Mary rushed to shut and bolt the door. Then she flew to Gabriel’s arms, while Elizabeth pulled her child from the hearthside and hugged her tight, for the little girl had begun to cry. Montagu laid down the narrow, horn-handled knife he’d taken from Mary. Everything was again moving toward harmony … at least for the moment.
The four guests had barely agreed to go back and finish their dinner, when they found their retreat blocked by a scurrying Lydia Pratt. Her eyes were bright, and her breath was short. Lydia looked all around; then, her glance rested questioningly on her husband. Jonathan calmly played down the recently concluded drama, as he thought how to approach a delicate subject.
“Lydia, my dear … I have offered to give Mr. Fortier a chance to do some work for us, in exchange for his keep and a little something more. It strikes me we could use another man about the place, for a while.”
His wife seemed ready to argue. But quite suddenly she drew up short. It appeared to some of the others that as she looked at Mary, she eyed the girl with something beyond her usual disdain. Lydia had never had any true cause to dislike her servant, as far as anyone knew. Still, her refusal to favor Mary in any way had been marked—until now. To her husband’s pleasure, Lydia only nodded at his latest suggestion, keeping her lips tightly together. It was an unexpected triumph.
“I thank you,” Gabriel said quite simply.
“Prove yourself useful then,” Lydia finally responded grimly, leading Charlotte to wonder again at the woman’s motives.
“I think I’ll retire to make some small repairs,” Diana decided, walking around the landlady. “Mary might be of help. Shall we withdraw upstairs, Mrs. Willett, while the gentlemen start their coffee and brandy?”
Charlotte agreed at once, and Mary followed them up to a small pair of rooms set aside for the immediate comforts of the inn’s female guests. While Diana sat at a table and removed several items, including her new perfume, from her bag, Charlotte watched Mary pour water from pitcher to basin, then arrange two embroidered towels.
“It looks as though you, too, have triumphed over a dragon, like St. George,” Charlotte suggested to the girl, once she decided they would not be overheard. But Mary’s face looked back from the mirror with its usual solemn expression.
“I won’t believe it. No matter how willing she seems.”
“If Lydia really means to help you and Gabriel—”
Mary laughed briefly, and dabbed at her face with a dampened corner of her apron to remove the remains of her tears.
“You must know better!” she replied bleakly, looking away from the mirror. “She’s only agreeing now because … because of something I know, although she’s not sure I know it. Something best left unsaid, as long as I still have to live under the roof of a witch! It may be that something will come out, when I leave—or it may not,” she considered, offering both women a smile that was at once mysterious, and a little sad.
“Well,” said Diana, resetting a curl, “this is one of the most dramatic evenings I’ve had for months! I’d no idea life in the country could be so full of passion, and danger! What do you suppose will happen next?”
With one little finger, she rouged her lips from a tiny pot on the table in front of her, and then reapplied a dab of scent from the Oriental bottle.
“If it were up to me,” she continued, “I’d choose something comic to end the evening, and send everyone home in high spirits. Although I’m not entirely disposed to laugh after such a large dinner, with these stays!” She stood and twisted her torso in several different directions, causing her hoops to brush against the vanity table. It teetered alarmingly, until she stepped away.
“Let’s go back before the gentlemen forget we exist. I’m sure they’ve already begun to bore each other with their political views again,” she concluded, waiting for Charlotte to finish a brief appraisal in the small mirror. After she had cleared the tabletop, Diana’s rustling skirts led Mrs. Willett down the hall, while Mary stayed behind to tidy up the room.
Only when she was sure the two women had gone did Mary take a small enameled bottle from her pocket. For a moment, she looked at it with great curiousity, watching the way the dragon caught the candle’s light, as she turned it round and round in her work-rough hands.
Chapter 17
I THOUGHT THE Court of St. James’s less impressive than it might be,” Longfellow said languidly to his new acquaintance, as they both sipped well deserved brandy, after their bold encounter. “One could wish it had more brain and culture attached to it, and a little less pomp and powder. It might be wise for the gentlemen of the upper classes to try breeding not for wealth, as they do now, but for brighter children—that would be progress.”
They saw the ladies returning, and Longfellow rose to pour for them, as well. But the conversation continued much as it had gone on during their absence. Richard now waited for Captain Montagu to take the next shot.
“One can hardly disagree with your …” Montagu cleared his throat, wondering if a word existed to describe them. “… your antic observations. Of course, from your own dress and habits, sir, I’d already guessed that you might prefer the company of, how shall I put it? People who work with their hands? But then, you Americans have many origins, which allows you to choose your fashion from a very great diversity of tinkers and farmers.”
“Ah, yes, we do enjoy the styles of many countries here, and many occupations.”
Apparently, thought Charlotte, noting an absence of ill humor, their exertions together in the kitchen had begun to form a bond.
“That, to my mind,” continued Longfellow, “is preferable to relying on the tastes and foibles of a crumbling elite in a moribund capital—although your Old World does have notable architectural remains. But as you’ve said, Captain, we have admirably simple tastes here. And our colonies are even more widely admired for having men of inventive minds, like Dr. Franklin, whom I imagine you’ve heard of by now. I expect that’s also true of most countries of the Old World, however—in their general populations. I’ve been impressed by a great many things I’ve seen throughout Europe, both in science and the arts,” he finished, pleased with himself for the fairness of his argument.
“Then perhaps you’ve also seen the way the Continental peasants struggle to survive outside the gilded capitals your wealthy young men tour and overpraise. Have you visited the less lovely sections of Paris? At least we English rarely starve en masse, the way they do now throughout France. Englishmen all enjoy certain rights, as Monsieur Fortier pointed out. Rights developed, I might add, solely by your English ancestors, and upheld by the government they alone created!”
“A greater pity, then, since you’re so proud of them, that you don’t extend all of these rights to Americans! But we ‘children,’ I assure you, must soon grow larger and stronger than you or your ancestors … as children will, when given a superior diet. As the proprietor of a dairy, I’m sure Mrs. Willett agrees.”
“Well, I—”
“I hope, at least, that we can all agree on the benefits of the British parlimentary system?” Montagu asked the table.
“Of course,” Longfellow assented, “despite the fact that the body you elect is filled with men who would prefer neither to see nor to hear us, and who rarely do anything in our interest at all…”
“It’s allowed you to enjoy what you call your ‘liberty’ this long! But it may be that you Americans should start a united Parliament of your own. Then you would know real trouble. And don’t forget to include the ladies among your revolutionary representatives!”
Both men, along with the women, soon found themselves laughing together at the idea—although the Americans laughed less than their host, and for different reasons.
“Have you seen conditions across the Channel yourself?” asked Charlotte of the captain. Montagu became serious again.
“It’s an increasingly hard life in France. While most struggle just to exist, a very few enjoy everything money can buy. I suspect
that in a dozen years, the French will have problems at home which will keep them from fighting with us, or with you.”
“I have read in the Gazette” said Diana with new energy, “that children in London can still be put into prison for debts, and hanged for stealing a loaf of bread—while royalty continues to think up new fashions and diversions.”
“Ah yes, the Gazette,” Montagu replied. He picked up the bill of fare and slowly fanned himself, rather than saying exactly what he thought of that newspaper, or any other touted as an honest, unbiased source.
“Yet here,” he continued, gazing at Diana’s clothing as he spoke, “many of your ordinary citizens choose to wear silk and lace, rather than less costly attire, even though they live far from any court. Wouldn’t you agree with my earlier argument, Miss Longfellow, that people like these, able to pay more than a poor weaver or a plowman in England, should at least pay the Crown for some of the cost of their own protection, or be thought ungrateful … perhaps even disloyal? No one here is truly poor, after all.”
That point, too, would soon have been debated, but for the reappearance of Jonathan Pratt.
“I’m sorry to interrupt—”
‘“Jonathan, what’s happened?” From the landlord’s somber face, Mrs. Willett feared she already knew.
“What, indeed,” he answered hesitantly. “Sam Dudley’s been found. He seems to have drowned in the river, just to the north of the footbridge.”
“The boy drowned?” Montagu inquired sharply. “How?”
“No one knows for certain. It could be that he slipped in the early darkness. Startled by a deer, perhaps—or simply lost his balance. It’s likely he was stunned, he fell, and drowned in the shallows. At any rate, he was found in the marshland, and was taken home to his mother.”
“Most unfortunate—I’m sorry for her. I presume a physician has been called to examine him,” Montagu added, somewhat to Pratt’s surprise.
“Oh, he’s been dead for some hours, by all appearances. No need for a doctor. Anyway, there’s none here in Bracebridge. When we have a serious need of one, we send word to Cambridge. If there’s time.”
“I’ll go and have a look at the lad tomorrow, then, before I leave. Where is his house?”
Still somewhat mystified, the innkeeper gave him directions. Jonathan hadn’t heard, Charlotte realized, all that they’d been discussing before, nor did he know of Montagu’s warning of possible danger to come. She felt her emotions welling as her throat tightened, and she imagined the quiet body stretched and tended by his mother for the last time. Sam Dudley! She’d seen the boy for years, hurrying here and there. Sam Dudley, one of the youths she had seen, and heard as well, walking home on Tuesday night—
This final thought decided her. She would pay a visit to the Dudley farm in the morning. It would be a call of sympathy, and something more. But she would be sure to go early, before Captain Montagu arrived. At the moment, she had no desire to encounter any more of his disconcerting stares.
Richard Longfellow had risen while Mrs. Willett considered. Silently, he left the room after the innkeeper. In the hall he caught Jonathan’s arm.
“Have you still got Timothy about the place?”
Timothy helped the hostler look after the horses, and sometimes did other jobs. Often, the boy ran errands, or took assignments from the inn’s guests when they needed messages delivered. Tim was a devil in the saddle, especially for the right price.
“He’s around somewhere,” Pratt replied, trying to think where he had seen the young fellow last.
“Well, if he’s not otherwise engaged, I’d like you to give him a letter.”
Saying this, Longfellow took the landlord’s candle, forcing Jonathan to follow him as he made his way to an alcove desk where he knew paper, ink, and quills were to be found. While Jonathan watched, Longfellow sat and quickly wrote out a note, folded the paper twice, put a name and a Boston address on the outside, and sealed it with a drip of wax.
“Where, by the way, is Nathan? He’d have been interested in what went on in the kitchen earlier.”
“If he were here, I’m sure we would have heard from him.”
“Out of town?”
“No, at the Blue Boar, I imagine. He’s been there quite often lately.”
“Has he?” Longfellow returned the candle, and leaned back while the landlord went in search of the boy.
Soon, at the approach of the alert Tim, Longfellow rose and gave him the letter and some copper coins, shook his hand solemnly, and then went back to rejoin the party with at least one new question in mind.
“I propose,” said Edmund Montagu as Longfellow reentered, “that each of us escort a lady home through the storm—for the wind is strong enough to blow either off to Providence. Rhode Island, of course,” he added, winning at least one smile with the ancient joke that was still new to the Englishman. “Mrs. Willett,” he concluded, “may I offer my arm?”
Charlotte was quick to catch the look in Diana’s eye. She replied gracefully, but firmly. While she appreciated his offer, there were tiresome proprieties in village life, she told him, that had to be considered. Perhaps it would be better if Mr. Longfellow, a family friend and neighbor, were to escort her. As he and Diana were both residents of Boston, she continued, rather than Bracebridge, and thus probably considered to be odd already, they would have little to lose by going together. The captain might even escort Miss Longfellow home in an official capacity, while her brother was otherwise occupied.
Montagu smiled at the transparent refusal, but readily agreed. Before long, the four left the inn and passed through its outer gates with wavering lanterns, then turned to go their separate ways into the driving dark.
“I’M CERTAINLY GLAD,” said Diana, once they were safe inside her brother’s house, “that Richard keeps a good cellar, although he has a strange prejudice against tobacco. But I suspect you take no snuff. May I offer you a glass of something?”
Montagu watched her toss her cloak onto a stand in the large entry hall, and again heard the small bells over her chest rustle.
“Thank you, no. I believe I’ve already had enough tonight to unsettle my brain.”
“Then a cup of Dutch chocolate, as only I can make it. Please, take off your cape. You won’t leave me all alone? My brother is sure to be away for an hour or two. And an empty house is so dreary. Besides, there is something about which I’d like to ask a man’s advice. I have been struggling to understand a poem,” she continued, walking through a doorway.
This came as quite a surprise to Edmund Montagu. He’d hardly thought the colonials the sort of people likely to appreciate Milton, Pope, or even Gray. It was especially odd, he thought, to be asked for such advice by Diana Longfellow. Here was a lovely woman indeed—yet he wouldn’t have guessed this particular female concerned herself with inner beauty, or spirit in general.
He followed her through a passage and into the kitchen where he stood, watching and recalling. When they had been together before, the talk had been of fashion, then intrigue, secrecy, and others things she appeared to find increasingly exciting. Since then, he had used her rather shamefully … even admitted it over dinner. Not that she hadn’t deserved it, in return for subjecting him to her own flirtatious fictions. Now, she wanted to talk to him of poetry. Was it simply a ruse to get him to speak to her of love, for her own amusement—or even, possibly, for revenge? For all he knew, that brother of hers might be waiting for a chance to challenge him to a duel—probably with pitchforks, or even manure shovels.
Montagu had no way of knowing that Diana had taken care to ask Mary Frye earlier if the captain had brought any books with him. Had she noticed, while arranging his towels and tidying his room? A book of collected poems had been Mary’s answer. No—Montagu only knew, as he followed Diana into the kitchen (and saw the enchanting way she looked about for materials and means to prepare him a cup of cocoa, leaning and reaching) that his own reserve was beginning to thaw beneath a shower of smiles, t
o the music of those maddening bells.
“Please, sit there in that comfortable chair by the hearth, while I just—”
He sat. Now that her curls and clothing had become disheveled by the wind, she had a look quite unlike that of the lady he had met only yesterday on the Boston road. This new unbending, even an unraveling, might lead to further surprises. Herrick had put it well, back when men and women were keenly aware of the truths of life under its various costumes.
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness.
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat,
He drew a breath as Diana, climbing a short kitchen ladder, kicked one foot into the air, and steadied herself—
A careless shoestring, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,
Hoops that hid a figure, he now realized, might lead to other possibilities as well. He averted his eyes as her skirts lifted, but soon looked back again.
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
Gad! Had the strange mood of the little town transformed him now, as well? When in London, or Boston, for that matter, he found it easy to maintain his sense of place and order. Under the eyes of men and women besotted with themselves and their positions he, too, could appear stylish and self-absorbed, and would be accepted. But in this place, he seemed to be held suspect for the very manners that had earned him entry to the best houses in Boston. And now, he was teased with their opposite, by a lady of that town! Could she have realized his secret—that he longed to enjoy life without its many artifices—life that was good, simple, even poetic, thanks to the rural influence? How he would have enjoyed seeing the lady before him in simple country attire! Yet even with this strong urge, he knew from experience that life was never really simple, not even in the country … not even here.
A Wicked Way to Burn Page 14