No Rest for the Dove (9 page)

W
ELL BEFORE SUNDOWN
and the start of the Sabbath, several regular visitors were again engaged in conversation along rough tables, inside the Blue Boar tavern.

“I heard it with my own ears,” Caleb Knox insisted. He lifted a pint of cider brought to him for the latest unwinding of his now familiar story. “Amazing high it was, almost like a trumpet—and then it sawed back and forth like a fiddle for a while, with the tune embroidered in strange ways.”

“Not in English, you say?” Samuel Sloan asked pointedly. Hannah’s husband had been dismayed when the storyteller sat down beside him minutes earlier, interrupting glum thoughts of the week gone by. Now, his curiosity was stirred.

“No, nor French either. I can’t say for sure, but it
seemed to me like the Latin the boys at Harvard College spout out on the green, on Commencement Day.”

“There’s good times!” returned another farmer at a nearby table. Then he fondly recalled the capers, and the liquor, that followed the great event each year on Cambridge Common, when Harvard sent off another crop.

“He said he was a … a music-something-or-other,” Caleb said eventually, returning to his tale. “Said most of Europe knows it.”

“Not a musico?” asked an old quail who had earlier seated himself by the unlit hearth out of habit, in a broad-backed Windsor chair. His pied eyebrows fluttered while the clay pipe he smoked sent out a series of small puffs.

“Aye, that’s it, Mr. Flint,” Caleb called over. “I believe that’s just the way he said it.”

“Oh-ho!” cried a second plump person from a chair by the first—a man generally called Tinder, though Tyndall was his name. “A musico, in a place like this! Who would have dreamed of such a thing?”

His friend Flint wiped his lips and smiled, causing both cheeks to shine more brightly. “I have heard a number of stories myself from a half-brother—the one raised in London, you’ll recall. There’s flocks of them that come and go all over Europe, these musicos, at the whim of the public, who pays well to see ’em! Like gentlemen, most are … though few can claim to come from any kind of good family, of course.”

“Well, what are they, then?” asked Jack Pennywort, a small, nearly toothless man who nursed a tankard of ale. “What’s so special about him?”

Phineas Wise, the tavern’s lean and hawk-nosed proprietor, cleared his throat as he glanced from Jack to the little man’s current table companion, burly blacksmith Nathan Browne. The smith, too, seemed puzzled.

“He’s a castrato, sons!” said Flint triumphantly, slapping
his knee for emphasis. “Right here in Bracebridge! Probably rich as Croesus! But what on earth would one of them be doing here?”

“One of
what
?” Jack insisted, hoping he was not about to become the butt of yet another tavern jest.

“Do you know, Jack,” Phineas Wise asked slowly, “what a gelding is?”

“Certainly I do! A great, good horse for a gentleman to ride, or even a lady. Gentle, they’re said to be, after what’s done to them.”

“Well, that’s what’s done to a castrato,” Wise said, wiping the table before him with a cloth.

“No! How can they do that?”

“I only know it’s taken care of while they’re boys, to keep the voice from becoming low, like a man’s. It will still be loud, of course, as it comes from a large chest. That’s
why
they do it.”

“Who?” Jack demanded, his club foot scraping on the floor as he shifted uncomfortably.

“Only the Italians, I believe. Though castrati can be found singing in most of the cities of Europe, as Mr. Flint has said.”

“He may be a gelding,” Flint returned, “but from what I’ve heard, his sort can still do as other men in most things. For instance, the castrato has been known to fight bravely. And he might be as godly as the next. Or so it says in Scripture.”

“Like the Eunuch of Ethiopia—” joined in another, who had a prodigious memory.

“I did take him for a gentleman,” said Caleb Knox with growing uncertainty, “though now …”

“There’s nothing wrong with making a useful horse,” Nathan mused, “for many need taming, especially when they’re young. But to think of a man—!”

“A man with no seed,” replied old Tinder, “is a sad thing to us, surely—but he’s something else again to the ladies! Nip to the cat, if you know what I mean.” He puffed sagaciously, emitting a Vesuvius of smoke.

“You’d best keep your bride in sight, Nathan, should this fellow decide to go wandering off from Mr. Longfellow’s,” said Flint with a wheeze.

“Unless he’s one of the others,” Tinder added, looking about to see who, exactly, was there.

“
What
others?” cried Jack, again fearful that he was about to lose the thread of the conversation.

While several men on the more distant benches began to watch and listen, Tinder seemed to gauge the hour by the light of the fading afternoon. Then, fortifying himself with a few more puffs, he went on.

“Certain gentlemen across the sea, as most of you will know, have long been said to have an
unusually
high regard for other gentlemen, and even for young boys. The Greeks, for instance … if you take my meaning.”

“You mean buggery?” exclaimed a man who sat against the wall, beneath several barrels of cider.

“To us, a grave error. Yet it is known that in classical times—”

“Then by God, I’ll keep Leonard inside, too—and put Dobbin to barn!” shouted a red-faced man who had been in his seat overlong.

A chorus of hoots sounded from a corner, but the original group of speakers frowned at the tendency of the conversation, while a few others clamped their teeth together and thought about going home.

“As you’re well aware, sodomy is a grave crime in Massachusetts,” Phineas Wise reminded them all, “and the penalty for several of these acts is still death. Though in this century, I am glad to say, we have not gone that far.
But it is still a thing that can bring a place serious trouble. So let us take care! Let us also remember there is a heavy penalty for accusing any man without cause.”

“And, for a conviction on the crime of sodomy, you will need at least two witnesses, gentlemen,” called a sheep-faced man in traveler’s garb, who then went back to giving less startling legal information to a worried farmer.

“If them that sing high lack a certain something,” suggested a bull-necked customer in bass tones, “perhaps a man who sings low must have more of it?”

“I’ll be sure to ask your wife next time we’re alone,” came his answer, disguised as a squeak. This caused the large man to rise and stare around the room.

“It is curious, though,” Nathan said softly, under new laughter, “when such a man comes here on the very day another finds his way into the reverend’s cellar.”

“Too damned many strangers come through now,” replied Samuel Sloan in a growl. He had turned away from the landlord to pour a bit of rum from a pocket bottle into his ale. “This live one,” he added, “will be sure to find real trouble, if he tries anything with my old woman.”

Nathan considered an answer, but in the end kept it to himself.

“What is the musico’s name?” asked someone stationed by the door. “In case we want to greet him in the road.”

“His name’s Lahte,” said a man just come from leaving a hogshead of salt in Richard Longfellow’s kitchen. “Signor Lahte. He’s an Italian gentleman, known to Mr. Longfellow from his travels.”

“Aye, that’s right,” said Caleb Knox. “And he says he wishes to settle here!”

“Surely,” returned the sentry, “if he’s friend to Mr. Longfellow—”

“But shouldn’t we have a care, with a man so different in his ways?” Caleb insisted, swaying a bit as he rose to emphasize his point. “For what if he came here to bubble us all, and make his fortune?”

“If he already
has
a fortune,” another reasoned coolly, “as Mr. Flint supposes, and he wants to spread a little of it around this sorry place, would any of us be unhappy about
that
?”

The ensuing silence made Phineas Wise smile at the cunning of at least some of his clientele. “Now,” the landlord concluded, “if anyone would like to turn these things over with the help of a fresh pint of cider, or something with good barley in it, I’d be happy to accommodate him.”

“It is my considered opinion,” Samuel Sloan called out a while later, “that as long as we know what to suspect, each may look out for his own pocket—or his morals, come to that—whatever the plans of this castrato be. But what I wonder is, who will be the first brave sprat to run and tell the news to the Reverend Mr. Rowe?”

Another whoop broke out, and congenial laughter soon rolled about the room once more.

It seemed, thought the landlord, that the village had come alive with anticipation—a pleasing thought, for this was a thing he knew did no harm to business.

LATER, ACROSS THE
river and up the hill, waning light cast quiet shadows onto the blue walls of Charlotte Willett’s study, where she and her neighbor awaited the arrival of Dr. Joseph Warren from Boston. Meanwhile, Richard Longfellow had consumed most of a bowl of gingerbread and clotted cream.

“Was your afternoon with Il Colombo a pleasant one?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“I did find it enjoyable. It’s good to have fresh company—especially that of a man who takes an interest in a woman’s work.”

“Have a care for European flattery, Mrs. Willett. I suspect your new friend is a master of far more than music. Did you learn anything of particular interest?” Longfellow asked further, with the air of one who holds a trump or two.

Charlotte then related much of what she had found curious, if not everything. “One subject, though, did not come up,” she finished.

“Oh?”

“That of the operation itself.”

“You surprise me.”

“Richard, you know I have a keen interest in medicine—”

“An admirable thing in a countrywoman,” he conceded, evading her question.

“I’m hardly happy to keep returning to it in my mind … especially when I’m not sure I should be asking such a thing in the first place! But won’t you tell me?”

Longfellow studied her face carefully, before he spoke again.

“Together, we have felt the worst, Carlotta, that God and Nature can do. As it has affected neither your spirit, nor your virtue, I doubt any new knowledge, even of this sort, will harm you.”

“How is it done?”

“Let me tell you a story. It seems a famous musico was visited, one day, by a poor stranger who claimed to be his father. Both had changed greatly since he’d sent the boy to his cruel fate years before; but the old man gave proof, and the musico acknowledged him. At that point, the man asked for money. The singer quickly agreed. However,
he insisted that he repay his father with his own coin. So saying, he gave the man a purse that was quite empty, and sent him on his way.”

“Empty?”

“Two purses, I suppose, would have been more to the point. But I see that you are after more. Well, as a curious man myself, I requested the details from a fellow student, when I was first in Italy many years ago. It seems when they find a boy with a promising voice who is willing to learn, they first give him poppy juice to drink, and then put him into a hot bath; this promotes sleep, and distends the blood vessels. A skilled physician—for this is not a job entrusted to a fool—makes two small incisions in the groin, severing the passages that lead to the seed organs. In time, this causes both external ‘purses’ to wither away, as they are of no further use to their owner.”

“Oh …”

“Here is something else you will find interesting. A castrato is still quite capable of performing the physical act of love, if he wishes to. They are certainly poignant when they sing of it—in fact, it is this, in part, for which they are so highly paid. Yet I have often wondered how much of their noble passion on the stage is feigned. A few quite elegant performers have been notable for flying into tempers offstage and behaving like fishwives … at least, until their voices, and their figures, cease to deserve admiration.”

Charlotte’s eyes were no longer eager, and whatever they saw appeared to be far away. At her feet, Orpheus was considerably more attentive; for this he was rewarded with the last bite of gingerbread.

“You’re not the only one to be curious, by the way. I’m sure Cicero longs to ask me what you have. I may repeat it to him one day, once Lahte has gone.”

“You don’t think he means to stay, then?”

“I doubt it. He may be telling us the truth when he says he would enjoy a quiet life. Still, I think there must be something more to his visit than he has disclosed.”

Catching Charlotte’s eye, Longfellow held onto it, until she relented and told him the rest of what she had heard.

“Signor Lahte did tell me he was the target of a jealous husband, though I’m not sure he gave the man cause. He said this was the real reason he left Milan.”

“Many among the castrati are notorious for amorous exploits, as I’ve already hinted.”

“Yes, you have already warned me.”

“Then
here
is something you may not know. One of the missing boots has been found.”

“Has it? Where?”

“In the marshes of the river. It was pulled up by a boy out sniggling.”