Too Soon for Flowers (35 page)

“Edmund, have you taken your leave of Diana?”

“I have, for she cannot be a witness to this. I wonder if she yet realizes the depth of my feelings—but perhaps it is best she does not, in the event that I do not survive. May I ask if
you
will consent to go with us tomorrow?”

“I?” Charlotte returned abruptly.

“Our friend Mr. Longfellow tells me your skills in medicine are unmatched in the village … and he assures me you may want to witness such a thing for yourself.”

At that, she slowly nodded, and the captain moved as if to go; yet he remained, looking out across the darkness. For several minutes, neither spoke.

Gradually, it occurred to Edmund Montagu that it was a very unusual thing to be alone with a young woman who offered no words. Tonight, they seemed to share something rare—companionship that asked for nothing, while giving solace to both. The captain found his heart had warmed, and asked himself why the situation worked so strongly upon his soul.

But before he could find an answer Charlotte rose to her feet, and turned to face him. She offered her hand, which he took and held, sensing a further bond in the making, a further message imparted. Then she was gone, leaving Edmund Montagu to ponder alone the dark abyss that seemed to stretch before him.

Tuesday

W
ITH TWENTY MINUTES
to spare for a walk along the Musketaquid’s edge, Charlotte rose fully clothed from her bed. She had managed to accept the morning’s events as inevitable. Now, as she took up a canvas bag full of wool lint and strips of linen, she felt her heart leap again with foreboding.

In one brief hour, Edmund Montagu might lie dead near the cold bank of the river. And for what? The chance to make David Pelham pay for sins the law might be blind to? Blind Justice: could it not, perhaps, be
made
to see? And what of Divine Justice? Montagu was prepared to let his own life hang in a deadly balance, for the chance, at least in his own mind, to be an instrument of retribution. Would she have done the same?

Yesterday, when they were alone, she might have told David Pelham exactly what she suspected, hoping to
shock him with her knowledge, and to keep him from harming another. Yet his behavior on being found later in Diana’s bedchamber had been enough to assure her he would always risk much, to get what he desired. Diana might have been saved—but what would any of them have felt, on hearing of Pelham’s next conquest?

Burdened with these thoughts, Charlotte again envisioned the morning’s possible outcomes. She believed that of the two adversaries, the most skilled—or the luckiest—would remain alive in an hour’s time … rather than the one most valued by Heaven. Many believed in God’s favor, but she could not. For when had Heaven shown a strong desire to leave the best on earth, while dispatching the wicked?

But she could speculate no longer, for the time for questioning had come to an end.

“
IF
WE MUST
go,” said Richard Longfellow, “then I might as well make sure it’s all here.” He examined the rosewood case to see that it held sufficient powder and flints, six acceptably round balls, and a ramrod. When all were accounted for, he closed the box and looked up.

“Shall we start?”

Meeting Charlotte in the kitchen, he and Edmund Montagu put on outer garments and walked past Cicero, who shook his head with disapproval while he held the door. Charlotte shivered at the air’s bite, noting that the new grass under her feet had so far refused to hold the frost. Strange weather, bringing another highly uncertain day.

They saw the light of a second lantern far ahead of them as they walked through a long meadow, past unmoving fountains of lone elms, lacelike against a suggestion of dawn. Somewhere above, as the sun approached, a waning
moon sailed serenely. But close to the earth, almost unbelievably, the sky began to drop flakes as fat and soft as down.

Charlotte experienced a moment or two of queer pleasure.

“An interesting spring,” remarked Longfellow to Montagu.

His companion remained silent, grimly holding his jaws together.

They followed the river’s bubbling, then climbed to the edge of a natural levee left by some ancient flood, and crossed over to the broad depression they sought. In the middle of the flat, they could see that two figures waited. Longfellow raised his lantern; Jonathan Pratt lifted his own. In another two minutes, they stood together: four men moved by the excitement of the proposed action—and one woman who faced it with resignation, while she held on to a supply of bandages.

“I see that you have not succumbed to flight, Captain, as I had expected,” said David Pelham. Montagu returned the other’s forced smile, feeling some small pity for the man at the very bottom of his soul.

“We might as well begin,” Jonathan decided. “Richard, will you load the pistols?”

From under the folds of his greatcoat, Longfellow removed the rosewood box. This morning, its reddish veins glowed with life in the soft light—until large splotches of white extinguished them. Slowly, the faces of the assembly looked to the sky.

“Do it under this,” instructed Jonathan Pratt, producing a length of canvas brought for another purpose.

Silently, Longfellow made his way to a glacial boulder, and sat with the box upon his knees. The others held the sheet over him, while they watched his careful motions. First, he tried an action, to see if flint produced a spark
against steel. Seeing that it did, he poured a small amount of powder from a brass container into a spoon, and let it sift down the mouth of the barrel. A spherical lead ball wrapped in a small circle of deerskin followed, and was gently tamped into its seat.

Longfellow looked up to be certain all were satisfied. He gave the first pistol to Jonathan to hold under his coat. The second pistol was then treated in the same manner, until it nestled temporarily under the innkeeper’s other arm.

“Is there no chance,” Jonathan then asked solemnly, “that this matter can be settled without resorting to weapons?” The three witnesses watched as the antagonists eyed each other closely. Neither made a sign.

Charlotte drew a heavy breath. The underlying absurdity forced her lips to produce a small, incredulous smile quite against her will.

Observing it, David Pelham concluded that she mocked his situation with veiled mirth, something he had observed too often, which made him hate this woman even more. How he wished he could end that smile! Perhaps, it was not yet too late … ?

“Let us begin,” said Jonathan Pratt. The air had become brighter, while visibility had improved with a thinning of the wet snow. “I believe,” he continued, “that we’re agreed on twenty paces? You will stay here, Mr. Pelham, while I walk off the distance. As there is no sun to give any directional advantage, I will go with the course of the land.”

When Longfellow got up to follow Jonathan Pratt and Captain Montagu, Charlotte sank down onto the granite boulder.

It took only a moment to situate Pelham’s opponent, after which the landlord and Longfellow moved out of the line of fire. Then, Jonathan called out to both of the duelists.

“We are agreed that the parties will stand full face, rather than in profile? Fine. A coin toss will decide who chooses and fires first.” He felt in his waistcoat for a shilling, coming up empty. Longfellow reached into his own and handed over a guinea.

“I don’t know why they can’t fire together, but I imagine
that
would not be elegant enough,” Jonathan muttered. Then he tossed the coin and caught it, and slapped it onto the back of his hand. Before raising his fingers, he looked to each of the two men facing each other on the field. Pelham called out his choice.

“Tails!”

His second raised his fingers slowly, showing the results to Longfellow.

“Tails,” Jonathan Pratt called out clearly.

The seconds took both pistols to David Pelham, who chose his weapon. They then delivered the second pistol to Edmund Montagu, and moved away.

The moment had come. After once more checking the position of everyone in the clearing, Pratt glanced about to be sure they were still alone.

“You may fire, Mr. Pelham, when you are ready.”

Pelham cocked his weapon. He raised his arm, and calmly peered down the pistol’s barrel. For a second, then two, then three, the clearing seemed to hold its breath. Did Pelham wait only to relish the fate of his victim? It seemed so to Charlotte, who looked away as a wave of indignation rose within her. Then she heard the shot, which resounded from the trunks of the trees on either side, and sent a pair of mourning doves whistling up and across the field.

Edmund Montagu spun a quarter turn and fell to his knees, having taken the ball in his left shoulder. Charlotte gasped, and David Pelham looked in triumph from Montagu’s kneeling form back to the others.

But in a moment, they saw the captain lift first one
knee, and then the second, until he stood, his right hand still clutching his pistol.

Now, Montagu took time to aim carefully. And yet, it seemed that the strength of his will would not be enough to hold his arm true. For a moment it swayed, and the weapon fell. But with a terrible effort the arm rose once again, and the act of precise calculation was repeated.

When the next report came, it took them by surprise. All eyes flew to David Pelham, who seemed to be lifted up, before he fell prone into the thick grass.

Charlotte turned back to the captain, and saw that he appeared to be puzzled as he stared down at his weapon. She could not now recall seeing it recoil. Suddenly, she knew the reason for Montagu’s apparent confusion. For in fact, the second shot had come from the belt of trees behind them. As the echoing crack subsided, it was not an easy thing to decide which way to go, but her heart made the choice for her. Mrs. Willett ran to Edmund Montagu, who sat down awkwardly as he fumbled inside his coat for a handkerchief.

“Is it a serious wound?” she inquired, reaching to help him slide the linen between his shoulder and his bloodied hand. She was relieved to see a ragged grin cross the captain’s face.

“I am alive,” he said. “Though I’m not certain the same can be said of Mr. Pelham.” Even at that distance, they could both see a glistening patch on the back of his black frock-coat, as Pelham lay quite still.

“Perhaps you should go and see,” Montagu suggested, touching her bag of bandages.

Mrs. Willett stood and made her way across the grass as in a dream, although she was able to note that Longfellow had gone to stand at the edge of the trees. Then, abruptly, he turned away.

Richard Longfellow had seen enough, for he had
whipped around as soon as the unexpected report of a rifle had come from behind and above his head. In that frightening moment, he caught a glimpse of a glinting barrel between the dark trunks. He ran closer to the wood’s edge, seeking its protection while he peered through the trees to see who had fired. Recognition kept him from pursuit, as he perceived a figure walking slowly away. After a moment’s thought, he turned his attention back to the field of honor, and saw Montagu sitting alone.