“Maybe he was a bad horseman, more used to a carriage.”
“Whatever his excuse, I consider it a sin to harm a good servant.”
Charlotte agreed. Nathan, she thought, was a fair man, and not afraid to tell the world what he thought of it.
“Speaking of servants, have you any idea what caused Mary Frye to faint on the road last night?” she asked.
“Mary wouldn’t tell me anything, but I expect it has to do with a long string of troubles. You must have heard the talk,” he answered, walking out and squinting up at the clouds.
“Some. Nathan, you didn’t take Mary out there last night yourself?”
The smith let out a groan.
“No, she went out alone. Probably to meet her young Leander—a lad called Gabriel Fortier.”
“In that case, wouldn’t she have been afraid of being seen by the miller?”
“They probably planned to walk on the east side of the bridge, down along the river path. Very private after dark, if you overlook others there with the same idea. As I imagine you might recall.” He grinned suddenly, but a new idea soon sobered him. “I’d guess he wasn’t waiting for her where he promised, because of the trouble over at the Blue Boar.”
Nathan told her the story of the near-brawl he’d already heard twice that morning, from early customers. So that, she thought, explained the Frenchman of Jack’s tale!
“I knew Peter Lynch was an admirer of Mary’s,” she admitted, unable to suppress a shudder, “but then, when I saw her fall into your arms, I imagined … something else.”
Nathan’s face grew grave again, and she asked herself if she’d touched a sore spot, or only a tender one. In his position at the inn, he’d seen Mary every day for a year now. He might view himself as her protector, from Lydia and from the occasional traveler who made overtures. Might it also have occurred to Nathan to hope for something more?
Charlotte remembered back to when the smith first made his appearance in Bracebridge, shortly after her own world had turned upside down. At the time, each of them enjoyed a new acquaintance who could talk about something besides the past. On her almost daily visits to the inn, they had frequent opportunity to discuss the town and its habits, as well as its visitors.
But all of this was before Jonathan married, late in ’61. Since then, cold words from Lydia, and piercing looks when he transgressed, kept Nathan close to his forge, and away from the inn’s halls and taproom. No one quite knew why Lydia Pratt treated those who helped her as badly as she did; it had simply become an unquestioned habit for them to avoid her, whenever possible.
Naturally, Mary Frye would have looked for ways to get around Lydia, and she, too, would have enjoyed speaking with a man who had a sympathetic heart. She might even have encouraged him as a likely provider for her future. Until she met Gabriel Fortier.
Nathan was still thinking about the Frenchman, as well.
“Mary told me she met him in Worcester over Christmas, when she went home for a few days. You’ve seem him around since then, I expect, though you probably weren’t introduced. He’s a Neutral, you know.”
So that was it. Fortier was one of the Acadians, some six thousand French-speaking British subjects who’d been transported from Nova Scotia. They had settled that island themselves, long before the British took over, and had remained there peacefully under British rule for fifty years. But in ’55 it was feared they might turn against their rulers, especially if French troops were to arrive and give them aid. So the Acadians were offered a loyalty oath to sign. Those who refused had been sent south. Charlotte had seen one or two of a handful of families who’d settled near Worcester. They’d lived up to their name, and caused no trouble during the late war. But some of their neighbors still distrusted them because they kept to themselves, and held on to their own language and customs.
Nathan brushed at a horsefly that attempted to land on his sweat-beaded forehead.
“Once the miller got wind of it, he made quite a fuss. You know Mary’s father promised her to Peter Lynch, once her indenture’s over. That’ll be in two more years.”
“She’s so young …”
“Lynch wanted to marry her last year, when she was only fourteen! But old Elias Frye balked. I suppose he saw more money to be made by sending her out first. Now, he’s said he’ll promise the next of her sisters to another of his friends, unless Mary’s willing to accept the miller in the end. At least she’s not beaten here,” he added with a black scowl.
“Do you suppose her father hoped she’d find someone better to marry while she worked here at the inn?”
“I think Elias did hope she’d find a man who’d offer her more. With or without marriage,” Nathan added, averting his eyes. “But Jonathan, and Lydia too, I suppose, have kept her from that. So there’s no reason for Mary to feel sorry yet.”
“Except that she wants something that’s forbidden to her. Is Gabriel Fortier a decent man?”
“That’s hard for me to say. What I do know is there’s a good chance that if Mary runs away with the Frenchman, Lynch will try to get her back, if only for appearances. There’s no telling how far he’d go if he’s made to look a fool before his friends—especially the ones in Worcester. A raw lot, from what I’ve seen.”
“Then what’s Mary to do?”
Nathan shrugged. He unmatted his damp, curling hair with thick fingers.
“They’ll still need her father’s consent to marry, or the law will be against them. But she has time—and who knows what might happen? Even though Lynch has offered more than was paid for her bond, Jonathan won’t let her go.”
The blacksmith grasped a branch over his head, and shook it until a few blazing leaves fell down.
“If there’s one thing I hate to see,” he continued, “it’s a man who gets his way by frightening people … especially young girls. But Peter Lynch isn’t the only man who’s been given a strong arm in this world.” The smith looked up at his clenched fist thoughtfully. “And two years,” he concluded, “is a long time.”
“It might even seem like an eternity,” said Charlotte. In her heart, she felt another small bundle of trouble store itself in an empty spot, without waiting to be invited.
When she left Nathan a short while later (after arranging for the delivery of some coal she didn’t need) her thoughts rushed and tumbled like water in a mountain stream. And behind her, the red iron the blacksmith returned to was again forced to conform to his will—this time, under even fiercer blows.
Chapter 8
HER WAIST WAS held straight by the whalebone under the tight top of her silk gown, but Diana Longfellow managed to lean back in her chair as she yawned with contentment. It was a thing Diana wouldn’t have allowed herself to do in Boston, thought her hostess with a drowsy smile.
“They say life in the country flows like cold molasses,” Charlotte’s guest continued. “I must admit, I do feel unusually sweet today.”
After a twenty-mile ride, Richard and his considerably younger half-sister had arrived with good appetites. Foreseeing this, Charlotte had asked Hannah Sloan to kill and pluck a large hen. Later, she had done the rest. The fowl had been pan-fried, and then simmered into a golden fricassee that included onion, carrots, and woodland mushrooms. Finally, it had been graced with a gravy of stock, egg yolks, and cream. This was offered up with a dish of potatoes and parsnips, mashed together and laced with butter and parsley. There was a small plate of boiled autumn spinach, as well. Everything on the table but the service and the salt, Charlotte thought with pride, came from her own farm.
They sat in the front room, across from a cold hearth. However, its chimney-mate in the kitchen crackled audibly, and Hannah perspired freely while she served them. The rich air that moved between the two rooms was further warmed by bright sunlight that had passed through a filigree of waving leaves outside. And a small current of Canadian air, delightfully fresh, was democratically allowed in under one of the sashes to mingle with the more fashionable variety inside.
Charlotte watched and held her own thoughts, while brother and sister continued to banter and exchange tidbits about people and places. It was said that Diana Longfellow had the cool, proud nature one expected in a beauty, and she did often hold herself aloof from the world. But in several years of visits to Bracebridge, the elegant young woman’s facade had developed a succession of small doors that she sometimes left ajar, to give brief views into well decorated, if rather disorganized, rooms.
This afternoon, her eyes, at the moment almost an emerald green, danced to the varying tunes of lively conversation, exposing a quick spirit much like her brother’s. Until, of course, she wanted to be certain of having her own way. Then, Diana’s dark lashes fell while she turned up a pretty ear under her elaborate auburn curls, exposing a long, downy neck. It was a pose that invariably led gentlemen, if not always ladies, to see things from Diana’s point of view. Surprisingly, it often worked on her brother, as well.
Hannah brought in the last course—syllabubs made of whipped cream, sherry, sugar, and lemon mixed together, and floated in wine glasses on top of hard cider. While they sipped, the talk revolved again to the disappearance of Duncan Middleton. The subject had barely caused Diana’s fine eyebrows to rise when it had first been mentioned earlier. It was not, she had implied then, the kind of thing one took much notice of, in her society. But now, she had apparently changed her mind.
“So,” sighed Diana, watching her rings catch the sunlight, “our country cousins seem to become more imaginative every day. What phantasmal news! I suppose bursting into flame will become a new rustic style.”
“If it does,” her brother replied, “remember that it was invented by one of your own. Duncan Middleton is, or was, a wealthy Bostonian, as I believe Charlotte already mentioned.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of Middleton—though I’ve never received him,” Diana added, settling the matter of the merchant’s standing. “But what on earth was he doing here?”
“That,” answered Longfellow, “is something no one seems to know. Hardly anyone spoke to the man before he vanished.”
Charlotte dipped a spoon into her glass. Stirring some of the cream into the cider below, she ventured into the stream.
“I did … as he was walking down the road, at about three o’clock—”
“You didn’t tell me that last evening, Carlotta,” interrupted Longfellow, “when you asked me to be your eyes.”
“A lady need not tell a man everything she knows, Richard,” Diana countered briskly, a trace of the new radical spirit in her manner.
“Although in Boston, many ladies do try,” her brother retorted waspishly.
As this was not one of her few acknowledged faults, Diana maintained a haughty silence, but her eyes flashed at his irritating comment.
Charlotte attempted to smooth the waters.
“You didn’t seem to be particularly interested in him, Richard, at the time.”
“I see. Well, I’ll admit that Pennywort’s tale did strike me as being thin; in fact, it seems to have very little meat on it now. One might even conclude, ‘…it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’”
“‘Out, out, brief candle!’” his sister warbled with a pleased look, for Diana had her own collection of the Bard. She continued to play the Thane’s part.
“ ‘Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.’
“It sounds as if Middleton made quite a colorful candle, too,” she concluded. “I believe I’d like to see where it happened. Would anyone care to go with me for an after-dinner promenade?”
“Perhaps, when I’m through,” Longfellow replied moodily. He played with his glass and said no more.
“You said this all happened at twilight, did you not?” asked Diana. “It’s usually a good time for imagining things. In fact, I’ve led a number of gentlemen to imagine things myself, after sunset. Now, this Jack person …”
“Pennywort,” supplied Charlotte.
“Jack Pennywort. Is that really his name? Jack Pennywort may have also had a wee bit to drink last night, if I know my country ways.”
“There’s a thought,” Longfellow exclaimed, and tossed back the last of his syllabub.
“And I am able to reason,” Diana went on, pushing back her chair, “that he knew the old Bostonian had money. Well, you said he dropped a good deal of it on the floor, didn’t you? In that case, I should be watching, if it were up to me, to see if Jack Pennywort has an unexpected windfall anytime soon. Although I suppose it might be natural for someone like that to squirrel it away for a good while, too…. Your provincials can be very secretive. And they normally spend so little, after all. I mean, one has only to look at them!”
Hannah, who had come in to tidy the table, held up her nose at Diana Longfellow’s manners, and gave Charlotte a moment’s fear for some of her best china. Meanwhile, Longfellow rose to his feet.
“It’s your opinion, then, that Jack went out, dispatched Duncan Middleton, secured the gold, and put a sticky mess down on the road to support his ridiculous story. After that, he ran back—all within the space of five minutes—to alert the tavern. Oh, and at the same time he dragged off the body, as well. Tell me, what do you suppose has become of the corpse?”
“I wouldn’t know. But if you can’t find it, perhaps no one has looked for it in the right place. That often happens to me. Not with bodies, of course. I usually lose track of smaller items; but then I’ve been led to believe I don’t have your larger talents in all things.”
“Has anyone been looking?” asked Charlotte.
“Several men went out with Bowers this morning—we met some of them just over the hill, on our way back. Apparently, no one has seen any sign of him.”
“As you’ll remember, you said you would tell me your conclusions. Have you come to any?”
“I don’t know,” Longfellow admitted, tapping his fingers against the back of Charlotte’s chair after he helped her to rise. He chose to ignore Diana, who had to help herself.
“But I would suspect,” he went on, “that this merchant will show up somewhere, someday, when the time is right.”
“Yes—and he’ll be dead,” Diana added darkly.
“What’s the village view?” Charlotte asked. “Did you hear anything new last evening in the tavern?”
“The more pious believe whatever happened to him is God’s will, and several agree it’s probably a rich man’s due. But, there was very little to go on last night. Most suspected that Jack had imagined the whole thing, but that if he hadn’t, it must have been some clever trick of the Frenchman’s. Young Ned Bigelow, who reads, thinks Middleton is, most likely, a Rosicrucian alchemist in disguise.”
“Who, and where, is this French
influence you mentioned?” Diana interrupted.
“A man called Fortier—a Neutral.”
“Oh, I see …”
“Fortier hasn’t been spotted since he left the tavern after sunset, just before the merchant went out.”
“Alchemy,” Charlotte repeated uneasily, reaching for her shawl. “Do you think anyone might actually believe he used magic to make the coins?”
“Why not? Lead to gold is a very old idea based on wishful thinking, which is powerful stuff. And except for Jonathan, not many around here have a prayer of touching much gold except by magic. Curiously, still others at the Blue Boar were much more impressed by the scarlet cloak. There was some idea that Middleton was an Italian prelate on a secret mission, and that his hobble suggested cloven hooves under his shoes. By the time I left, when several rounds of rum had warmed them up a bit further, they were so carried away that even Pennywort looked worried, bobbing around on his poor foot. I thought they just might throw him into the millpond to see if he would sink or float! And they say we live in the Age of Enlightenment,” Longfellow finished morosely, shaking his head.
“It seems to me that your villagers will never change,” laughed Diana. She had by now collected her wrap, long gloves, fan, and a small umbrella to protect her face. Placing her veiled hat carefully onto hair that was puffed and rolled, she sent out a further appeal.
“Now, Richard, take me to the scene of this great Happening, and I will at least be able to say that I saw the sights, when I was in the country.”
It was a request delivered with admirable Boston spirit. With no more coaxing, her brother guided both of the ladies through Mrs. Willett’s front door.
Chapter 9
UNDER A RIVER of dust running through the afternoon haze, a good amount of traffic moved along the Boston-Worcester road. Charlotte Willett, Richard, and Diana Longfellow were met and overtaken on their way down to the river by farmers driving wagons full of hay, sacks of nuts, and pumpkins. They also saw men on horseback and one or two in carriages, as well as a strong country girl riding pillion behind a young man, the sun giving an additional coat of bronze to her round, carefree face.
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