Too Soon for Flowers (32 page)

“No …” she replied, suddenly remembering the magazine, and blushing scarlet. At this, Pelham seemed to weigh the situation anew.

“I don’t imagine you are easily surprised, Mrs. Willett,” he finally answered. “You have, as they say, seen something of life. Well, you have certainly trespassed against me, but at least I perceive that thievery is not another of your vices, for I don’t find anything in your hands … and you were clearly ready to depart.”

“I can forgive rudeness as a result of outrage, sir,” Charlotte returned, hoping to hide her growing fear with a semblance of anger, “but I’m not certain that entering an unlocked room at a country inn is anything very terrible! For surely, there are some who do it daily, to accomplish their duties.”

“True. But I have begun to believe you question too much about me, madam. And now, I think, you go out of your way to seek the worst!”

“Is it strange to be interested in a man who seeks the heart of one’s dearest friend—a young lady whose qualities, and virtue, I must suppose we both value highly?”

“Miss Longfellow—”

“—who has spoken so warmly of you recently, that I only wished to learn more on my own? Yet I will repeat, sir, that I am truly sorry you’ve found me here.”

“I can well imagine
that
. Might I suppose, Mrs. Willett, you are also envious of my attentions to Diana?” he countered, a slow smile calming his face.

“You might,” she replied cautiously, casting her eyes down to his soft boots.

“Tell me,” David Pelham said abruptly in a mocking voice, “if there is anything else you’d care to know. Go ahead—do ask me! No—I hardly think you’re interested in me for yourself, madam, no more than I believe you are here merely to satisfy the simple curiosity of a country widow. What do you imagine? And what will you do, to spoil my chances with Miss Longfellow?” he demanded, taking a quick step forward.

Near the window, something appeared to move. Charlotte caught a glimpse of what looked for an instant like a figure—then heard Pelham give a cry of alarm. Yet when she looked more carefully, all she could observe was the long curtain of green velvet, bunched against the wall. Whatever had just occurred caused David Pelham to stride ahead and fling the heavy cloth up into the air. Again, nothing; but the moment gave Mrs. Willett an opportunity to turn and hurry for the door.

Before she could open it, Pelham sprang. She winced as his hand gripped her forearm.

“What is it you want?” he cried.

“I want to know the truth!” she threw back. “Why Phoebe Morris is dead—
and
Benjamin Tucker—and why
you
, who knew them both, have kept at least part of the reason from the rest of us!”

“You want to know exactly what I know? All right, then! I only hope the story pleases you!” Letting her arm drop, David Pelham stepped back, and glared at her as he began.

“Three years ago, in Boston, Tucker helped Phoebe Morris rid herself of an unborn child. She wanted it gone, so she’d be free to go home to Concord. The father was apparently some fool who refused to marry her, and insisted Phoebe must not give birth to his heir. As a friend, I was told the sordid story first by Tucker, and then by Phoebe herself, for she had no other she could turn to. The worst of it was, I did truly love her!”

At this, he closed his eyes against the memory. But he soon opened them again, and began to walk about by fits and starts, as if to avoid a ghostly pursuit. “You should have seen her then—for she had a rare, wonderful talent for grasping joy! In a town full of gossiping, scheming, sour young women, Phoebe was so alive! I still see her—”

He wheeled suddenly, going to the window to finger its soft curtain with great deliberation, before continuing.

“It was not only to please her aunt that I spent hours listening to her voice, watching her as she sketched, sharing her dreams. And then, she told me she carried a child for someone else, a man she had discovered was not about to save her!”

He faltered, took a shuddering breath, and forced himself to go on more carefully.

“Perhaps I loved too well—and unwisely. But that all ended three years ago. When I came to this place, I had no idea she was here. I told you later that I feared Phoebe might have renewed her feelings, had I spoken with her again. That was true, for I’m certain she once bore as profound an affection for me as I had for her. But after hearing what she had done, how
could
I wed her? However, I was still determined to protect her name; and then, seeing Dr. Tucker here as well, I realized we were all three on the brink of new lives which might easily be ruined by the past. I knew Tucker had suffered for his foolish deeds. No money, few friends—the man was surely at the end of his rope. As for Phoebe—need I tell you?

“Please, answer me, Mrs. Willett—was it my duty to reveal all that I knew? What would have been my motive? To punish them
further!
And what difference could the revelation of what I knew have made … once they were both dead?”

“How was it done?” Charlotte asked softly, while she struggled to imagine Phoebe and her physician sharing such a secret.

“Tucker had experience with these things. In Virginia, knowingly or not, he gave a young woman one of his remedies—mercury, mainly, I believe—which soon killed her child, and then the mother, as well. He told me this had caused him to leave that place, whence he came to Boston.”

Again, David Pelham paced, his anger mounting.

“If you had moved in Boston society, Mrs. Willett, you would certainly have heard that Benjamin Tucker was hounded from Williamsburg. There were even whisperings that he murdered my wife, simply because I knew him—though she had her own physician, and distrusted mine! Such ideas can themselves be deadly. In fact, facing enough lies, a man might well lose his senses. I believe that must be what happened to Tucker. His journey to Bracebridge might have seemed a final opportunity to renew his fortunes—but his conscience must have been a torment to him still. When he recognized Phoebe, I can only guess what feelings and regrets were reborn, in both. The end, of course, was that Phoebe’s health broke. Or, perhaps, the poor girl found some poison to end her troubles. Who knows, Tucker may even have helped there, once again! Would that not explain why, in a fit of drunken remorse, Dr. Tucker blew out his own brains?

“Is
that
clear enough for you, Mrs. Willett? Do you now perceive the entire situation? Have the dead been dishonored enough?
Have you any other questions for me?”

Charlotte shook her head, stunned by the fury and the anguish in Pelham’s declaration.

“Go, then, and tell Miss Longfellow what a great sinner I am, for the fault of trying to keep such a tragedy concealed.”

“Mr. Pelham, I—”

“Leave me.” He uttered the dismissal bitterly, before she could say more. “Go home, madam, and think about all that I have said. Being a vastly clever woman, I know you will understand that what I have told you should go no further.”

S
TUNG AND SHAKEN
by what she had heard, Mrs. Willett eased her spirit (and perhaps, she supposed, her conscience) with a walk that was almost a canter across the fields, in a journey toward the green knoll behind her house. Orpheus came bounding as he abandoned his morning inspection for higher duties. Falling to her knees, Charlotte thrust her face into his familiar fur—and rubbed the old dog’s ribs until his tongue lolled with pleasure. A kindness accomplished, she rose and went on with better courage.

The story that David Pelham had revealed to her was not, she had to admit, impossible to believe. She was aware that such things could happen in the world—and she herself had half suspected—

But toss emotion, like a dye, into a pot, and it must surely color any cloth, no matter if it were woven of hearsay or observation. Was it possible to look beyond her
own first impressions of Phoebe Morris and Benjamin Tucker? These contained far more of a bright nature than the dark secrets David Pelham had lately revealed. Yet was his reason sufficiently clear of feeling, to focus on the truth?

“A penny, Mrs. Willett!” The voice was startlingly near, but welcome nonetheless. Approaching, Richard Longfellow leaned down to pat Orpheus, who sat and listened keenly.

“I was thinking,” she replied, “of the manner of Phoebe Morris’s death.”

“As was I, earlier this morning. We’ve now decided, officially, that the death of Miss Morris was misadventure at worst,
perhaps
influenced by Dr. Tucker’s care; yet likely nothing more than a tragic quirk of Nature. At any rate, we’ll look no further for blame, or for explanation.”

“And yet …”

“And yet, Carlotta?” Longfellow asked with a qualm.

“Richard, I have just come from David Pelham’s room at the inn.”

“He invited you there? That hardly seems—”

“I went on my own, and I did see him … eventually. I think now you should hear what he told me.”

Longfellow sighed, considering the danger of continuing. “What, then, have you heard?” he finally asked her.

Slowly, but with growing excitement, Charlotte relived her painful encounter with David Pelham. First came the story of Phoebe’s pregnancy, discovered while she stayed with her aunt in Boston; then, Dr. Tucker’s involvement in its end, through a remedy used before in Williamsburg, with similar result; this was followed by Pelham’s suspicion of the physician’s hand in Phoebe’s death—or at least his part in creating the low state of mind that surely helped to kill her; and finally, Mrs. Willett related how Tucker’s actions, in a fateful twist, preyed on his mind until he took his own life.

“Can this be true?” Longfellow asked, appalled, when she had finished. “Perhaps Montagu was right, then.
‘When lovely woman stoops to folly
…’ Yet I’m amazed to think Tucker could have gone against his oath as a physician so completely!”

“I confess to going into Mr. Pelham’s chamber with another idea, though now, especially after what you’ve told me, I hardly know what to think! I believe we
can
say one thing with certainty.
Each
of them did lie to us—Phoebe, Pelham, and Dr. Tucker. I wonder if Mr. Pelham is even now telling us all he knows.”

“But are his conclusions to be believed? Tucker, as I told you, maintained that Phoebe Morris was, in fact, a virgin upon her death.”

“Something difficult for
me
to credit,” Charlotte replied gently.

“Why, Mrs. Willett—exactly?”

Charlotte considered carefully before she answered. If she were to divulge her suspicions, and Longfellow were to add his own, they might come to conclusions that would cause even more suffering. Was it right to use one’s intelligence, she wondered, to envision what
might have happened
, without good reason? Yet if they did not explore every path, how would they learn what lay beneath this whole matter? She knew her neighbor was not a man likely to seek revenge—but if they found reason to suspect further blame, it would be his duty, as a selectman, to act upon it. That could not be helped, she decided.

“Earlier,” she began anew, “I thought more than once that there was something very curious in Phoebe’s coming here. She came to marry without her parents arranging it—barely, I suspect, with her father’s approval. And yet she often seemed distracted and unhappy … until a few weeks ago.
Why
was she not looking forward to her future,
I first found myself wondering, if she loved Will Sloan? Was it because of some cruelty in her past? Or a lingering memory? I guessed she’d once given her heart to someone besides Will, for she was a girl of lively wit and feeling … but of all the men in Massachusetts, why would she choose to marry
Will Sloan? Why
would Phoebe Morris, who had no reason to lack suitors, but acknowledged to Diana that she had only one—why would she take a boy who is not handsome, witty, or well schooled, and who has little interest in her sketches, or in traveling? Why accept someone with little knowledge of life at all—rather than someone who could open doors into the greater world she longed to see?

“One possible answer occurred to me. If Phoebe did once have a lover, and if she had lost her claim to purity, then she might have feared a new husband would discover the fact, in the obvious way. It would have been grounds for an annulment; it would also be something she would not want her family to hear of, if she was forced to return to them. But—suppose Phoebe were to wed a much older man. Such a man might overlook a past indiscretion, to enjoy a pretty young bride. But then, a
younger
man might be even better, for he might be
unable to tell
that he was not the first! At least, he might be more easily fooled into believing that what he claimed on his wedding night was his alone. Will admitted as much, I think:
‘She told me I might have seen something about her—about us.’”