Too Soon for Flowers (3 page)

A glance at the long, thin glass by the front door made her laugh aloud, for her colorful appearance suggested the squash patch that would soon begin to bloom and bear in her garden. Had she not begun to feel a renewed flowering herself? Or had her trip to Boston caused her to yearn, like Diana, for a fashionable effect?

It was something, Charlotte decided, to think about later, when she had more time.

A
QUARTER OF
an hour later, a party was escorted into the taproom of the Bracebridge Inn by proprietor Jonathan Pratt, who led them to a table already occupied.

Setting down his glass of rum punch, Dr. Benjamin Tucker rose with a beaming face. He was introduced to Mrs. Willett; then, he bent to kiss the hand of Miss Longfellow, clearly admiring the supple flesh at the upper edge of a tight silk gown of a brilliant blue.

The physician was a distinguished looking man, Charlotte soon concluded. His girth was greater than average, but his height and broad shoulders gave him an appearance of strength, rather than corpulence. He was a little stooped with age, yet perhaps this also came from lowering a bewigged head to listen to his patients. The wig itself—well, it must have seen better days. And of course his cheeks were somewhat sunken from the loss of several
teeth, but that was to be expected in a man of his years, which she estimated to be a little more than fifty.

The ladies sat lightly on the embroidered seats of two cushioned chairs. Once they were settled, Jonathan gave the gentlemen handwritten cards. These bore a list soon to be translated into succulent dishes, which would then be served in the smaller of two upstairs dining rooms overlooking the road.

“I’ve called for wine,” Longfellow told Dr. Tucker, “but perhaps you would prefer another punch?”

“Thank you, no. I must keep a clear head for tomorrow,” the physician replied seriously. Meanwhile, Charlotte made a note of his blue-veined, red-tipped nose, and wondered a little. The taproom was quite warm. Leaf-tinted rays of sunlight came through tall windows that framed maples coming into full green. Charlotte began to wield her fan while she waited for Longfellow to hand her the bill of fare. Then she, too, looked it over, and smiled her approval to their rotund host.

“The venison loin is fresh, rather than hung,” Jonathan Pratt explained, “and will be well cooked, at Mr. Longfellow’s request. Though I’m sure you’re already aware of your host’s peculiar tastes,” he went on, his brows raised, his eyes settling on the linen trousers Longfellow wore—a garb that allowed him to trade tradition for comfort, while suggesting something of the air of a sailor, or an admirer of peasants (which in truth he was). The fact that, like other farmers, he wore no wig only added to the impression, though it could also have been argued he favored the current style of London’s poets, and her new romantics. In any case, his was a fine head of dark hair only beginning to hint at hidden veins of silver.

“What about the pudding?” he asked, stretching and crossing his long legs beneath the table. “Jonathan, did you try the fresh figs I brought from town? They just came up the coast with a load of Carolina rice.”

“I did,” replied Pratt, “and I thank you. The several I sampled were delicious! I promise you an exceptionally figgy pudding, as well as some delectable spring spinach and river cress.”

“Oh, by the way, allow me to present Dr. Benjamin Tucker. He’ll be performing the inoculations in the morning. You’ve probably already guessed as much. You might also have concluded from his courtly bearing that he is a Virginian.”

“I am deeply honored, sir,” said the doctor, rising. Both men bowed, and Dr. Tucker sat down again.

“You’re very welcome, Doctor, I’m sure.” Jonathan Pratt eyed the other’s well-constructed russet coat, lime-colored small clothes, snowy neck cloth, and deeply ruffled sleeves. In his experience, not all physicians were as clean, or as well mannered. “Now, sirs and ladies, if you will pardon me, I will just see to your dinner.”

As soon as the landlord departed, Diana Longfellow began to look about to see who might be admiring her, and who might be worthy of her own attention. Meanwhile, her brother stared blankly at a dark oil painting on the wall, listening to his stomach. It was left to Mrs. Willett to lead the conversation.

“Do you find the practice of medicine different in Massachusetts from what you have seen in Virginia, Dr. Tucker?”

“It is somewhat different, madam, but not from geography, I think—for most of us have our training directly or indirectly from across the sea—at least, those who rely on something beyond superstitions, nostrums, and spells! No, I believe the larger difference involves a variance of time. When I first practiced, in Williamsburg—so many years ago that it surprises me to think of it—few there had real medical training. Planters and clergymen took care of most folk, while surgeons might pull a tooth, or occasionally lop something off. There was a general reliance on old
wives’ tales, and herbal recipes learned at home. You yourself, madam, must often have heard and rejected the sort of thing I refer to.”

Charlotte’s own opinion of the value of plants and the worth of observation was higher than Dr. Tucker’s. But for the moment she kept this to herself.

“Today,” the doctor continued, “there are far more physicians who have gone abroad to learn useful theory. I myself was apprenticed to a physician in London for two years. Such learning now gives us a greater range of remedies …”

“And a greater price you usually charge, too,” Longfellow interjected, drumming his fingers on the table.

“True,” replied Dr. Tucker with a sad smile. “In New England, particularly, that often seems to be the sore point in treatment.”

“But what brought you here to Massachusetts, Dr. Tucker?” Diana asked. She had finished surveying the room and found it dull, as usual. “I believe,” she went on wistfully, “that society in Williamsburg is very refined, and lacks little.”

“That is quite true, Miss Longfellow. Quite true! But, the material comforts its inhabitants enjoy, and their love of informing others of what is ancient and correct, tend to keep them from liking change. They judge news ideas harshly, cruelly even, given any provocation at all. Boston, I believe, is the best place for curious men in the colonies. Having lived there for three years, I still find it fascinating—really almost cosmopolitan—almost like London herself! Do you not find this so, Miss Longfellow?”

“Certainly. I suppose that’s why I long to be back in Sudbury Street the minute I arrive here … but while we are in the country, Doctor, we must make the best of it—at least, that is what my brother tells me. I can be thankful, at any rate, that few of my acquaintance will have the pain of watching me suffer….”

“I’m sure your own pain will be minimal, Miss Longfellow! And when you relate this experience to your friends at home, when we have returned to our fair metropolis, I hope you’ll be able to commend your physician for providing you with a relatively pleasant fortnight of rest and relaxation.”

Suddenly, Diana recalled the morning’s conversation, and began to formulate a strategy to make the best of her enforced withdrawal from the world. “You do, of course, play whist, Dr. Tucker?” she inquired. As the two went on to praise the great game, Longfellow and Mrs. Willett began their own quiet conversation.

“He seems resigned to a life far from his former home, where I imagine he must still have relations,” Charlotte said softly.

“Proving, as I often say, that men of Science can make themselves comfortable anywhere, as long as they have leisure to observe the world.”

“And yet, he didn’t exactly answer—”

Her objection was interrupted by the arrival of a servant bearing glasses and decanters of wine. Before long, there was a toast to the party, followed by another to the success of the next day’s endeavor—which allowed Diana, thought her brother, to assume the pose of a suffering but beauteous Saint Sebastian, happily without the arrows.

It was at this point, when Charlotte glanced back to Benjamin Tucker, that she saw the doctor’s face stiffen suddenly, while he stared over her shoulder. In another moment he had abruptly drained his wineglass, apparently in an attempt to steady nerves offended by something, or someone. Seconds later, a bright voice was heard above the taproom’s buzz.

“Why, Dr. Tucker, of all people!”

Charlotte turned in her chair to observe a dashing gentleman of fair complexion and blushing cheeks, though these were marked by a few pocks, one or two not quite
faded. His powdered hair was held back by a crimson ribbon, while he wore a shining, silver-threaded waistcoat under a close-cut coat of light blue. “Mr. Pelham!” she heard the doctor rasp.

“Forgive me if I intrude.” The beautifully attired young man apologized, yet at the same time, his engaging smile (and perhaps his opulent air) willed Benjamin Tucker to rise.

“No, I believe, er … Mr. Richard Longfellow, do you know David Pelham? Mr. Pelham is from Boston, where his family was once—”

The doctor stopped, uncertain.

“I am the tail end … of a noble lion,” said Mr. Pelham. Then he gave a chuckle of guilty pleasure, before assuming a more solemn air. “Many of my family do, indeed, keep company at the Common’s edge with our most revered elders—though few of them go out walking socially, of an evening. Or so we hope, for a churchyard is the place where they all sleep! How do you do, sir?” he concluded as Longfellow at last made his way to his feet with an amused smile of his own.

“Sir, my neighbor, Mrs. Willett—my sister, Miss Longfellow.”

David Pelham bowed deeply to both ladies, but he seemed especially drawn to Diana, Charlotte noted. And was there a hint of life’s sorrows, as well as its joys, in the depths of his dark eyes?

“Happily, I have had the great pleasure of meeting Miss Longfellow. In the proper company of most sensible friends,” he added, in answer to her brother’s quick reappraisal.

Charlotte saw that Diana studied Mr. Pelham with sudden intensity, once he had turned his face away. She herself imagined this clever, even cocky, soul displayed a cheerful façade only to cover some deeper emotion. She reconsidered his pun …
the tail end of a long line
. Had Mr.
Pelham recently been in mourning? Pain, she knew, was often the underpinning of wit—in the same way that self-effacement, in surprising turnabout, might indicate strong character.

“Sensible friends?” Longfellow replied. “As one might expect, I find
sense
to be somewhat unusual in my sister’s acquaintances, but I will give yours, Mr. Pelham, the benefit of doubt, and hope for the best. Do you stay here at the inn?”

The younger man tilted his head, as if deciding. “I came yesterday, and plan to remain until something draws me away again. It is a pleasant place to rest, and far more healthy than the town at the moment.”

“Quite. That is why my sister has come to take the inoculation.”

“Please accept my good wishes, Miss Longfellow,” said her admirer, “and you must not worry. I was ‘done’ in March, and found it no more than amusing. If I might be of any assistance—”

“Ah—we are about to have our dinner,” Longfellow informed them, for he had seen Jonathan Pratt reenter the room and gesture toward the stairs.

“Then I will go.” Mr. Pelham gave a brief bow to them all. “Though I had hoped, Dr. Tucker, that I might beg a word or two, perhaps later this evening? Do you suppose you could come up and share a glass with me, after you dine?”

Coming out of a reverie, Benjamin Tucker hastened to reply. “I would be greatly honored, sir.”

Charlotte sensed this politeness to be a stretching of the truth, for the doctor’s voice seemed curiously unsteady. But what reason might he have to be unsettled by this fellow Bostonian, who appeared to be eager only to please?

David Pelham again allowed his eyes to rest on Diana Longfellow. Then he turned, and withdrew.

More might have been said about the provocative Mr.
Pelham, if Jonathan Pratt had not bustled the diners upstairs. In the course of enjoying several extremely adequate dishes, and talking of themselves (while avoiding the subject of the morrow’s business), no one questioned the doctor about his handsome friend. And Dr. Tucker made no further explanation of his own.