Phineas Wise moved off to distribute further libations. Then, Nathan quietly addressed Dick Craft with a concern of his own. “I don’t see how this Lahte has shown he wants to bother any here, man or boy, or even the ladies who find him such a marvel! I do know I would blush to see them follow me with their eyes, the way they watch him—”
“Nathan, just tell me how it is that he came from the same town in Italy as the dead man on the road,” Dick insisted. “Just what are we to make of that?”
For this, the smith could think of no answer.
“About your dead man,” said a Worcester merchant who had walked in a few minutes before. A glass of restorative rum now in hand, he sat down. “Is it known yet who he was, Nathan?”
“Captain Montagu came from Boston this morning, and gave Mr. Longfellow the name of Sesto Alva … according to Mr. Pratt.”
“Oh. Well, then there’s no reason to tell them what I saw last week, I suppose. I happened into Pratt’s house an hour ago, and I saw a drawing put there by your Mr. Longfellow. I didn’t know right away who the fellow was, but I thought I’d seen him somewhere; now, I recall where it was. Last week in Boston, at the Green Dragon, where he sat over his dinner. At the time I remarked he seemed unwell.”
“You’re sure it was the same man?” Nathan inquired, leaning closer.
“Fair certain,” replied the merchant. “But that’s not the most curious part of it.”
“No?” asked Jack, swallowing a new story, and his replenished supply of ale, with equal pleasure.
“As I got up to leave the place, damme if I didn’t see what appeared to be the very same man, coming in through the door! Same clothing, same face, more or less, same reddish hair—but this new one a good deal more lively, I’d say. One to steer clear of, I thought, for the long scar below his eye most likely came from a knife fight. In fact, the first appeared almost to be the ghost of the second,” he concluded.
“A doppelgänger!” cried a customer near the cider barrels.
“A what?” Jack sat up with alarm at another new and foreign word.
“A spirit double,” came his answer. “Everyone’s said to have one, somewhere. At least, that’s the theory of the Dutchmen down the Hudson. It’s death, they say, to meet your own, face to face.”
“I’d hate to see another of me, then,” said Jack with a shiver.
“No more than we,” Dick Craft returned.
“It’s quite true neither of these fellows seemed happy to see the other,” said the merchant, getting up. Then he drifted off to join another group a little distance away.
Nathan thumbed an ear, pondering what he’d heard. At last, he drained his tankard. Tomorrow morning, he thought, while he pounded hot metal, he would have time to consider whether this long afternoon had provided anything beyond the usual tavern nonsense, after all.
THAT EVENING, WHEN Charlotte tired of reading alone in her study, she took up her candle and went to make herself ready for bed.
In her chamber she flung loose the bed’s coverlet and the uppermost of two sheets, creating satisfying puffs of air. Then, with her bare feet dangling above the floor, she sat and gazed longingly at the dark window, hoping for some sign of a real breeze. Weeks ago she’d abandoned her usual shift; she now wore one of Aaron’s nearly transparent summer shirts of fine Holland. It was short, and its shoulders drooped well beneath her own. It was also cool, and wearing it was a remarkably enjoyable sensation.
After she had rolled up the shirt’s sleeves, she took the combs from her hair. When it had all tumbled down she picked up a brush, smoothed her light tresses, and tied them back with a ribbon. That done, she walked across the room past the looking glass. What she saw reflected in its dark surface caused her to stop and stare.
Again, the song of the Persian king came back to her with the image of Gian Carlo Lahte standing on Longfellow’s piazza in his own shirtsleeves. Simpatia, he had called it, the first time they were alone. She had to admit there was something in this unusual man that moved her—in his voice, his words, even the fingertips that had brushed against her ear—something that made her wish to give him her trust, as he’d suggested. And yet—
And yet, she barely knew him! How could she have spoken as she did, and so quickly? Was it because, through his art, he was able to put himself into a woman’s place—into a woman’s heart—to feel what other men could not? She knew the women of Bracebridge were whispering romantic possibilities to one another, their interest piqued by his strangeness, as well as by his handsome features. She also knew from talking with Hannah that some of their men supposed the taste in love of a castrato might be of quite another sort.
But that could not be true! Longfellow had told her that the company of Il Colombo had long been sought by women. And yet—
She hardly expected every man to surrender to her own modest charms, but why had he spoken to her of wanting only a sister for a companion? Had he grown tired of the chase, and lost interest? Or was Italy an even odder place than she had been led to believe? Curious things were apparently condoned there—even encouraged—for look what had already happened to Gian Carlo Lahte! Could this be true of love, as well?
The Bible, she knew, recorded a peculiar passion shared by David and Jonathan—one which surpassed the love of women. And Shakespeare had written of the Duke of Illyria’s lust for a young soldier … who had also been loved by the Lady Olivia! She had heard that even today in London, noblemen, at least, might be allowed to choose as they wished. But was such a thing likely to occur in Bracebridge?
Perhaps it was the rising summer moon, or even the mal aria from the marshes, that caused her to have such thoughts, she decided as she crossed to the bed she’d once shared with Aaron. She threw herself upon it, and vowed to go back to what she knew.
Only that afternoon, she had seen the musico warn Thomas Pomeroy to keep his distance. But Pomeroy had done no more than approach Angelo, and perhaps admire him with questioning eyes. Earlier, Lahte had been less than overjoyed to see the child; yet he did take him back into his service. He must have felt sympathy for one to whom the future promised little.
But why, she asked herself again, had Angelo, unsummoned, crossed the sea? Was it because what she would not suppose of the master was, in fact, true of the servant? Did Angelo look for more than a master in Signor Lahte—more even than a friend? As for the musico, would he not know from his own experience what might befall such a child—one with no protector, who had already grown used to the idea that his body could be bought and sold? Should not this make one feel a tender concern? And would not he then wish to keep others away, to protect the boy?
She next had to ask herself if Gian Carlo Lahte saw in Thomas Pomeroy, late of London, what she could not. Was Thomas truly a threat to young Angelo? And how, if at all, did the dead man, Sesto Alva, fit into this complicated scheme?
By now feeling somewhat dizzy, she lay back and allowed the entire web to dissolve from her mind. Perhaps it was only the heat that suggested these things, and made the details of the situation building around her seem impossible to untangle, or to judge.
One thing was certain. So many ambiguities could hardly encourage sleep. For that reason, Charlotte was not surprised to find herself lying awake in the darkness hours later, while she considered the ways of men, and women, and children … and the obvious virtues of solitude.
Chapter 12
Tuesday, August 20
AGAIN CLAD IN proper attire for her sex, and somewhat chastened by her flight of fancy in the night, Mrs. Willett walked beside her cows from barn to dairy on another humid morning.
At the doorway, she turned to see Hannah’s son running for all he was worth, his face aflame, his feet occasionally slipping on the damp grass. Puffing and flailing his arms like a windmill, Henry managed to stop himself. Then, his chest still heaving, he took the pail held out to him.
“A letter was brought to me yesterday, by Mrs. Montagu,” said Charlotte, once the milk had
begun to splash rhythmically. “From Lem.”
“I hope he still says his prayers, for he’ll need them in a place like Boston,” the boy replied. Now thirteen, Henry had decided that he’d nearly reached the estate of manhood; Charlotte recognized the fact that his ears, at least, had grown large.
“He studies, mostly, with his cousin and a tutor,” she replied, “though he does find some time for a more social life.” Diana’s comment about a possible courtship returned to her now, and cost her a small frown.
“Has he trained with the militia yet?” Henry inquired.
“Why would he do that?”
“Because all young men long to join. You carry a musket, and march up and down the Common. Will says that’s what he does in Concord, on Training Day; and then they all drink ale before going home. I wish I could march about with our militia, on our green.”
“I hope Lem is more eager to bring in a turkey with his musket than to assist Governor Bernard. Besides, Henry, you know he has time before he’s expected to go.”
“They let some practice early, though. Will says boys often follow the rest, and hear some fine talk too! And Lem’s sixteen, after all.”
“But he’s still a part of Bracebridge, even if he has gone off to Boston. Which I begin to wish he had not,” she added to herself.
“Martha would like to see him come home,” Henry said as if it were a secret, ducking his blond head to speak to her from under a cow.
“Did she tell you so?”
“She can say what she likes … even, sometimes, that she doesn’t ever want to see Mr. Wainwright again! That is usually after she receives a letter, but I know it’s not what she means. I think she is really very fond of him. She says she’s afraid, though, that he’ll be swept away—which I hope he is not! But I don’t see how he could be, unless there is a worse flood there than was ever seen here, on the Musketaquid.”
Martha’s older sister would naturally hear her dreams and fears, thought Charlotte, just as she herself had once heard Eleanor’s. She imagined they might do well to be more careful of Henry. But he was a late child, and there was no one else his age at home. No doubt he heard and saw a great deal that he didn’t fully understand. “In his letter to me,” she told the boy, “Lem asks of you, and he hopes your family is well.”
“Maybe I will write to him. Mrs. Willett … do you know anything of the new boy who came from Boston yesterday? I wanted to ask you before, but when I came too late for milking …”
“No harm done. Though I can’t tell you much, Henry. It seems he knows little English, and since few of us here understand the Italian language, it may be a while before he is able to make new friends.”
“His master seems happy to have him here.” Henry got up and moved his stool and pail to another cow. “I saw them sporting together last evening in a far field, wrestling in the grass. I was watching a snake pull a small rabbit out of its burrow, and then he ate it.”
“Oh!”
“It was down by the creek—but only an old milk snake, really. I found it hard to leave, though, until it finished, for I’d never seen such a thing before.”
“I see! But you also saw—?”
“The new gentleman, Mr. Lahte, with a boy I didn’t know. Though I heard about him later from my sisters. He’s a little taller than I am, but he was weeping!”
“Was he?”
“Yes, and he was too big for that, I thought.”
For the remainder of their milking they spoke of other things, until they set down covered pails at the dairy’s door, and Henry prepared to lead the cows to pasture. Suddenly the two turned their heads, to find the source of a sweet sound coming from the near meadow. Charlotte recognized the high, musical strains at once, and felt herself blush. Then she explained that it was Signor Lahte’s flute, though she couldn’t quite make out the player, given the distance. Henry, it seemed, could.
“Look—there they are again!” he said, pointing. “He’s given the flute to the boy now, and … and he’s twirling him around!” The novelty of this behavior clearly appealed to Henry, who urged the cows forward for a closer look, using a smooth stick he had taken from behind the door.
“Take care!” Mrs. Willett called as the herd swung away, the bell on the lead animal clanking loudly.
For several minutes she stood there, watching. Lem, too, had shown her some of a young man’s joys and troubles, she recalled as she walked back to the house alone. Richard must have been right to send their young friend off to Harvard; here, he would have only a small share of his father’s few poor plots of land, one day. But how could the village prosper with its most promising sons going off to the college, and remaining in Boston to earn their livelihood? Henry would have to decide before long whether he should go, or stay. And then she imagined another choice—one made by a boy barely older than Henry, to cross a broad ocean in search of his own dream. What sort had it been?
She knew she could hardly ask Angelo, even if they had spoken the same language. But there was still Thomas Pomeroy. Exactly how much, she wondered, did Jonathan know of him?
At least that was one question to which she knew she might easily find an answer.
A FEW MINUTES later, Charlotte arrived at the Bracebridge Inn to find Elizabeth busy, as usual, in the kitchen. Tim, the message boy, was there as well, eating scraps of pastry crust. He hauled the milk pails she’d brought in her hand wagon down into the cellar to cool, while Charlotte selected yeasty griddle muffins and fatter soda biscuits for herself, then more to take across the road to Longfellow’s household. Both women agreed the visitors might appreciate these for their breakfast, with a basket of berries and Charlotte’s gift of a pot of sweet cheese.
Meanwhile, Thomas Pomeroy loped down the servants’ stairs from the upper rooms, to encounter Tim coming up from below. Together they leaned against a door frame, speaking softly, sharing chuckles and jabs.
“Madam, good morning,” Thomas suddenly called, as he straightened and gave her a quick bow. “Is there something I can do …?”
Searching for an answer, Charlotte took in his neat, glossy hair, clean face with its hint of a beard, pressed apron tied over his clothing, well-developed calves under unexpectedly fine stockings, and finally, shoes of soft, almost unblemished leather. Nearly all of his apparel seemed new. She looked up to see that he scrutinized her own appearance, possibly with an even more interested eye.
How, she wondered, could she ever have thought—! And yet, given what little she knew …
“Do you wish, possibly, to change your order for the glass?” asked Thomas. “I can easily tell Mrs. Pratt what you require—”
Before she could answer, Charlotte heard skirts whipping through a passage, and then saw Lydia Pratt herself.
“If you young gentlemen,” she cried, “have nothing better to do with yourselves, then I—oh! Mrs. Willett.”
As Lydia’s demeanor changed abruptly, Charlotte saw that she had done something else to alter her appearance. Her black hair, though still in its bun, was not as tightly drawn as usual, and a few forced waves rode atop the woman’s thin forehead. Her cheeks, frequently almost gray, were alive with a suffusion of well-being—or perhaps something more easily obtained. And could that be perfume coming from a newly drawn lace handkerchief? The indolent summer air had surely whispered into Lydia’s ear; possibly, it had even refreshed something languishing deep within her soul. Though not an unpleasant change, thought Charlotte, it was a startling one. Especially as it came on the heels of her own ponderings, during the previous week, over love … and death.
“Mrs. Willett?” the landlady repeated. “Are you taking some of our goods to Mr. Longfellow? Or have you news from there already?”
“News? No, I have not seen them today, but my intention is to stop there, to add to their breakfast. Is there something you would like me to say?”
“No, no … unless you would ask if they will come again to dine, as they did yesterday. Of course, it is alway
s good to see Miss—er—Mrs. Montagu, and her charming husband, the captain. Now, this other gentleman …”
“Signor Lahte?”
“He, too, is a welcome addition to our little village, as I’m sure you’ll agree. You have spoken with him at length, I believe, in your own home?”
Although Charlotte had learned long ago that few things in Bracebridge went unobserved, she felt herself bristle.
“For part of a morning, with Hannah. He watched as I made several cheeses.”
“I’m sure he found that fascinating.”
“He seemed to. If you like, I could encourage him to come and see how you run your own establishment, which must have a great deal more to offer his natural curiosity.”
Lydia seemed to agree. “If Signor Lahte would visit us again,” she simpered, “I know he would be satisfied! I would be only too glad to give him a tour of the inn’s parts.” Saying this, she again fluttered her handkerchief.
“But I’m also sure,” said Charlotte, “that this morning he and the others will be hungry for your warm biscuits and muffins. Tim has taken the milk downstairs,” she added.
“I will note that in the book,” said Lydia, her smile vanishing as a matter of trade overcame her mind’s other calculations.
Making her escape, Charlotte pulled her wagon around the corner of the inn; in another moment she stood before the open window of Jonathan Pratt’s small office. She was pleased to see a round head pop out of it.
“Mrs. Willett! Won’t you come in and join me?”
“I would rather you join me in the delightful air,” she answered, giving Jonathan a look of such innocence that he answered at once with a conspirator’s smile.
“Then I will have to leave off work, despite the fact that I am in the midst of tallying.”
“Might we not discuss my account?”
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