Too Soon for Flowers (21 page)

She thought of Jeanette’s future, clouded by Benjamin Tucker’s suicide—and then of Phoebe, today lying under the churchyard sod, though none too permanently. One’s fate might be unbearably cruel. It was no wonder some pinned their greatest hopes for happiness on Death’s mercy, rather than the Lord’s help for the living. Yet death was surely a part of His plan for all—and since it was inevitable, should any of them be greatly blamed for hoping to hurry it along?

Amazed at her own presumption, Charlotte closed her eyes, then glanced about the room once more. In a basket she spied crumpled paper, but closer investigation revealed only two wine corks, a few scribbled drawings, and the first lines of a poor attempt at poetry. Then, with growing curiosity, she opened Dr. Tucker’s bag of medicines and examined its contents. Most of the things inside she did not recognize, for there was little in the way of herbal remedies. But she made a note in her mind of the labels on the containers of liquids and pills she did find, apparently compounded by a Boston apothecary, although the labels indicated not their contents, but their uses. Sniffing told her little more, beyond the fact that some were highly flavored, and a few smelled thoroughly vile.

Finally, Charlotte repacked and closed the doctor’s friend of many a hard campaign, and left the small, worn bag beside the other. They were, she thought with pity, the last useful remnants of a man who might have been pathetic, but had not been entirely unloved.

•  •  •

MRS. WILLETT TRIED
to rest on her bed for three quarters of an hour. Finally she gave it up; but when she rose, it was with a new idea in mind.

Swiftly, she modified her earlier walking outfit by putting on a fresh blue apron. She unbraided her hair and twisted it into a knot, which she covered with a small lace cap. Finally, she changed into prettier slippers, knowing she would not be walking far.

Minutes later, Charlotte crossed the road and entered the front hall of the Bracebridge Inn, where she looked around to see if she would be successful in avoiding Lydia, and fortunate in finding Mr. Pelham. Peering into the fragrant taproom, she saw her quarry sitting by a window, sipping ale and eating crisp rolls. Amazed at her own boldness, she walked over and stood near his table until he looked up.

“Mrs. Willett! I’m enjoying a late breakfast, after our disquieting morning. Would you join me?”

“I only wished to remind you, Mr. Pelham, that we’ll be pleased to see you at dinner on Sunday … if you will still come.”

“Nothing could stop me! Did you believe something might?” he asked in a softer tone.

“I have heard some say lately that they would prefer other company to ours, at least for a few weeks more.”

“I can think of no company I find more pleasant,” he replied, helping her into a seat across the small table.

“In fact,” she went on, “I have been hoping to talk with you, especially after what happened today—or I should say last night. May I ask you if you knew Dr. Tucker well?”

“I suppose I did,” replied David Pelham, folding his hands before him. “Let me see. I first met Benjamin Tucker about three years ago, when I had need of a physician and little money to pay one. Tucker had just come to Boston with funds to set up a new practice. But sadly, he tried to
increase this amount by investing in a land company. It was the old story. Wanting more, he lost all that he had. I must confess I introduced him to some friends, engaged for a time in speculation … though only after he pleaded with me to do so. Unhappily, their holdings became worthless the moment the King’s Proclamation forbade further settlement in the West. Bad luck, I thought—though shortly before, I was unhappy at having no money to invest myself! But there is Fortune for you. Well, after that, inevitably, Tucker and I saw less of one another. I soon married, and then employed the physician recommended to me by my wife; she already had him about her much of the time, as he treated her for a chronic complaint. Her life was an unhappy one,” David Pelham added gently. “Dr. Lloyd did what he could, but in the end she was taken from us. Though I’m sure you have little desire to hear of any more misfortunes, at the moment.”

Charlotte took the hint, and found another topic. “Did you and Dr. Tucker once count Miss Morris among your mutual friends in Boston? Oh—but I forget you told us you never knew her….”

Pelham sat quietly, and studied her face closely before he replied.

“It is what I said, madam, and for that, I must apologize. It wasn’t quite the truth—as I suspect you know.”

“I found your likeness in one of Phoebe’s sketchbooks.”

“I see! You must understand, Mrs. Willett, that my circumstances have altered greatly since the day I sat for my portrait. With a very meager income, I struggled then to make ends meet. I also found myself living near a good lady by the name of Mrs. Morris, who seemed sympathetic to my circumstances; happily she considered my name to be a truer indication of my worth than the poor state of my purse. When her young niece came to visit, the aunt introduced us, and after that day I spent several pleasant afternoons
with Miss Morris. I posed for her pencil; we walked about the Common. She was, of course, barely sixteen. I offered her my protection, as she was one of the family of my friend and neighbor. But you will imagine my distress—how can I tell you?—when Phoebe presumed to offer me more than I could accept. I had no wish to encourage the young lady, and so I began to avoid the house. Then, Miss Morris went back to Concord. It was the last I heard of her.”

David Pelham drew himself up with a deep intake of breath and looked down, as if offering a silent prayer for the unfortunate girl.

“I do know,” Mrs. Willett replied with sympathy, “that young women can imagine attachments, even to gentlemen who only show them kindness. But surely, by now … ?”

“There
was
more,” he replied unhappily. “Although, for the sake of her family, I’d hoped to keep it to myself. We all become world-wise, with time … yet I think, in this instance, there was something in Phoebe—which may be unfair to tell of,” he decided abruptly. Then, as suddenly, he changed his mind again. “But no, I will go on to you, madam—though I will confess it still gives me great pain to think of it! You see, I had begun to suspect I was not the first gentleman for whom Phoebe had developed a strong liking. She seemed to have a knowledge of amorous behavior that I found unsettling, in one so young. Something in her eyes reminded me, I’m afraid, of what I had seen on the faces of those girls who so often approach one in the low streets, by the docks. I hope I do not shock you, but when I heard Captain Montagu describe such a scene lately, I was again reminded of that penetrating look. The aunt did hint—she even attempted to warn me, I believe, after she’d seen us both out walking—for Phoebe was always quite gentle and well-mannered while in Mrs. Morris’s home. But I had to believe there was some added spark, something unnatural, in fact, in the girl’s constitution.
Something I supposed she could not control. Perhaps, she never even saw it as wrong! I felt I could not blame her; but this week, I was appalled to see her here, in a house with Miss Longfellow!”

“Oh?” Charlotte asked, smiling without quite meaning to.

“I blush to admit this, for I suspect she hardly knows—but that beautiful young lady has made a strong impression on my own poor heart! You must understand, Mrs. Willett. I feared my visits to your house might encourage Phoebe once again, especially as I am now considerably more eligible. I had also heard that Phoebe was about to marry, having made an appropriate match. And Heaven help the man who steps between a country lad and his maid! I would imagine that these fellows have a number of likely weapons at their disposal. And I saw that this boy, Will Sloan, might well resent me.”

“Some do suffer, when they find they’re not the first to stir a girl’s heart,” Charlotte responded. Then she stopped and looked across the taproom, listening for a moment to her own thoughts.

“Would you like a glass of cider, Mrs. Willett? Or perhaps a sherry?”

She seemed not to hear him. “And the doctor’s death?” she went on. “Had you any idea he was capable of such a thing?”

“Well … I realized he had a problem with drink, of course.”

“More than most?” she asked, knowing befuddlement to be a common occurrence.

Oh, yes. I’m sure Tucker couldn’t drink steadily, because of his work. But occasionally, as I recall, he drank to great excess, which tends to unbalance the best of men. And most especially those who have fallen into sad circumstances. I hope I’ve not alarmed you with my frank
answers, Mrs. Willett. But I did want to set your mind at ease. And perhaps, in doing so, my own.”

“I’m afraid you may feel I’ve been too inquisitive, Mr. Pelham.”

“A characteristic of ladies of intelligence, well worth the pain it sometimes causes. And you never know when you might hear something interesting from such a person, even about yourself,” he added, seeming to invite her comment. When none came, he continued. “Now, I have a question for you, madam.”

“Of course.”

“Will you be seeing Miss Longfellow today?”

“I’m about to go and see her now. Would you like me to take a message?”

“You might ask if she will allow me the pleasure of a visit later this afternoon, to express my sympathy for the sudden loss of her physician. I’ll also inquire of her maid if Miss Longfellow is well enough to see me, when I arrive.”

“Hannah?” asked Charlotte, picturing the woman’s reaction to her new title. “Certainly,” she said with a smile. “I’ll tell them both of your intentions.”

“I would be obliged. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go up and answer some correspondence. I’m afraid I haven’t had much time to think of my own affairs lately. Life in the country is hardly what I had imagined,” he concluded as he escorted Mrs. Willett to the inn’s front door.

“It does often hold surprises,” she agreed, with a growing interest in the handsome, and most considerate, Mr. Pelham.

IN MRS. WILLETT’S
study, Edmund Montagu remained with Diana Longfellow after her brother had broken the news and gone away again. She soon adjusted herself to the
dreadful surprise; then, rather than dwell on the tragic nature of the doctor’s death, she began to decide how it was likely to alter her own future.

“Though I doubt he’ll be missed, really,” she declared, fanning herself. Today, Diana sat at Mrs. Willett’s desk, leaning with less than her usual perfection of carriage. The captain, too, seemed somewhat more relaxed than usual. “For I am quite well,” she continued, “and Charlotte makes Lem more comfortable than Dr. Tucker ever could. I’ve asked myself more than once where Richard found the man. He was not at all successful, I’m sure of that—otherwise, I would have heard of his practice long ago. He did express a high opinion of Boston; but I suppose he
would
admire our society, though he was hardly a part of it. Society is often a useful beacon for the lower people.”

Captain Montagu merely nodded.

“Only imagine what would happen,” Diana continued, suspecting a lack of agreement, “if popular tastes had no check! If some of the North End had their way, we might see the drinking of rum in the streets—as one sees gin consumed in London! Then we would receive even less respect from people of that place, than we are grudgingly given now!”

“I hadn’t realized you found British respect worth cultivating—or that you had ever found it difficult to obtain.”

“I speak not of myself, of course, but of the colonies, which London seems to think are something less than civilized.”

“I myself have lately found a lack of fastidiousness here in Boston, compared with that of London society,” the captain rejoined.

Diana’s look became a frown. “And I assure you, Captain, it is just the opposite! Most here are daintier than those I have seen at Court! London ladies do seem to have a great problem keeping their necks and faces clean. Though there’s little surprise in that, as they live under a
constant cloud of smoke, which has given the entire city a shopworn appearance.”

“I refer to fastidious behavior, rather than appearance,” the captain corrected, “having lately been assured that females on this continent expect far greater liberties than do our own. At the same time, they seem less likely to strive to earn them, I think. Which could explain why women are respected less by colonial men, than by British gentlemen.”

“Surely, now you’re trying to make me laugh!”

“For instance, I sometimes witness simple flirtation in Boston gatherings, but I believe it is a rare American who expects to find either wit or learning among the ladies here. Can you imagine your brother willingly attending a Boston
salon
, if you had such a thing?”

At this, Diana did laugh, but there was a certain edge to her reply.

“We have little need for
salons
, Captain, for most of us prefer the company of friends and family to hobnobbing with near-strangers, in the hopes of swooning at a
bon
mot! As for our character, you must admit Americans are satisfied enough to find fewer mistresses than those in London generally do. I gather they are
de rigueur
now, among those of high standing in the capital.”

“What is done by a few differs greatly from what most of us expect of our sisters, and our wives. The King, you must admit, is known and praised for his virtuous behavior—”

“And has a large family on the way, I’m sure!”

Miss Longfellow feared for a moment that she might have gone too far, but the captain did not seem perturbed.

“It is to be hoped. What is most peculiar,” he continued, “is that in Massachusetts, though some of you imagine yourselves part of a society of your own, you are all cut from much the same cloth, and none is entirely sure of his, or her, place. Consequently, when your people hear the
theories of Rousseau, and the other levelers—too often published in your press, and even preached in your streets!—then the men become encouraged to go out and practice an equality of behavior which those of real breeding must find confusing, and even abhorrent. Meanwhile, many women begin to believe they can behave much as a man might, with little regard for what is proper.”