Too Soon for Flowers (36 page)

“You’re wounded, Edmund,” he said when he arrived at the captain’s side.

“True. Now, you might go and see what you can make of my adversary.”

“We will both go. I assume you can walk? I hope so, for I have no desire to carry you home.”

“I can stand, at least,” said Montagu, rising to his feet with help. “However, I’m not yet sure what has happened. Do you know?”

“I believe so.”

Montagu soon had little attention to spare, as he attempted to walk while supported by Longfellow’s impatient arm.

When they reached the others, they saw that David Pelham’s wound was, indeed, serious, and that it might prove in time to be fatal. Jonathan Pratt retrieved his piece of canvas. Then he and Longfellow slid Pelham onto the cloth, and lifted the two ends between them. Meanwhile, Charlotte bent to hook her shoulder under the captain’s good arm, while he objected to her assistance.

“Your clothing may be stained,” he protested, with a consideration Charlotte thought idiotic, and so she ignored it.

“Richard,” Jonathan asked in due course, “did you see who it was, up there in the trees?”

Longfellow’s response was limited to an observation
that the snow had stopped, and that the returning sun would warm them on their way.

“As I feared,” Charlotte murmured, earning a new look of interest from Captain Montagu.

The little party then moved off deliberately, climbing the hill and keeping the river on their right, while the sun beamed out from between retreating clouds.

“YOU’RE QUITE FORTUNATE
, you know, that the ball went through cleanly,” said Charlotte as she tended the captain by Longfellow’s kitchen fire, which Cicero had built up once again. “We will keep warm poultices of herbs over both sides of the wound, until it begins to heal. Richard, can you find trillium leaves? I should go home and bring back thyme and lavender oil. And Tucker’s bag upstairs contains poppy gum—in case the pain becomes too severe for sleep.”

“I will escort you,” Longfellow insisted, fixing her with sharp eyes.

Charlotte rose to leave immediately, though she was concerned for Diana—for the young woman sat staring oddly at Edmund Montagu, occasionally reaching out a hand absently, then letting it fall back.

“We should return within the hour, Edmund,” Longfellow added.

Captain Montagu was about to reply when a look to Diana stopped him. He saw again that a long night and an uncertain morning had left her tired and withdrawn. After the door closed, he settled back with a groan and shut his eyes, as she had, to rest for a moment. He listened to what he recognized as one of Luther’s old hymns, hummed softly by a dry old voice, accompanied only by an occasional quiet prodding at the fire. In a few moments more, he slept.

•  •  •

THEY FOUND THE
trilliums easily, nestled where many came up each year, under the oaks and maples on a north-facing slope not far from the inn. In less than a quarter of an hour, Longfellow, Charlotte, and Orpheus (who had been overjoyed to be finally let out of the house) approached Mrs. Willett’s kitchen door.

Upon entering, Charlotte first looked to see that Aaron’s rifle was over the fire; then, she noticed that Will Sloan sat between his mother and Lem, looking down into the hearth’s bright dance.

“Is all well here?” asked Longfellow.

“Will woke us both this morning, creeping in to sit next to the fire.” Hannah spoke with concern apparent on her broad, ruddy face. “Since he seems sorry for the loss of our company, even for a night, I thought it was all right to let him stay and sit. Though you did say …”

“Never mind that,” Longfellow told her, while Charlotte approached to study the boy more closely. He appeared to have been weeping, though not, she was sure, due to the loneliness his mother imagined.

“Mr. Pelham,” she said to Hannah, “has been shot.”

“Shot!” the woman cried. “How?”

“As usual—in the woods. Someone must have been out hunting … while Mr. Pelham took an early turn. He is seriously wounded, but still lives.”

Lem, who knew Charlotte’s moods well, pricked his ears at her tone, but Hannah seemed to notice nothing out of the ordinary. “And a poor time for hunting deer, too,” the older woman returned with a shake of her head. “You’d think they’d know better! Will, you’ve gone white as a ghost! I’m not at all sure you’re over your illness, and to stay out in the frost all last night, as well! You go upstairs and get into bed. I’ll bring you a hot jug and some broth. You always were more trouble than any three of my others,”
she concluded, pulling him up by the arm and urging him out toward the stairs.

“And probably always will be,” said Longfellow with a worried frown of his own, as he watched the young man go.

AS HE AND
Charlotte walked back to his house, Longfellow realized that several roads lay open to them. But he now knew he had the approval of Mrs. Willett in saying nothing. After all, what would be accomplished, if everyone were to know? Such a secret would be enough of a penance for the boy to live with. And yet, would he feel remorse, after the shock left him? It
had
been revenge—for Will had heard what the buckle told them, and knew Pelham had invaded the bedchamber of his bride soon before he himself had found her dead. Longfellow supposed that in this case, it was best to let hot blood take care of itself. Although if Pelham were to live, and were to demand an explanation, what then would they do?

He continued to wonder until they reached the kitchen and found Montagu still asleep, though Diana opened her eyes and looked at them with confusion. As Charlotte went to comfort her, Diana moved a hand across her forehead, shifting a ringlet of hair.

“Perhaps,” Charlotte advised, “you would be more comfortable in your room for a few hours?”

“I would like to move away from the fire, and the light, for it seems to hurt my eyes this morning,” Diana answered slowly.

It was then that Mrs. Willett felt the young woman’s forehead, and found it fevered. But there was also something else—something like rice, under the silken skin. Her eyes met Diana’s, and in that instant they exchanged a frightening knowledge.

Longfellow looked up to see them clasping each
other’s hands tightly. It was a pretty picture of friendship, even of devotion, he thought with pleasure.

“Richard …” he heard his sister say softly. Something in her voice made his smile fade away.

“Richard, I believe I am unwell….”

I
T TOOK MORE
than a week for the worst of the disease to run its course. Even then, Diana remained in a greatly weakened state. She showed far less resilience than Lem, who had already resumed his duties about the farm.

The smallpox “flowers” multiplied on her face and hands, filling with fluid like painful burns. Mercifully, all were not deep enough to scar. But a few reached well below the surface, promising a lasting reminder of the serious affair Miss Longfellow had so recently presumed to be only a flirtation.

During the crisis, Edmund Montagu stayed by the young woman’s side, even though his own wound should have kept him resting in bed. For two days, the captain sat and accepted no more than light meals and poultices, while he waited for a sign of recovery. He relented only when her fever fell, and she slept deeply.

When Diana finally awoke, she quickly demanded a
looking-glass. Once she had seen for herself, she tried to send the captain away. But instead of leaving, Montagu insisted she muster her courage, while he continued to watch as Charlotte applied cooling cloths.

Meanwhile, a physician from Worcester had come and gone. The man had advised heavy blankets, a high fire, and tightly closed windows. Longfellow, after consulting with Mrs. Willett, decided on a modest flow of air, often-changed sheets that would not further irritate his sister’s blistered skin, and a constant watch to learn what Diana herself desired. In the end, he had been able to congratulate himself on the patient’s improvement.

One morning, a week into her recuperation, Diana was well enough to be carried out onto the leafy piazza, where the company began to talk of subjects beyond her own state. Surprisingly, she found this to be a great relief.

“And yet,” her brother now continued, “when we did read Tucker’s letter, Diana, it appeared he was not without his strengths. It could be argued he might simply have disappeared into the night—but he did expose Pelham after all, if somewhat belatedly. His death could even be taken for a selfless act, intended to save you.”

“Where is he now?” asked Diana.

“In a corner of my pasture near some trees, where Cicero and I buried him. I wrote a letter to a friend in Williamsburg, who will tell the family. After I sell his books and instruments, many of them to myself, probably, I’ll send them the proceeds. With a bit more,” he sighed, causing Charlotte to smile.

“And what happened … to the other?” Diana asked obliquely. Her brother decided she was now well enough to hear the story’s end.

“Pelham’s wound was not immediately mortal, as we had supposed it might be. But, he insisted he required a Boston physician, so we sent him jostling off in a carriage, which was unwise. He died a few days later of fever. If
Tucker had been with us, perhaps Mr. Pelham might have survived. Divine Justice, I suppose….”

“And a fitting end,” said Captain Montagu. He anxiously searched Diana’s face for her reaction, but could find nothing more than relief.

“Did he finally confess to murdering Phoebe Morris, to save his soul?” she asked.

“He—did not,” her brother answered slowly.

“Oh,” Diana replied, disappointed. One by one, the others moved uneasily in their chairs, during a silence that followed.

“I still believe,” Montagu finally went on, to clear the air, “that you should have seized Will Sloan, Richard, and sent him to Cambridge for trial. I doubt many who think the thing over will believe Pelham’s death an accident—especially when the true story is whispered about your village. And while you may think this balances the scales of justice, I suspect it is a dangerous thing when common men take the law into their own hands—especially when an execution is the result!”

“Was it so different when
you
faced Pelham?” Longfellow returned calmly.

“That was an act between gentlemen, involving mutual consent, and honor. Surely you can see the difference?”

“I see that in either case, the intended outcome was to fill a coffin.”

“But what do you suppose will happen if you continue to allow your children to murder, and to do so while hiding behind trees?”

“The outcome was far better, to my mind, than what you yourself were able to arrange, Edmund. If you had missed—as was very likely, given your condition—and if Pelham had taken a second shot …”

Montagu saw that Diana was in agreement, for once, with her brother. “Well,” he declared, “it must cheapen
any nobility that ordinary men may be said to possess, when they’re allowed to snipe at one another from cover, as if their targets were nothing but quail! Not only is a man who does so spiritually lessened, but so are his fellows … and soon, society as a whole. Who
then
will keep the peace? Let Will Sloan go free, and you damage your entire legal and moral structure. Without that, what can be expected to bind your people together?”

“An interesting question,” Longfellow admitted. “But I doubt if my sister would have enjoyed the boy’s trial, if the reasons for your duel became a part of it—unless you feel that particular illegality might be overlooked? As I am a representative of the law here, I must say you have already presumed a great deal.”

“Then let the boy go,” said Montagu. “I’ve done my share of shielding the rashness of youth, I suppose. If the village is willing to say Pelham was killed while out walking simply for the sake of his health, so be it. But remember my warning. Times are not what they once were.”

“And never will be,” Longfellow replied, shifting his long legs as they cried out for some sort of activity. “So, it is all over. Now that Will Sloan is back home, I’m certain he has been given more than an earful by his father, which I hope he’ll remember.”