Too Soon for Flowers (29 page)

“We saw each other,” Hannah admitted cautiously.

“After Will ran away, I went in to see Phoebe. I thought to learn from the girl that what I’d feared all along had finally happened. Yet I never imagined—”

“And you, Will, you haven’t been home since?”

The boy looked back to Mrs. Willett, and shook his head vigorously. “How could I? Everyone said I might carry the smallpox with me. And I didn’t want to give it to Henry, or any of the others, either.”

“I see,” said Charlotte, looking down at the boy’s filthy boots, then up to his stained and torn clothing. “But, Hannah,” she continued, “what exactly did you find, when you went in?”

Hannah swallowed hard, thinking back. “I found Phoebe on the floor, like Will said, tangled in her sheets and the quilt. I lifted her, and laid her out as best I could. And then I picked up the book that was under her, and closed it.”

“The one on the table?” asked Charlotte. “Was it open?”

“With a page or two wrinkled, which seemed a shame.”

“Did you take a bottle from the room? Or anything else?”

“No, I did not.” Hannah wiped her eyes with stout fingers, and settled back. “Although—”

“What?”

“I brought a good supply of valerian with me, to help me sleep. I always keep some in my chest of medicines. After that night, it was gone.”

“And you think Phoebe may have taken it?”

“Unless Miss Longfellow—?”

Diana looked up, brought back from her own thoughts. “What now?” she asked sharply.

“Have you taken valerian lately, Diana?”

“For sleep? Not I.
My
conscience, at least, is clear.”

She looked pointedly at Will, who had retreated into a corner.

“Do you think,” Hannah tried hesitantly, “that it could have killed her? If she took enough?”

“No,” Charlotte answered after a moment’s thought. “I don’t think it will kill anyone, in any amount. I
have
heard of someone sleeping for a day or two after swallowing a large quantity; that’s why it’s useful after a difficult birth … but no, I have never heard that valerian can be deadly.”

“So,” said Diana, “it looks as if we are back where we started.”

“Perhaps not,” Charlotte murmured to herself. She rose to her feet, and soon left the others planning what they would say to Richard Longfellow on the morrow. She then made her way to her study, to the table by what had once been Phoebe’s bed. The volume of Alexander Pope had been replaced by another. But she found it in the shelf above. Sitting, Charlotte held the volume between her hands, and let the pages fall where they might, discovering that the book opened at the beginning of the well-known poem, “Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady.” A sad tribute, Charlotte recalled, but could it also be a message? For its subject was a suicide—one who had loved too well. Suddenly remembering something else, she reached through her skirt and drew a small, dry sphere of bread from her pocket. Had it been one of several? Had it been dropped there, and overlooked?

Softly, Charlotte made her way to her desk. She set the ball down, and then, taking a small paper knife, carefully sliced it in two with the point of the blade. After tasting a bit of brown powder, she sat back with a sigh, for what she had found made things a little clearer. And yet, there was still much to be connected. A portion of the
story was now before her, though it could not be the whole.

Soon, she thought, there would surely come an accounting.
But what, she then wondered, would be the final cost?

Monday

A
S SPIRE BELLS
struck the hour of ten, Edmund Montagu knocked on the door of a narrow brick house in Boston’s North End. Here in Lime Street, not far from Christ’s Church, he hoped to meet Mrs. Mary Morris. As the captain stood on the widow’s stoop, steeple bells began to peal, and he noticed a ferry starting out across the river mouth for Charlestown. His eyes and ears might have found the situation more pleasant, had there been less on his mind, or in his heart.

When the door opened, Montagu saw a kindly-faced woman of middle age, modestly dressed in blue linen with a snowy kerchief, wearing a small lace cap. Unpainted and unhooped, she showed no fear of the morning light that illuminated a string of gold beads around her wattled throat. Though she was unsmiling, she regarded Captain Montagu with no apparent concern.

“Sir, may I help you?” Mrs. Morris asked, when she had taken his measure.

“I hope so, madam. My name is Montagu. I had business this morning at Town House, where I found your address. I believe you might help me to learn more about the death of Miss Phoebe Morris—as well as something of a gentleman by the name of Pelham.”

Now a frown creased the woman’s brow. She examined the captain’s features more carefully; then she opened her door wider.

The small but gracious sitting room to which she led him was well supplied with newly polished furniture. After a moment, a young female in a servant’s bib and apron was given an order for refreshment. Then they were left alone.

“I was greatly saddened to hear that my niece had passed on,” the lady told Montagu, allowing herself a further moment for composure. “And I suspect her mother will struggle a long while to recover from it. Do you know the Morris family of Concord, Captain?”

“Unfortunately, no; nor did I have the honor of meeting your niece. I was called to Bracebridge only after her death. But I’ve heard enough to suppose she was liked and respected by everyone in that place.”

“I can believe it to be so. Phoebe was a child of extraordinary talent, and much goodness, too. When she stayed with me a few years ago, she enjoyed talking to my maid Susanna, as well as with the more privileged young ladies I took her to see about the town.”

“That is a wonder, with so many over-proud of their level in society.”

Mrs. Morris’s eyes studied him shrewdly. “Phoebe did take pride in her abilities, and in her family’s circle in Concord, which I know holds many cultivated and serious minds. But my niece was never one to be swayed by fashion, or even position. She did seem to enjoy observing the
better folk on our walks, but I believe she had simple tastes, herself. And, of course, she had little experience of Boston.”

“Simplicity is a fault belonging to very few young ladies of my acquaintance,” Montagu said more comfortably, causing Mrs. Morris to smile at a man’s way of complaining about something he must also sometimes admire.

“My niece had a natural charm that might have been hidden, had she possessed a greater sense of style,” the lady returned, looking over the captain’s uniform.

“Though I believe she was an artist.”

“Yes! A very fine one, it seemed to me. I have one of her drawings over the mantel. See the way she caught the trees, and the river. One can almost hear the water sing….”

“Very pretty,” was Montagu’s vague reply, for his mind had moved on to another subject. “While she was here, I believe Miss Morris sketched one of your friends—David Pelham.”

The frown of disquiet reappeared. Mary Morris rose to better study Phoebe’s drawing, before she gave her reply.

“I did know Mr. Pelham, who lived not far from me at the time. I often saw him out walking; we were introduced one day by a mutual friend. After that, he came here on several occasions. I believe he found me sympathetic, and enjoyed my home as a sort of refuge. Mr. Pelham told me many of his acquaintance in other parts of the town—some of them quite old friends of his family—had been unwelcoming, after the deaths of his uncle and father. Even suspicious, due to his decline of fortune, he said. It seemed Mr. Pelham had hoped for an inheritance; but there had been little left after the family’s debts, and his own, were settled. Nevertheless, I thought him a young man with good prospects—and, as I say, one who valued a quiet, neighborly place to visit. And then, Phoebe came to stay.”

“That was in ’61?”

“Yes—it must have been, for there’d been the fire in
Faneuil Hall, and Mr. Otis had just argued the Writs case. You’re well informed,” Mrs. Morris added with an inquiring look, as she sat once more.

“Did you know Pelham as a man of business?”

“I learned that he managed a warehouse for a distant relation, on one of the wharves. But I believe he lacked the money to direct his own affairs. Until his marriage, of course.”

“And did you meet Mrs. Pelham?”

“No. After Phoebe left, I did not speak with Mr. Pelham again. And when his marriage was announced, he began a life far grander than our own … so it was only natural….”

“I see. Mrs. Morris, I must ask you something else, and I hope you won’t think it indelicate to answer, for your response may well affect the safety and happiness of another lady.”

“Ask what you will, Captain. I know something about military ways; my brother-in-law is in His Majesty’s Indian service. I realize you must sometimes be harsh, in the performance of your duties.”

“An uncommon understanding, madam,” Montagu replied with genuine gratitude. “What, then, did you think of the seriousness of the relationship that developed between Miss Morris and Mr. Pelham?”

Mary Morris’s eyes again grew troubled, but still she refused to look away. “I thought, what a good thing for Phoebe, to have someone of taste and judgment view her drawing. For I was sure that whatever else he might be, David Pelham was a man who understood the finer things in life. For her part, I believe Phoebe brought out a happiness I’d not seen in him before. I had little idea, though, of anything coming of it, other than friendship.”

“Because he didn’t care enough for her?”

“Oh, I am very sure he
did
care for her! But I also knew
he would never marry without gaining by it. His family had fallen from a very high place, Captain, and I believe David Pelham saw it as his duty to elevate the name once again. Still, I was surprised when Phoebe expressed a fervent desire to quit Boston and return home. She seemed quite unwell. I’ve often asked myself if I should have warned her….”

“But you did warn him … ?”

“Warn Mr. Pelham? Of what, Captain?”

“It’s of no importance. Did you see your niece again, after that?”

“Oh, yes, when I visited Concord, once or twice. But we were never as intimate as during her stay here. I fear something changed in Phoebe. I don’t know if she truly cared for David Pelham, and hated the thought of losing him, or if he perhaps disappointed her in some other way. I did not want to pry. Perhaps he was too blunt, in finally telling her of his intentions.”

By now, the servant had brought tea and small cakes on a tray. She set them down next to her mistress and left the room, but Montagu observed a new shadow on the wall of the passage just outside the door. He had little doubt that the girl had not gone back to her duties, but lingered to hear their conversation.

When he had offered his condolences once more, he asked Mrs. Morris if he might interview her maid.

“Susanna? I suppose it would be all right. It did upset her to hear about Phoebe’s death, but it might be a good thing for her to talk of it now. I’ll send the girl in,” she said, rising, “and leave you both alone, for a little while.”