“Take your dirty hands off her!” the miller spat fiercely. Peter Lynch’s face was red as a roasted beet, and his eyes bulged with fury. Several men who stood between Lynch and the smith, who held young Mary, stiffened. Charlotte saw Nathan look to Richard Longfellow, and watched Longfellow ease his way around the circle.
“Of course you realize, Peter,” Longfellow began as he approached the miller, “that Nathan would be the best one to take Mary safely home. I believe Mr. Pratt would expect it of him … to return a maid who probably has no leave to be out in the first place. By the way, I’m glad I found you here tonight. I’ve been meaning to talk a little business, when you have a moment. My men tell me I have some hay acres I might sow next year with grain, but much depends on both the yield and the price of the milling, so I wanted to consult with you first, to ask you about a possible contract for grinding that I might pay for now, which would entitle me in future to a set price of, oh, say …”
When Charlotte looked around again, Nathan was already escorting a recovered but trembling Mary back along the road toward the bridge. And in a few more moments, Jack Pennywort and the rest were returning to the Blue Boar, where they might find means to counter the evening’s growing chill.
“The miller was anxious enough to earn a dollar,” Longfellow remarked when he returned to Charlotte’s side. “It seems Peter Lynch is a man with two loves.”
“Love, you call it?” she returned with a grimace.
“I’m afraid it passes for that, with some. I suppose ‘lust’ would be a more precise term.”
Charlotte turned her flushed face into a cold wind, away from the moving crowd. Several questions leaped and fought for place in her anxious mind. What had happened here? And what was likely to happen next? It was possible that an old man had disappeared from the road. According to Jack, he had quickly burned to a blackened mess, in a way some explained as a freak of Nature. Others were already calling it the Devil’s work. According to the miller, the stranger might have been murdered for some gold he carried, perhaps by a Frenchman who had also disappeared. From the laughter around her, it was clear that at least some of the townspeople were unconcerned, believing that the whole thing was a Halloween prank.
One thing seemed to be agreed—nobody knew where the old man with the red cloak was now. Hiram Bowers couldn’t be expected to reach the heart of the matter any time soon. And until someone did … someone else might be in for trouble. Crippled, henpecked Jack Pennywort would certainly be teased, hounded, and accused. Of what, though? Possibly, only of telling a good story. But if it were proved that something had really happened tonight, a few among them might decide Jack was responsible.
And this Frenchman … She was well aware that feeling against the French was still running high. If Peter Lynch insisted that one of the old enemy had something to do with stealing, and possibly murder, she knew of several who wouldn’t rest until more than one person had paid. It was a disturbing thought.
But broader horror hid in the first feeble cries of “Witch!”
People could smile, now, when they talked of the withered belief. Charlotte had reason to suspect that the Devil’s work might still become a terrible rallying cry in New England, especially at a time when fear and anger divided neighbors. Oh, town folk might quickly assure you that things had changed since the days when suspicion had led to tragedy up and down the coast. But she herself remembered recent talk, when Aaron had been called worse than “Quaker” by men and women who were suspicious of anyone from beyond the village they were born in. One or two of them were on the road tonight. Were her neighbors all so different from their ancestors of seventy years ago?
If the village concluded the stranger’s disappearance was due to a quirk of Nature, there would be interest in discovering how it had happened. But if witchcraft was suspected by more than a few, the how would become unimportant. Then the only question likely to be asked was who? Who knew enough to call down fire and brimstone; who would be held responsible? While other possible explanations of what had happened tonight could result in some kind of justice, this last one, if it were believed in Bracebridge, promised nothing of the sort. Charlotte shivered at the idea.
Still, one could hope that the old man would turn up again soon, with an explanation of his own. And certainly, Jack Pennywort—like the young girl on Long Island—might not be the most reliable of witnesses. It was an odd time of night to take the air, but it was possible that that was all the man in the red cloak had in mind. Jack could have made up the rest, especially after an evening at the Blue Boar. And yet…
Had anyone walked to the hill’s crest to see if the stranger had gone down the other side? Or perhaps he’d doubled back, and was settled in his bed at the inn even now. She could think of several other questions Hiram Bowers might ask, if and when he thought of them.
Coming out of her own world, Charlotte was relieved to see a dark, familiar face beside Richard Longfellow’s.
“You might ask Cicero,” she quickly proposed to her escort, “to walk me home, after he’s seen enough here. Then, Richard, you could go on to the tavern and hear what’s being discussed. You know I’ll look forward to hearing your opinion of the whole matter in the morning,” she said sincerely.
It was a speech designed to flatter as well as encourage him, but it hadn’t been necessary. Longfellow, too, had read the crowd and was uneasy. As a selectman, he felt it his duty to watch the mood of those he represented, and to see what might develop. He was also anxious to see if anything in the tale Jack told might stand up to the scrutiny of a logical mind.
“But you’ll have to Wait a little longer for my opinion,” he added, after he’d agreed to go on without her. “I’m off early for Boston. Diana has decreed one of her country retreats should take place. I’ll go in with the chaise and bring her back … followed, no doubt, by a wagon full of necessities.”
“Dinner, then? I’ll make a fricassee. And we’ll drink syllabubs,” she added with a ghost of a smile.
On that expectant note, they parted.
A few minutes later, Cicero ushered Charlotte Willett homeward among the last of the observers. In the forest behind them, the horned owl continued to laugh at the curious ways of mankind, and the pines sighed in soft surprise at the rising of the autumn wind.
Over the broad valley, the moon shone down on the black reaches of the Musketaquid, turning the river to winding strips of silver. And walking just ahead, the three boys Charlotte had noticed earlier playfully pushed and challenged one another. From the talk that drifted back to her, it was clear they were alive to the possibilities of the night: elves and goblins that could be expected to move through the electric air, and strange lights that might dance in woods and bogs.
One by one, each dared the others to stay and find out what kinds of things lurked in the deepest shadows. But before long, the boys branched off onto different paths through the fields, headed home, while Charlotte and Cicero kept to the Boston road.
Despite his protests, Charlotte left Cicero at Longfellow’s gate, and walked the last of the way by herself. While the lantern cast its warm light on the ground in front of her, a colder light frosted the trees that had begun to writhe in a boreal wind, under brightly twinkling stars.
By the time she reached her front yard, the ground seemed to dance under moaning branches. Remembering that she’d bolted the main door early in the evening, she continued around the house to the barnyard, and entered through the kitchen. Inside, banked coals gave out a welcoming warmth, and Orpheus thumped his tail in greeting.
Charlotte went to the pantry, brought out some bread and cheese, and sat by the hearth to share it with her companion.
As the room retreated to a familiar, spice-scented background, she went over what she’d heard and seen. But she made little progress, and finally decided, with a yawn, to go to bed. Before leaving the kitchen, she went to the door. The old dog slowly rose, shook himself, then padded up to the open portal. And
there he stood perfectly still.
Charlotte saw the hair between his shoulders rise before she heard the low, uncertain growl. Orpheus took a step forward, sniffing, and one step back again, careful to stay between his mistress and the night. Outside, the rushing sea-sounds of the leaves and the tortured creaking of bough on bough left her own ears unable to distinguish anything closer. But the old dog, whose nose was even better than her own, suspected something was in his path. He finally ventured through the doorway and went on for a few feet, as if carrying out a duty. Within a minute, he had retreated back inside, still growling softly to himself as he watched the dark.
Charlotte closed the door quickly, deciding that tonight she would set the heavy crossboard inside its iron brackets. Surely, it was only the wind. But an evening like this might frighten a Berkshire bear!
Taking up a candle, she went out of the kitchen through one of two doors that flanked the fire, into the main room of the house. She walked toward the tall clock at the bottom of a flight of steps. Pausing as she had done on most nights of her life, she patted its burled sidewood, before ascending the narrow stairs.
In the upper hall, her candle guttered beside a partially open sash, to which she reached out and brought down with an unexpected bang. As her heart pounded, she gasped at something that lurched against her skirts. But it was only the furry body of Orpheus, who had followed her silently on her way to bed.
The old dog jumped away when she whirled. He, too, looked around, wondering what was wrong. It was enough to make Charlotte laugh at the state of her nerves, but at the same time, it brought home to her how Jack Pennywort’s curious story might be affecting her own mood—as well as encouraging fear in others. Apparently, even she was anxious to believe the worst on this windy, moonlit night.
When she was in her nightgown, she pushed back the covers, sat on the edge of the large feather bed, leaned to pat Orpheus’s head, and slid her feet between the cool smoothness of trousseau linens.
It was then that she recognized a familiar scent—a sweet, medicinal aroma that came to her at odd times, and for no earthly reason. She felt the hairs on her arms rising. But this time, instead of knowing fear, she felt a sense of wonder and relief.
Horehound had been Aaron’s favorite candy. Every autumn, she had made the lozenges he enjoyed whenever he had a cough, or when he worried about his throat after a day outside. Although she no longer made them, their scent was as vivid tonight as if Aaron stood by, clattering the candy against his teeth.
She knew it was impossible. But it wasn’t the first time she’d noticed the penetrating aroma in this room.
She hoped it wouldn’t be the last.
Blanketed by a feeling of protection and love, Charlotte settled back, closed her eyes, and slept.
Chapter 6
Wednesday
THE YOUNG MAN finished his breakfast at a brisk pace, slowing only to pour more heavy cream over the remainder of his porridge.
“You didn’t hear anything before you went to bed?” Charlotte quizzed Lemuel Wainwright from a low stool, as she toasted two more pieces of bread by the fire. He thought, then shook his head. Lifting his spoon again, he remembered one thing.
“A ton of acorns fell on the roof, when the wind rose.”
Charlotte handed him a piece of the hot bread to butter. “Nothing woke you later? Did you hear me coming home?”
The boy shook his head. As the sun crept into the yard, he watched the blue bolt of a diving jay, and heard it squawk. They’d already finished milking Mrs. Willett’s cows. Before long, he would walk them out to pasture, through the crisp morning air that was just starting to warm.
The two had made their bargain when Lem still attended the village school run by Dame Williams, where he’d learned to read the Bible and to cast accounts as all boys were expected to do. His large family lived only a few miles away, but a brood of hungry mouths had made their oldest look around for another place to board, as soon as he could. All the noise at home had shown him the joys of solitude, so he had slept happily in Charlotte’s barn for more than a year, coming inside only during spells of bitter cold.
Lem was still learning. But at fourteen his duties were nearly those of a man. On most days, he left the cows where he’d led them, and walked back across the meadow to see to the poultry, haul water, and take care of odd jobs, and to make sure the firewood was piled high. At day’s end he gathered the herd back in, helped milk them once more, and then returned to the kitchen for supper and a look at a borrowed book—often with Charlotte nearby … always after a disapproving Hannah had gone home. Her own sons had better things to do than read, as she’d told him herself more than once.
“You didn’t happen to see the old man on the road yesterday afternoon, wearing a scarlet cloak and leading a horse?” Mrs. Willett now asked gently.
Finished with his breakfast, Lem continued to cast dreamy eyes at the window while he shook his head. Soon, Charlotte told him what he’d missed by going to bed at sundown, as usual. She waited for his comments. He offered only a question.
“Should I take them to the river today, or back behind the orchard hill?”
“The hill, I think,” she answered.
In another minute the boy disappeared, and soon Charlotte heard the bell of the lead cow as it swung away into the fields.
Strange, how events that left one person unmoved could act like a burr on the mind of another. But then, people rarely asked Lem what he thought of anything. Maybe one needed practice, to answer. She would have to think about that.
Today, Charlotte took morning coffee to her south facing study, where sunlight and shadow from the maples outside leaped over polished wood, and along walls painted the blue of a robin’s egg. Looking around the place she’d made into a sort of private nest, she ticked off her latest tasks on her fingers, listing them out loud.
The apples were finished; most of the herbs were gathered in and drying; the root cellar was well stocked with potatoes, turnips, and parsnips from the garden; the bees and their hives had been seen to, although they might need to be fed a little sugar water again, before the hard frosts. And the hay had provided more than enough winter fodder for the dairy herd—she was relieved at that.
No other areas seemed to need her immediate attention, so she turned her mind eagerly to what her neighbor had called the second part of observation. As she did, the miniature portrait of Aaron on her desk, the one painted before he left Philadelphia, seemed to stare directly into her eyes. Whether he would have liked it or not, she knew what he would have expected her to do. Charlotte leaned on the brocade-covered arm of her chair, and thought.
The old man had been there, and now the old man was gone. But was he really gone from the earth, or only the Boston road? Maybe the whole occurrence was nothing more than an involved jest—though it certainly seemed a poor one. This, she thought, had been Longfellow’s first opinion. She wondered if he still stuck to it.
A further possibility was that Jack Pennywort, never the most sober of men, had “decorated” (knowingly or not) whatever it was he really saw. But what had Jack seen, and why?
The stranger might, understandably, have taken fright at being followed up the road from the tavern. Perhaps somehow, cleverly, he had diverted Jack’s attention before slipping away. But how? Unless …
Charlotte’s next idea seemed even more fantastic, at least at first. The old gentleman might have planned to give a dumb show. What if he wanted people to believe he’d gone up in smoke and flames? What if he’d chosen to leave his past behind, to start a new life? Hadn’t that been her conclusion as soon as she’d heard the story of the Long Island farmer and his servant? (She would have guessed that the figure she’d seen herself was well beyond affairs of the heart—but one never knew for sure.) Still, how fast could the bent old man have trotted off? And exactly how had he fooled the wary Jack Pennywort?
On the other hand … Jack wouldn’t have had to be fooled at all … if he had been
a paid accomplice. Or it could even be that Jack, perhaps with someone else, had actually done away with the stranger.
Steeling herself to the last unlikely possibility, Charlotte thought on. While Jack returned to the tavern to tell a story that might have been carefully planned, a larger man (perhaps this Frenchman they talked of?) could have taken the body, and the gold, and hidden them somewhere. But this really didn’t seem plausible, either, considering what she knew of Jack’s character. After all, here was a man who rarely did much wrong, and who lived in fear even of his wife! Nor could Charlotte imagine anyone else trusting Jack to share that kind of awful secret for long. But for a coin or two, Jack Pennywort might have gone along with something less than murder….
Another possibility remained. There could have actually been an extraordinary occurrence of some kind, a phenomenon that had caused the stranger to be entirely consumed by internal flames. Some believed it possible, at least on Long Island. Spontaneous human combustion, Richard had called it. Was it credible? She knew that numerous forces in Nature were still largely unexplained. And some of them were deadly. For instance, even though Dr. Franklin had recently coaxed lightning down from the clouds, it still had a mind of its own, and might take a life in an instant.
Thinking hard, Charlotte recalled having once heard from Aaron’s brother, Captain Noah Willett, about something called Saint Elmo’s fire. Reportedly, this could turn a ship’s entire rigging blue with an eerie, dancing flame that sometimes played on seamen. That sounded more like Jack’s story. But this phenomenon rarely caused harm to those it touched … and she’d not heard that it made anybody disappear.
The bright morning sunshine had turned a tray of cut-crystal glasses on a sideboard into several miniature suns. For a few seconds, Charlotte stared into their brilliance. Then, realizing her thoughts had run away with her reason, she looked down to open a drawer and search for paper and ink. At first, because her eyes were dazzled, she saw nothing within. Just like the night before, in the kitchen doorway, when she’d been unable to see anything outside—
A Wicked Way to Burn Page 5