Too Soon for Flowers (22 page)

“To whom, specifically, do you refer?” Diana countered coldly, both hands now on her knees as if she might spring.

Montagu fixed her with piercing eyes before he replied. “To the girl who died here this week, for one. Phoebe Morris should serve as a warning to others, if it’s found that she drove her explosive fiancé to a murderous passion by her light behavior which I think quite likely … though I realize it is not your own view of the situation.”

“Phoebe! And Will Sloan? I hardly think—!”

“Ladies sometimes don’t, until it is too late. But when dealing with certain kinds of men, there is always a chance flirtation may lead to disaster.”

“That can be true, if one is not careful, Captain. But tell me, do you also insist that young gentlemen spend their entire youth being very, very good?”

“I insist that a gentleman should have a conscience, and refrain from helping any female to pursue desire to its ultimate end, if that might bring about her ruin.”

Diana gave him a peculiar smile before going on.

“Well, Edmund, just how should a man obtain a certain knowledge, then? For I am sure most men feel it their right—even their duty—to learn something of life before marriage. For instance, have you never … ?”

Montagu blinked at the directness of her query, but kept his composure. “A better question would be, has my sister ever … though I hardly think there is any possibility of that! Young men, of course, may also ruin their health and happiness, for too often they become—”

Montagu stopped abruptly, then adopted a gentler air. “Today I warn, of course, of lesser liberties than the final error … yet that end often comes from very small beginnings.”

“Like the mighty oak? But let us return to my question, Captain. Let us rule out sisters, then—and wives, of course! That leaves only someone’s aunts and cousins, I believe, on which the great burden of educating young men must fall. Unless it is possible that you have one or two of those, as well? You’ll notice I spare us both embarrassment by leaving our mothers out of the discussion.”

“Miss Longfellow!” This time, he thought, she
had
gone too far.

“Oh, I really don’t look for much in the way of liberty, Edmund,” Diana pleaded. “But as you have a sister, I believe you are obliged to look on our sex with more compassion, and give us just a little room to breathe—and to explore life’s many possibilities! We are none of us, I am sorry to say, made of the same material as the angels. And after all, what is a little talk?”

“A little talk, madam, has been known to lead to ostracism from honorable society, even in America!”

“It might, I suppose, in extreme circumstances. But do you suppose no man can be discreet?”

“Men who are not are common enough.”

“Exactly. And I make it a point to have little to do with such common men. I thought you might know that of me by now,” she added, pouting prettily.

“Then do you seek out one with high ideals—so you can encourage him to leave them behind at your pleasure? It would seem you play a game of paradox, Miss Longfellow.”

“Let us just suppose,” Diana tried carefully, “that a young lady warms to a man she believes to be worthy of her trust. Even if he should disappoint her, and their intimacy is spoken of, it will be her word against his. But would not
the lady be believed? It is universally held, after all, that we are the more truthful sex.”

“If only one man’s story of shared passion is whispered to the world, a lady might be safe—although she would no longer be honest.”

“At any rate once she has aged—say, to thirty—none of it will matter. As long as she has had nothing proven against her, then her understanding of life will be assumed—especially, sir, if she should live in London! But her own knowledge will have made her more sure of her choice when she
does
marry, and will have done no real harm as long as nothing obvious has come of it. When she marries, all must give her due respect—or face the consequences of dealing with her husband!”

“Do you mean to tell me Phoebe Morris could not have been compromised, or felt the effects of such an event, unless the fact reached the world’s attention? Could not its falling on one beloved ear have been enough to ruin her happiness?”

“Well—” Diana replied uncertainly.

“I’m quite sure you say these frightful things to amuse others, or to please yourself. But you may be in greater peril than you know. I have no idea how far you will choose to walk out along a garden path. But I have a good idea of how far you might be led, Diana, or even dragged, and to what object.”

Miss Longfellow blanched at having such a crude warning laid directly at her feet. “Do you refer to yourself, Captain Montagu? For we all know what
soldiers
are capable of. They have their own reputation, which I believe many of you even boast of, do you not? And you are, you know, alone with me now. Yet I must say I see no dangerous passions in you! Nor have I since last October.”

“I only wish to say that a person of beauty and worth should be careful in this world. Caution is especially necessary when one has left the city, where forms are more
likely to be maintained, and has come into the wilder countryside.”

“To set your mind at ease, I’ll promise to refrain from frequenting haystacks in the fields, as soon as I’m let out of this accursed house! For now, I really don’t see what harm can come to me here.”

“Do you not?” he replied so seriously that Diana squinted slightly, to better study his expression. What she saw displeased her less than it unsettled her.

“But you don’t think—you can’t mean Mr. Pelham? How unfair of you to try to sway me, Edmund. For you must know he is your rival for my affection!”

“As you’ll recall, I have never professed love to you, Miss Longfellow … although I will admit to an admiration that has grown quite strong, in the company of your brother, your mother, and others of merit.”

“Well, he is,” said Diana to herself, thinking that the captain held his affections quite high above his head at the moment—like a man crossing a rising stream. Why was it, she wondered, that he withdrew whenever she began to refer to his feelings, or to her own?

Montagu stood, picked up his hat, and bowed over it. “I’ll go and see how the boy does, and then take my leave. I must allow you to rest and regain your composure—especially when I remember the news you’ve had today. It can’t have been pleasant for you, and for that I’m truly sorry.”

“No, it wasn’t, indeed,” Diana replied.

“It’s not necessary for a woman to be an angel,” the captain added when he was at the door, “but it does her no harm to be wary.”

“Perhaps I should keep a sweet old dog around me, like Mrs. Willett does, to discourage the more dangerous variety. Do you think you might enjoy performing that sort of duty, Captain?”

“Possibly,” said Montagu, turning with what seemed
to Diana to be an almost brotherly smile, which she thought was rather horrid.

MUCH LATER, ACROSS
the garden at Longfellow’s house, Mrs. Willett again lay upon her bed, while Orpheus stretched on the floor at her side. It had been another difficult day. Shortly after dawn, she had found Dr. Tucker. Then she had watched a group of men, most of whom she admired, in one way or another, struggle to organize their thoughts while trying to decide what could be happening in Bracebridge.

She had wished to ask a few questions on her own, but of course, at the time it had been impossible. In the morning she would be able to speak more about what had gone on, with Richard Longfellow. For now, she reached for the hand mirror by the side of her bed and examined her face closely, pulling back her soft hair and trying to see under her chin. Satisfied, she also looked carefully along her arms and under her shift, then lifted each leg from the covers for a final perusal. Since Dr. Tucker’s warning, she was less certain of her own safety, and of the benefits of cowpox. And then there was the prophecy of Mrs. Proctor, as well as the parrotlike concurrence of Mrs. Hurd….

But nothing alarming had appeared on her face except for a worried expression, and two reddened eyes. Sleep would be welcome. Thankfully, she blew out the candle.

Yet sleep was clearly not going to come until she addressed some of the things that capered together at the far reaches of her brain. At least, Diana was still feeling well, and Lem’s illness was progressing as expected. His face had several blisters, which had started to open and tickle him. He was forbidden to scratch, for that would only make the pocks worse. But his fever was broken, and he had enjoyed the sherbet she’d taken him in the afternoon.

Diana now seemed more upset by Captain Montagu’s
latest visit than by any fear of the smallpox. Charlotte had heard one participant’s version of what had been said between them, which sounded less than flattering to Diana—though Miss Longfellow herself had repeated it! She knew Diana was often more reasonable than her quick words would lead one to believe, and that her sense was not at all deficient. But she might be easily angered, and in that state, who knew what a woman might say, or do? Especially now, it would be far better for Edmund to soothe, than to annoy. It was something she might mention to the captain tomorrow. At the moment, however, she wished only to roll over and go to sleep.

Diana had seemed far more pleased to talk of David Pelham, who made his own brief but adoring visit after Montagu had gone away. Mr. Pelham, too, was concerned for Diana’s well-being, threatened as it was by the illness he himself had recently suffered. According to Diana, Pelham had cheered her by telling rollicking stories, after she’d insisted—stories traditionally told by ladies and gentlemen in strange houses, while being “done” together for the smallpox. Apparently, it could be a very amusing time. It was too bad, Diana had decided, that her own group had been reduced to such a pitiful thing. But then, it would all be over soon.

(Perhaps, Charlotte considered, she might ask Richard to send over a volume of the
Decameron?
But no, perhaps not.)

She had then related to Diana her own conversation with David Pelham, held earlier that afternoon. Diana had been interested to hear how Pelham had confessed to meeting Phoebe under circumstances that were honorable, after all. His answer for why he had first refused to admit his acquaintance with the girl caused Diana to nod with approval. There was no doubt Mr. Pelham was considered a catch by many of the Boston ladies, now that he possessed not only an old name, but money, too—as well
as a casual charm that had taken generations of family influence to develop … according to Diana. All in all, she felt he was right to avoid contact with the sort of person who might take advantage of his situation, while unable to give anything of value in return. It only made sense, to Miss Longfellow.

(Would that owl never stop?)

And a gentleman would, of course, be suspicious of a young woman who had once thrown herself in his way, and was now promised to another. That was only natural. Diana was sure Mrs. Morris of Boston, the lady with the lap-dog, could hardly have known what she had on her hands, when her niece arrived with sketchbook and crayons. Why was it, Diana had asked Charlotte, that country folk often supposed those in Boston to be dangerous, when it was more often the other way around?

(Perhaps, if she rolled over again …)

She was less sure than Diana of the relative dangers of country and city. But Charlotte did think she understood some of what lay behind the captain’s warning against David Pelham. Early in their acquaintance, she remembered, Captain Montagu had spoken of being sent to save, or at least to remove, young men of good family from bad surroundings, after they had found the temptations of military life too great. He must also have seen young ladies of both high and low birth (and, presumably, virtue) injured by the disgraceful behavior of the well-born. Montagu himself answered to higher standards; in fact, Charlotte suspected the captain was, by nature, somewhat over-critical of his own behavior. His aristocratic upbringing had no doubt taught him the value of control, and of maintaining an impenetrable façade—while Diana’s childhood had given her feelings that were exactly the opposite. At the moment, he must view her abrupt displays of willful behavior as an embarrassment for them both—and one he could do little to avert. Was it any wonder, especially
since Edmund Montagu seemed to be truly fond of Diana, that he wanted to protect her from herself, and from others? He feared she might be injured—but he, too, was liable to be hurt, thought Charlotte with a sigh.

Now, her eyes were open. Lit by starlight, she clearly saw the Windsor chair, the desk, the oil painting on the wall, her skirt hanging from a peg….

All at once, she tensed as she watched the door to her room begin to inch inward. What reason could there be, at this hour of the night, for anyone to enter her bedchamber? A lithe body answered the question as a striped cat stalked in. Surveying her territory, Tiger walked over to examine a plumed tail much more substantial than her own. When Orpheus opened an eye, Tiger put out sharp claws and briefly combed the tail—before surprising them all by pouncing on its tip. Charlotte’s old friend sat up and yelped; then she, too, sat up and scooped the huntress into her arms. She held Tiger against her chest until the cat began to purr. With a grateful whine, Orpheus settled back to his slumber.

Sometimes, Charlotte thought while stroking Tiger’s taut, rumbling sides, it helped to step between friends, especially when one of them enjoyed pretending to be something of a danger to the other. The thought made her smile as she put her head back on the pillow, and finally drifted off to sleep.

DIANA FOUND HERSELF
staring at the folded fire screen positioned in one corner of Mrs. Willett’s study. Its japanned surface gleamed with several flowers of some kind, large and golden, as well as a pair of pheasants whose feathers reminded her of a hat she had at home.

Too restless to sleep, Diana took a pen in hand and began a letter.

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