A Wicked Way to Burn

by Margaret Miles

  At first, afraid that inoculation might encourage the pestilence, the authorities refused to condone the procedure, though it was widely called for. Finally, faced with an epidemic, they bowed to public and clerical pressure.

  Many weeks later, warm May breezes carried rising hopes that an end to the outbreak was in sight, while it was often claimed that Science had triumphed. There was no doubt that among the thousands inoculated, only a few score had died. Death was far more likely in those who took the disease the usual way, and their symptoms were generally more severe—even after one allowed for a gradual weakening of the strain. Yet, in spite of inoculation’s obvious benefits, some continued to reject the relatively safe and simple procedure, as Richard Longfellow complained to Edmund Montagu one spring morning, while both trotted along the Boston-Worcester road.

  “Arguing with Diana is more difficult than trying to convince a cat,” Diana’s brother went on philosophically as the two men traveled abreast on stallions, while behind them a black and white mare pulled a chaise and two ladies. “Reason doesn’t have much effect, so one is eventually forced to offer rewards. In Diana’s case, she agreed to submit when I promised to take her on a voyage, and to leave a great sum with her dressmaker. But in the end, I won my point. She will be protected, in spite of her fear of scarring. I think you can see a useful lesson there,” Longfellow added.

  “I suppose so,” the Englishman beside him mused. He kept to himself his own suspicion of exactly what lesson Diana Longfellow might have taken to heart, and just how long ago. He glanced over the gilded epaulet on his right shoulder, catching her eye. Odd, how Longfellow refused to admit that his much younger half-sister had grown into something beyond a silly, spoiled child. Today, Miss Longfellow was clad in pale yellow brocade, patterned with raised red roses, while her auburn hair was arranged in a style less elaborate than she usually favored in town. Diana was even more lovely than usual, Captain Montagu decided with a sigh. His eye followed the ringlets that fell among the ribbons of her lace cap, barely hiding a delightfully white neck which she encouraged him to brush with his hand, from time to time.

  During the recent upheavel, these moments had been few. Certainly, nothing had occurred recently to inflame Edmund Montagu quite like last October’s meeting in Bracebridge, when he had first found himself alone with the young temptress, in Longfellow’s kitchen. Yet he wondered—how many others had Diana encouraged before? Or since?

  Captain Montagu touched his hat. and received a flirtatious answer that involved both bright green eyes and loquacious lashes, before Diana turned her head away.

  “I suppose hell always believe it was his doing,” she went on to Charlotte Willett, who sat beside her, holding the pair of reins and keeping her own eyes on the road. “Which is all the better for me! Richard has increased my allowance to pay for my clothing, without argument, through September at least. Beyond that, I’ve extracted his promise to take me to see the Dutchmen in New York. Actually, some weeks ago—I did tell you, Charlotte, that I’d visited in Newport? Well, I had a letter while I was there from Dr. Warren, answering one I had sent to him, asking for his advice. After I considered his reasons I decided to take the inoculation—not wanting, of course, to be the last one in town. They say nearly five thousand have submitted and very few have succumbed. Better still, the given disease is lighter than the natural, and the chance of pocking lessened. Which I will admit still fills me with dread….”

  As Diana’s anxious voice trailed away, her plainly dressed companion gently turned the conversation in another direction.

  “Is Dr. Warren still on Castle Island?”

  “Yes, inoculating the poor, at the town’s expense. But some very rich men are also there, paying quite well, I imagine. And they’ll be a boon to his practice later. He’s been quarantined in the harbor for some time now, and it’s said that after this, he’ll know everyone in town—which will be quite a waste of his time, in my opinion. Though I believe Dr. Warren finds it amusing, heaven knows why. The best news, however, is this: Warren’s to be married when it is all over. Oh yes! Hell get a large fortune with Elizabeth Hooton, and that is always pleasant. She has a pretty face, too. Still, she’s only eighteen, and it seems to me that a wise woman would wait a little … to see what might develop, you know. But she’s already vowed to everyone that she’s in love with him, so I suppose she might as well. It’s a practical move for the doctor, certainly. It will also discourage many ladies in town—and perhaps certain ones a little distance out of it?”

  Diana bent for a glimpse of her friend’s face, hidden beneath the brim of a straw hat. But Charlotte Willett merely stared ahead, though her eyes danced with amusement. She could easily recall what it was to be twenty, as Diana was, however different her own life had been just five years before. Now, while the two-wheeled carriage, with its calesh top collapsed to let in the breezes, took her closer to home, Charlotte (like Captain Montagu) thought back to the previous autumn.

  Last October, Dr. Joseph Warren had made his first visit to the village of Bracebridge, mid-way between Boston and the frontier town of Worceser. While Captain Montagu had come on the governor’s business, seeking a rich merchant, the physician had been invited by Richard Longfellow—who, as a village selectman, had asked Warren to examine the corpse of a man rumored to have been murdered. Charlotte had quickly decided that the young doctor would make a pleasant and useful acquaintance, and perhaps even a superior husband—for someone. But not for her. Her sense of Aaron Willett was still strong, and though her husband had been dead three years, his presence continued to make itself felt, in ways that were difficult to ignore. It was too soon for her heart to consider marriage again. Not yet. She, too, had married young, when not quite eighteen. And she, too, had married for love.

  Feeling a familiar pain in her breast, Mrs. Willett silently wished Dr. Warren long life and happiness with his new bride, while Diana continued playing with her parasol, and relaying additional news of Boston society—such as it was these days, with most of it camping out somewhere else. Meanwhile, the wind caressed, the bright clouds flew, the birds called to one another arranging their own affairs, and the three horses clopped along.

  Charlotte was glad to notice that Longfellow seemed enthusiastic in his discussion with Captain Montagu, who had often been in attendance during the three days passed at the home of Diana and her mother—once Longfellow’s home, as well. Though one day it would be his again, the place was now occupied solely by women, a fact that seemed to feed his tendency toward melancholy. Fortunately, exchanging barbs with Montagu had brought sparks to his eyes, and held his darker moods at bay.

  Edmund, too, seemed to be enjoying their conversation. Today, thought Charlotte, the British captain was far more affable than when they had all come together for the first time, on this same road, little more than six months before. The natural reserve of his breeding was lately less obvious, and his cold, aristocratic way of speaking (as if, some said, he was officiating at a hanging) had softened somewhat. If Diana seemed less inclined to pursue him as if he were a mouse and she a cat, Charlotte suspected the young lady might increasingly be thinking of retaining the captain as a live prize. As for his own ideas, well, no one could ever be sure what Edmund Montagu really thought. His handling of the death of the old merchant the previous autumn had revealed deep waters. Beyond that, an officer and an agent for the Crown had duties and obligations that were not known to everyone.

  It was probably just as well, thought Charlotte, that Edmund would soon leave them at the junction with the post road, having arranged to spend some weeks in New Hampshire as one of a summer party, at an estate along the Merrimack. After tomorrow’s inoculation with the smallpox, Diana would be unlikely to enjoy visitors for a week or two, at least.

  “What are those little things?” Diana demanded, pointing to the edge of the road.

  “Which?” asked Mrs. Willett, squinting to see more clearly.

  “The little yellow one
s, in amongst the grass. They’re pretty, don’t you think? I believe I’ll soon have a bouquet. I wonder if they have a scent?”

  In answer, Montagu coaxed his horse ahead, then dismounted. He removed his triangular cocked hat with a flourish, and deposited it safely beneath one arm, leaving his powdered and pomaded wig to glow in the sun. While the others watched, he bent to pinch several blooms from a clump of fragrant primroses at the highway’s edge; soon, he straightened with a handful. In another moment, the captain approached the chaise Mrs. Willett had brought to a halt.

  “May I suggest a brief walk, to say farewell?” Montagu, offering the bright bouquet to Diana. He was rewarded with the young lady’s hand as she climbed down. He kept it while he guided her away from the road, toward another wave of flowers. By the time they reached it, he had captured an entire arm under his own.

  “I wanted you to know,” he began haltingly, “that I … have asked your brother the favor that I be called, in the event that—if the unexpected should occur,” he finished stiffly, quite unsatisfied with his choice of words. Would he ever be able to speak plainly and simply to this woman, or would their every meeting end by making him feel a loaded pistol were pointed at his head?

  “Be called at my demise, do you mean? Or before?”

  Carefully, he disengaged his arm.

  “In the event that you might want to see me. One last time,” he added, pleased at the feeling the cruel words gave him.

  “Well, I could wish to see you in that event, I suppose,” Diana replied steadily. She leaned forward with some difficulty (for her busk and stays cruelly contained her slender waist) to pick a bloom for herself, and added it to those he’d already given her. Though the exertion gave her some discomfort, its effect was very graceful.

  “But what,” she asked abruptly, “if I do not die, but instead become disfigured? Should that occur, Edmund, what do you suppose your feelings would be?

  Both stood silent in the field, recalling painful scenes. Women who had been badly ravaged by the smallpox often chose to remain immured at home forever—while others ventured out only with gloves, and thick Veils. A few, among the poor and aged, did expose twisted hands and scarred faces, that frightened children and even their elders. Now there would be more such creatures. Most in Massachusetts were born after the last great epidemic. In—, one in six residents of Boston had died in a few months’ time. But everyone was well aware that there was still no cure.

  Montagu was the first to shake off the disturbing vision of disfigurement. He patted puffs of dust from the arms of his new blue coat, whose military lapels were held back with many brass buttons, set off by gold piping.

  “If you were to be seriously afflicted,” he answered Diana, “I would come to compliment your bravery—and to see if seclusion had made you any better at the whist table where, as yet, you lack a great deal as a partner.”

  “You complain because I failed to help you win a fortune this winter, poor man. And so you must survive on your pitiful pay. Like so many of the nearly-titled.”

  “Very true,” he answered with a wry smile. This lady could be cruel, as well, when she chose to be. It was common knowledge that Miss Longfellow’s dowry would be large. She could certainly expect to marry a man of means.

  “It’s possible, you know,” Diana continued airily, “that I was determined to spare my neighbors, to keep their money from flowing back to London. After all, I seem to remember that you are one of those who urge the colonies to hold on to all the coin they can get.”

  “You’ve been keeping those pretty ears open around your betters, Miss Longfellow,” he said to tease her. Seeing that he’d achieved some success, he went on in a practical vein, appealing to the lady’s intellect. It was a tactic that had been known to flatter (even sometimes to astonish) a female, especially an attractive one who was most often allowed only insipid conversation.

  “Though I would still encourage you to hold on to your reserves of both gold and silver, especially with the upheaval in trade these colonies have lately suffered,” he added seriously. “But what do you plan to give your dressmaker for your imported satins and damasks? Potatoes? When I see the ladies here wearing home-spun woolens and linens, I’ll know you’ve learned your place, and become true converts to sound economic policy—and, incidentally, that you have at last learned common sense. Though the Lord knows Boston’s politicians have been talking enough lately of self-sufficiency, with a keen eye to obstructing British interests…. But,” he concluded, “I have no wish to argue with you today, my dear.”

  “Well, go and argue with someone who will listen in New Hampshire, then,” Diana replied, holding her head high as she affected a sulk. “Though I’m sure the ladies there will be no more likely than we to dress themselves in sackcloth.”

  “We’ll see,” Montagu answered thoughtfully. “But none could appear more charming than one Boston lady I know, either in brocade or burlap.”

  Diana tossed the curls away from her lovely face, dimpling with pleasure.

  As he knew she expected, the captain was quite affected by her show of spirit, as well as her ability to laugh at the future. It was something she did far better than he, and far more often. Listening now to her musical laugh, he noticed with something of a shock that the flowers in her hand had already begun to wilt and fade.

  He looked up, and took careful note of Diana’s peerless complexion. Then Edmund Montagu took her soft hand in his own once more, while he listened to a trill of foreboding (which he knew well) play upon his racing heart.

  A WICKED WAY TO BURN

  A Bantam Book/February 1998

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1998 by Margaret Miles.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books

  eISBN: 978-0-307-75932-0

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About the Author

  Copyright