“Certainly! And I will inspect what you have made off with this time. Scones, is it? Oh, muffins—I did sample some of them earlier, but perhaps another one or two will do no harm.”
When the landlord had come out into the yard, the two old friends made their way to a rustic seat of logs that sat in a copse of trees not far away. Hidden from most things, it was a place appreciated by those with imagination.
“So, my dear,” Jonathan began as he chose a muffin. “How do you like having a stylish European next door? I believe it’s nearly all some women now think of. Have you, too, come under his exotic spell?”
“I think,” she said, feeling herself redden, “that it is entirely possible I am like other women, Jonathan. He is a pleasing man, with quite a good carriage, face, and manner.”
“He is far too handsome for his own good!” the landlord rejoined, patting a waistcoat that rode uneasily over an impressive stomach. “Something I am sure he knows.”
“He seems intelligent …”
“Yes, he does. That’s why I wonder at his being here at all.”
“Has our village no exotic charms of its own, in your opinion?” asked Charlotte with a light laugh.
“Charms? In certain young ladies, here and there, quite possibly. Yet I cannot believe any of them would make a proper match for Signor Lahte.”
“He could offer one of them a fortune …”
“But not a houseful of children to work a farm, or to marry land.”
“It’s rumored there is another reason he might not marry a young lady.” She watched as he eyed her warily.
“If, Mrs. Willett, you suppose I will speak with you of what I suspect you mean, then you are mistaken!”
“But Jonathan, I’ve been a wife—and have some idea … of many things. Besides, if others speak of it, why can we not, only between ourselves?”
“Talk of forbidden love? I don’t see that a wife should know much of this subject. After all, women will not find its equal among their sex.” Though he refused to make further comment, her look of disappointment soon softened him. “However, I do recall that your father allowed you to explore his library, which includes many of the classical authors … so I suppose I may in good conscience answer a question or two. If I can.”
“Is it possible, that here—? Have you known a man to devote himself whole-heartedly, passionately, to another? To the exclusion of my own sex?”
“Possible? Most things are possible, my dear. That is something I’ve learned while operating an inn. Even with sleeping arrangements—although such things are not supposed to happen. But they do, even here, despite warnings from the pulpit, and penalties occasionally sent down from the bench.”
“It is not something one often reads of, though, in our own time—even in Pope, or Fielding. So I wonder—”
“Reads about? Do you actually suppose that novels represent life, Mrs. Willett? Great Heaven! Who would care to write of such things? What would others say of such an author? Or to him? No, my dear, some things are best spoken of softly, between sensible friends, rather than broadcast in the newspapers, or put into novels! This is hardly a subject even for one’s own journal. Think of what might happen, should one’s children read—or their children, one day!” Jonathan closed his eyes, then gave a chuckle before opening them again. “Yet there are some of the highest rank and fashion in England who are not afraid of such talk about themselves—as I presume you have heard. And I can assure you that we, too, have such neighbors … although they do not proclaim what they do, or feel, to the world. For instance, we both know one pair of pleasant old gentlemen who live a little out of the village … but I ask you, Mrs. Willett, who would tell me their secrets? Especially as everyone can see that I have another sort of problem for my own.”
Charlotte smiled at this reference to Lydia Pratt, before going on. “Jonathan, to change the subject entirely—”
“Yes?” he replied with new suspicion, watcing her blue eyes widen. Now, it appeared, she went for the meat of the nut she had come to crack.
“Your servant, Thomas Pomeroy—”
“What’s this? Don’t tell me you think—!”
“As you say, I know so little … as a woman, especially … but I did wonder, when I saw him here at dinner yesterday.”
“Pomeroy?” The landlord gave an explosive laugh. “Hah! That, I think, is hardly likely to be young Tom’s style! No, I would suppose he is quite the opposite. From the way I’ve seen him watch the various females who come and go, I believe he might behave, if he could, like the infamous Don Juan. Or perhaps your Signor Lahte. Now, there is a life that must give one much to think on. I only hope, if Lahte stays, that he will tell some of his better stories to me! Confidentially, and only between gentlemen, my dear. For I’m afraid I’ve missed a good deal of what the world offers.”
“But where has he come from?”
“Pomeroy? He’s English, of course … from London. Last week he arrived here from Boston with another traveler.”
“That much I know.”
“Well, then—after that, he asked to speak with me in private, and he made me an offer. What do you say to this, Mrs. Willett?”
Reaching into a pocket, Jonathan Pratt pulled out a fragment of cloth. He carefully unrolled it to reveal something small that gleamed even in the shade.
“A diamond?” Charlotte asked with surprise.
“It seems Pomeroy’s parents were French—forced to leave that Catholic country in order to marry, for as Protestants, they were not permitted the rite. This is the last of a pair of heirloom stones they gave him, with which he was to make his way in the world. He told me the first one paid for his passage here in May. This, he hopes, will help to set him up in a trade, after a suitable apprenticeship. He also asked me to take him on until he could find a proper master—or at least until I might turn this into gold for him, for a small commission. He tells me he hopes to bring his parents from London one day, to share our better life. That seemed to me to indicate a very good sort of lad.”
“It is a heartwarming story,” Mrs. Willett said softly.
“There is more, and I warn you it’s of an even more exciting nature. I overheard Thomas telling Tim that while headed here from London, he barely survived a wild storm at sea which nearly sent his ship to the bottom! Though finally, it only drove them far off their course. By God’s grace they anchored safely, and the captain was able to obtain a new mainmast in Funchal. But when he sailed again, it was with three fewer hands, for they had been swept overboard one howling night! Quite an adventure, don’t you think?”
“Nearly as exciting as something from Mr. Defoe. Or perhaps Dean Swift?”
To this, Jonathan nodded soberly.
“It might be,” he returned, “that Thomas Pomeroy could make himself into a fine novelist, one day. But I would hope, first, that he proves his intelligence by finding more useful employment, or learning a trade. Meanwhile, he does well enough here, which is something I generally expect but rarely find in those I hire. The most promising of people, I am sorry to tell you, are often a disappointment. I do know of one night when young Thomas ‘borrowed’ a field nag and came in at dawn … but then, we cannot all be middle-aged, sedentary, and reasonable, can we? Now, why do you ask about him, Mrs. Willett?”
“I have no real excuse. But if he is to stay with us, I thought …”
“That you should inquire into his pedigree? Quite sensible, for you will now have something extra to trade, on your next visit to the shop of Mrs. Bowers. At the moment, I can assure you Pomeroy is without other fortune, but I think he’ll soon remedy that. He seems to me a clever lad who might easily win a Bracebridge daughter. Though I suppose any young person who comes to us without references could, conceivably, bring trouble. Speaking of trouble, how fares Mrs. Montagu this morning?”
“I haven’t seen her. She keeps town hours, you know. But I am going that way. May I deliver your compliments, as well as your muffins?”
“Then I’ll be going,” said Charlotte, rising and taking up her wagon’s handle.
As she went on her way, Jonathan Pratt watched her fondly, though he asked himself why she had just set off in entirely the wrong direction.
SOON AFTER MENTIONING Mrs. Montagu to Jonathan, Charlotte had realized there was little chance Diana would yet be dressed, for it was still no more than eight o’clock. But that left time for a chat with Nathan, who should be at work on the other side of the inn’s rear yard. She walked past the stables toward his small forge, and saw by the smoke drifting from its chimney that he was, indeed, nearby.
As it turned out, Nathan Browne was just inside the enclosure, working today as a farrier. With a roan’s forefoot crooked between his knees, he ran a metal file over the animal’s horn. Then he lowered the leg to the ground and stepped back to flex his back and arms, before turning and noticing Charlotte standing there.
“Do you sell door to door today, madam?” he jested, eyeing the cloth packets in the wagon with interest. She offered a muffin, which he took once he’d wiped his hands on his sleeves. Savoring a bite, he stepped forward and squatted to examine her wagon’s wheels.
“They’re holding well,” he commented, checking both sides before lifting his placid gaze.
“A good advertisement for your skills.”
“As if I needed work! This is my fourth horse this morning. It seems everyone travels before harvest, but few take enough care of their mounts or carriage horses to have them ready.”
“But you were busy all last month, as well.”
“Then perhaps the average owner is not as bad as I imagine. Why is it in our nature to think the worst of our fellows, do you suppose? Now, what can I do for you this morning? Are your own feet quite well?” he asked, leaning back to sit in more comfort on the ground.
“They’ll do,” she replied as she sank to the wagon’s bed.
“Still, they might benefit from a short rest.” Nathan spread his large, rough hands on the grass. “Some speculate they’ve taken you too far of late, walking out with Mr. Longfellow’s guest.” Seeing her frown, he gave an apologetic shrug of his broad shoulders. “Though that is not something I’ve repeated. Will he stay with us long, do you think? And what does he intend to do here?”
“I doubt he’ll attempt to shoe horses, if that’s your concern.”
“Now I’ve annoyed you. For that I’m truly sorry!”
“The fault is mostly mine, Nathan. But you’re not the only one to warn me lately. Why, I wonder, is no one else willing to make a stranger welcome?”
“I agree that it’s a wise precaution—for it’s said any traveler might be an angel in disguise. But I would add, not too welcome, or too soon. If he makes his home with us, I’ll be glad to offer him my assistance. In fact I already have, on the very afternoon he came from Boston.”
Thinking back, Charlotte recalled Longfellow’s suggestion of a siesta, on their way home from viewing the body in the cellar—a suggestion to which Lahte had immediately agreed. “What did he want here?” she asked the smith.
“He asked about his horse and chaise—the one he’d rented to drive here—and made sure we would send it back quickly. And then he wanted to know about the mount ridden by the poor devil found on the road. He asked to see the saddle as well, but neither suited him.”
He could have been seeking a message, she supposed, as he seemed to have done with the boots and buttons. Though why, exactly, she still could not say.
“I understand what it is to be new to a village, you know,” Nathan went on. “When I arrived here, I greatly valued the loan of one particular pair of ears. I still do. Here, let me regale you with a story I ran across only last evening. As you have an interest in things of a mysterious nature, I think you’ll find this worth pondering. It seems a merchant in the Blue Boar yesterday was in Boston last week, where he saw our dead man—while still living, of course—in another tavern. The Green Dragon, to be precise.”
“Oh?”
“But when the fellow got up to leave, he saw this Sesto Alva, who still sat at a table, walk in at the door!”
Imagining the scene, Charlotte replied with pointed curiosity.
“There were two?”
“There were, though some suggest that the first man was, in truth, what our Dutch friends call—er—”
“A doppelgänger?”
“That’s it. Do you suppose such a thing could exist?”
“Do you?”
“I’ve never seen one. Nor do I want to! I have, however, now that I think of it, seen a man who closely resembles his brother.”
“That does seem more likely.”
“So I suppose it is not much of a story, after all.”
“On the contrary,” Charlotte replied seriously. “Is there any more?”
Nathan stood up, and added the few details he’d previously omitted.
“Have you heard,” Mrs. Willett then asked the smith, after taking a little time to think, “that Captain Montagu also found Signor Lahte’s servant in Boston?”
“The boy called Angelo.”
“Who traveled to Boston with Sesto Alva. But as far as I know, Angelo has made no mention of this ‘brother.’ Surely, he’d think a relation would be interested in claiming the body? And wouldn’t it be surprising enough, if Alva did meet a family member here unexpectedly, for him to share the story with his servant? Especially as he had no one else to tell?”
“There could have been bad blood between them. But I’ve a new suspicion, Mrs. Willett. There may be more to this Alva’s death than has yet been told to the village. Do you think so?” Her eyes told him he’d hit on a truth. “It does seem,” the smith went on, “that their meeting was less than pleasant. Perhaps, too, Alva saw his business as none of a servant’s concern—especially one so young.”
“That may be true, as well. I only hope we’ll meet this second man, whoever he is, when he learns Sesto Alva has died here. Unless he already knows—”
She stopped short, considering.
“Or, he could have been unaware of Alva’s visit to us,” said Nathan, “and might well have moved on. If that is so, he may never hear what has happened.”
“It’s an interesting puzzle,” she said, attempting to hide her growing suspicion that it was something far worse.
The blacksmith only smiled, glad to have been of service.
Chapter 13
WHEN SHE HAD reached the road, Charlotte was not at all sure what made her suddenly change her plan and continue up the hill in the direction of her farmhouse. Once inside, she passed Hannah with barely a word. The rest of the beans would have to wait, and the pears could be hanged! She went into her study, closed the door, and sat in its deepest chair, slouching in defiance.
Was it only the heat that made her feel as if her skin had just come into contact with a patch of nettles? She did not think so.
First, Signor Lahte had said he had no idea of the identity of the man found dead beside the road, or how he came to be there. Then, he remembered that he might know the man, but barely; in fact, he admitted no connection, though he and Sesto Alva, and Angelo, had all came to Bracebridge from Milan. Still, she had attempted to believe him. And now, it seemed there was yet another visitor from Milan—the double of Alva. It was too much!
On top of that, Lahte was jealous of a younger man’s attention to his servant, though he held the eye of nearly every woman in the village! Not that she, herself, hoped to gain his further approval. She hoped for nothing from him at all … except, perhaps, the honesty he had promised. Honesty? Pffff! Mrs. Willett blew a strand of hair away from her face. Did he suppose her a complete fool? Someone to whom he could talk sweetly, while adding another link onto his absurd story?
The boy now had a thing or two to explain, as well. Although in his case, she suspected, sympathy would soon make her regret her anger. For Henry had seen the child in tears….
Quite
honestly, she reconsidered, could it be Lahte’s fault that she had been wrong about Thomas Pomeroy? But could she then be wrong about Gian Carlo Lahte, and Angelo, too? There was something curious about the young man, who seemed to bear her an unspoken ill-will. Why?
All of her uncertainties of the night before reappeared. She had guessed Il Colombo had been chased from Milan by a husband. But perhaps … perhaps he had not lied to her, exactly, after all? Might he only have held something back? She tried to recall Lahte’s exact words.
I did wish to avoid a certain person, at least for a time … it is a woman who cannot refuse her feelings … she threatened to leave her home … I tried only to spare an old man….
Then, as if the season had changed in an instant, she saw the truth leap through a highly colored forest—one which she, herself, had fashioned.
He could have told her more. She had believed in him—in fact, had only refused to believe after his attentions to her had stopped. The shame of this now struck her with some force. But if what she suddenly sensed—no, knew—was true, then surely, there was something far worse to worry about!
Charlotte rose and went into the kitchen, where she left a quiet word with Hannah. She took a cloth, and went into the cellar to chip pieces from a square of pond ice buried in sawdust. Then she wrapped the chips in the cloth and applied it to her neck, her shoulders, under her thin muslin bodice.
Feeling cooler, she left the cellar with a new plan. When one wanted to verify a suspicion, the simplest thing to do was ask. As a strategy, it was less interesting than most. But sometimes, it did work.
WHEN SHE ENTERED Richard Longfellow’s back door, Mrs. Willett heard the pianoforte ringing out from the study. She paused at the entryway to gaze inside. Angelo, she saw, played reasonably well, while Il Colombo stood ready to turn a page. There seemed no doubt today that Lahte delighted in Angelo’s company, bending even now to touch a dark curl. It was done with what appeared to be the gentleness of a fond father, yet now that she knew….
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