Too Soon for Flowers (14 page)

She hardly liked the idea, which went against her faith in Nature, and her trust in Reason. If others were to suspect such a thing, it could certainly give encouragement to those who accused her of being willful and dangerous—including Christian Rowe—even though spirits had long been a part of religious belief. In fact, she knew some of her most pious neighbors feared the walking dead. When the day ended, and fires burned low, there was more than entertainment, she felt sure, in the ghostly tales they continued to tell their children.

But were not even the most learned inclined to believe in such things, given a proper incentive? Who was not moved by the shade of Hamlet’s father, or Banquo’s ghost? Charlotte hardly knew what others might believe, but she suspected it was probably more than most would be willing to admit.

At any rate, she decided, she would continue to keep her own counsel in this, for she had, after all, grown used to discovering things for herself. Unnatural or not, death required a sorting out, before life could move on. In that, she might help. She would start by sifting quietly, employing her intelligence. Soon she might ask a few more questions.

After that, thought Mrs. Willett, she might, perhaps, go just a little farther.

IN HER ROOM
on the second floor of Mrs. Willett’s farmhouse, Diana Longfellow sat in a tin tub full of water that covered all but her knees, face, and hair piled high. It was the only calming refuge she had been able to think of, and it had the added pleasure of keeping Hannah busy in the heating and hauling, with a little help from Lem. It also kept them from noticing that they were one less, tonight.

Once again, by the light of a candle, Diana raised first her limbs and then her torso, looking carefully over all she could see. No, there were no spots. Nothing marred the smooth beauty of perfect skin. She picked up her hand mirror and scrutinized her face.

Wait! A small red spot—but couldn’t it be a hive from the heat of the water? Her anxious fingers felt nothing suspicious beneath the skin. Still, a blemish was a blemish, and horror enough on top of everything else! Determined to be brave, she settled more deeply into the tub. At least, she thought, she was still alive.

But Phoebe—Phoebe! What had the girl done? Had
she really taken her own life? It was unfathomable, though not unheard of. But why would she
do
such a thing? She already had a promise of marriage, so the usual unspoken answer couldn’t explain it. Of course, she was an artist, and rather highly strung … but given their circumstances she’d seemed reasonably content only the day before. Will Sloan was gone, so they might have quarreled, but she certainly couldn’t have died from a broken heart, at least not so soon!

Diana was puzzled by something else. When she had seen David Pelham yesterday afternoon, he had asked if she or Miss Morris might be alarmed by anything in their confinement, or if they had yet felt very unwell. He also asked if they had been given any pills or powders. She had answered they were both well enough, and that she, at least, had been given nothing—but she had felt surprised at his kind concern for a stranger, and his obvious worry for them both. In fact, David Pelham had seemed about to say more … perhaps of a passionate nature? She had hoped … but instead he’d set his appealing lips, while his eyes took on a pensive sadness that was quite becoming.

Yet it had later become apparent that Mr. Pelham was hardly Miss Morris’s ideal in a visitor. The girl had given him such a
look
yesterday, when she stepped out of the study, just as he left by the front door. It was as if he had been a gargoyle from one of Richard’s folios of European architecture. She had once seen some herself, in the place with the cathedral, outside of London. What a charming visit that had been, and a lovely voyage, too.

Closing her eyes, Diana let her memory take her far away, while she patted beads of moisture absentmindedly from her high, clear forehead.

Friday

F
IVE DAYS AFTER
he had returned from Boston, Richard Longfellow stood at the edge of his land, surveying his surroundings.

To the north, the morning sun played on the Musketaquid as it flowed on to the town of Concord (where Phoebe’s family must now be making their peace with the Almighty, he thought with renewed discomfort). Nearer home, the marshes reflected patches of water among the rushes like scales on a snake. Ducks were plentiful again, too, some building nests, some resting on their way toward the boreal pole. How much better it would be, he decided, if humanity were as well ordered and dependable as the fauna and flora with whom they shared their planet. But humanity was a hodgepodge, at best. For men, who could see far more than other creatures, rarely looked beyond the tips of their noses, or past their grasping fingers. Few
suspected they were in any way related to the rest of the natural sphere. It was incredible, but true.

Turning again to the west, Longfellow gazed through a light haze of woodsmoke, and distracted himself by picking out structures on both sides of the river. There at the edge of the elm-lined Common stood the meeting house, clean in a new coat of white paint. Beside it was Reverend Rowe’s pile of weathered stone, cold and forbidding but for the vines that clung to its sides. Scattered around these familiar landmarks, beneath fruit and shade trees, other houses and cottages sheltered families and small shops. And there, across the bridge, the grist mill stood at the edge of the dark pond fed by water that descended from southern hills.

The Blue Boar sat just beyond, at the junction of the two roads connecting Boston and Worcester, Concord and Framingham. He hadn’t set foot in the tavern for some time. It was something its owner would no doubt remember when they met that afternoon. This made Longfellow uncomfortable, for he genuinely liked Phineas Wise, and wished he could say he’d given the place more custom lately. There was nothing wrong with the Blue Boar’s cider, and talk there made a change from conversation at the inn, since it came largely from the mouths of farmers, artisans, and tinkers. Perhaps it was the reputation of the stews Wise made that tended to keep less hardy folk away.

But now, up from the village, came a horse ridden to the breaking point. Its blue-coated rider looked as if he’d come far, probably through the night. In fact, he looked familiar. In another moment, Longfellow realized who the man was.

Edmund Montagu knew better, but still dug his heels into his mount’s side as he urged the animal, nearly faltering, up the long slope from the river. Then the captain
leaped to the ground, nearly tripping on his sword while he left his reins to trail in the grass. He strode to Longfellow’s side and grabbed the other’s arms with gloved hands.

“Where is she?” he cried out.

“Who?”

“Diana! From your scrap of a letter—! And after what I’d asked you earlier, should the occasion arise, I have to assume—but you were so certain she would be spared the worst!”

“There’s nothing wrong with Diana. I’m just going to see her now.”

Montagu took a breath before reaching into his coat to produce the paper Longfellow had sent him the day before.

“Then what is the meaning of this?” the captain shouted, his eyes sending out a terrible message of their own. Longfellow took the letter and read it aloud.

“There has been a death. Come immediately, if you would see her. Circumstances unclear. We might use your assistance. Richard Longfellow.”

“Well?” asked Montagu again.

“Well, there
has
been a death. Phoebe Morris, a young woman from Concord, staying in the same house. Good Lord, man, if it were Diana, don’t you think I would have explained that to you in slightly greater detail?”

Montagu sank down onto the wet grass, careless of his coat and silk stockings. His cocked hat popped off and rolled to the side, and his tie-wig fell askew, revealing short brown curls below.

Richard Longfellow sat down companionably. He set the black hat upon his knee, away from the dew that would soon cause its felt to buckle. It was all he could think of, at the moment, to make amends. He now realized he’d put Edmund Montagu through a good deal of suffering; yet he could hardly help being amused by the man’s agitated state.

“I’m afraid I had no idea how far my sister had rattled you. I beg pardon, Edmund … though I would imagine Diana will be decidedly pleased, when I tell her—”

“You will not!” Montagu stated each word firmly, forming them into a threat.

“Come and tell her yourself, then. You have had the smallpox?”

“As my face would have told you, if you’d ever bothered to look at it closely. But no—your thoughts are always in the clouds, aren’t they? Or off to some other world entirely! However, you needn’t worry; I will accompany you. The girl’s body is still in the house?”

“We’ve moved it to a cellar, where you may see it later. Along with Diana, Miss Morris was exposed to smallpox three days ago, but you’ll find there’s no clear reason for her death. Which gives us something of a mystery—beyond the tragic element, of course. Since you know how my neighbors take that sort of thing—at least you should know, after your visit last fall—I’m sure you’ll agree we’d do well to declare the cause of her demise as soon as possible. Especially since the whole inoculation business has been a point of considerable contention! There is one other thing I think you should be aware of … but you’ll find it out soon enough.”

“You have at least one more on your side, I would imagine,” the captain said as he watched a woman in simple country attire walk toward them, a basket under her arm. “Madam!” he called out as she approached. Charlotte Willett hurried forward, true pleasure on her face, now that her ears had told her what her eyes were unable to be sure of.

“Captain Montagu,” she cried, extending her hand. “How is it that you break your visit to New Hampshire?”

“You might ask that of Mr. Longfellow some time, and see what he says. He has just invited me to visit Diana. I will guess that is where you’re going, as well.”

“We’ll lead your animal to the inn’s stables first,” Longfellow suggested, “for a rub and a much-needed rest.”

That task accomplished, the trio proceeded toward the road again. But they were soon halted in the yard by an arresting figure.

By now, Mr. Pelham had abandoned his city coat for a loose, collared frock-coat made of black linen, worn today over a yellow waistcoat unbuttoned to display drooping silk ruffles at the front of his shirt. Instead of the shoes with thick gold buckles he’d worn when they last met, he wore high boots of soft, slouching leather. In one hand he carried a tapered walking switch. A leather volume reposed in the other. Contrasted with the captain’s grander but travel-sullied attire, David Pelham’s looked both easy and romantically affected—much the same as his smile, Montagu thought with some distaste.

“Mr. Pelham,” Longfellow called out, stepping forward. “You are on your way out?”

“I’m on my way to see your sister, sir! She’s asked me to bring her something to read, and I believe I have just the thing. See here—I’ve brought one of two volumes by Dr. Oliver Goldsmith, which I believe she will enjoy. Have you read it? The work is called
The Citizen of the World
. Goldsmith mocks Londoners through the eyes of a man of China, of all places—quite amusing, since everything stylish in London lately seems to come from the Orient. It is the new Olympus!” Pelham concluded with a chuckle.