“It is the heat,” Diana said to Charlotte, when her husband had finally come to a halt. “That is what causes most of our current distress. Sleep is really impossible until three or four o’clock, and by then, the market carts have begun to rumble in.”
“It is worse than that,” said Montagu. “At best, it is madness!”
“Certainly, Edmund,” said his wife, “men do become overwrought, and unreasonable, for they will drink more in the heat than usual—very often more than is good for them.” She then watched her husband toss back his glass of wine, and pour himself another.
Fortunately, before either could go on, the cold cooked lobsters arrived on a large platter. Surrounded by lemons, they were accompanied by bottled sauce from the Indies, flavored with hot peppers. Small pots of melted butter, too, were deftly delivered by Thomas Pomeroy, who kept a solemn face while serving. At his side, the small daughter of Elizabeth the cook struggled with two glazed pitchers of iced cider. In another moment the landlord himself came through the dark doorway at the top of the kitchen stairs, bearing an earthen crock.
“My dear Mrs. Montagu—what a very great pleasure it is to see you!” Jonathan Pratt exclaimed. “And your friends, as well. I believe this is what you asked for?” At Diana’s nod, he took a spoon and transferred some of the cabbage onto a plate for her. “But I see,” he continued, “that you have honored us by bringing someone new. A young relation?”
Longfellow gave a brief explanation. “Angelo is the servant and musical accompanist of Signor Lahte. He, too, comes from Milan.”
Jonathan looked the boy over, before indicating the somewhat older youth who waited nearby. “Then he should meet another who is currently in service. This is Thomas Pomeroy. If you are given time off from your duties, young man, you might care to join Thomas for a game of cribbage, or bowls.”
Pomeroy stepped forward with a hand extended, murmuring a pleasantry.
“I am afraid,” Signor Lahte said quickly, “that the boy speaks no English. I must teach him—and he will have little time to spare until he learns. If, that is, he stays with me. Of that, at the moment, I am uncertain.”
“Does he understand French, perhaps?” Thomas tried, but Lahte remained silent.
“I see,” said the landlord. “Well, I’ll go down and look to your next course.” He held the door for Pomeroy and the girl; then, his own substantial bulk, too, disappeared into the darkness.
Longfellow lifted a lobster from its bed of seaweed and transferred it to a plate. Eventually, each person at the table was supplied with a bright red crustacean. “As enjoyment is the object of this particular exercise,” he stated, “perhaps, Edmund, we should forego politics until we have left the ladies. We may then fill Signor Lahte’s head with more of our troubles. Now, I suggest we ask him to fill ours with something more amusing. I believe he might tell us how the excavations near Naples go. They have discovered some peculiar ruins under the earth, it seems, at what was once called Herculaneum.”
“Ah, yes!” Lahte exclaimed, “Ercolano! In the tunnels are splendid things! And, there is great sadness there, as well.” He went on to describe the statues, frescoes, and other remnants of ancient life that had been found under many feet of ash—which, Longfellow tossed in, had been laid down by the explosion of Vesuvius described by Pliny some seventeen hundred years before.
While he spoke more of what he himself had seen, Lahte’s face turned quite often toward Charlotte; for her part, she listened with rapt attention to his detailed and strangely moving description of a town long dead and buried.
But inevitably, the talk did drift back to politics.
“What,” asked Longfellow, “do you make of Austrian rule in the northern peninsula, Lahte?”
Mrs. Willett had by then finished most of her lobster, though she still sucked gently at its small, flute-like legs. Diana seemed lost in her own thoughts, perhaps wondering how the meal was being received by the new life she carried. Looking further, Charlotte saw Angelo’s eyes meet her own again, from the end of the table. The boy sometimes appeared to be watching her closely, though she could hardly say why. Could she be so different from the women of Italy? Was it something about her dress? Or her manner of eating? His fingers had dealt with the lobster set before him in a knowing way not unlike her own—so fear of social error could hardly be the reason for his study. Angelo returned his attention to his master, as Lahte spoke at length of the joint rule of Maria Theresa and her son Joseph, in the Piedmont and in Austria.
A dish of diced, creamed potatoes with toasted crumbs was brought in next, with a warm casserole of sliced beets nestled in their greens, nearly covered by curls of fried bacon. Thomas Pomeroy left both dishes by Captain Montagu, who stood and helped the ladies. Thomas then took a spoon and proceeded to serve the boy.
Gian Carlo Lahte stopped in the middle of a sentence, and slowly rose to his feet. His face betrayed no new feeling, yet his stance itself was a warning.
“I think, Mr. Pomeroy, you show my servant too much attention. He will take care of his own needs—after he sees to mine.”
“Very sorry, sir,” said Pomeroy, although from his smooth tone it seemed to Mrs. Willett that the young man meant nothing of the sort. In another moment, he retreated to the kitchen.
“Charlotte, I saw Lem two or three days ago,” Diana informed her friend, breaking the tension in the room; Lahte lowered himself stiffly into his chair.
“Was he well?”
“He seemed so. He walked by the house with Dr. Warren, and stepped in to speak with me for a moment. He left a letter for you—I have it in my things. I suspect he rather misses life in Bracebridge.”
“I believe even Hannah looks for him each evening, when she leaves.”
“He’ll tire of Boston before long. Countrymen usually do. Unless, of course, he gets caught up in courting a young lady.”
Charlotte thought of Martha Sloan, a girl who had seemed nearly ready to give her heart … but her answer to Diana was delayed by the arrival of a pair of herbed and roasted chickens, and more wine. Again, Thomas Pomeroy was the platter’s bearer. After its delivery he stationed himself in the same corner as before, near Angelo’s chair. He allowed his eyes to wander inquiringly, even insolently, from the boy’s face to Lahte’s.
A cat may look at a king, Charlotte told herself, but he might also lose a bit of fur for it. For the moment, the dismemberment of one of Longfellow’s favorite dishes kept the room at a simmer. Yet Lahte’s eyes flashed, while Angelo’s upward glances seemed almost intended to spite his master. What, exactly, Charlotte asked herself, did she see here? Jealousy, surely. But what could be the cause—and what might be the outcome? She easily found an answer to the last question: trouble, without a doubt!
Diana began to speak softly again, still savoring a bite of succulent wing.
“He is a remarkably handsome man, is he not?”
“Who?” asked Mrs. Willett, momentarily confused.
“Signor Lahte, of course. He has a gentleness that is rather unusual in a man; but there is also fire underneath, I’m sure! I know a number of ladies who would be happy to serve him dinner, if only for the pleasure of staring into those eyes. As you’ve been doing, Charlotte. I wonder if you might be a little taken, yourself?”
“What?”
“It does look that way to me. And it would hardly be surprising, for you have had so little good company in the last few years, my dear. Perhaps you forget the many ways a man may be of use.”
“I have your brother….”
“Oh, Richard can be amusing, but he is often less attentive than he should be—as are certain others! Signor Lahte seems more aware of what a lady likes … and indeed needs. Though at the moment he seems occupied by the surprise we’ve brought him. At least he is not as bad as some men, who feel they can leave us to our own devices with no care at all for flattering conversation.”
“But I have heard,” Captain Montagu was going on, “that Frederick of Prus
sia even now has thousands in his service, whose only business is to bring him information—one reason he was able to outwit the rest of the world so often during the Great War—”
“You do see,” Diana added to Mrs. Willett.
The arrival of a Brown Betty and a jug of cream caused a concerted rising and stretching, before the company’s final attack. During the respite, Edmund Montagu went to one of the large windows that overlooked several thick-boughed maples, and the Boston-Worcester road. Longfellow took the opportunity to sit and talk with his sister, somewhat to her surprise, while Lahte and Angelo put their heads together as well.
Charlotte joined Captain Montagu, and found him glad to share his thoughts.
“Diana seems in good health and spirits, Edmund.”
“She is strong; but her emotions run to extremes these days, and it seems I can do little to help. I should tell you that I haven’t fully informed her about Signor Lahte’s … situation.”
“You mean … that he is famous? And the cause of it?”
“Exactly.”
“This isn’t known in town?”
“He seems to have left Boston the day after his arrival, without revealing himself. And with my wife’s condition, I believe the less she knows of Lahte and theatrical life, the better. Though I realize it may be difficult to keep her long in the dark.”
“She already seems to think I might have a particular interest in our new friend.”
“You? Is this true?” Edmund Montagu bent a little to look directly into her face.
“He is a fascinating man of the world,” she replied honestly. “His experiences promise interesting conversation. And he tells me he can milk a cow.”
“All fine recommendations. But I suppose you tease me.”
“Perhaps I do. Though do you really think such a man could ever be drawn to a woman from such a place as this?”
“Who knows what draws two souls together? Sometimes, I’m even tempted to wonder about myself, Charlotte. The heart is a thing none will ever fully understand, I fear—even those of us familiar with Natural Law.”
The jab at her neighbor, offered between friends, made her smile; but Charlotte added the hope that the two gentlemen might swiftly mend their latest rift.
“Let us go and enjoy our dessert,” said the captain, “and be finished! It begins to feel too warm here, and I long to sit in the shade of Richard’s arbor and doze. Diana must certainly rest, for none of us will enjoy ourselves should she tire.” On this point, Charlotte agreed.
Before long, those by the taproom windows watched the party of six make its way down the walk and across the road. Thomas Pomeroy, especially, followed their progress with particular interest, before turning back to the business of the inn.
Chapter 11
AS THE MIDGE-FILLED light waned, a familiar crowd sat in the Blue Boar Tavern, once again lubricating their opinions as well as their dry, wagging tongues.
Near an open door, Jack Pennywort—clearly feeling the effects of ale—called out for another pint, intending to pay with winnings coaxed from a pack of greasy cards.
As he watched the smaller man across the table, Nathan Browne smiled behind the lip of his own tankard. Hours earlier he had realized it was too hot to be striking red metal in a smithy. No sense asking for your legs to throb, or your head to ring as loud as your anvil. And by spending the afternoon helping Jack keep his few coins in his pocket, he’d managed to put himself into a better mood. Soon, he would amble home to Sabina, whose curiosity that morning about a certain gentleman had made her husband feel less than charitable.
All of the women were twittering like so many linnets at this Italian, whose strange voice could be heard singing clear across the road, when he exercised it. Not that the visitor seemed a bad sort when he came into the forge, to take a look at the dead man’s horse. He was hoping for a quiet mount, he’d said—but he gave up on that after viewing the wily beast up close. It was just as well, for the signor didn’t look like much of a rider, Nathan thought with a grimace. More likely he was used to being ferried about the countryside in carriages, never asking so much as the name of a four-footed animal. Still, Mrs. Willett seemed to enjoy his company. Or so he’d heard from several gossips. He thought he might ask her about this himself in a day or two, when she next stopped by for a chat.
Another idler at the table finished his third pint of sharp cider. During the game of cards between his old friend Jack and the smith, Dick Craft had been more attuned to a voice in his own head. Now, as the landlord walked by, Craft asked a careful question.
“Mr. Wise—”
“Another, Dick, already? I should say—”
“Uh, no, Mr. Wise. On Saturday, someone said that this gentleman, the one staying with Mr. Longfellow, came to us from Italy.”
“He did, indeed.”
“And is that place not the center of the world’s du—dup—duplicity?”
“Who told you that?” asked the landlord with a new look of suspicion.
“Someone—on the Sabbath. It is even said,” Dick continued slyly, “that their Pope may be the Devil himself, come to lead us from the Truth!”
“I doubt that. But it would seem to make no difference in this case, for Signor Lahte intends to follow Roman ways no longer.”
“But can he be trusted?” asked Dick, his eyes protruding a bit more.
“Many’s the man with friends in Québec, who don’t seem the worse for their religion—unless it is in their pockets. For they do love grand churches, it would seem.”
“Down in Baltimore,” put in a genial lad who’d wandered over with an empty tankard, “only last year, someone pointed out to me a new church built for Catholics, who now attend with no penalty. Though I also heard many have long practiced their rites in private in that colony.”
“May it never be so in this one!” cried Dick Craft. “Or some of us will know what to do about it!”
“What is wrong with the Catholics, Dick, in your opinion?” asked the landlord, taking the tankard and moving to fill it.
“For one thing, they dress in women’s skirts, don’t they! Pope and cardinals—who must be queer birds, indeed. But men may do even worse where this musico comes from. Unnatural things … as I believe others have mentioned here in recent days.”
“What’s that?” demanded another.
“I was also told …” Dick went on, pausing for a belch, “that in Italy, which is a country not far from our old enemy France—”
“I think,” someone else offered, “the Boot is no real country, but more like a lot of towns all lumped together—”
“—in Italy,” Dick continued, sweeping the table with a red eye, “and worst of all in a town called Venice—which I don’t suppose is far from Hades—”
“Ahh!” came a receptive chorus, as others moved closer.
“—there, they often gather covered by cloaks, and masks—”
“Dominoes, they call ’em,” old Mr. Flint weighed in wisely, from his customary seat by the fire.
“—and both ladies and gentlemen dance and carry on any way they please, all night long! I doubt the results of that are harmless! Masks, to keep from knowing who’s who—”
“And what’s what, maybe?” piped a new voice.
“It would keep down the cost of clothing …” muttered a man on his way home to his wife in Boston.
“From what I’ve learned,” said the younger traveler who had been to Baltimore, “on some days in most of Europe’s cities, any man is allowed to dress in women’s clothes—or even those of a king if he wishes—and wander about the streets at all hours. Carnivals, I think these festivities are called. Something to do with Lent, I believe,” he added, accepting his recharged tankard from Phineas Wise.
“A Christian holiday, kept in such a manner?” asked a man by the windows with a shake of his graying head.
“Well, now,” replied Flint, “you know there’s plenty of Harvard lads who like to put on a skirt now
and again, for their dramatics. And is there anything wrong with them?” Several wits ventured answers to this, but Flint soon went on. “I remember a time—”
He stopped to consult Mr. Tyndall, who had earlier suffered from dyspepsia, and had dozed off in his chair. Meanwhile, respect for an elder (or it may have been the anticipation of a promising tidbit) made the others wait quietly.
“Back in ’19, was it not, Mr. Tyndall? The old Exeter writ business?” Tinder awoke with a start, and Flint repeated the question.
“Aye, it was, as I recall.”
“Yes, I believe that was the year I saw your grandfather, Dick Craft, put on a petticoat himself one evening—along with the sires of some others here. And all of them went out onto the streets …”
“No!” came a chorus of excited voices. Dick flushed furiously. He might once have joined their amusement, but in the last two years, since the death of the village miller, he had gravitated to religion in an effort to replace the man who had led his thoughts for years.
“All in a good cause,” Flint assured them. “All in a good cause.”
“What might that have been, sir?” called a callow voice, which made the elder smile.
“I always like a lad who is interested in history, and polite about it,” Mr. Flint said. “A fine thing, and let none forget it! Well, boys, it seems that up in Exeter there lived a sheriff, who one day was sent to take a man to jail, his excuse being a particularly nasty writ. For what I can’t easily say now, but I do know the town would have none of it. First, there was a great deal of talk, of course—and some of us here rode up there to see what would happen next. What happened was, a crowd of good women came and kept the sheriff at bay, while a few others set the man free. The most peculiar thing was, not a dame there that evening didn’t pull on his pants the morning after, and go out to plow!”
Laughter rose and rang between the walls so loudly that some chatting outside stuck their heads in through doors and windows, to see what had occurred.
“Maybe we should call on such women to come and join us now, in rising up against the damned Stamp men!” someone suggested in a piercing voice. Though largely ignored, this thought caused a few to change their seats, and begin to speak together in lowered voices.
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