Too Soon for Flowers (37 page)

“All the same,” said Charlotte, “I suspect he’s found a new interest to help him forget his woes.”

“Who is that?” Diana’s voice, though still little more than a whisper, betrayed her pleasure in a fresh piece of news.

“Phoebe’s younger sister, a girl named Betsy. During Reverend Rowe’s moving funeral service for Phoebe, she seemed as affected by Will’s tears as he was by hers. I’m not sure how much she understands of what happened in Boston, or what took place here. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Will were to follow Betsy Morris back to Concord, and marry her one day.”

“Perhaps she will be able to tame some of his wickedness,” Diana said presently.

“Perhaps … “Charlotte replied with less conviction.

“A fine solution,” Longfellow concluded. “Marriage is, after all, a very good thing for
most
young women.”

ON THE ARM
of Captain Montagu, Diana walked first about the house and piazza, and finally out into the sunshine, where the pair quietly enjoyed the splendor of early summer together.

Diana’s first walk away from her brother’s house marked her return to society. It also allowed her to watch Hannah’s three daughters as they gave Mrs. Willett’s home a top-to-bottom scrubbing, and to see Lem admiring those cheerfully efficient young women in their jaunty caps and raised skirts. He was eager to help whenever they called, and several times a day, a whistle or a wink summoned or dismissed him. The entire experience, Diana supposed, was a useful addition to Lem’s limited education.

One day, while visiting Mrs. Willett, she looked again upon the face of David Pelham, which stared up at her from the sketchbook Phoebe Morris had kept. It gave Miss Longfellow great satisfaction to tear it out and light it at the kitchen hearth, where she held the flaming page until much of it had turned to ash. Later, she gave the book to Hannah, who marveled at the renewed serenity and beauty of the lady who presented it, despite several new dimples she knew would remain covered with powder until they were sufficiently faded.

Later that same afternoon, Charlotte happened to see Diana and Edmund Montagu from a distance, as they stood speaking earnestly among her brother’s roses. The captain held Diana’s hand. Having abandoned his wig, he looked far more like a country beau than ever before,
thought Charlotte. Then, quite suddenly, Diana lifted her face and he kissed her, enfolding her in a passionate embrace. Lowering her own head, Mrs. Willett went back to clipping sprigs of herbs.

From that day, it became clear to everyone that something of consequence had occurred between Miss Longfellow and Captain Montagu. Just what that was, or how far it had gone, was a frequent topic of village conversation. But Diana soon gave Charlotte the happy news of their proposed nuptials, warmed again by the glow that comes from the confession of new love.

SOON AFTER DIANA’S
revelation, the two women drank tea in Longfellow’s study, while its usual inhabitant was out. On a table between them were Dr. Benjamin Tucker’s medical diaries and his last letter.

Diana picked up the letter, and began to read it once more.

“I can hardly believe,” she said eventually, “that Pelham stole Dr. Tucker’s investment money, as he supposes, in order to court and marry Alicia Farnsworth. And then, to poison her slowly with his own prescription, on their wedding trip—!”

“I have written to Dr. Warren, who tells me that she did, indeed, have a stomach ailment of long standing.

“It seems,” said Diana, reading further, “Tucker could scarcely believe Pelham to be the father of Phoebe’s child—though he did suspect her condition long ago in Boston.”

“Dr. Tucker,” Charlotte responded thoughtfully, “seems to have leaped from great trust to an equally strong abhorrence—both of which make reasoning difficult. And extreme views often give only part of a true picture …”

“Yet I should say he was justified, in his latter opinion of Mr. Pelham, at least!” Diana looked down at the page once more, and read its final lines to herself.

Here, the letter stopped in a blot of ink that told how the pen had rested, and bled its burden onto the page.

It was, Miss Longfellow decided, as a tear traversed her newly marked cheek, a pitiful good-bye given to her by a man of education and privilege—one who had never been brave, perhaps, but who had been hounded by a tenacious cur without a soul, into a pauper’s grave.

For Charlotte, the situation was somewhat less clear.
In defense of my treasure, I’d bleed at each vein …

Had she been right in her final guess? Or, perhaps, in her first?

Had Benjamin Tucker truly found the Great Pox in his patients? For if not….

Could it be that David Pelham was only terribly eager to gain respect, and love?

And did Will Sloan have reason to take a life, assuming, as she had? …

Still, it was over, if she could not quite feel it to be so. Will, at least, had been given another chance. But she wondered with a sudden chill if they would all, one day, be made to meet again.

IN ANOTHER WEEK
, Diana and Edmund Montagu were gone, leaving two country households to restore themselves to their normal states. On the morning of their departure, Mrs. Willett went walking, while she mulled over some of the recent changes in Bracebridge.

After accompanying Betsy Morris home to Concord, Will Sloan had written back that he would stay for a time, if that met with the approval of his parents, which it did. Lem was again well and strong, although possibly less interested in his studies. Cicero and Longfellow had returned to battling over philosophies, and reading aloud bits from newspapers and pamphlets, especially those relating to the proposed Stamp tax—an amusement shared by a great number of men in the countryside, as well as in Boston.

Charlotte now found that she had wandered into a far meadow, as a hot wind rushed over the drying grass and into the forest beyond. Suddenly, she squinted, trying to make out something in the green haze at the edge of the trees. Was someone there, waving to her? She was too far away to be sure. Walking forward, she watched the fluttering of a handkerchief, or a sleeve, perhaps? Until suddenly,
the waving figure whirled and was swept up into the dark shadows beyond.

She supposed her eyes might have been affected by the sun and the wind, and that Richard Longfellow would have called her vision nothing more than a mirage. But she had seen enough—felt enough—to believe that a young girl had stood there, beneath the full-throated rushing of the forest. She was still not positive—but that no longer mattered. It was enough to welcome the calm of peace, and a growing sense of grace. Then, a couplet from Pope’s elegy came back to her.

Until that time, thought Mrs. Willett, she herself could do something more. She leaned down to pick a small bunch of wildflowers, thinking of a corner of the churchyard where she would go to whisper a final farewell.

Margaret Miles is the author of
A WICKED WAY TO
BURN
, the first Bracebridge mystery. She lives in Washington, D.C., where she is at work on her next mystery,
NO REST FOR THE DOVE
.

If you enjoyed the second book in the Bracebridge mystery series, Too
Soon for Flowers
, you won’t want to miss Margaret Miles’s third mystery,
No Rest for the Dove
.

Look for No Rest
for the Dove
at
your favorite bookstore in spring 2000.

NO REST FOR THE DOVE
A
Bracebridge mystery by Margaret Miles

Coming in spring 2000 from Bantam Books

B
ARELY AN HOUR
earlier Caleb Knox had driven along through the heat on the nearly deserted Boston-Worcester road, longing to be home. The farmer had given the reins he held a mild shake, causing them to ripple. But in the end this was not enough to alter the pace of the plow horse who pulled his wagon. Judy kept plodding, and the rude conveyance rolled on, slow to suit the weather, its sleepy driver again drowsing to the creak and rumble of heavy wheels.

While a field aflame with tall goldenrod went slowly by, Knox saw himself seated behind his own horse. The smell of hot sun on his linen shirt reminded him of his old dame’s ironing, which she did in summer beneath the kitchen overhang. If only, he thought, he could get up and walk down to the spring for a drink of cold water! The ale he’d consumed at the Blue Boar, once he’d left the mill
where he’d exchanged sacks of grain for flour, had not really helped to quench his thirst at all. Neither the first pint, nor the second … nor the third.

The horse neighed unexpectedly, almost as if she followed his idea of a drink, Caleb imagined with a wobbling grin. But then he saw that something else concerned her. Beside the road, next to a long hedge of hawthorn, stood another horse, this one wearing bridle and saddle while it grazed peacefully. A curious thing? On such a warm afternoon, perhaps not.

The farmer pulled himself erect and looked out attentively from beneath his rime-encrusted hat. The rider was no doubt asleep near his horse; as far as Knox could tell, it looked as if a nest of sorts had been made there. But why would he be there, when he could have chosen the hedge’s shade? Why would anybody lie out full in the afternoon sun? And what were all those flies doing? Despite the heat, he felt a chill pass through him. Though he did not relish the exercise, it did seem the situation might be worth a closer look.

When his wagon came even with the saddled horse, Knox gave a pull that made Judy shake her head and stop. He climbed down, giving further instruction for the animal to stay where she was. Precariously, he leaped over the ditch at the side of the road, landing on both feet. Then he wound his way through the weeds until he reached the silent rider.

The man was not resting. It looked as if he would have no need for rest ever again. Noah Knox knelt down to make sure. After that, he spent a few more minutes in quiet speculation.