Too Soon for Flowers (30 page)

Mrs. Morris swept softly across the patterned carpet and into the hall, where she was surprised to see the girl kneeling with a cloth, attacking a crack in the floorboards.

“Go in and talk with Captain Montagu, Susanna. When he’s done, come and find me in the kitchen.”

Susanna obeyed, going in with her head down, but she soon had it up again to admire the braid on Montagu’s coat, and the handsome hat he’d left on a side table.

“Sit down,” the captain said, his manner less formal. “I’d like to hear something of Phoebe’s visit three years ago. Had you served your mistress long, at the time?”

“Six months, sir. I was yet learning my duties, but I took care of Miss Morris as best I could.”

“Did she seem happy when she came here?”

“Yes, sir. Very happy, I’d say.”

“Was she as happy when she left?”

Susanna now imagined the captain’s eyes resembled chips of river ice, hard and glittering. “I don’t think so,” she finally replied. “In fact, I’m sure she wasn’t.”

“Why was that?”

The maid seemed to struggle for an explanation. “I think … she had trouble with her heart.”

“She had spells, do you mean?”

“Oh, no! Quite another kind, I’m afraid. I think Miss Morris was in love with a certain gentleman. Mr. Pelham, sir.”

“And did that gentleman return her feelings?”

Susanna gave him something of a sly smile. “Sometimes, it seemed he did—at least to Phoebe.”

“But you doubted it?”

“I can’t say for sure, sir. But I saw the way he looked at me, too, when he first visited …
and
tried to kiss me. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but I didn’t care to be alone with him! I was raised close to the wharves, you see, with plenty of sailors and soldiers about, so I’d been taught early what such men want.”

“Did you suppose David Pelham might use a girl unkindly?”

“I wouldn’t say I
supposed
anything like that, sir, at least at first. When he saw Phoebe, I did think he was sweet to her. And then, he stopped bothering me.”

“Do you think he tried to kiss Phoebe, as well?”

“More than that, I’d say.”

“How do you know?” he asked, suddenly severe. “Your answer will touch the lives of others, so I think you had better tell me
all
you know, and quickly!”

“Yes, sir. I will, then! You see, I was acting as Miss Morris’s personal maid. I don’t know if you see what I mean, sir, but … being a personal maid involves several duties. Especially when there’s not a lot of servants, like the rich have, each doing their own little job. The rich may be able to keep their secrets better, but I doubt it. Anyway, I helped Miss Morris dress and undress herself, and I washed all of her personal things, you see. That’s how I knew …” She faltered, and fell silent.

“Go on,” said Montagu, refusing to let the subject ruffle him.

“That’s how I knew when her usual time was. And when one day I had extra to do, when it couldn’t be that, then I knew she was no longer …”

“A maiden?” asked Montagu.

“Yes, sir. There was the garment first, and then her mood, as well. She was upset—didn’t feel like eating, or much of anything else. My mistress feared she might be ill … but Miss Morris claimed it was often her way, during her times—though I knew it couldn’t be, just then.”

“Yes,” said Montagu curtly, having heard quite enough. Then he had another thought. “What of Mr. Pelham’s behavior?”

“He seemed no different. He kept up his visits, and soon Miss Morris seemed quite well again. But after several more weeks, when I saw her time hadn’t come, she grew even more upset. This time, Mr. Pelham was, too. At least it seemed that way to me, after I put everything together.”

“Was Miss Morris seeing anyone else?”

“I don’t see how, sir. The mistress wouldn’t let her go out alone with any gentleman, except Mr. Pelham.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, Mr. Pelham kept calling, which I thought was a good sign. One day, Phoebe had a rash, and her aunt called in a doctor for it. I don’t know what else happened … with the other. She must have lost it. It was all quite sad, really. But I never dared to ask her about it, and I never heard later.”

“And Mr. Pelham?”

“He stopped visiting then. We heard he was to marry another lady, a Miss Farnsworth, before long. He certainly advanced himself, from his visits to the docks, to Phoebe, and then to such a fine lady.”

“The docks …”

“Well, I know a girl from home—Louisa is her name—who swore she saw Mr. Pelham there, from time to time.”

“I believe he is involved in shipping.”

“Yes, sir,” Susanna agreed, but with a knowledgeable smile the captain found disturbing. Yet she was only a servant girl. He himself distrusted Pelham, but it would take more than a mere girl’s romantic imagination to convince a British officer of another gentleman’s moral failings.

“Tell me, Susanna,” said Edmund Montagu, “do you also know a physician named Tucker?”

“Why, yes, sir! It was Dr. Tucker who came to treat Miss Morris. I believe he was first a friend to Mr. Pelham. Or, at least, I believe they knew one another.”

“Did you find Dr. Tucker unusual in any way?”

“Unusual, sir? I wouldn’t say so. He seemed a nice old gentleman. I remember he told me he had a daughter my age.”

“Nothing odd about the way he treated you? Or Miss Morris?”

“Odd? How do you mean?”

“Did he ever bother you, the way Mr. Pelham—”

“Oh, no, sir!” Susanna objected with a firm shake of
her head. “He was quite a sweet old man, I thought. So did Phoebe, I’m sure. Dr. Tucker treated my friend Louisa, too, which was very kind of him,” Susanna went on in a confidential tone. “She’s a sailor’s girl, you see, and not every physician will see such patients.”

“A sailor’s girl? Do you mean … by profession?”

“Yes, sir—though hardly as coarse as some. She’s the kind of girl even a gentleman might go and see, every so often.”

Edmund Montagu hardly knew what to ask next. “One more thing,” he finally said to Susanna, whose eyes sparkled at the thought of telling the captain still more of a wicked nature.

“Yes, sir?”

“Would you say Phoebe was a girl who wanted to climb in social rank?”

“Rank, sir?” Susanna now cocked an eyebrow suspiciously at the Englishman.

“Was there something she would have done much to gain, do you think? Wealth, perhaps?”

“Oh, I see. I have known girls who would marry a purse at the cost of their own hearts, if that’s what you mean, sir. The way they do in England, I’ve heard, where many are even forced! Is that still true?”

“Young ladies often do marry according to their parents’ wishes, though these are not always loveless matches.”

“I would hope not. Though I’d like to see someone try to marry me off for gold. I think it is a cruel thing, don’t you, sir? Though a little gold may be useful, to most of us. As for Miss Morris, I think she was happy to return home to Concord and what she had there, though it wasn’t a great deal by the stick of some, I’m sure. And I heard she found a young man to marry her after all. I often thought about her, when Mrs. Morris received letters from her family.”

“Did you never tell your mistress what you suspected?”

“I did think of that … but no, sir. At the time, I didn’t know some of the things I understand now—concerning my responsibilities. I was only fifteen at the time. I’ve learned a great deal since then,” said the girl, looking fearlessly into the captain’s eyes. “For instance, I’ve learned it’s sometimes best to keep what I learn to myself. Unless it might have value to others …”

“Thank you, Susanna. I think that is all I need ask.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a shilling.

“Sir, may I ask
you
a question?” she asked after she had stood and curtsied.

“What is it?”

“Do you know Mr. Pelham?”

“I do,” he replied. Something in his expression made her smile a little.

“You do not like him?”

“Not especially,” he confided, feeling that she had earned a small degree of familiarity.

“Has he got his eye on someone you know, sir?”

This, Captain Montagu decided, he must ignore.

“I wish her well, then—and good luck to you and your lady, sir,” said Susanna as she gave another swift curtsy and departed—leaving the captain to consider saucy charms that led, all too often, to misfortune.

In a few minutes more, after he had given the proper words of farewell to Mrs. Morris, Edmund Montagu found himself again facing the teeming streets of Boston, with spirits fallen suddenly into confusion.

David Pelham, the captain had now discovered, was what he’d earlier suspected—a man able to ruin and then leave a young girl, even one who loved him. And yet by all appearances Pelham, too, had been in love. Such things happened, even when they were inadvisable. Captain Montagu knew this better than most. The trouble was, such imperfect gentlemen—especially wealthy ones—actually
attracted
, rather than repelled, spirited ladies,
whose urge to reform such rakes was well known—and usually led only to more unhappiness. Should he tell Diana of the rascal’s reputed affair? What if that course only increased her interest, already piqued by Pelham’s passionate attentions? It was also, Montagu decided fairly—though he ground his teeth at the effort—it was also risky business to judge a man’s character solely by his sexual appetites. Even among the great, after all, there were peculiarities, and men who satisfied their lusts in ways both common and uncommon. Earlier, in alluding lightly to mistresses among the London aristocracy, Miss Longfellow had not been far wrong—although he had disputed the point for her own good.

Yet would such a man do for Diana? Captain Montagu found the idea too affecting to contemplate for long. Who would choose a better husband for her? Her brother? That hardly seemed likely. Would Richard Longfellow even forbid the match with Pelham, if Diana insisted upon it? And what could he, himself, hope to do about it?

Captain Montagu began to blow on his numbed fingers—and realized that the air had grown cold. He would take a few moments to swallow a glass or two of restoring brandy on his way to his last chore of the morning. Looking forward to little else, he strode downhill through streets and lanes, toward less respectable dwellings and taverns in alleys near the harbor.

An hour later, he was let in to the place Benjamin Tucker had lately called home. A first chamber had several windows, now shuttered, while its furnishings included an examining couch, two chairs and a table, a screen, and a plain chest of drawers, which turned out to hold only objects useful to a physician. The room’s one carpet was colorful, but wine-stained and worn. In a corner stood a battered desk.

Clearly, any patients Tucker had seen here tolerated a less than prosperous atmosphere. The place was barely
respectable, though it did seem clean. The landlady had been pleased to comment on this herself. She had appreciated her tenant for his habits and his demeanor, she informed Montagu; and, due to the fall in trade and wages, she had few hopes of soon letting the modest apartment to another.

A brief look into a smaller room, once the landlady had left him alone, revealed a bed, a sagging rush-bottomed reading chair, and a number of books on various subjects. Some stood high on rough shelves, while others were lined up on the floor; he found still more in an old barrel. Where most of Dr. Tucker’s fees had gone was now obvious. That explained the pathetic state of the man’s attire, though it recommended the liveliness of a spirit now extinguished forever.

Going back into the public room, Montagu walked to the desk to glance through a scattering of papers. He soon uncovered a pair of bound, blank-paged books, normally used for record keeping. A cursory examination showed one of the volumes to be, indeed, a history of appointments and charges, while the other contained lists of ingredients for the creation of medical prescriptions; the latter’s inside cover also gave the names and addresses of three Boston apothecaries. While some physicians made their own preparations, the captain knew, there were many who felt the practice beneath them. Apparently, Tucker had been one of these—a man who took pride in his position, albeit one that had been considerably reduced. Or had the physician perhaps looked for someone else on whom to cast blame, should his treatments bring poor results?

Reopening the daybook, Montagu leafed through its initial pages, which covered Dr. Tucker’s earliest months in Boston. There it was:
David Pelham
, beside a date,
February 11, 1761.
Next to this, in a tiny, nearly indecipherable hand, was a description of a course of treatment. This
included Roman numerals, which the captain assumed referred to preparations prescribed. A page farther, there was more of the same, and later, in December, a large increase in the quantity of the numbered stuff, again next to Pelham’s name. After that, the patient seemed to have left the book’s pages entirely. Flipping back, Captain Montagu looked for another name. He soon found it—
Phoebe Morris, Concord, with Mary Morris, of Boston, first seen September 19
, 1761. There were notations that indicated two further calls to Mrs. Morris’s home, as well as the numeral of some substance used in treatment.

Montagu next examined the book of apothecary receipts more closely. There, he found a surprising number of specific clays and metallic salts whose uses were largely unknown to him, at least in the practice of medicine. However, one concoction did jog his memory; oddly, this proved to be the same compound prescribed for David Pelham. And given what Montagu believed to be the chief medical use of its main component—

Again, he felt the air’s increasing chill.

If Pelham had purchased
all
of this, and continued to take it … then it was lucky the rascal was still alive! It was no wonder that his temper vacillated—but how could it have been wise of Tucker to prescribe such quantities of quicksilver? Or had Benjamin Tucker
intended
to harm his patient? It was indeed a possibility, and a sobering thought—particularly, coming on top of his new knowledge of David Pelham.