Too Soon for Flowers (9 page)

Wednesday

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Longfellow and Cicero stood in the glass house built onto the side of a towering stone barn, discussing the odd habits displayed by plants and humanity. Between them were long wooden planks covered with seedlings.

“Well,
something’s
eating them,” Longfellow concluded. He picked up a clay pot, then held it over his head to look beneath the leaves of a young cabbage.

“There’s a white fly in here,” said Cicero, staring up toward sunlight that filtered through fronds of a tall palm.

“I search for the green worm, which should be—Hah!” Longfellow reached up to pluck the offending cabbage worm from the plant, then let the grub fall to the dirt floor, where he made a smear of it under his booted toe. “I’d say it needs another application of tobacco—which I will make stronger.” Reaching to a shelf below the table, he brought up a wooden box. The old man looked on with the
distress of someone who might enjoy putting the objects it held to a different use, while Longfellow tore and crumbled a dry leaf section into a glazed jar already half full of a foul-smelling liquid.

“They say the smoke may keep away the plague,” Cicero offered. But he had no real hope of changing his employer’s mind. This painful discussion was not new—it had simply been reborn in a new form a few weeks earlier, when the box of cigars (an ill-conceived gift from Mrs. Willett’s brother-in-law, Captain Noah Willett) had arrived.

“I’m well aware of what its supporters say, as another excuse for poisoning themselves,” Longfellow rejoined. “Though even these nefarious articles may have some place in a well-ordered world, if one finds a scientific use for them … as we have. By mixing the ash with ink, I’m told one might obtain a remedy for fungus of the skin. I have even heard of a man who recommends working a cigar into a horse’s bowel, to treat a severe case of colic; but I have yet to see anyone of good sense insert one into his mouth and light it….”

Longfellow next strained off a few ounces of the tobacco decoction into a stoppered bottle, its top pierced with holes. Adding some wetted soap, he shook the bottle vigorously, then began the task of sprinkling as he paid close attention to each small cabbage. “Worms,” he muttered, “worms at the very core of hope … worms that produce such lovely white moths. Which reminds me—I wonder how Diana is feeling today.”

“Mrs. Willett reports they are all well—although your sister fidgets.”

“When does she not?”

Cicero sensed danger in Longfellow’s less than charitable mood; still, he ventured a further observation.

“It is too hot in here.”

“Is it? If you say it, then it must be so. Individuals of
your age usually find a bread oven too cool to support life. Well, then, what do you suggest we do?”

“First, we might get rid of the white fly.”

“There is no white fly, as I’ve told you
twice!
Only seed fluff, from opening some of last year’s pods. It would seem your vision is failing. Any day, I expect to see you and Mrs. Willett leading one another about the village, stumbling over small children.” Once again, Longfellow squinted his own eyes to better appraise the cabbage in his hand.

“We might have the top windows whitewashed. I’ve already opened the side glass this morning, and it’s not enough.”

Longfellow paused to gauge for himself the temperature of his surroundings. “Go ahead. It may well ease your joints to do a little climbing. Be careful of the ladder.”

Cicero sighed, for he was not fond of heights, but soon the old man saw something that gave him a moment of pure joy. He pointed it out to Richard Longfellow, who turned to observe one of the cats clawing madly at the trunk of a large and graceful tree fern—a prized specimen brought with great care from the Caribbean.

“Sainted apostles!
Out, you monster!”
the cat’s master cried, hurrying down the length of the aisle while Tabby prudently withdrew into a pile of empty pots. Man and feline performed a singular dance until, cornered by Longfellow and Cicero, the sleek animal leaped effortlessly to land behind both pursuers, then streaked toward the door.

The roundly cursed cat might have been following his ears as well as his instincts, for in another moment the door opened, and Tabby shot out.

“Have I come at a good time, or bad?” David Pelham inquired, once he had recovered from his surprise.

“One is much like another here. Come in, Pelham. I suppose you’re interested in horticulture,” said Longfellow.

“I enjoy exotic collections as much as the next man,
but I always leave the business of helping them survive to others. I hardly think I have the talent for it, myself.”

Longfellow, who had heard this kind of nonsense before, had only scorn for those who refused to pay attention to the workings on which all life depended. However, considering his position as host to an invited guest, he manfully held back his feelings.

“Cicero, this is Mr. David Pelham. Cicero and I, too, were Bostonians, Pelham, before we were drawn here.”

“A freedman … ?” Mr. Pelham asked, looking from one to the other. Meanwhile, Cicero made his own appraisal of the cinnamon-colored costume before him, completed by an aroma of orange flower pomade at the head, and large buckles of gold on the feet below.

“Free in the legal sense, if not the metaphysical,” said Longfellow. “Cicero may leave whenever he chooses. But he stays—largely, I believe, because he must torment me. Yet he pays for the privilege! At the moment, he is about to mount an expedition to the roof, for which I do not recommend an audience.” He then led Mr. Pelham out of the glass house, across the backyard, and around to the front of the house, where they entered. The visitor was thus allowed to avoid the kitchen, admire the broad entry hall, and catch a glimpse into the great formal room to its right, before approaching the west-facing study. There they greeted Charlotte and Benjamin Tucker, who were sipping mid-morning cups of tea. Longfellow pulled two straight-backed chairs away from the wall, and lowered himself next to the physician.

“I’ll be back in a moment with a new pot and a cake,” said Charlotte as she rose, causing Mr. Pelham to bob up again. “Have you no house servants?” he asked his host when he finally sat down.

“Two or three women, daughters of a neighbor, who come weekly to remove the dust and replace the linen. Beyond that, I’m well able to take care of myself.”

“But—your kitchen! With no servants, what do you do for your dinner?”

“Sustenance can always be found at the inn; occasionally, Mrs. Willett takes pity on us and extends an invitation. But we often make do with what we can concoct. You might see for yourself, if you would care to join us one day. This Sunday, perhaps? When I’m in the mood, I enjoy culinary experiments: goat in a curry, served with fermented milk curds, for an example. I wonder goat’s not eaten more. The idea came to me from a correspondent who is in the India trade—at least he was, though I hear he has recently succumbed to a stomach complaint.”

Dr. Tucker cleared his throat, but made no comment.

Attracted by Longfellow’s pianoforte, David Pelham rose with a smile and made his way to the instrument, where he ran his fingers over the ivory keys, picking out a simple tune until Charlotte returned with a tray. He then took a seat beside her, accepting cup and saucer and a slice of cake, though he immediately set both down on a small table nearby.

“I had hoped,” he began, “to have the pleasure of seeing Miss Longfellow today.”

“Diana won’t be allowed to leave Mrs. Willett’s house for another two weeks, at least,” her brother informed him.

“Then—might I be allowed to visit her there? I may be of some use, if Miss Longfellow wants cheerful conversation, or perhaps someone to read to her. It would be my great pleasure, I assure you.”

Longfellow chewed his cake thoughtfully before he answered. “You will have to consult her physician on the wisdom of having another visitor in the house,” he eventually replied, “though I can see no real harm …”

“Sir?” asked Mr. Pelham.

Dr. Tucker, too, appeared to consider. Then he lowered his gaze, and blinked full into Mrs. Willett’s face. For
a moment, Charlotte had an odd feeling she could not account for.

“Mr. Pelham may certainly visit from time to time,” Dr. Tucker decided.

“Thank you, Doctor! I am delighted!”

“In fact,” said Longfellow, “you might as easily lift the spirits of
two
young ladies.”

Oh, yes?” David Pelham asked politely.

“Another is there—Phoebe Morris by name—a girl already known to Dr. Tucker, it seems.”

Mrs. Willett noticed David Pelham’s hand, reflected in the Venetian mirror, tighten suddenly into a fist. When he turned to stare at Tucker, the physician gave a sickly smile.

“She’s soon to wed a local lad,” said Benjamin Tucker, while his face contorted strangely.

“Then I wish her happiness.” David Pelham abandoned his refreshment for an exploratory trip around the room, during which he examined several objects. “What a superior study. A room of good proportions, impressive windows for a country place, and interesting decoration. I would be happy to spend a great deal of time here myself, I believe.”

He lifted the lid of a rosewood box resting on a bookshelf to one side of the mantel. Inside were two matched pistols. “These are splendid!” he gasped with admiration.

“I bought them on the Continent,” said Longfellow, “from a Corsican. The man was sorry to sell them, but desperate for funds. I suspect the Europeans are fonder of small arms than we. Perhaps that’s because they have more to fear from their neighbors.”

“Yet I myself practice with a set obtained when I began to fear going unprotected at night—yes, even in Boston! But you never fire them?” asked Pelham, as he studied the weapons more closely.

“Rarely. When I feel an urge to practice with a weapon, I generally choose the longbow. Far better exercise.”

“A fine part of English tradition,” Pelham conceded.

“As well as that of America,” Longfellow pointed out, smiling at the contrast between the traditional archers of the two continents.

“An interesting point. However, bow and quiver might be odd things to carry, on a walk down Cornhill.”

“Colorful, at least. What is your opinion, Doctor?”

“I would like to see all firearms discouraged,” Tucker replied curtly. “I’ve seen what they can do to a body, and too many young men develop a fascination with them. They also make a highwayman’s business far easier than it might be, when they go armed among peaceful citizens such as myself, who carry no weapons.”

“Would you then take our military muskets and fowling pieces from us, too?” asked Longfellow, hoping to encourage vigorous conversation.

“I doubt such a choice would ever be left to me! Though I hardly find muskets or fowling pieces necessary these days, when I go out to procure a piece of beefsteak or a sausage.” The doctor hoisted himself from his comfortable chair. “But now, I must go across the garden to my patients.”

Charlotte had been sitting quietly, thinking it inadvisable to comment on a subject most men believed women ill prepared to discuss. (Still, Aaron had often asked her to lead him over the fields on his arrival in Bracebridge—had even taught her to load and fire his rifle, which still hung over the kitchen hearth, though she now had not the heart to use it.)

“May I join you?” she abruptly asked the departing physician.

“Of course, madam, of course! I would greatly welcome an assistant.”

“They do have a curious decoration,” Longfellow went on to David Pelham, as his admiring guest continued to stroke the silver, wood, and steel of the finely crafted firearm in his hands.

HIS GLASSES PERCHED
on top of his head, Benjamin Tucker bent as close as he dared to Diana Longfellow’s chest. He watched it rise and fall for a moment, straightened, then sat back on his chair at the side of her bed.

“Nothing yet there; nor anything on the neck, face, or hands. In fact, I don’t believe there’s even a fever. How do you feel, Miss Longfellow?”

“Like taking a long walk across the meadows. Alone.”

“That, I’m afraid, you may not do,” replied the doctor.

Diana gave him a swift look of displeasure, but soon returned to her previous ennui.

“There’s no need for you to stay in bed,” Charlotte suggested gently. “You might try a walk around the house; it has the advantage of not soiling the slippers.”

“Oh, I’ve tried that. I tried to talk with Phoebe this morning, but she said so little, and besides, I can’t sit still for her today. I have even visited with Lem, but he seems to prefer his Latin to me! Since I paid scant attention when Richard’s ancient tutor was in the house, I’m no help there. I have even,” she said, lifting her eyes toward the ceiling, “spoken with Hannah. You can imagine what pleasure either of us derived from that.”

“What did you discuss?”

“How one goes about cleaning brass. I found it not very interesting.”

“Perhaps you may soon be able to shine in a different way.”

“How, Charlotte?” Diana asked eagerly.