rising.
The first thing her nose told her, as she moved the linen sheet curled about her face, was that the air was less dry, and a little warmer. It also blew steadily, and had begun to whistle around a corner of the house as it made its way inland from the sea. Before long, it would bring snow. She was glad she'd moved to the middle bedroom, next to the kitchen's chimney. Richard had been right, she thought, when he'd predicted the weather would worsen.
She stretched out her feet, and smiled as they encountered a large ball. Orpheus had crept softly onto the sagging bed, burrowing under its covers like a sapper. Surrounded by feathers, he no doubt dreamed of chasing after ducks or geese, along the Musketaquid's noisy marshes. That might explain the frantic quivering of his paws.
The thought of the marshes reminded her of the ice pond, and the curious feeling she'd had the night before.
Today it was gone; she supposed it had been no more than fatigue from a long day. And the new suggestion of snow on the way gave her a pleasant sense of exhilaration.
After a warning word to Orpheus, she took a breath. She lunged from beneath the covers, and leaped to the chair to grab hold of her morning gown. When she'd slipped into its soft warmth, she sat on the side of the mattress and pulled on her slippers. By now, her companion had emerged to watch intently.
“Run!” she called a moment later, bolting for the door. There was a scrabble of claws behind her on the newly sanded pine floor. While she regretted its marring, she laughed as she led the way down the narrow, twisted stairs.
FROM THE NEARBY dairy, Lem Wainwright watched the light increase while he went about the morning milking. At last he blew out the flame in his lantern, and lifted a final bucket from the straw. As the cows, hayed and watered, continued to chew, he carried the warm milk down several steps to the spring room. He would deal with it later. Now, he intended to make a quick trip back to the scene of yesterday's excitement.
After he'd walked the small herd across the yard to the barn, he went out into the wind once more. Pushed by the increasing gale, he made his way to the Boston-Worcester road, and then took the track that ended by the ice. This morning, it was deserted.
Minutes later, he looked carefully around the fire, no more than dead ashes and the ends of logs. Somewhere he'd left his canvas seed bag, and the woolen scarf Mrs. Willett had knitted for him. The bag also held the ice hatchet he'd borrowed from the barn's supply of tools. Neither, of course, could be lost. Anyone finding them would know where they belonged—the scarf, since they'd all seen it around his neck, and the hatchet because it had “Howard” carved into its handle.
Several minutes later he was about to give up, having found nothing more than some paper and broken china, and one small mitten. Then he saw company, and help, approaching. Orpheus had been let out of the house to begin his own morning duties. He loped down the track, a single bark announcing his pleasure at finding a friend.
With the dog at his side, Lem re-walked the entire area of stamped snow. He investigated a few clumps of blueberries, thinking the wind might have taken the scarf, at least, on its own. Still, nothing useful came to light. They found only scraps of discarded food, another bright mitten (not a match), and a child's stocking.
Then Orpheus's head shot up, for the shifting wind had brought something new to his nostrils. With Lem following, he led the way to a spot behind a small copse of firs, where the snow had been altered in curious ways. Here and there, bright yellow seemed to have blossomed over the white. Other visitors had written bits of messages in the unblemished snow. And one large frozen puddle, Lem thought with a smile, had been made by the more community-minded. It might have been seen as an interesting study of dispositions, he supposed, if one cared to think about such things.
After adding his mark to the others, Orpheus was still not content. His ears pointed with new alertness. H
e began to whine softly. He moved to the edge of the copse, and uttered a low growl. In another moment he stepped hesitantly into the trees, and disappeared between their singing limbs. A mournful howl then rose above the wind.
With misgiving, Lem strode to the trees and plunged inside. When his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, he saw that someone lay sleeping—a young man stretched out on his chest, on top of a soft bed of needles. A second later he realized he'd been wrong. With a worse shock, he knew by the frost covering its exposed flesh that the body was no longer alive—and, that it was Alex Godwin. He touched a hand, and found it icy cold, hard as marble.
The poor fool must have returned after all, and gotten drunk by the end of the afternoon, Lem imagined with a shudder. Very drunk indeed to fall asleep here, and stay long enough to freeze! It was a terrible thing—and yet, perhaps, a fate that was not entirely unjust.
As this seemed a shameful conclusion, Lem began to look about for something to make him feel more charitable toward his former rival. There was his ridiculous hat, with its fringe of grouse feathers. Odd that it appeared to have been tossed down onto the back of his head, hardly as if he'd put it there himself. With the beginning of a new suspicion, Lem bent to move the hat, and then felt true horror at the sight of a dark hole in the soft base of Alex Godwin's skull. It looked to be deep. There was little blood about—so he'd died quickly, or perhaps somewhere else. But how? Lem soon found the answer. Beneath a fir branch lay an ice hatchet—one all too familiar.
He reached out, but drew back. He could see the damage hadn't been caused by the bite of the flat blade. But the back of the hatchet had a wicked point, now stained with something. Someone must have found it, and brought it here. Who? And why would anyone have wanted to use it for this?
Yet as he straightened, he had to ask himself if some in the village might not rejoice to have Godwin out of the way. And then it came to him where he'd left the canvas bag the day before. He'd set it down near the bonfire— not long before his fight with Alex, in front of several women! Mrs. Willett, as well as a couple of the old village hens, had heard them arguing. And Mattie! What would Mattie think when she heard of what had happened now?
A Mischief in the Snow Page 7