Too Soon for Flowers (15 page)

“I find myself intrigued,” Longfellow replied, “by what I have heard of Eastern medicine and philosophy, which I plan to give more study—but have you read the account of Montesquieu’s fictitious Persians in Paris?”

“I haven’t. Sorry. I can tell you, though, that Goldsmith, by reputation at least, is a poor Irishman with a lurid taste in clothes. He does seem to have an admirable wit—in that he is like your sister, although I think she dresses
rather well,” Pelham finished, with what Captain Montagu supposed was a smirk.

“As my correspondence with her dressmakers would suggest,” Longfellow responded.

“But I doubt,” Mrs. Willett said softly, “that Diana will be up to a literary discussion today, Mr. Pelham. And none of us, I think, can forget that the house has seen a death.”

“What?” cried David Pelham. “But sir, your sister—?”

“She is well—it’s Phoebe Morris who has died. She is—was—the young woman from Concord whom I mentioned earlier. We discovered her yesterday morning—but I am surprised that this is news to you.”

David Pelham had first appeared stunned, but rapidly recovered himself. “Yesterday, I was alone … taking a healthful journey on foot. Then when I returned last evening, I had supper in my room, where I stayed to finish this volume. I will admit it does seem strange to miss such a thing in so small a place—but I did not hear of it. And I am truly sorry to hear of it now.”

Listening to his explanation, Mrs. Willett asked herself if country walks could agree with Mr. Pelham, for he looked on close examination rather more worn than he had the last time they’d met, no matter how much his high spirits suggested otherwise.

“You must have met the young lady when you went there on Wednesday,” said Longfellow.

“I’m afraid I did not have that pleasure, yet I am saddened. Life—life can be a most fragile voyage. It may be as Defoe has said, that the good die early … but do you know what caused her to die?”

This time, it was Longfellow’s face that revealed a certain strain. “No one knows for certain. We are making investigations, of course.”

“But then, we have all the more reason,” cried Pelham,
“to offer comfort to those who remain in the house—for they, unlike ourselves, are hardly free to escape it!”

“Mmmm—yes,” Longfellow admitted unhappily. “Let us all go on, then. Captain Montagu and I have other business before long. Oh, allow me to present Edmund Montagu, who is an officer of the Crown. And a great favorite of my sister.”

Longfellow was pleased to see David Pelham’s eyes, which previously suggested rounds of toffee, take on a glint of something far harder as they locked on to Montagu’s own. Though words were not exchanged, each man gave the other a grudging bow of recognition.

“Come along, Mrs. Willett.”

Richard Longfellow took the basket from his neighbor with a peculiar smile and offered her his arm, before propelling the little party up the hill.

“AND THEN,” DIANA
Longfellow sighed, “we spoke of things beyond our fears, and our prayers for getting safely through this dreadful ordeal. I remember Phoebe talked of her family, as did I of mine.” Diana sent a brief look to her brother and decided to move on to another topic, while she reclined on a day-bed made up with quilts and pillows, on a settle in the large room downstairs.

“We also compared stories of the people we knew who had taken the smallpox … but that was unpleasant, so we went on to speak of her drawings. I told Phoebe I had seen many great paintings while in London—as well as most of those worth anything in the better homes of Boston. A few there should not be sniffed at, you know. It seems all who can afford it now want their families painted, surrounded by their possessions—though why they insist on wearing their quaintest clothing for these sittings, I have yet to discover! Would you not think they would be proud to display more of the current fashion?”

Charlotte watched Diana’s bright silk turban swivel and bob while the monologue continued. She also saw that the young woman’s conversation was well below its usual quality, and guessed Diana was not as blithe as she pretended to be. Captain Montagu was concerned as well, she supposed, for he did seem to stare.

“But you must have talked about her feelings on her coming marriage?” Longfellow inquired again.

“Ladies will seldom mention it to you men, when we do,” Diana reminded her brother. “But I’ll be truthful, Richard, in this case. She spoke of Will Sloan’s trips to Concord when they first met, and I asked her to describe his proposal. I thought it sounded rather dull, at least the way Phoebe told it. Her ardor for him was hardly dramatic, though she seemed quite constant. I did think it all a little strange, somehow.”

“Constancy
may
seem strange, these days,” Montagu replied gravely, crossing his legs and turning to stare now at David Pelham. Clearly, Diana had encouraged this fop to visit, and had preened herself to receive him. The surprise of his own entrance had hardly given her a moment’s discomfort. And though she must see his state of disarray, she had not bothered to question its source. Was
this
the young lady he had ridden his horse half to death through the night to see, one final time?

“At least, more colorful emotions may seem the fashion now,” Mr. Pelham offered cheerfully, “for there is, I believe, a more romantic view toward love these days. But are young ladies really much changed, at heart?” he queried the ladies present.

“I would say,” the captain interjected coldly, “that the flirtations that now seem acceptable in Boston society are a far cry from its former standards of modesty—and even decency.”

“Perhaps they inch closer to what has long been hoped for by Boston’s young men,” Diana tossed back.
“For it is you men, is it not, who boast of making most of our rules for us?”

“But surely, Miss Longfellow, you would not have
those hopes
influence a lady’s behavior?” countered the captain with some warmth. “And do you suppose fathers—or brothers, for that matter—can be expected to forgive serious trespass against the females in their families, which may well result from flirtation?”

“We realize, Edmund,” said Longfellow slowly, “that in England, poaching a deer can be a hanging offense; but in Massachusetts, game is less often confined to hereditary preserves.”

“Hanging is one solution to poaching,” Montagu returned. “Though we have evolved one or two more subtle ways of influencing courtship. We
must
uphold standards which protect the weaker sex from the stronger, due to their entirely different natures—a difference that must be obvious, even here!”

“I fear that the sexes are still alike in their human nature. And as for protection, I find it difficult to say which gender most needs protecting from the other.”

“Then answer me this: Do you say there is hope for a woman who has lost her honor, in your society?”

“That sort of thing,” Richard Longfellow replied with a smile, “is something best left to poets, rather than to simple farmers.”

“Here are the words of a poet, then:

“How droll,” Diana remarked, after a sharp little laugh. But Captain Montagu, imagining a still body he had yet to see, focused his eyes on Mrs. Willett while he waited for her to comment.

“If, Captain, a young woman is overly sensitive to opinion, and if she is willing to injure others,” Charlotte answered at length, “then she might consider such a thing, I suppose. But I don’t believe in Bracebridge, at least, death could be seen as necessary. Here, I think, most
do
plan to marry, who tread where they have been told not to. But if they do
not
marry—and the frequent result becomes obvious—then pity will still come from many … though shame is called out by some, who should know better.”

“I see,” the captain said thoughtfully.

“Do you imagine someone in particular?” Charlotte asked.

“Two, in fact.”

“Is that clever composition your own, Captain?” asked Mr. Pelham, looking away from Miss Longfellow.

“The song belongs to Oliver Goldsmith. It is unpublished, but more than once I’ve heard ‘Nol’ repeat it for a glass of spirits. It is found in a novel soon to be published.”

“How did you come to meet Goldsmith?” Pelham demanded, smiling as if he were inclined not to believe the captain’s answer.

“That is a long story, best left for another time. I can only say that he and I have frequented the same waterfront streets and London dens, where one may observe the lot of the fallen. And we both have seen tainted, diseased women of the town who are the equal of any man in depravity—although they often arrived there through little fault of their own.”

“But how came you to be in these low places yourself, sir?” Pelham inquired doggedly.

“Again, I must decline …”

“The captain is a charitable man who often seeks to assist those in distress,” Charlotte answered for him.

“It’s quite true,” Diana replied, flouncing her skirts. “And apparently he’s come to do me that favor during my quarantine, even though he might be enjoying more splendid entertainment with well-to-do ladies in New Hampshire. Is that not charity, toward a poor, suffering, weak, misguided woman?”

“If Captain Montagu has come here to see you, Miss Longfellow,” said David Pelham, “then I will admire his taste for beauty, at least. However, I’m not at all sure I can applaud his idea of acceptable conversation for gentle ladies.”

With a glower, Montagu rose to his feet. Fortunately, more serious wrangling was prevented by the sudden entry of Hannah Sloan. She looked at the group with some confusion until her eyes found Richard Longfellow.

“Have you heard anything at all of my Will, sir?”

“No, Hannah. If I had seen you before—”

“I’ve been tending Lem. He’s become feverish. Shouldn’t Dr. Tucker be called?”

“I’ll go now. As to your son,” Longfellow added, rising to continue quietly at her ear, “I’ve made attempts to learn if anyone’s had news of him, but I’m concerned that calling for a full search might lead to even more trouble for the boy. It would be wise to wait a while longer.”

“He is a good boy, truly,” Hannah insisted. “We all thought he would be a blessing to Phoebe, since the girl had such ideas … from too many books, and those drawings of hers. She wasn’t a sturdy girl, either—up and down in her feelings like a candle, she was. Not at all like my Will”

“Mmm,” Longfellow began uncertainly.

“But there is one more thing. You do know, Mr. Longfellow, that Will has not had the smallpox? Nor have
any of my children. And I know he would not want to infect them, or anyone else.”

It was said with little emphasis, but Longfellow immediately realized the woman’s meaning. He felt his scalp tighten. Despite what his mother was inclined to believe, Will was not known for a level head. Now, Hannah seemed to tell him the boy might indeed have approached Phoebe during her final hours. And if, somehow, he had taken the disease himself … ?

“When I speak with the selectmen this afternoon, I’ll bring up the point,” he told her. Hannah Sloan extended a hand as if to touch his coat sleeve—but let it drop.

“I believe I will go upstairs,” Miss Longfellow decided, drawing attention to herself once more. “To rest. But if you please, Charlotte, come and talk with me later.”

“Edmund,” said Longfellow, “before we go, perhaps you would like to help my sister take herself back up to her bedchamber. I see she’s moved quite a lot of paraphernalia down here. She may also wish to speak to you alone.”

“Richard,” Diana responded quickly, “I’m sure I would not wish to—”

“The man’s ridden all night from New Hampshire, Diana! Would you not extend a little charity to him? And if he’s not back down the stairs in five minutes, by the tall clock there, I will send Mr. Pelham up after you both.”

“Richard!”

“I hope I have shown the captain that I have
some
concern for your honor, after all,” said Longfellow pleasantly, before he turned and led Mrs. Willett through the kitchen door.

CHARLOTTE KNEW LEM
was seriously ill when she saw him lying under his blanket with no book in hand, his eyes
studying only the ceiling. The boy turned his head to watch them enter the tiny room—an effort that clearly caused him discomfort.

“Now, Lem,” said Longfellow, looking him over, “I see you’ve met the enemy.”

“I suppose I’ll survive, sir.”

“Let us hope so. Feel anything besides unusual warmth?”

“My stomach’s been upside down for half the morning.”

“Have you begun to sweat?”

The boy nodded. In another moment, he shuddered with cold.

“You should improve in a day or two. We’ll soon have you out chopping and milking again. I’ll send Tucker over, and I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Is there anything I can bring?” Mrs. Willett asked. “We have some ice left in the sawdust. Would you like a sherbet with preserved cherries, do you think?”

“Tomorrow,” Lem whispered, as he felt his stomach rebel once more.

“All right.”

Charlotte reached out and stroked the boy’s still-smooth cheek. Kindness could do far more, she knew, than most medicines. And for a moment, her effort was rewarded with a heartfelt smile.

LATER, IN THE
room full of stores and notions that occupied a part of the home of Hiram Bowers, reaction to Mrs. Willett’s proximity was less favorable. She had walked down to the village to purchase a few items, including Virginia brittle, which she knew Lem enjoyed. In a few more days, she hoped he would like the taste of some again.

Leaving the road, Charlotte approached a Dutch door whose top was already ajar to let in the air. Humming, she
entered and looked around as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light inside. Before long, she realized that three women stood in various parts of the shop, though not one had greeted her.