As usual, thought Richard, the Italian was both lively and attentive, a union rare in mankind—at least, the part of it with which he was most familiar. After Mrs. Willett had gone on to her own home for an afternoon of reading and contemplation, Lahte allowed his host the pleasure of laying out a careful explanation of why a tall structure needed Dr. Franklin’s lightning rods; then, Longfellow described the recent installation of several atop his own barn, all attached to an iron tail whose end lay buried in the ground.
Over a simple dinner, the two men discussed improvements in plumbing and illumination; the new hope, dignity, and mobility of the working classes; abuses of lords and churches, old and current; and the growing web of navigation canals in England, which would further reduce prices while greatly facilitating travel in that country.
When their powers of concentration began to flag, the Italian and his host walked across the road in search of a snack and fresh entertainment. The musico then provided Longfellow and Jonathan Pratt with gossip from Milan, as well as news from London’s coffee houses which he’d frequented before embarking on his voyage to America. When Cicero joined them, Lahte switched to ribald stories collected in butlers’ pantries across the Continent. Even Lydia Pratt seemed to enjoy his company, finding frequent reason to pass by their table, listening to what she could.
It later seemed to Longfellow, as he sat alone in his study at the beginning of a gray evening, that Signor Lahte had a knack for gaining the goodwill of nearly everyone. This sort of charm was something he suspected he himself lacked, especially during his black moods. But then, wouldn’t a theatrical performer naturally be more adroit at delivering flattering nonsense? And there was, after all, one man who had turned against Il Colombo.
Someone had at last spilled the beans to Reverend Rowe, which had brought the preacher flying up the hill in a royal huff. Once he found them at the inn, Rowe insisted on returning to Longfellow’s study for a private talk. There he roundly condemned the musico’s imagined proclivity for immoral thought and action, as he had heard such behavior was widely rumored to be shared by his kind. Longfellow had quietly defended his guest but abstained from argument, knowing there was little point. On his high horse, Rowe reasoned about as well as an ass.
Tasting again his swallowed bile, Richard Longfellow walked to a sideboard and filled a glass with port. Upon giving the matter additional consideration, he took both glass and bottle back to his easy chair. Finishing a first glass, he poured himself another.
“From what I have learned,” Rowe had insisted, “the castrato is a creature neither fish nor fowl. And how can one even begin to imagine the godless society in which the man was raised—one that brought him to his present state? Even if he only acted on a stage, he would be a thorn in the side of any decent, sober society. And yet, I saw you leave Mrs. Willett alone with this man!”
That, thought Longfellow, was rich, for he and Rowe had gone out of Charlotte’s kitchen at the same time. As if to answer the unspoken charge, Rowe added swiftly, “At the time, you knew what he was!”
“But tell me what, exactly, he’s done.”
“He may have done no direct harm as yet,” the preacher admitted, “but think what influence his words might have on such an unprotected female! Have you not seen that they are both the talk of the village? She can hardly be expected to have strength of will, or a man’s judgment. And Signor Lahte is no fit companion for a headstrong woman!”
“But he has given us his word.”
“His word? How can he be trusted to keep it? He holds no faith to swear by—he has even abandoned his Pope! Yet now I’m told his youth was shaped to feed that man’s lustful pleasures—and what will happen if he attempts to raise his voice in our own choir? I will not have it!”
“Reverend, I hardly think—”
“His words are as a flow of amber—he tries to trap us like flies! This musico is a danger, Longfellow—and once again, a danger you not only overlook, but bring intentionally among us!”
Finally, it had been a draw. Rowe gathered up his outraged soul and went away, having worn himself down like a clock. Then, left alone, Richard Longfellow was forced to ask himself a serious question. Did he truly believe Gian Carlo Lahte to be entirely harmless?
Admittedly, the Italian had a glib tongue, as well as a rather careless view of the world. He had no family, no prospects for building one. He’d spoken of a new home, a new life—but what, exactly, was his plan, and did it have something to do with his attentions to Mrs. Willett? Could he mean, somehow, to make her part of his new establishment? Did he even mean to marry? Or was he interested in something … less?
Longfellow allowed himself another glass, and before it was finished he’d decided his suspicions were unworthy of them all. Instead of fretting further, he turned to study a new painting recently hung next to the even dearer portrait of Eleanor Howard.
Shortly before Diana’s wedding he’d commissioned John Copley to paint his sister’s likeness, knowing this would please her. And it had—so much that she had allowed her brother to enjoy the picture for a time, until her new home in Boston could be fully furnished. He concluded again that the result was a superior one … and poured himself yet another glass of port.
If the English aristocracy could think the artists of America untalented—after seeing something like this!—then they might be shot and stuffed, for all their talk of taste. The auburn locks, the mischievous eyes … the small, puzzling smile as she leaned forward, her chin cupped in one hand—all quite lifelike. The young painter had lately done an excellent portrait of Revere, and it would be interesting to see what Copley (whose mother, he recalled, once sold tobacco from her shop on Long Wharf) would make of the town’s great popinjay, Hancock! Longfellow had heard Boston’s own King John now sat for its busiest brush, when that monarch wasn’t off visiting his tailor. Even he must be forced to hold still for ten hours at a time, as other subjects were required to do. How Copley had managed to trap Diana for such periods was a mystery. Though perhaps she had discovered hidden reserves of patience, for one whose business it was to admire and preserve her beauty.
Meanwhile, he sat here in the country while Boston grew impatient in the summer heat. This Stamp situation was so much dry tinder, and secret meetings throughout the town continued to produce flurries of sparks. There was bound to be a conflagration, such as Sam Adams had long dreamed of—something would soon set the place afire. But now Sam, as well as Joseph Warren, might be having second thoughts. For each was newly married, with a wife who would hardly wish to see her husband in serious trouble.
Marriage, he thought sourly. How could any sane man allow even the best of wives to rule him? After all, in most women Reason was no more understood than Greek, or even Latin—and only in its temples could man’s salvation be found. Richard Longfellow smiled tightly as he admired a new glass of the same old port.
Still, what did one do about women? What, indeed, could he do about Charlotte? Might the reverend’s suspicions of Lahte turn out to be true? Or what he himself now suspected of Rowe—!
He had loved Eleanor deeply … and so it seemed somewhat peculiar to imagine—though there was no true prohibition, after all. They were surely unrelated, even by marriage. They were simply neighbors, and friends. Good friends! But Mrs. Willett had lately made it clear she had no wish to alter her life. She, too, valued freedom. Let her skate on thin ice if she would, then. It was something he knew to be a fine feeling.
Longfellow also knew where to find comfort of a sort in town, if he chose. But how much better to lead a simple life in the country, he told himself, where one might drink away one’s cares hearing only the crickets, whose song he took a moment to enjoy. Far better to avoid the town’s many murmurs, including the seductive cooing of its young ladies, all longing to be wed! Lovely young ladies, still … like roses … like wild roses?
His agile mind was by this time quite fuddled. A new thought caused him to laugh out loud; the next ma
de him scowl. Eventually, he gave them all up to listen to a soft rain fall upon the maple leaves near an open window, while a candle by the sash flickered.
Cicero entered quietly, aware that the man who sat within, once his own young charge, had again entered the mercurial state to which he was prone when his direction became unclear. In one hand the old man carried a board; in the other he held a lacquered box. Without a word he set the painted board on a small table between two cushioned chairs, and sat to arrange familiar chess pieces of ebony and ivory on their proper squares.
Then, both heard a high, musical sound come from the gray twilight. Longfellow immediately unwound his long legs, and leaped out of his chair to investigate. From a tall window he made out Gian Carlo Lahte in the distance, a small flute to his lips. It appeared he was shepherding Mrs. Willett, who walked before him through the meadow grass. And by all appearances, both enjoyed the warm, gentle rain that fell onto their heads.
“What do you make of that?” he asked, staring hard.
“It sounds familiar …” Cicero replied hesitantly.
“Of course—it’s a tune from the blasted Beggar’s Opera, which it seems we’ll never be free of! ‘Over the hills and far away’ be damned—what do you say of the picture?”
“If it were left to me, I would put a hat on her.”
“She might have a care for her health—if nothing else! And it is, indeed, the Sabbath….”
Cicero looked to the level of port left in the decanter before he replied. “There is another thought we might consider. Milking is a something our friend does well.”
“Milking? By God, that’s true!”
“An excellent talent, I think … extracting something useful with patience, and a little pulling.”
“Well, let her have her sport. And let us see if your ancient brain is yet capable of strategy. But first, we need more candles—and a bottle of Madeira. I find this port cloying tonight. Bring them here, and though the world about me roars a tempest, I will be as the lamb.”
“Asleep, possibly,” Cicero muttered, while he made his way toward the pantry where the beeswax tapers were kept. Yet he, too, had asked himself lately just what Mrs. Willett and Signor Lahte were up to. He only hoped that the answer, when it came, would not prove an unpleasant surprise for them all.
Chapter 9
Monday, August 19
WHILE BRIGHT DEWDROPS still burdened the grass, Longfellow stood in his yard, turning as he surveyed each point of the compass, trying to ignore the tattoo that throbbed in his head.
He turned to the north, and felt a new twinge as he recognized the path where Mrs. Willett had strayed the night before, walking with Il Colombo. His disquiet, he supposed, might only be due to wine and the continuing sultry weather. Yet he suspected that something disastrous lurked just over the rosy horizon.
Before long, Longfellow cheered himself slightly by walking to fill a handkerchief with blackberries for his breakfast. They would taste well on a biscuit, with some top cream. He might pass by Mrs. Willett’s dairy for a fresh cup—he supposed he would find her still inside. Or, he might not. Perhaps after he’d consumed a fortifying breakfast and four or five cups of coffee, and had taken a glass of something with Jonathan Pratt while they discussed the latest news from town … perhaps then he would go and speak with her.
Signor Lahte slept late, he found on reentering his house. And Cicero had mysteriously decided the pantry needed reorganizing, which caused sufficient fuss to discourage conversation. In the end, after a solitary meal, Longfellow walked out to observe his pigs as they rested in their shady sty. The sight and earthy smell of the contented swine blotted out the last of his unsettled mood, and sent him whistling around a corner some time later.
What Richard Longfellow encountered next caused the happy tune on his lips to die away, for he suddenly saw his sister before him, reaching down from a chaise to take the raised hands of her watchful husband. Even the horses had turned to stare at her, their reins fallen quietly to the ground. Less quietly, Diana came to earth bemoaning her state, continuing her discourse while she adjusted a seersucker bodice over the loose folds of a voluminous skirt.
“Edmund!” Longfellow called out as heartily as he could, walking forward.
“My apologies, Richard,” the captain responded, “for sending no word, and for the early hour. But Diana did insist—”
“I am sure,” the young woman interrupted, “that my brother will enjoy a visit with his sister who may not last the summer, given the way she feels at this moment! I also imagine that though my husband is called captain he might as well be a naval one, for all he knows of horses. I have never had such a jostling. But I’m sure having someone rub my feet will make up for it. Oh, Richard, it is simply dreadful, all that I must endure—”
“Diana, what a joy it is to see you. And Edmund, of course. But as you feel unwell, then why—?”
“Dr. Warren told me I must walk. But the cobbles are too hot, and the air in town is full of such smells! If it isn’t the bay at low tide, it’s the gutters, and the horse droppings. And the flies! So, I have decided instead to enjoy your country breezes, even if they do frequently choke one with dust. But there is no breeze this morning, is there?” she asked with a look that suggested betrayal, pointing her nose to where she thought a country zephyr ought to be.
“Surely Patty is coming behind to fan you.”
“Patty! That lazy thing left me last week, walking off with no warning. One only expects to find such rudeness in a better class of people—but I’ll soon replace her, if she won’t come back begging! Still, there is another who will come today,” she added, with a look to tease him.
“Your mother?” Longfellow asked unhappily.
“She’s gone into Connecticut to drink the waters at Stafford—and to bathe in them—for the governor’s wife recently returned from a similar recreation. My mother plans to stay at the springs for at least two weeks, to see if they will do her any good. Though there is not much I can see wrong with her … at least compared to me! Still, it will do me some good to have her gone away, for there is only so much advice one can cheerfully take. I’m afraid, Richard, that she is becoming quite unbearable.”
Longfellow glanced to Montagu, whose silent reply was clear enough. Had Diana at last become something less than celestial to her new husband? She did seem earthbound today, with her swollen skirts and cheeks. And there was the reported condition of her feet. That was more than he cared to think of, yet he strongly suspected other details would be forthcoming. To avoid them he walked to the back of the chaise; there, he helped Montagu unstrap a rough wooden box, which lay atop a mass of shavings. Taking no chances, Edmund had arrived with his own cellar … presumably one whose bottles no one else would feel the need to count.
Once she had lost her audience, Diana seemed to revive, and soon came to watch. When the two men had a firm grip on the wine, she led them toward the door where Cicero stood waiting.
“Go and tell Mrs. Willett I’ve arrived,” Mrs. Montagu ordered after she’d answered his inquiring look with a nod, and a shake of her auburn locks. “For I’m sure I’ll need a woman’s sympathy to make me feel at home.”
“And you might send the inn’s stable boy to see to the horses,” Longfellow suggested, before leading his guests inside. At last, in the front sitting room, he asked, “If it’s not your mother who’s coming, then who, exactly, am I to welcome?”
“You’ll see,” Diana answered, easing herself into a chair. Then she kicked off her slippers and closed her eyes, a smaller smile lingering on her lips.
Montagu followed Longfellow to the kitchen. Together they fed the hearth’s coals to heat water for tea, and Longfellow discovered a plate of little cakes from the inn.
“A good trip?” he asked casually.
“As you might expect.”
“At the moment, your wife bears remarkably little resemblance to her namesake.”
“Probably a healthy thing, for
I have heard mortals who marry goddesses rarely fare well. I do rejoice to see Diana become a riper, more maternal woman.”
“Hmmm. What does she mean, another visitor?”
“That is a story you started yourself.” The captain now seemed to reclaim some of his habitual edge. “By the way, I’ve brought back the sketch you sent me—for we’ve learned the identity of the man you found beside the road.”
“Have you, by God!”
“You supposed we would not?”
“Well, I thought it might take another day or two, in a place the size of Boston.”
“We do what we can to keep a watchful eye on our visitors. And, on our most interesting citizens.”
“So I hear,” said Longfellow, recalling Dr. Warren’s recent warning. “Will you tell me the rest?”
“Shortly. I, too, am curious, and look forward to hearing more of your guest.”
“Lahte? Come and meet him. By the sound of it, he’s just come down the stairs. I would imagine he’s found your wife by now.”
Edmund Montagu frowned as he hotted the china pot. “Diana tells me they have already met, while with your stepmother.”
“Here’s the tin. Do you already know something more of him yourself?”
Montagu tossed out the water, then spooned curled leaves into the teapot before filling it completely with boiled water. “I am aware of the source of his fame, if that’s what you mean. He was recognized on the wharves by one of my London acquaintances.”
Longfellow put the rest of the tea back on the shelf while he gave a thought to the captain’s web of informants, who tracked figures likely to offend the colony’s authority—and, more importantly, the Crown’s.
Finding a tray, Montagu set onto it the pot, cups and saucers, and silver bowls of milk and sugar. He then rejoiced to see Cicero come in through the back door, bringing Mrs. Willett. She extended her hand, studying his face with curiosity. In another moment she smiled more broadly.
“Ah, Carlotta. But we can see for ourselves, Edmund,” Longfellow continued as before, “how Diana and Lahte get on, if we can force ourselves to leave the comforts of the kitchen.”
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